This might not appeal to many of you, but it has a lot to do with why I’m compelled to write this blog. I just learned of this writer, Robin Kimmerer, a Potawatomi Indian and botany professor. This piece of hers has to do with how the English language separates (elevates) humans from (over) other living creatures by using different pronouns to refer to things. “He” or “she” means a person. “It” means anything else, living, dead, animate, inanimate, as long as it’s not a person. In the business, we call “it” an “indefinite pronoun,” so by extension the only “definite thing,” linguistically or grammatically, can be a person. For a long time in my classroom, I had a circle/slash diagram with “IT” in the center, hoping my students would pay more attention to antecedents. Her essay has helped me reframe this grammatical irritation (I’m worrying now that I’ve lost most of my readers… Sorry!).
In won’t summarize Dr. Kimmerer’s essay, except to say I think it’s worth reading if only to call some interesting attention to how language shapes our thinking about our relationships with the natural world. I’ll also endorse its ideas as possibly the most elegant conception I’ve seen of a regular theme in this blog, of how I can come to terms with the often bitter paradox of wanting to kill things I love. She mentions, early in her essay, the possibility of honoring the lives we take in our constant efforts to sustain ourselves. She doesn’t address hunting, but I’d love to talk with her about some of these issues and about how “our” language about hunting sometimes falls short of accurately describing what it’s all about.
If anyone reads her essay, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
We’ve spent a bunch of evenings this summer eating dinner outside near our woodshed, which has a bird house on its west-facing wall that I put up a couple years ago. Its first ever residents are a dutiful tree swallow pair who moved in this spring, and we’ve enjoyed watching them go in and out and eat some of the bugs we’d prefer go elsewhere. It might be a coincidence, but our wasp problem is not nearly as bad this year. I like to think the swallows might be responsible.
Bird house on the right, with swallow feeding chick
Just a couple nights ago we noticed the parents coming back to the house and feeding two wee chicks. They’d snatch insects in mid-air and swoop like winged ballet dancers to a sudden stop at the hole and feed their babies, whose wide mouths eagerly took the food. Just as suddenly the adult swallow would fly off on another sortie and return soon with more grub. We got to know these birds. Their concern with getting their babies in shape to leave the nest registered with us and we talked about it at other times throughout the day. Their plight has been on my mind. We rooted for them, and felt relief and satisfaction when we saw the chicks eat, and felt anxious when their yearning heads stuck out of the hole anticipating the next insect installment.
Parent and chick touching talons
Our cat Seamus, an accomplished hunter in his twilight years, knows about these birds, as does Peat. Peat barks at the parent when it perches in a nearby dead tree. Last night Seamus sat on a Ponderosa pine round several feet below the bird house. I threw a rock at him and he fled. Tonight, as we watched the birds perform their dusk routine, I thought I’d relieve them of a little stress by moving the round away from the house, and took some perverse pleasure in thinking Seamus would be disappointed at having his bird-killing perch removed.
As the light faded and we returned from a brief stroll around the yard, I noticed Seamus hunched on the ground near the bird house but couldn’t see what he was doing. I threw another rock at him and he ran off. I attended to some other matters for a moment, and then heard Peat barking and saw him facing Seamus under a lawn chair. Seamus ran off again, and Peat dived under the chair, grabbing something with his mouth. It couldn’t be. He brought it to me, still warm but expired, one of the swallow chicks. My heart sunk.
We think we understand something and allow ourselves to hope. I looked back at the house, which now appeared empty. I couldn’t see either parent flying around, and the hole was chick-less. It was as if their hearts couldn’t stay. I don’t know if they’re gone, or if there’s still one chick in the house. I hope, but don’t understand. And I’m angry with my cat for succeeding at doing what I spend all year myself thinking about doing , and a third of it actually doing.
There’s science, and then there’s the other things. I’m dashing this out tonight ipso facto, but always think of the phrase from Tennyson’s long, long poem (which I’ve never read much of but should) in memory of a dear friend of his (from Cambridge, no less – the one in England, not the one I’m in): “Nature, red in tooth and claw,” which caught the ear and imagination of Darwin’s followers despite the fact that Tennyson doesn’t really pick a side of the Creation-Evolution question. But it’s all I’ve got to console me in situations like this: shit happens, and there’s usually an explanation even if you don’t like it. I want that baby bird back. It was obviously too soon for it to fledge. I don’t even know what happened, but I wish it hadn’t.
Peat with the meadowlark
About a week ago, Peat snagged a baby meadowlark, brought it to Leslie who Googled an answer while holding the bird with her other hand, returned it to the nest, checked on it later that evening, and found it to be fine, with mom nearby. A couple days later, I found a meadowlark chick corpse in the grass, no doubt re-retrieved by Peat, just doing what he does best. Angus did the same thing to a robin a couple years ago. It’s just hard to take. And then, tomorrow, in another frame of mind, I’ll say again to Leslie for the millionth time since last December, “I can’t wait for chukar season,” when I’ll go and try to kill birds I haven’t gotten to know because I couldn’t stand it if I did.
