Not just for the birds

Blog

  • The Face of Death

    The Face of Death

    “Maybe we fear that the work we depend on images to do for us — the work of immobilizing, and therefore making tolerable — will be undone if we throw the image back into the flow of time.” — T.J. Clark, The Sight of Death (8)

    “I think we hide, necessarily, from an understanding of what is most to be avoided in the sight of death.” — T.J. Clark, The Sight of Death (227)

    What is the “face of death”? We’re in a sport that makes us face death whenever we’re successful. And instead of shying away from it, discomforting as it might be, we photograph it, and most of us post the photos for others — friends and strangers alike — to see.

    Why do we do this? Where does our current publicization of this taking of life fit on the continuum of monumentalized, frozen-in-time death? If T.J. Clark is right (and I’m inclined to agree with him, except maybe for the “necessarily” part), we take and share these photos of our kills both to acknowledge and avoid understanding what we’ve done. I have to think there’s something in our DNA that compels us not only to record the fact of our death-causing (and even death-gazing) but also to share it so we don’t have to think about it too much; McLuhan’s “the medium is the message” rings in my head. This compulsion might be limited to those of us outside the hunter-gatherer lines; even though we’re hunting, we don’t need to and neither have our ancestors for thousands of years. In fact, the compulsion might be because hunting isn’t necessary for our survival. It might be compensatory somehow.

    I’ve written about Brightman’s Grateful Prey before, specifically how traditional Cree animal-human (prey-predator) relationships differ from those of Invader/Agricultural traditions (i.e., most of us who are not Native Americans or First Nations people). I’ve tried to fit the imagistic depiction of prey into the Cree system but can’t, nor does it fit in Hugh Brody’s account of Inuit hunting culture, which I’ve also recently mentioned. For hunter-gatherers, at best, static portrayals of a formerly alive thing are disrespectful. At worst, they’re like putting a curse on yourself. But that’s a different tradition, different culture than this. So let’s see.

    Even without doing a thorough historical analysis, it’s fair to say that there are a couple major (let’s call them “Western,” as in Western European) traditions in how dead prey get represented. One, for lack of a better term, might be called the “Still Life Tradition,” and the other the “Hero Shot.” In super simple terms, “still life” images foreground the prey as objets d’art (removing, mostly, the hunter), and the “hero shot” foregrounds the hunter and/or his “achievement” (dead prey). I’m going to talk mostly about the Hero Shot, but I’ve included some fantastic “still life” paintings, too, mainly because they’re amazing (you’ll know why).

    Classic Hero Shot: hunters posing with their alectoris prey, Spain, 2014
    An older version of the above shot, also in Spain, 1959
    Solo Hero Shot: 1937 photo of a young Australian bird hunter with his day’s take.
    A more creative Hero Shot, 1940s, Australia, by the same photographer as the above photo (looks like some sort of snipe)
    1912 Hero Shot, including dogs (no location indicated)
    1903 group Hero Shot, Nome, Alaska (ptarmigan)
    Still Life: Jan Fyt, “Dead Partridges with Hound,” 1647
    Paul de Vos, “Hunter and Dogs by a Table with Dead Game and Fruit,” Flanders, 1640s or 1650s.
    Hendrik de Fromantiou, “A Still Life with Dead Partridge, Pheasant, and Hunting Gear,” Holland, 1670. View this full size for impressive feather detail on this perdix perdix specimen.
    Carstian Luyckx, “Gentleman hunter with his pack of dogs and hunting trophies,” ca. 1650-58, Belgium.
    John Constable, “Study of a Dead French Partridge,” circa 1830-1838. Constable was my favorite artist when I was young, mostly because of his romantic, highly detailed landscapes such as “The Hay Wain.” I was surprised to find this relative of alectoris chukar among his works.
    My favorite kind of Hero Shot, for the true hero of the affair, although he (the bird dog) has relied on me to do the killing, the middle part: he found it, I shot it, and he retrieved it.
    The Solo Bird and Hunter Hero Shot, on location
    My last “tailgate shot” (2017): to me, it’s appropriate that the drone I found sits alongside the chukar because I think it accentuates the undesirable “out-of-place-ness” of this type of image. I see a huge, distasteful imbalance between technology and nature here.
    Classic “tailgate” Hero Shot with dogs, hunters, and prey arranged with heads hanging off the edge of the tailgate. 2016.
    One of my favorite all-time dead-prey photos. Angus, who never stopped hunting is still hunting while Peat poses with a bird that came out of the conifers on an after-school hunt in a place I thought I’d only find grouse. Adding to the image’s dearness to me is the history of Peat’s initial reluctance to retrieve and radical, sudden change of course, becoming a flawless retriever to this day. It’s one of the purest gestures of reconciliation I’ve known, even though he’s “just” a dog and probably doesn’t think of it like that.
    4 years in the making: The Kid with his first chukar, after trying hard for most of 4 seasons with me, he finally got one (he actually got three that day). Doesn’t speak much for my guiding abilities, but a worthwhile Hero Shot.

