Call of the Mild

by Lily Raff McCaulou

  Here’s something else that surprises me: We aren’t alone, after all. Several times a day we hear the buzz of airplanes overhead. And the most popular fishing holes usually have a raft of anglers nearby. Some are even flown in by helicopter from a local fishing lodge.

  These other anglers tell us stories about a misguided pair of New Yorkers paddling one or two days ahead of us. They have mishaps with grizzly bears. They flip their raft in a rapid. They run out of food. I start to feel as if I’m following a ghost version of me—the person I could have been if I hadn’t moved to Bend and met Scott. The pilot who eventually flies us out of the bush will tell us that he found the New Yorkers while he was picking up another group. They paddled downstream to the take-out days before they were supposed to leave. They were wet, cold, hungry and terrified. They couldn’t wait to go home.

  I sympathize with these New Yorkers, and understand how they got in over their heads. I have so much more respect for the power of nature than I did four years ago. Almost every year, someone in Bend drowns in the Deschutes River, usually wearing a bathing suit and floating in an inner tube. Until I spent time boating with Scott, I never understood exactly how forceful rushing water could be. Also every year or so, a deer turns on a dog who chases it and gores a beloved family pet to death. A mountain lion moves near the city limits and feasts on house cats and small dogs. Back when most of my wildlife interactions happened via television, I didn’t appreciate the power of a wild animal leaning into its instincts.

  Daylight shines twenty-four hours a day here, and the whole landscape roars with life as if every being, from the mosquito to the grizzly bear, is trying to make up for the lost time of winter. Giant king salmon swim past us upstream, led by their noses hundreds of miles from the ocean to the exact stretch of fresh water where they first hatched from a pink egg. As soon as these behemoth fish leave the sea, they stop eating. Mating is their only goal. As they migrate upstream, their silver skin turns as red as an autumn maple tree in Vermont, with the color peaking just as they spawn.

  The salmon are the lifeblood of this river; countless other species depend on their summer pilgrimage. Trout wait for them to enter the river and lay eggs the way impatient schoolchildren wait for their mothers to put dinner on the table. Some of these trout trail just a few inches behind the female salmon, at times slamming into their swollen bellies in hopes of releasing a few delicious eggs.

  After a salmon spawns, it rots and dies. This is a gradual process, the opposite of getting thwacked on the head by a fisherman or clawed open by a bear. Instead, a salmon’s flesh fades from scarlet red to translucent. Even as chunks of its body fall off and drift downstream, the fish remains aggressive and vigilant. Half dead, the zombie-fish hovers over its own eggs, ready to muster a vicious snap of the jaws at any greedy leech or trout that tries to gobble its young.

  For the last few months, Scott and I have been talking about starting a family. As I watch these salmon, I marvel at their drive to procreate. It elevates these otherwise normal fish into something verging on supernatural. It makes me wonder: How would parenthood change me? Would I become something unrecognizable, some snarling mother-beast, a translucent ghost of my former self?

  Some of my friends have had children, but not my closest ones—nobody with whom I could sit down and talk about these fears honestly. Nathan is an obvious choice, but he’s so far away and we talk on the phone so infrequently. Besides, I still haven’t met his new daughter, or seen Nathan in person in his new role as a parent.

  When I think about having children, all of my fears center on what would happen to me—to my marriage, to my career, to my life. This underlines what I see as the uncomfortable paradox of parenting: Deciding to have a child is, at its core, a selfish decision. But raising that child is a never-ending act of selflessness. Scott and I talk circles around this, until I meekly declare: I’m not ready. Scott is patient and understanding. Yet even after the subject is dropped, I can’t help but fixate on the questions he is too polite to ask: What am I waiting for? What could possibly make me ready?

  The month after we arrive home, Republican presidential candidate John McCain names Alaska governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. Palin quickly rouses just about every controversy imaginable, including some centered on her family’s hunting traditions. She is lauded by some for her ability “to field dress a moose,” but criticized by others for her remorseless attitude about killing animals. Hunting is back in the spotlight.

