Hunters: Stop hiding - you're not pariahs

With all anti-hunting propaganda out there suggesting hunters are nothing but a bunch of cruel, heartless drunks, it's easy to start thinking we might need to keep our mouths shut about exactly what we do on our weekends. Ya wouldn't want the person in the next cubicle to know that you ... gasp! ... hunt to put food on your table, right?

WRONG.

I mean, I've never been a fan of skulking about. Why should I hide my ethical and responsible participation in a legal activity?

But now I've got research that makes it clear why I should be up front about my hunting.

The National Shooting Sports Foundation released a 273-page study this week called "The Future of Hunting and Shooting Sports." It provides a full-fledged feast for thought, including some heartening data and nearly 200 concrete recommendations - many of which ordinary hunters can do - to ensure the survival of our right to hunt and shoot.

I haven't finished reading it yet, but there are a couple things I wanted to share right away:

Talk about what you do. The study found that non-hunters get the most negative impressions of hunting from the media, and the most positive impressions from hunters themselves. That means if they only hear about hunting from the media, they're not hearing any of the positives. "The more hunters and shooters are out there talking about the positive aspects of hunting and shooting, the more support there is for these activities," the report concludes (p. 235). "Hunters and shooters, more than anti-hunters and anti-shooters, hold the key to future public opinion regarding hunting and shooting" (p. 236).

Language matters. The study does note that hunters should be prepared for some extreme reactions when discussing hunting, but that it's important not to respond in kind - stay calm, being neither aggressive, extreme, nor condescending (p. 230). It's also important to distinguish that what we do is legal hunting. Some nonhunters lump the poachers and the ethical hunters into one group. Using the terms "legal hunting" or "regulated hunting" makes it clear that you are not a poacher (p. 231).

Hunting for meat has strong support. I noted this when I got a sneak preview of the data in May, but it's worth repeating: 85 percent of those surveyed support hunting for meat (p. 165). Hunting for sport has a bare majority (53 percent), and hunting for a trophy the least (28 percent). The report doesn't state this explicitly, it it's clear to me that when you talk about hunting to non-hunters, you should always make it clear that you eat what you kill - even if you keep a trophy from that kill. This survey found that 97 percent of hunters eat what they kill.

Combat erroneous information. The survey says 46 percent of Americans believe hunting, as practiced today, causes some species to become endangered (p. 176). They're not aware that the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation exists, much less that it has ensured that regulated hunting does not endanger game species (pp. 181-182). This is worth mentioning when you have some of those conversations with non-hunters.

Support for hunting is on the upswing. It's not a huge increase, but the trendline is going the right direction (p. 162).

If you'd like to see some of this report for yourself, I recommend going to chapters 8 (public opinion on hunting) and 9 (implications and action items).

I suspect I'll be chewing on this information for weeks to come. It's definitely going to affect how I talk to non-hunters about what I do.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Life with - and without - my dad

I miss my dad.

It's been five years to the day since I lost him, and not a day goes by that I don't think about him one way or another, because he is such a huge part of who I've become.

As you can see from the photo, Dad was quite a character. That's him with my mom (Dad loved that Wonder Woman physique) and my cousin at the old family cabin in the arid, rattlesnake-infested Piute Mountains in Southern California. Note the sidearm. Dad loved his guns, too.

Dad was born in Los Angeles in 1929, but during the Depression, the family spent a lot of time at that cabin, where having a gun meant you could bring home food for the price of a bullet and some time. It wasn't just him - his sisters hunted too, and the tales I heard about their exploits in the woods provided my first female hunter role models. My favorite story is the one about his older sister: The family needed food, so they sent her out with a rifle and six bullets, and she came home with six carcasses - including a mountain lion! Even if it's half B.S., it's still a good story.

Dad ultimately gave up hunting, trading it for the pleasure of just watching animals in the woods, but he never gave up that yearning for a self-sufficient life in the country.