    Chukar hunting is hard, and bagged birds come at a price, whether it’s the calories you burned in the pursuit, the abrasions on your dogs’ pads, the pride you had to swallow when you couldn’t get up the hill to your dog’s stealthy point in time, or the axle you broke trying to get just a little farther up that nasty road. Lining birds up on a tailgate for a photo, with your amazing dog whose praises you’ve made a habit to sing and your best human buddy you’ve shared the challenge with, makes a certain amount of sense. This photo is not intended to say, “Screw these stupid birds, I’m glad they’re dead and I’m gladder I killed them.” It’s not meant to say, as the truly stupid saying about chukar hunting goes, “The first one’s for fun, and the rest are for revenge.” Rather, it’s meant to say, I think, “I respect these birds, love where they live, admire beyond description my dog’s singular flotation of the whole proposition, and am grateful for the opportunity to hunt them.” It says, “Chukar are beautiful, and a worthy pursuit, and I’ve hunted them fairly, ethically, and shot well enough to harvest some of them, who — I admit — gave their lives in exchange for all of the above.”

    So, going back to T.J. Clark’s thoughts about these images of death, the faces we see probably daily (at least during bird season) of these multitudes of expired prey, I still can’t help wondering what we’re avoiding, “what is most to be avoided in the sight of death.” I do think something’s not being said here, whether it’s in the image or outside it, behind it, surrounding it. What, for example, really, is remorse? Pity? Sorrow? Projection? Reciprocity? Do those register? And, if so, since they’re all necessarily (aha!) irreconcilable (unless you commit suicide every time you kill a bird), where do they go, what do they do to us, what can we do with them? And how can we participate in a tradition (whether it’s a Hero Shot or a still life) saturated with adulation but based entirely on death that’s not our own, without avoiding something important? Is that possible? Does it matter?

    On a very crass and basic level, what we’re doing is trying to connect (with others?) and using the death of birds to do so. Somehow, posting pictures of bird dogs pointing or of the sun rising beautifully over a ridge just doesn’t garner the same kind of response (or we think it won’t) from whomever we’re trying to connect with. The result rather than the experience. The bottom line. It used to bug me when I’d go back to work on Monday and the dudes who didn’t chukar hunt would ask, sincerely, “How many birds did you kill this weekend?” Once I answered, “None, but you should have heard the wind carry a slow sound in the hawthorn.” Connection aborted.

    One of the loveliest poems I know is Robert Burns’ “Song Composed in August,” which situates bird hunting naturally in the middle of courtship:

    Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
    Tyrannic man’s dominion;
    The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
    The flutt’ring, gory pinion!