  Until I moved to Oregon, the only time I heard about the sport was during presidential campaigns. Every four years, it seems, candidates don crisp vests, visit shooting ranges and bow before the almighty NRA to show their support for the Second Amendment. But what of wildlife management? Or habitat conservation? I’m not voting for Sarah Palin but I am frustrated by the lack of civility and deep consideration that accompanies our national debate about hunting. It seems we Americans can’t move past two polarizing issues—Guns! Killing animals!—to dissect the meatier and, dare I say, more relevant issues begging to be discussed. The reasons why a person hunts, the ethical guidelines she chooses to obey, even the technology she uses or refuses to use—say a lot about who she is. With rare exceptions, media coverage addresses hunting in a yes-or-no manner. Does the candidate hunt? Yes or no. Next question. We have missed a tremendous opportunity to learn more about who these candidates are, why they believe what they do and whether their actions live up to their beliefs.

  In the fall, the generosity of other hunters continues to amaze me. Andy and Jessie invite me to go bird hunting. Andy and his dad, Hank, offer advice. The hunting and fishing writer for my newspaper, Gary Lewis, gives me books on hunting. Others offer to loan me guns or other equipment, too. Psychologist and philosopher Erich Fromm argues that hunting has long been connected to our social tendency to work together and share rewards. “Luck in hunting was not equally divided among all hunters; hence the practical outcome was that those who had luck today would share their food with those who would be lucky tomorrow,” he writes. “Assuming hunting behavior led to genetic changes, the conclusion would be that modern man has an innate impulse for cooperation and sharing, rather than for killing and cruelty.” Hunting and sharing continue to go together today through groups like Sportsmen Against Hunger, a nationwide food bank that accepts donated game and distributes free meals to the needy.

  Still, I don’t want to become a barnacle on these people who have helped me so much. Besides, I figure there’s no better way to test my hunting skills than to go it alone. So in October, Scott and I take a weeklong camping and bird-hunting trip. (Well, I hunt; he opts for the more modern, gun-free hike. Over the last two years, Scott has grown increasingly interested in my hunting adventures, but he still isn’t ready to pick up a gun.)

  We set up camp and then start scouting the area for places to hunt. I notice a cluster of three small ponds on the map, so we drive there in hopes of finding some ducks. There are generally two ways to hunt for ducks. One is to spread decoys on a pond or lake, hide in a nearby blind and occasionally toot on a duck call to dupe birds flying overhead into landing on the water. The second is to try to sneak up and flush ducks that are already sitting on a small pond or stream. I’m going to try the second method.

  I get out of the car, hike toward the first slough and then squint into the sun. I can’t quite tell if anything is on the water. Hopeful, I creep closer—heel, toe, heel, toe. A row of pine trees shields me from the view of any animal that might be on the water. When I reach the last tree, there are still ten yards between the pond and me. I don’t own any camouflage, but this morning I made sure to pull on neutral green and beige clothing, to better blend in with my surroundings. Birds have keen eyesight, and wild birds in particular tend to avoid blocks of solid color, the telltale sign of something man-made.

  I crouch down and take one long step from behind the tree trunk. I freeze, watching the surface of the pond. No new movement, just the same windblown wrinkles. A
nother step, then another pause. Another step. I continue this until I get just a few feet from the water and notice a wave ripple out from a spot to my left. Something splashes, and the tall grass at the edge of the pond flickers. A duck thrashes into the air. Yes! I stand up straight and shoulder my gun. I switch off the safety, line up my sights and pull the trigger. Bang!

  But the duck flies on, its wings not missing a beat. I pump the next shell into the chamber and line up my sights again. This time, the duck is farther away. Bang!

  Again, the bird keeps flying. I reach into my pocket for another shell, but it’s empty. I left the rest of my ammunition in the car. As I lower my gun, the duck circles the pond and flies directly over me, then rises higher into the air until it disappears.

  Disappointed, I head back to the car to fill my pockets with shotgun shells. Then I hike to the second pond from the road but find no birds. I scoot under a large willow, so a bird flying overhead doesn’t see me. I am ready. I wait. And wait. Then wait some more. I daydream a little. But mostly, I fret about what I would do if a duck flew overhead, spotted the water and opted to descend.

