The Pitfalls of Subsistence Hunting in a Post-Agrarian Society
Possible op-ed for an outdoor magazine?
I’ve been told the practice is obsolete. That in modern society there’s no justification for such barbarism. All these Greenpeace hippies with their pale faces and weak immune systems say meat is murder, I should find a sustainable plant-based protein to supplement my food source. Even those with similar ideals – sport stalkers, trophy killers, mostly tourists with too much money and time – believe that subsistence hunting is only for backcountry survivalists.
It saddens me that we’ve lost sight of our connection with the land, with our place in the grand design. These days, few people possess the skills necessary for survival. No one hears the noble beast that howls within them. All these workaday drones who rise and toil to the ticking of machines, they can’t remember what it’s like to wake up because you’ve finished sleeping.
The average American fulltime slob works thirty-seven and a half hours a week, not including commute. They spend all this time schlepping towards someone else’s goals, hoping that one day, if they work hard enough, they’ll get a bigger piece of the pie. They give their lives for the chance to buy what they need.
I spend far less daylight pursuing my own necessities. These hands, rough and wrinkled, are the only currency I need. I take from the Earth, and I pay her tribute in kind. I use every part of the kill. I strip sinew from the ribs, back, and legs, for rope and binding. Render the fat for tallow. Organ meats for pâté and scrapple. Grind the bones and scrap for kibble. Except the sacrifice. As the ancient tribes gave back to the hau, I leave the first kill of each season where it falls, taking only the heart, that the decaying carcass should nourish the soil. I drink warm blood from the aorta, then consume the knotty muscle raw, out of respect for my prey and the natural order that brought us here. It’s a tradition more rooted in Hollywood than native practice, but I appreciate the idea of imbibing the strength of my prey, of devouring its cunning. The gift must move.
I know I’m a dying breed. The few of us who still practice this method of existence are being pushed from our hunting grounds. Watchful eyes are everywhere. The whole world is a camera now. They wants to expose us, shame us as trespassers, murderous troglodytes, useless remnants of a dead era. They don’t see the purpose we serve, as those like us have done for thousands of years, to thin the herd. Sustainable culling. Ornamental pruning of an aggressively invasive species. We pursue balance, harmony.
Unlike many of my colleagues, I don’t hunt with modern firearms and expensive contraptions. Something about using night vision optics and high-velocity frangible rounds seems impersonal and unjust. I opt for the bow. It’s simple, elegant, intimate. Best of all, it’s quiet, and arrows are reusable. Of course, I’m not toting some yew longbow like Robin Hood. Mine’s state-of-the-art; a skeletal carbon fiber, dual-cam compound bow. With an easy seventy-pound pull, it will deliver a standard grain broadhead to the target at three hundred-twenty feet per second. I have taken a charging bull off its feet at fifty yards. It does the job just fine.
On rare occasion, you’ll be forced to use a knife to finish the job. Sometimes the target moves, or the wind pushes a shot errant. It isn’t desirable, but if the animal suffers it will spoil the meat, so it’s best to act quickly. A wounded creature is dangerous, and it can be difficult to close the distance, with all the screaming and thrashing. In my experience, I’ve found it’s best to pick your moment and just dive in. Getting close should minimize the damage from flailing limbs. Once you’re in there, face-to-face, it’s easy enough to slip a blade into the base of the skull. A flick of the wrist severs spinal cord from medulla oblongata, and it’s lights out.
When employing this method, it’s important to keep your free hand over the mouth. Even for a grizzled old trapper like me, it’s tough to chew when your food gurgled in your ear, “Please, I have kids.”