    Part of what I like about this is that it just puts it out there, this is what we do, they’re birds, they’re beautiful, and some of them, when we’re not trying to get laid, we kill. Chalk it up to “tyrannic man’s dominion” and the “joy” of sportsmen. We hear and see and might even be the cause of the murderous gore, and then get on with things. This, it seems, is exactly in the right cultural milieu. Harvest. Death isn’t really faced because it doesn’t have to be (as long as it’s not your own, and even then…). So, killing birds — and posting photos of them — isn’t the end of the world. Unless you’re the bird. I just think, aesthetically, that photos of dead birds look way better in natural settings (rocks, grass, dogs’ mouths) as opposed to tailgates or (the absolute worst) impaled on barbed wire. But that’s just me.

  • Hercules 3

    Hercules 3

    This will probably be the final post for a while about Hercules.

    The town hall meeting called by Hercules Silver Corp last night in Cambridge was, unexpectedly, packed (I took the photo above before everyone had arrived). Hundreds of people showed up for what was, expectedly, a PR presentation by Chris Paul, CEO, and Chris Longton, VP of Exploration. I recognized many ranchers, teachers, and other community members in the crowd, as well as journalists, representatives from Idaho Wildlife Federation, Idaho Fish & Game, and Backcountry Hunters and Anglers. Judy Boyle, the 7-term District 9 Idaho House Representative from Midvale, began the meeting by introducing Paul and Longton, as well as the Washington County Commissioner for District 3, Gordon Wilkerson. Boyle, as seems to be her trademark in public comments, wasted no time criticizing the federal government, saying that the mining project was the first positive hope for the community since when “we used to manage our own forests, remember that!?” Then she handed the mic to Paul.

    Paul began by calmly saying that he was glad to see so many people come out to learn about the project, and that he decided to call the town hall meeting to respond to lots of rumors he’s heard about what’s going on, one of which is that next year there’ll be 200 miners coming to town. “That’s not going to happen,” he said.

    After Paul gave a long-ish review of the history of mining on this site, and some explanation of their scientific and exploration activities, Longton illustrated the mining process as a whole. He emphasized, repeatedly, that the project is in the exploration stage, the first stage of any mining project, and that it could take up to 13 years before it progressed to the design stage, which could take another 13 years before reaching the construction stage (Stage 3). He elaborated that the design stage (Stage 2) required detailed planning for the reclamation stage (Stage 6), which would remove much of the physical evidence of the mine’s existence. Paul added that present-day mining operations are required to bond for the reclamation stage, which prevents a lack of recourse for communities savaged by mining operations that abandon the mine, which is common historically. It was interesting to see Longton’s demeanor change during his part of the presentation from relatively calm to stressed and labored; I had the distinct sense that he was angry to have to explain all this. Then, during the Q&A afterward, he overdid the friendliness when answering questions. He came across to me as more volatile than I’d expect a geologist to be, which was in direct contrast to Paul, who — dressed to match the local code, in flannel plaid shirt, jeans, and a vest — stayed calm and understated the whole time. Sophisticated.

    All of this talk about mining, of course, has nothing to do with what Hercules is doing, which is trying to find copper and silver so they can sell their rights to an actual mining company. Much of what they shared in their presentation was obviously to allay fears of the negative impacts a future mine would have on the Andrus WMA. During the Q&A that followed their presentation, many questions focused on the impact of a mining operation in the area. Since Hercules isn’t going to be doing any mining, they, understandably, prefaced their answers as purely hypothetical and speculative, but tended to downplay the potential impact. Where would the workers live? (A. They’d hope to hire as many as possible locally, but typically mining operations want miners to live on-site or close by.) What would happen to an already “messed up” Highway 71? (A. No idea at all; that bridge’ll be crossed if and when it’s gotten to.) What would happen to the Snake River? (A. No idea since we don’t know what kind of mine it would be.) Would it be an open pit or an underground mine? (A. We don’t know yet, but that based on how deep the copper is, it would probably be subsurface and therefore have minimal surface disturbance; Paul, who answered this one, of course didn’t say anything about the plethora of environmental and occupational hazards of underground mines.) How would public access to the site be affected? (A. For what Hercules is doing there won’t be any impact or limit on access for recreation, grazing, etc.) I know you can’t say, but what’s your best guess how long the exploration phase you’re doing will take? (A. You’re right, I can’t say, but if you’re gonna press me I’d guess 5 years.) Someone else asked how many drill rigs they’ve had up there, and Paul said they had three this year, and might add a fourth next year.