  When I am actively pursuing an animal, I don’t have time to think about these qualms. I focus solely on the chase and assume permission to take the life of my quarry. The kill is the goal. There is no time for doubts. Instead, it’s during times like this, sitting quietly with no animal in sight, that these ethical questions bubble up.

  The question hunters most often ask themselves and one another is: Is this shot sporting? Simply put, a sporting shot is one that gives the prey a reasonable chance at survival. There are no carved-in-stone definitions of what’s reasonable—a hunter must analyze each situation and sort out the ethics for herself. But there are some widely accepted rules, such as: It’s fair to shoot a duck in flight but not one sitting on the water. Though it’s legal in most states, baiting deer, or setting out piles of corn and salt licks to draw in herds, is believed to give the hunter an unfair advantage. In addition, many hunters develop personal codes of ethics such as I will shoot bucks but not does. (Depending on the individual, this vow could stem from a wish to minimize one’s impact on the deer population—or could reflect a machismo attitude like the one taught to young boys: Never hit a girl.)

  Sportsmen’s groups have their own written credos for “fair-chase” hunting. The Boone and Crockett Club’s definition is considered the national standard for big-game hunting: “The ethical, sportsmanlike, and lawful pursuit and taking of any free-ranging wild, native North American big game animal in a manner that does not give the hunter an improper advantage over such animals.” In 2005, the group adopted a statement condemning so-called canned hunts, in which large animals are bred in captivity and then “released” in a fenced area for high-paying clients to shoot. One short-lived but highly publicized ranch tried allowing clients to operate a gun over the Internet and, with the click of a mouse, take the life of a captive hog. To me, the excitement of hunting lies in gleaning enough knowledge—about the prey and about the landscape—to find the animal in its own habitat. Baiting animals or shooting them within an enclosure not only raises ethical concerns, but negates the main challenge of hunting.

  My own definition of fair chase is to interfere with an ecosystem as little as possible while participating as a predator. I didn’t settle quickly on this general rule. Rather, it’s the result of many months of consideration and research. I’ve had long talks with other hunters and with Scott. I’ve read books on ethics, as well as short stories and essays about hunting. Like so much related to hunting, it is subject to change depending on unique circumstances or on some new piece of insight. It remains impressively, frustratingly difficult to make generalizations about an activity that has so many variables.

  When I first moved to Oregon, for example, I was wowed by the bow hunters I met. It seemed the ultimate act of sportsmanship to creep within thirty yards of an animal (the range of most bows) and then kill it with a well-placed arrow. But the more I talked to bow hunters, the more horror stories I heard about animals being maimed instead of killed. I know it is possible to make a clean kill with a bow and arrow because I’ve met people who have done it. But others have had to chase down the wounded animal for twelve hours, hitting it with three arrows before it finally dropped dead. My newspaper has published photos of deer that appeared in backyards and parks with arrows sticking out of their necks. It takes a lot of practice to be able to shoot a rifle or a shotgun consistently. It takes much more experience to make a fatal shot with an arrow.

  Today, however, as I sit under a shrub and ponder the ethics of hunting, there is only one question dogging me. It is perhaps the least likely one, considering that I’ve been hunting for two years already. It is certainly the biggest, most overriding question: Is it wrong to kill animals?

  As strange as it sounds, hunting doesn’t have to involve the death of an animal. There are, it turns out, some non-lethal forms. I met my first “catch-and-release” hunter—a woman—earlier that fall, when presidential campaigns were in full throttle. I was profiling a rural voting precinct, so I went door to door to gauge the local political climate. It’s the kind of story I love to write because it’s an excuse to knock on random doors and—more often than not—get invited into people’s homes. There is no job that gets you inside more living rooms than being a newspaper reporter. If you’re as nosy as I am, this alone is enough of a reason to go into journalism. You get to see what kind of sweatpants and slippers a couple change into when they get home from work. Meet their pets and their children. See their wallpaper. Smell what they’re cooking for dinner.