Words matter. I’ve been writing this blog for a while now, and one of the things that keeps me interested in it is the comments I get from readers. I have learned a lot from them, and appreciate the culture of the blog because of readers’ comments. Many comments have taken issue with things I’ve said, which I also appreciate even if I don’t always agree; civil discourse seems increasingly rare these days but is an important feature of any democratic society, and — until a few days ago — all 1,143 comments on this blog had been civil.
We changed the name of the blog, and I explained why we did that so I won’t go into that again. A comment came in recently criticizing the name change as “politically correct” and telling me it “has to go.” I have to say I was surprised by both ideas. First, culture is culture. Everyone has it, participates in it, and uses it. To call our use of the word “politically correct” misunderstands the phrase, this blog, and culture itself, and says more about the person who wrote it than what he believes it means. Second, to tell us our new name “has to go” is just plain rude. If you don’t like it, go elsewhere for your chukar fix. If you think it should be called something else, write your own blog.
I’m happy to say that it appears a few readers don’t mind the name Chukar Culture; our new hats sold out in the first week or so (more are on the way soon, with some additional styles).
I will say, though, that we’re considering changing the name again. The current leaders are: “Chukar Cult”; “Nirvana: The Socio-cultural Pursuit and Sustainable Destruction of the Red-Legged Devil” (this won’t fit too well on a hat, though); “The Ups and Downs of Chukar Hunting”; and (my favorite) “Blowing Away Red-beaked Birds and then Posting Chest-Thumping Photos of What We Killed.” Sadly, Mouthful of Feathers, Red-Legg’ed Devils, Tucker’s Chukars, and Upland Jitsu are already taken; I like those names (and the blogs that belong to them).
Stay tuned for a review of a new chukar hunting pack…
Just a quick post to mention a few good things in recent days…
How many chukar made it?
I received a report a couple of days ago from a friend who was at Brownlee and heard chukar calling. That made me happy because a month ago I spent the day on Oxbow Reservoir and heard not a peep from a chukar; normally I’d hear chukar calling most of the day down there at that time of year. So some birds survived the heavy winter in Hells Canyon. I’d guess that the steeper draws filled with brush and springs might have offered a haven for chukar in the area. I’m hoping the breeding pairs that survived are prolific.
Angus 10 years ago
Angus just turned 10, and — knock on wood — is healthy and spry, if appearing occasionally beleaguered by Peat’s youthful enthusiasm. Together, both dogs collaborate on our walks and runs, mildly harassing the quail and pheasant along the Weiser River Trail. They’re staying fit and trim. Unlike last summer, though, we have yet to budge any Huns or chukar. Keep hope alive.
Chillin’ in the library
Peat, believe it or not, is actually calming down a wee bit. We’ve still not cured him of his love of counter-surfing, but because he’s rather small for an American Brittany, we’ve learned his grab-ability range and are able to keep desirables safe. He also spends more time now just chillin’ inside, but ignites the second we appear to be heading outside. We get momentary glimmers of a future home without a crate, something unimaginable even a month or two ago.
Despite tick season exploding massively in the past week, we’ve been fortunate to minimize the impact on both dogs. For the second year in a row we’ve gone with monthly Advantix treatments, which don’t seem quite as effective as Frontline did at killing ticks that attached themselves to the dogs, but we’re also not seeing as many on the dogs (yet anyway); maybe the Advantix is deterring some ticks from hanging on once they successfully “quest” a dog.
Tick in “questing” position, waiting for a host to pass so it can grab on.
The frequent storms have dramatized the early part of summer vacation around here, reminding us of Scotland’s wet, windy springs instead of our normal parched Junes. There’s new snow on mountaintops today. We think this is good, and are grateful not just for the beauty, as if that’s not enough.
Back porch after the rain, looking toward Brownlee
Inspired by my wife (although the jury’s still out, for me), I’ve been using some of my extra summer-vacation time to look more into Instagram. My resistance comes from believing our culture is far too involved in tiny virtual worlds. The upside, though, for me initially anyway, is seeing how many people are actually involved in the big wide world (and choose to share images from their involvement on tiny screens). There’s definitely a “game” to Instagram (involving followers/following ratios, and other expansion strategies, which I don’t like), but I have enjoyed making some connections to other like-minded (but different) bird chasers. As E.M. Forster’s epigraph to Howard’s End commands: “Only Connect.”
Finally, we sold a bunch of hats – almost all of them, actually – on the new shop’s first day, and are thankful for the support. We’ll have more soon, with some different models, too, including an all-blaze/non-mesh hat for the field. Stay tuned.
Recovering from the latest bout of vertigo (not a good thing)
A student of mine recently told me he heard a guy in town bragging about his amazing chukar-hunting son-in-law who killed 200 chukar from his pickup, on one snowy January day this past winter, along the road (Highway 71) near Brownlee Reservoir. The limit’s 8. Where’s F&G when you need ’em? (In 17 years of chukar hunting in Idaho, I’ve never once run into a F&G officer; not that I want to, but it makes you wonder.)
And now this:
If you know these folks, who were caught by what must be a Fish & Game game camera poaching chukar on March 18th (2017) in the Boise River WMA, call Idaho Fish & Game poaching hotline at (208) 334-3700.
Here’s another photo with what must be a new kind of chukar dog:
