Not just for the birds

Tag: chukar culture

  • The Fire

    The Fire

    “God gave Noah the rainbow sign,
    No more water, but the fire next time.”

    –A.P. Carter, “God Gave Noah The Rainbow Sign“

    This summer, chukar country was on fire. All of the places, and more, that we hunt have been burned. North, south, east, and west of us. Like most chukar hunters, I wondered about the birds, how they were faring, if this year’s chicks were old enough to run or fly to pockets of safety. Bird numbers have been mostly good this season, but a huge chunk of our favorite spots are now toast.

    Most of the fires started from lightning. Much of the fuel that allowed them to spread, and to continue growing, is invasive annual grasses: cheatgrass, medusahead rye, and ventenata. The “range,” composed largely of extensive tracts of public land (mainly BLM), is now “currently defined by ecosystem dysfunction, social upheaval, and a warming climate.”

    We want to point fingers, but that does little good. In many of these places, it’s too late to stop the takeover of these destructive annual grasses, brought here from far-away places by feed for cattle. The pre-livestock perennials that kept the range “healthy” (a relative term) can’t compete and — in many places we hunt — are already gone forever. Bitterbrush and sagebrush, two of the most important perennials for a host of creatures endemic to the range, can’t survive the increased heat, frequency, and duration of today’s range fires. Same with the native bunchgrasses. In some of my favorite former chukar haunts what once plumed vibrant seas of multi-shaded green and gold now is a monochromatic moonscape of charred earth. Yesterday we happened to find ourselves descending into a bowl that once was filled with sagebrush and numerous partridges but now, four years after a big fire there, was choked solely with 4-foot-tall dried grass that completely hid our dogs. Sage and bitterbrush rarely come back once they burn hot. The invasive grasses all but guarantee more frequent fires on the range.

    The obvious irony is that chukar love the fresh, abundant shoots of these invasive grasses. The fall rains that bring “greenup” signal good bird numbers in lots of places. Doubling this irony, of course, is that this beloved bird is itself invasive. So why do we care?

    The answer is obvious and needn’t be stated. Less obvious, maybe, is that an even bigger threat to these public lands is the continuous attempt by robber barons to transfer them to the western states. We’ve been able to continue indulging our chukar hunting passion, despite the fires, because of the abundant choices of BLM and NFS land in Oregon, Idaho, Nevada, Washington, Wyoming, Montana, and Utah. Closest to our home, thanks to Idaho’s repugnant trespass law of 2018, hundreds of thousands of acres adjacent to NFS and BLM land have been purchased and closed off, including (illegally) some public roads, by the notorious Wilks Brothers from Texas, a state with almost no public land. (Look on onX, for example, up the Middle Fork of the Weiser for “DF Development LLC” land, which is one of the Wilks Brothers’ land businesses.) The Wilks Brothers acquired much of their holdings by purchasing Idaho State lands, which the state is required to sell, which is what everybody knows they’ll do with any federal land that gets transferred to the state. Do you want to be like Texas, where you have to be rich in order to hunt?

    The latest legislative assault on public land is happening in Utah, in which a small faction of sycophants to the American Lands Council (funded largely by the Koch Brothers) is using unconstitutional boilerplate arguments paid for by taxpayers to argue that all federal land in Utah should be transferred to state control. The only way they’ll succeed is if the state’s constitution is amended, which is their aim. Most western states have an almost identical constitution which stipulates that citizens of those states “forever disclaim all right and title to the unappropriated public lands” in the state. Courts have, until now, rejected these lawsuits as unconstitutional, but with the shift in the composition of the U.S. Supreme Court, along with numerous federal courts throughout the U.S., it’s possible that one successful challenge — maybe it’ll happen in Utah soon — will lead to a domino effect vaporising federally held (i.e., truly “public”) land in the west. For anyone who uses these public lands, that would be worse than any fire. If you believe in contacting your state representatives to express your opinion, Idaho Wildlife Federation has made a snazzy form for sending an editable comment to Crapo, Little, Risch, and Fulcher that encourages them to disavow Utah’s current effort to transfer its public land to the state. I did it, and am sure I’ll get the typically condescending response from Risch’s office. Can’t say I didn’t try…

    For an excellent, recent overview of where we are and how we got here, see the video below, in which Walt Dabney, former National Park Service Superintendent and Texas State Park Director, discusses the history and future of America’s public lands.

    Finally, with regard to the Hercules project near Cambridge, which is now being called, by Hercules, the Barrick Project, foreshadowing a transition from exploration to actual mining, there’s more information. I personally haven’t been able to stomach going back to the area after my visit last year, but Leslie and I hunted across the canyon from it and were stunned by how many new roads they’ve carved into the publicly owned land there, mostly on the Andrus WMA but extending now into USFS land higher up. Perhaps even more dire than increased fire vulnerability or transfer of public lands to state ownership, mining rights threaten the actual earth itself. The Idaho Conservation League just released a comprehensive report on mining in Idaho, which details current projects and past environmental impacts of mining in the Gem State (click the image below to load the report). Like fire itself, which is both real and metaphoric, verb and noun, mining is something everyone who values public land should know something about and not take for granted.