    In my opinion, based on my extensive hiking up there this fall, Both Paul and Longton significantly minimized the impact on the site that their exploration has already had; Longton, for example, showed a slide of a huge drill rig whose footprint was bigger than Cambridge, and then contrasted it with a photo of their drill rigs, saying they could “probably fit 10 of them in this room.” Maybe not. The drill pads they’ve already made up there are sizeable for the area — at least 50 yards by 50 yards — but they didn’t say anything about the numerous roads they’ve bulldozed between drill rigs and storage areas. The two gated access roads into the site — Camp Creek and Grade Creek — have been noticeably eroded by the machinery traffic in the area, and the runoff and silt will no doubt end up in Brownlee Creek, Brownlee Reservoir, and the Snake River. No discussion of mitigation of this whatsoever.

    And, of course, not a word about the principle on which public land is founded: multi-use. Mining rights trump all other rights in Idaho. But part of the site is on Forest Service land, so they were blurry on permitting, as well as the breakdown of state-federal land and the respective regulations. I’d prepared a list of questions, as did Leslie, but it was clear from the outset that Hercules Silver Corp’s objective was to sell their part of the project to the community mainly by emphasizing that they’re not doing much to change anything up there right now; they’re “just looking.” They knew a major hope in the community was jobs the mine might bring (which Boyle alluded to in her introduction), but they immediately downplayed that as an imminent possibility, and as something they wouldn’t be involved in anyway since that would happen only after a mine had been designed and when it was entering Stage 3 (Construction), which could be 20 years off if I understood Longton’s presentation. It struck me as ironic that Judy Boyle introduced the meeting by suggesting how promising this would be economically for “the community” (as if everybody wants the same thing she, and the mining industry, wants: to pull as much money from the ground as possible, regardless of the impact on the land). Of course, she’s just doing her part to smooth the way, which is why Chris Paul has expressed great admiration for Boyle. If I were him, I’d want to be on her good side (full disclosure: I’ve long been bothered by Boyle’s efforts to eliminate federal land in Idaho, the passage of her trespass law in Idaho, and especially her in-person support of Ammon Bundy’s violent takeover of the Malheur Wildlife Refuge in 2016. I’ve witnessed many times her uncivil responses to positions that don’t agree with hers; see, for example, the factually vague, gaslighting rhetoric she uses in a Boise Metro Chamber video dialog titled (ironically) “In Search of Civility” from 2021, especially in contrast with the other guest, Idaho legislator Ilana Rubel).

    I talked with some folks afterward, and most had the same feeling I had: that it’s going to be a while before we know much, or before much changes. Hercules has the rights, and will explore — drilling and other research, including the geophysical stuff that all those high-voltage wires were for, about which at one point either Paul or Longton said, “You didn’t see piles of corpses anywhere near those wires” (I wondered if this was in response to my complaining about it in my previous posts) — for at least another year. One person I talked with, who runs a natural resource business in the area, said that if a mine goes in and they hire locally it will be tough if not impossible for him to hire any employees, as it will for other businesses in the area that can’t pay as much as the mine would. Several people I talked with afterward had the same concern about the non-economic impact on the public land: its importance for big game, upland game, and outdoor recreation. But one thing’s clear: if Hercules finds what mining companies feel is worth digging for, it’s going to happen, and they’ll do whatever necessary to make it happen. Whether the community will benefit in any way is anyone’s guess, but — unless Hercules pulls the plug because there’s not enough there to sell — it’s not an if but a when. Maybe I’ll be gone by then.