By the time I was born - the last of three daughters - Dad was a computer engineer, making decent money in the San Fernando Valley. The land was beautiful, oak- and eucalyptus-studded hills. The climate was fantastic - cool, breezy summers, mild winters. And culture? Wow, my sisters and I grew up going to some of the best museums in the world. But man, Dad hated that commute, and that desk job, so we high-tailed it north, making a new home in the San Joaquin Valley, moving from an affluent suburb of L.A. to probably the poorest county in the state. The land was flat, the air quality lousy, the summers hot and humid, the high school so small and poor that it offered a physics class only every other year, and "advanced English" meant taking a fourth year of it.

I was 9 years old, so I adapted quickly, though it was a bit rough on my teenage sisters. But now we had five acres where Dad could live more of his dream. Our income plummeted, and I know it must've been tough to manage the household budget, but you wouldn't have known how poor we were from the way we ate. We raised rabbits and pigs for meat, and goats for milk. Dad believed in taking good care of the animals, and he especially loved keeping pigs happy, because a happy pig is a tasty pig, and pigs that get to eat fermented watermelons are really happy.

What was a pigpen in the fall was a well-fertilized garden in the summer, full of string beans and tomatoes and Swiss chard. The property came with a big fat orange tree, which introduced me to the intoxicating scent of orange blossoms, and the sweet smell of oranges rotting under the tree, because yes, there were way more oranges than we could eat. And Dad - who had the most amazing green thumb ever - planted a double row of trees that had everything we could want: peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums, apples, almonds and more. There must've been at least 30 fruit and nut trees there.

Ultimately, though, Dad and Mom wanted to return to an environment more like the Piutes, so the family moved once again, this time up into the hills of Gold Country. Finally, the jagged skyline we craved. Oaks and pines and the spicy scent of native grasses toasting in the hot summer sun. Rattlesnakes galore, too.

We lived in tents as we built the house, setting up a camp that would make Robinson Crusoe proud. We had a well dug, and we had an electric generator that would operate the pump and provide electricity when we really needed it. We ran pipes and wires to the center of camp, where our old washer and dryer were set up on pallets, so Mom and I could do the laundry, always timed so we could watch our favorite soap opera on a black and white TV propped up on the limb of a scrub oak.

The house took a long time to finish. They didn't have real walls until long after I'd gone off to college. And they never had quite the farm set-up there that we had in the valley. The elevation, climate and soil weren't as conducive to growing the stuff we'd grown in the valley, and Dad's fervor and energy for raising meat animals began to wane as he got older. But, man, he loved that place. He dammed a seasonal creek to form a pond - oh, how he loved ponds! - and around the edge of that pond he dug away earth down to bedrock - by hand! - just to shape the shoreline. In the afternoons, Dad could always be found gazing upon the land he loved.

Now, I find myself amazed at how much I'm becoming like my dad. After two full decades of living a city life, I've finally caught the self-sufficiency bug. I've taken up hunting - and if Dad were alive to see it, I think he'd be proud to see how hard I work at it, and what I've brought home. And Boyfriend and I plan to start a farm ourselves one of these days, maybe grow olives and grapes and raise pastured goats and chickens, and of course a pig or two for ourselves. If we can afford the land we want, it'll be a little like the Piutes - hot, dry California hills.

We'll do a few things differently. For example, Dad loved pesticides and concrete; we don't. And that poverty thing? We'd like to avoid that. But we will embrace Dad's "a happy pig is a tasty pig" credo, for sure. And I know there will come a day when I'll spend my afternoons on the porch surveying a beautiful piece of land, imagining that if my dad were sitting beside me, he'd be doing the same thing.

Rest in peace, Dad.

Fritz Heyser, early 1930s

© Holly A. Heyser 2008

Hunter vision: Why is it different?

Hunting has completely changed the way I see animals in nature - it's one of the great surprises and delights of becoming a huntress.

But today, a non-hunting friend asked me this: Why?

She asked in response to a post this weekend about my day at the lake, but the answer seems to be worth a post of its own.

Here goes: Read more...

Have you ever grown a plant for food? When you grow a plant for food, the interest you take in that plant is different than your interest in other houseplants and flowers, because its success determines whether you get to eat its fruits, leaves or roots. You have a connection with that plant - a vested interest.