  • Where They Are

    Where They Are

    [I just found this in my “Drafts” folder. It’s from two years ago when we were still looking for a place back in chukar country to move to. I thought I’d posted it but for some reason didn’t, probably related to a family emergency that, along with the person it centered on, passed about a year ago.]

    We drove nearly a quarter of a million miles looking for birds this season. I don’t have the exact figure. We hiked 51.4, which was at least twice what we did the previous season (I didn’t even bother keeping records), but more than 160 fewer miles than our last big season (2020-21). Those are all the numbers I feel like sharing now. Maybe next year I’ll geek out a bit more on that score.

    At the beginning of one of those long, multi-state drives, in December I think, we left our house at the ultimate northwest point of the contiguous United States and drove nearly 30 miles going 25 mph along the undulant serpentine highway fronting the Strait of Juan de Fuca (also known as the Salish Sea) before realizing that I had forgotten my boots. So we went back and got them. The fog had burned off on the redux. “Worth waiting for, huh?” it seemed to say.

    For years I’d wanted to hunt chukar in Nevada. And never had. So this year, we went down there, armed with some beta from a cyber-friend we ended up meeting for dinner in Winnemucca. We’d reserved a room, on his advice, at Scott’s Shady Court, and when we crossed its threshold we time-traveled back about a half-century. Our suite was big and roomy, and cheap, and the dogs loved it, but there weren’t any grounded outlets so I couldn’t charge all our shit. Anachronism much? Anyway, before dinner at the fabulous (for real) Martin Hotel, we headed to Wally World to buy licenses to add to our Idaho, Oregon, Washington, Montana, and Wyoming bird licenses this season. It was a typical Wal-Mart experience: walk around ’til you find someone who looks like they work there, ask for help, and have them ignore you but walk away and use their radio to ask someone to come to the _____ department and help a customer. The five minutes that elapsed before an associate arrived were spent by me thinking I should have just tried to get my license online. The young man entered the space behind the counter near all the guns and ammo (they lock that up now, too), and began logging into the computer. There was another guy with him, also with an associate’s blue vest and nametag with the smiley face on it. Together they appeared to will the keypuncher’s access to the system. Several minutes and dozens of keystrokes later, the keypuncher looked up for a brief moment, not at me but in my direction, and announced that he couldn’t remember his login information. I looked at him and asked if he could call a manager. “I am the manager,” he replied. The ensuing conversation made it clear that I would not be able to purchase a license at Wal-Mart that evening, but that I could come back at 8 a.m. the following morning when another manager who could probably remember his or her login would have taken over. On the way out I made a brief stop at the customer service desk for a second opinion, which verified the first one.

    At the Martin Hotel, sitting with strangers at the long family style dinner table, before our friend got there, while pretending to peruse the menu, we eavesdropped on our table-mates’ conversation about lining up immigrants, shooting them, and letting them fall into a mass grave. “Where would be a good spot for that?” one of the others asked earnestly. Then our friend arrived, and on hearing the account of the Wal-Mart license experience, was initially aghast but then said that unless we had a physical copy of a certificate showing we’d passed a hunter safety course we would not be able to buy a license in Nevada. It was my turn to be aghast, which I was; none of the other five states had such a requirement for people of our advanced age and inestimable experience. Chock this one up to an overabundance of faith and not doing adequate research: the next morning we drove north out of Nevada, our Silver State Chukar Virginity intact. As we crossed from Nevada into Oregon, Leslie said, “We should call it ‘No-vada.’” [NOTE: We’ve since figured out what we need to do on the license front, but have yet to make it there. Soon, I hope.]

    Like Moses, we wandered a lot in the desert looking both for birds and a new place to live. Wyoming was different for us, and revelatory in several ways. The red landscape around the Wind River range struck us positively, but the prickly-pear cactus stuck our dogs’ feet negatively. Still, after a wonderful morning in and around Lander, we did laundry in Pinedale and talked with an octogenarian man who’d raised ten kids in a log cabin nearby with no running water or electricity; each of his kids had long since graduated from a prestigious university and gone on to do big things. We camped at Ten Sleep Brewing Company, initially setting up in the wrong campground, to be kicked out by a rancher who owned what was the glitzy but empty level concrete pad expensive campground right next to the brewery campground but with no distinguishing signage. We found our sloped grassy/muddy tiny spot not long thereafter, which was okay. Better than okay was being awakened the next morning by chukar calling from a rocky outcropping above the brewery. The dogs were lit running through the network of red arroyos and over terrain that must have registered a lunar difference if they’d even paused for a second to contemplate. I’ve never hiked in anything more beautiful, but no birds were found by us despite a couple hard points by Bloom. On our way out of there, we (I) of course got lost, which I truly enjoy but Leslie does not. An unexpected joy, for us both, was that, while we sat pulled off to the side of the road, a FedEx truck passed us, braked, reversed, and the driver asked us if he could help direct us somewhere. His friendliness and easy-to-follow directions gave me a warmth for humanity. About thirty minutes later, we came to an intersection on the still-gravel road that we wanted to analyze, and — you guessed it — the same driver came past us, stopped, reversed, this time getting out of his truck and walking back to us in case, I don’t know, we might have something as novel as a map to look at (nope; just the “smart” phones). Anyway, he suggested the best route to Cody, and we were on our way, but not before my typical question to strangers in chukar country: “Do you by chance hunt chukar?” He said no, he didn’t have time, which I thought was a good answer, whether or not it was true.