    It’s obvious I’m against this project 100%. I know that’s hypocritical in an absolute sense because we all depend on the metals they hope to find here, and they’re apparently in short supply (I’m not sure this is true, but they said so). My defense against my hypocrisy is that not all mining areas are in places that were originally private lands which were purchased and donated to a public entity specifically for wildlife conservation. Elk hunting, for example, is big business in Idaho but also an important part of life and local tradition in the area. The vast majority of elk killed every year nearby spend winters on the Hercules site. Some local hunters (many of whom are ranchers) have expressed concern about the negative impact wolves have had on elk numbers and harvest rates (the science on this is ambivalent at best); but if the Hercules site becomes a mine (even a subsurface one), that winter ground will be unavailable to elk and they will disappear from the area (as will all other access, recreational and cattle-related). No science needed to know that fact.

    Another layer of irony here is that Hercules and its major investor (Barrick Gold) are Canadian companies; Paul said he was from BC and it’s over-explored, and (in the podcast I linked to in Hercules 2) the Canadian government was a pain to deal with, especially compared to Idaho. Idaho prides itself on its natural beauty, but when it comes down to it its legislators will sell it if they can.

  • Hercules 2

    Hercules 2

    Some news about the Hercules Silver project on the Cecil Andrus Wildlife Management Area.

    First, Hercules is hosting a “town hall meeting” about its project this Wednesday evening (Dec. 13) at 7 p.m. in the Cambridge Exhibit Hall (see photo below). If you’ve hunted down there, and can make the meeting, it would be a great opportunity to ask questions or express concern for the future of that area, its wildlife inhabitants, and your rights to use public land in Idaho.

    Click on the picture to go to the Facebook page, and read the extensive comments from readers.

    Second, I’ve gotten a couple responses from organizations in Idaho that monitor mining, particularly Idaho Rivers United. I spoke with a conservation program manager at IRU, which was heartening in that he was motivated to find out more about this little-known project.

    Although the Hercules project is mainly focused on the Andrus WMA, and thus Idaho State land, there are some questions that nobody I’ve talked to (which include USFS managers, F&G managers, and NGO conservation managers) seems to be able to answer, which I hope come up on Wednesday evening in Cambridge:

    1) if the mining project is going full steam ahead because it’s on Idaho land (and not federal, which requires much more in-depth permitting and public comment periods, which are scant or non-existent on Idaho lands when it comes to mining), why were those high-voltage cables Peat and I repeatedly tripped over spread across huge swaths of NFS (federal) land in addition to the Andrus WMA? Did Hercules have to get permits for that? What would have happened if someone got electrocuted or injured by those?

    2) Is it a fact that mining rights on state land supercede designation of a parcel as a “wildlife management area,” which is supposed to be managed by Idaho Fish and Game for wildlife habitat protection, which was the intent of the donation of this specific land by the “Richard King Mellon Foundation… in 1993.”

    There’s also some confusion about mining rights, and what type of mine Hercules is trying to sell to investors. If it owns the mining rights, there’s no economic benefit to the state or local community; they keep all profits. If they’re leasing the rights, the lease agreement benefits taxpayers and the state. It’s unclear which type of mining rights Hercules has here.

    The other question concerns surface rights and subsurface rights; the Fish & Game press release says Hercules has subsurface rights. The Hercules investor information claims they have surface rights. Which is it, and what difference does it make?

    Another question that ranchers might be concerned to ask would be: if the Hercules project turns into its hoped-for open pit mine, what would happen to that significant acreage of public land grazing allotment? Anyone who’s been on that land has noticed cattle on it for at least half the calendar year. Idaho F&G prides itself on how it manages both wildlife and grazing on parcels like this: “Livestock grazing occurs on the WMA and the grazing program demonstrates compatible wildlife and livestock use of rangelands.” I would imagine they would all but eliminate access to that entire side of Highway 71, for miles.