You also see other people's food plants differently. Fellow gardeners look at each other's gardens and say things like, "Wow, your heirloom tomatoes are really healthy! I've been having lots of problems with mine this year, so we won't have many to can for winter." Non-gardeners had no idea that the tomato plant was a fine specimen, if they even knew it was a tomato. They buy their tomatoes at the store.

Now, imagine being part of a primitive society and hunting for survival. Every animal you see is a potential meal - sustenance for you, your family and with big game, your whole community.

But you're not just looking at it as meat on legs; you're watching to determine the outcome of your interaction. If you are particularly stealthy, smart or strong, or if the animal makes a mistake, you get dinner. If the animal is particularly wary or if you make a mistake, the animal escapes. You aren't just watching; you have a connection.

Of course, most modern hunters do have other options for meat, so the sense of urgency isn't the same. But the connection is. It's the same competition whose outcome depends on the savvy of one party and the mistakes of the other. (And any hunter can tell you that having a high-powered rifle does not ensure success; hunter mistakes, animal wariness and luck make animals the winners far more often than not.)

Just as gardeners tend to see all plants differently - not just the ones they plan to eat - hunters see all animals differently, even when they're not hunting. Is this animal wary enough to escape hunters - human or nonhuman - or is it careless enough to become someone's meal? And just as gardeners appreciate healthy plants, hunters take delight in seeing healthy, thriving animal populations.

This connection with the animals we hunt also creates a very deep relationship with the food we eat. When's the last time you had any feelings this intense at the grocery store? Your success at the store depends on two things: how well-stocked the store is, and how much money or credit you have to spend. The fate of the animal whose meat you buy was predetermined; you never had to match wits with it.

In an era when humans have become increasingly disconnected with nature, hunting provides an intensely meaningful connection. That's why we go to tremendous effort and expense to get our meat from nature instead of from the store; that's why it changes how we see everything.

© Holly A. Heyser 2010

Solstice magic and the summer ceasefire

I almost didn't go to the lake today. It was hot - 105 degrees on the south side of my house - and crazy windy, which doesn't make for good paddling. But something told me to put my book down, get off the couch, load up my kayak and just do it.

Now, as the sun is setting on the longest day of the year, I'm glad I did. Read more...

My lake is Lake Natoma. It's a manmade lake five minutes from my house, created by the lowermost dam on the American River - the same river where gold was discovered in 1848. It is surrounded by development, crisscrossed by power lines and contaminated, in places, with stupid people who don't have the sense to pack out the trash they pack in.

But invariably, when I paddle away from the clusters of people - going out where oaks, willows, gray pines, spicy native grasses and sandstone dominate the shoreline - I find something that makes it all worthwhile.

This time of year, the lake is filled with Canada goslings and mallard ducklings. You don't even have to leave the dock to see them. But today I would be rewarded with more.

I struggled against the strong winds, paddling close to the south shore in hopes the land would buffer me from the gusts. This meant I was downwind of everything, and time after time I would round a corner and surprise some critter. First a beaver, slipping into the choppy water. I'd seen them here before, though.

Then a turkey hen, idly grazing along a thin sandstone shore, 50 yards from two groups of kids making rope swings on gray pines over the lake.

Then a quail - which I'd also seen on these shores - but this time she was with her chicks, tiny fuzzy little creatures who darted - in that clumsy baby way - into the grass, then into a bush, when they saw me. Ahhhhhhh... Not that I have any experience with this, but it's kinda like a massive shot of opiates when you see something that precious, normally so hidden from view. All your stress just evaporates in seconds.

A hundred yards later, I spotted a great blue heron perched on a fallen gray pine in a green little cove. I see them on this lake all the time because they have nesting grounds here. But I see them at a distance. When I spotted this one, I stopped paddling, held still and just drifted, floating within 10 feet of this enormous bird before it assessed the situation and decided to take off, with that lumbering wingbeat. Ahhhhh...

I crossed the narrow lake for my return trip, assuming the wind would send my noise and scent to any wildlife that might be on the shore. I was wrong.