  Alas, this particular woman was standing outside when I pulled up, so we did all our talking in her front yard as the sun dipped below the mountains behind her farmhouse. She was in her early fifties, with short brown hair and an athletic build. She explained that she’s a staunch Republican and fears Barack Obama would take away her guns if he were elected. Then I asked if she hunts.

  “I do.” She smiled. “I’m a bird hunter, but mostly I do catch-and-release.”

  “What?”

  She laughed. “I love that reaction—I get it all the time.” She went on to explain that she trains pointing dogs, and when she takes her dogs out in the field, her only goal is for them to find a bird and hold it on point. She commands them to release the bird, the bird flies away and she rewards her dogs with treats.

  Turns out she’s not the only person to enjoy all aspects of the hunt up to the kill. In 2010, the Whitetail Pro Series began hosting deer-hunting tournaments in which contestants stalk deer, zero in on them using digital scopes equipped with memory cards and then fire blank shells. Hunters earn scores based on the size and number of deer that they would have killed humanely had their guns been loaded with traditional ammunition.

  And in England, since fox hunting with dogs was outlawed in 2004, dedicated hunters on horseback have eliminated the fox altogether and taken to pursuing a designated human. When they catch up to their quarry they don’t harm him or her but take what satisfaction they’ve gained from the chase and call it a day.

  These so-called humane methods of hunting offer new potential for the sport by eliminating all of its most contentious aspects: human danger, impact on wildlife populations and, of course, the ugly reality of death. But this represents a tiny fraction of the hunting that occurs on the planet. And because it avoids all of the slippery ethical questions that plague fatal hunters, including me, isn’t it, in a way, missing a main point? Spanish writer, philosopher and hunter José Ortega y Gasset rebuked an early-twentieth-century British version known as photographic hunting, in which hunters captured prey and photographed it before releasing it unharmed. “One can refuse to hunt,” he writes, “but if one hunts one has to accept certain ultimate requirements… Without these ingredients the spirit of the hunt disappears. The animal’s behavior is wholly inspired by the conviction that his life is at stake, and if it turns out that this is a complete fict
ion, that it is only a matter of taking his picture, the hunt becomes a farce and its specific tension evaporates.”

  My discomfort with catch-and-release hunting begins to bleed into my feelings about catch-and-release fishing. Fishing is more complicated, though. Unlike hunters, anglers can’t always target individuals, and often must reel in a fish and identify its species or measure its length before determining whether it’s even legal to kill. In other words, every sport fisherman must practice some catch-and-release. And as Scott points out, when anglers release their catch, it allows more people to participate in the sport. Still, I find myself feeling guilty for trying to trick fish into biting my fly when I know I’m only going to release them. It feels like teasing or bullying. Perhaps cooking the fish and eating it—putting it to use—would be more respectful. I worry that, as Ortega y Gasset argued, there is something farcical about engaging in a life-or-death struggle minus the death.

  Of course, whether or not we hunt, we all kill animals on a regular basis. Our entire society is built upon the sanctity of human life at the expense of animal life. Geese are killed to prevent collisions with the airplanes that transport us and our goods. We perform medical research on animals, to enhance and prolong our own lives. Each day in the United States, six thousand acres of open space, including working farms and forestland, are developed. Much of our sugarcane is harvested from fields that were shorn from life-teeming tropical rain forests. The roads we drive on, the manicured lawns we play on, the stores we shop in—all of it used to be wildlife habitat. Power plants, oil and gas wells and even wind farms deal enormous blows to animal populations.

  In Bend, the local park district decides to euthanize 109 resident geese. Instead of migrating between seasonal habitats, these birds have made themselves at home in Bend, year-round. And they’ve reproduced, despite the park district’s multi-year efforts at birth control, hazing by dogs and even relocation to a bird sanctuary more than a hundred miles away. Fields of feces create a nuisance and a health hazard. And the aggressive geese displace other native birds. So district officials do the right thing by having the birds killed humanely, then donating the meat to local food banks, which struggle to feed the needy during a long, deep recession.