    Here are a couple of background information sources a friend of mine (thanks, Lisa!) dug up on this project. The first is an investor’s analysis of the project:

    This next one is a podcast interview with the CEO of Hercules, Chris Paul, who shares his love of Idaho as an easy place to mine because of the lack of permitting and what he sees as a place where he doesn’t have to deal with the “brain death” of dealing with federal regulations:

    There are of course lots of other questions and concerns I’m not aware of right now. If you can make the meeting this Wednesday, please consider a trip to Cambridge. I’ll try to post a follow-up soon afterward.

  • Climb

    Climb

    I used to be an athlete a long time ago.

    In the summer of 1989, I watched the Boise Twilight Criterium bicycle race as men rode their bikes at lightning fast speed on laps downtown. I was smitten by the action and excitement. That same month on NBC Sports I watched Greg Lemond win the Tour De France (by just 8 seconds, over a Frenchman no less!) and decided at that exact moment that I wanted to race bicycles. Not having any money at the time, I borrowed $275 from my Mom to buy a used road bicycle, and by September of that year I entered my first race, the Bogus Basin Hillclimb, a 16-mile uphill race, and came in 3rd place for women.

    Wanting to get better at bicycle racing, I asked for training advice from a local Boise cycling legend named Bob Hoene who had won the Bogus Basin hillclimb many times. I remember him telling me something like this: “The best way to know just how far to push yourself is to ride up Bogus as hard as you can until you puke. Once that happens you’ll know your limit.” Later that week, I rode up Bogus with him and puked at milepost 1.5.

    I never amounted to be much of a climber and preferred racing on flatter ground doing time trials or criteriums. In the 1990s, before the promoters of the Twilight Criterium decided to include a separate women’s race, I competed with the men. I loved every adrenaline rush minute of it and even crashed out once. Just like in chukar hunting, I wasn’t intimidated being in a sport mostly dominated by men.

    Twilight Crit start; that’s me in the center with the red helmet.

    I didn’t purposely seek out or want a dog that covered a lot of ground, but yesterday Bloom went on point 256 yards straight above me. I cursed when my Garmin alerted me to this. Every 20 steep steps or so, I stopped, caught my breath and pulled down my fogged-up glasses, checking the Garmin every few seconds hoping he wasn’t on point anymore. But he was. I kept going and felt light-headed and was on the verge of vomiting. My thoughts on the climb up to Bloom made me think about Bob Hoene and my ride up Bogus Basin with him 34 years before. It probably took me another 10 more minutes to reach a place on the climb where I could see Bloom but he was still 75 torturous yards away. After all these years, I still hate climbing but I couldn’t stop because one must always honor the point.

    I hadn’t thought about Bob Hoene for years but now wonder what happened to him? I hope he’s still racing bicycles. Sometimes, I wonder what will become of me.

    My nemesis climb. Bogus Basin prologue start for the International Women’s Challenge stage race, 1993
    Powerbar Women’s Challenge, 1994
    Meeting the great Greg LeMond
  • December Chukar Hills

    December Chukar Hills

    The two years we lived in Washington, as I’ve said here before, were not the easiest two years for us. We missed the chukar hills, empathized with our dogs’ longings for open hills of bunchgrass and sage, and just simply were unable to ignore the call to the hills. Local surrogates paled in comparison. When we returned to those hills last February, they were buried in snow. So we had to wait. Now that the snow’s here again, we’re recalling the patience required but it’s easier being here, no longer two days’ drive away. I’m busy trying to gainfully employ myself, and I’m liking the challenge and channeling some of that into the new blog/website. But the industry’s hurting, I’ve yet to land a client, and so am doing what I do (when I’m not hunting): reading and writing on topic. Here’s my latest:

    https://chukarhillsrealty.com/2023/12/06/residential-specialist/

    I did get out with Peat into the chukar hills for a long hunt yesterday. December 5th. T-shirt weather in the midst of lots of precipitation. Gorgeous. Not as much action as we’ve typically seen in this above-average bird year, but enough. Bizarrely, even though I filled my 100-ounce Cambelbak bladder, I ran out of water (three miles from the truck). A first for December. Still, stellar day.