As I rounded the bend of an enormous rock pile - "tailings" or detritus from the goldmining that wracked what was once riverbed here - I saw a young black-tail buck, with his 6-inch velvet spikes, taking a drink at the shore. I drifted closer and closer in my blaze-orange kayak. He let me get within 20 feet of him.

I knew I wasn't going to beat that. I'd never seen any bucks around this lake.

As he romped up the rockpile, I began paddling again, and not 50 yards later I saw a doe just above the shore under an oak tree. She looked my way at first, then turned around. I stopped paddling, drifted closer and closer, and still she looked away stubbornly. What could she be looking at?

Or perhaps that was the wrong question. Who was she looking out for? My eyes dropped 10 feet below her to the rocky shore, where a gangly fawn, less then two feet tall at the shoulders, was taking a drink. I gasped quietly. Tiny, tiny baby.

Mama, you should be looking this way...

The fawn finally looked up, saw me, and assessed me the way the buck had and decided he oughtta clamber back up the hill to mama. She turned around and saw me. Together they held still and watched as I drifted by.

Now I was approaching the more heavily populated area. Four mallards zoomed over me, cupped and committed.

I saw another pair of kayakers, fishing.

"Catch anything?" I asked the woman.

"No," she said, grinning ear to ear.

Kindred spirit - it didn't matter. I told her about the doe and fawn. She told me about a doe she'd just seen. Clearly, it was a magical day at the lake.

Back closer to my dock, I heard a whine - some brat taking a motorized scooter on the bike trail. I really need to bring my cell phone to the lake so I can call rangers about crap like this - it would be 15 minutes before I'd get back to the gate attendant.

That was it - my ride through heaven was over now.

I've always enjoyed getting as close to wildlife as possible, but something about hunting has changed the way I engage with nature. I take stealth more seriously now. How close will you let me get to you?

And today - the summer solstice - when I was encountering babies of so many species, I was acutely aware of the meaning of the seasons, so much more than I ever was when I didn't hunt.

Declaring a ceasefire on animals when they are raising their young is an ancient conservation practice. Each time I came upon one of these animals, I knew that if this were hunting season for that animal, it would've been dead. Time after time today, I got closer to animals than I ever do in season. And time after time, I was thinking to myself, Go! Don't trust me! You must be more careful! When the time comes that we are adversaries again, I want it to be a fair fight.

But today, they had nothing to fear from humans. They still have to fight hawks and coyotes, but not us - not now. This is their time.

© Holly A. Heyser 2010

A theory: Why women dig bowhunting

A few months ago, I posed the question: What is it with women and bowhunting? I wondered why the number of women bowhunters is rising far more rapidly than the number of women hunters.

I've found one possible explanation for why women gravitate to bowhunting in a book I just devoured, In Defense of Hunting by Dr. James A. Swan. If you're an expert in psychology, please bear with my grossly inexpert translation: Carl Jung's theory is that our inner personality is generally either more male (the animus, characterized by rational thought and physical aggression) or more female (the anima, characterized by emotions, intuitions and feelings).

Swan applies those traits to hunting:
"The more a hunter relies on stalking and on weapons with a limited striking distance(emphasis added), the more important to success is the feminine mode of consciousness. Sights, sounds, odors, and intuitions that come must be screened and woven into an awareness of the whole of a situation to make the connection between the hunter and the hunted."

Now, if you're a male bowhunter, don't protest - under Jungian theory, each of us has a bit of the other in our personality. According to Swan, you're just tapping your anima. Your manhood is safe!

Is it psychobabble? Don't ask me - I took one psych class in college and one in high school (Ironman, do you remember the old lech who taught that class?) and the only thing I remember is Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I'm just saying hunting with a bow really resonates with women, and I'm looking for answers to the question why.

When I read descriptions like Swan's, they ring true with me - some of the things I love most about hunting are in fact a reflection of feminine traits.

Of course, I still don't have a bow, so I haven't tried bowhunting yet. For now, I must remain content to hunt with my beau instead.

Holly and Boyfriend

© Holly A. Heyser 2010