    As it’s no doubt obvious by now, we’re both beerhounds, and the more cynical out there might view our house-seeking/chukar-hunting itinerary as a thinly-veiled excuse to visit brewpubs throughout the intermountain west and Pacific Northwest. Joints including but not limited to ones in Prineville (OR), The Dalles (OR), Walla Walla (WA), Lewiston (ID), Clarkston (WA), Ontario (OR), Mitchell (OR), Ten Sleep (WY), Sheridan (MT), Lewistown (MT), Ennis (MT), Victor (ID), Spokane (WA), Baker City (OR), Enterprise (OR), John Day (OR), Salmon (ID), Driggs (ID), Olympia (WA), and Troutdale (OR) sold us IPAs. And, in the ill-fated Winnemucca leg, we were gifted with some fine brews by Alectoris Aleworks! With Hells Canyon Beer about to embark on its third iteration, we realize we actually might be a Beer Club with a Chukar Problem.

    Enterprise, OR
    Mitchell, OR
    Prineville, OR
    Ten Sleep, WY
    Council, ID
    Olympia, WA
    Lewiston, ID
    The driveway of the house we tried to buy
    The view from the house we tried to buy
    The house we tried to buy (before it hard-failed the inspection)
    The house we ended up buying
  • Shadows

    Shadows

    When it comes, the Landscape listens —
    Shadows — hold their breath —
    –Emily Dickinson

    Like Men and Women Shadows walk —
    Upon the Hills Today —
    –Emily Dickinson

    Every picture has its shadows
    And it has some source of light
    Blindness, blindness and sight
    –Joni Mitchell

    Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And then is heard no more. It is a tale,
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing.
    –William Shakespeare’s Macbeth

    Hunting chukar is a privilege, a hobby. Nobody hunts chukar because they must. If your life depended on it, even if you shot 100%, you’d die of malnutrition. Calorically, it’s way less than a zero sum game. On this 95th anniversary of Black Tuesday, that’s food for thought.

    I started this blog about 15 years ago, after I’d lost my job and had more time on my hands. My first chukar hunt happened ten years earlier, in the fall of 2000, thanks to the generous father of a co-worker. He and his Lab had picked me up in the dark in his Bronco, never having met me or my puppy Glenna, and drove about an hour outside of Boise. He’d told me to bring waders. We linked arms, started across the swift river, hoped the dogs would figure it out, ditched the waders on the opposite bank, changed into our boots, and headed uphill. My youthful enthusiasm and Glenna’s natural ability impressed him, but we never went with Rich again. I’m not sure why. I think I got one bird that day. But, as I’ve written about before, Glenna — for whatever reason, probably my fault — began hunting too much for herself and diminished my desire to chase birds.

    I started really becoming obsessed with this privilege when I moved to Cambridge in the summer of 2012. It served to stabilize me through the first several years of my new teaching career there, and soon became my favorite thing in the world. Even though my first glimpse of Cambridge was colored by the pawn shop’s astonishing storefront, lowlighting the deplorable ‘Murica mentality of its owner (who’d been the high school art teacher before the district cut the art classes because of Idaho’s deliberate underfunding of public education), being able to go hunting after school and on the long weekends (ours was a four-day school) really helped me to develop a stability and contentment there. And as teaching became easier and more fulfilling, so did chukar hunting. Funny how that works.

    The former high school art teacher sitting on the bench in front of his pawn shop in Cambridge, July 2012. (Enlarge the photo to read the signs.)

    So my first four seasons there became more and more joyous. My youngest group of students had become seniors, and in the spring of 2016 they asked me to give the Commencement address, an honor which moved me tremendously. But in November 2016 the shadows started becoming more of a factor, darkening the landscape. It took awhile to notice. Incredulousness played a big part. Teaching critical thinking skills seemed increasingly important, but began taking a toll on my demeanor. When I refused to answer a question about the recent election, one of my best students said, “I’ve been waiting since kindergarten for a new president but I didn’t want this one!” Not by nature a tongue-holder, saying nothing about any of this at school took more out of me than I’ll ever know. By 2018 I realized I’d transitioned from a merely negative person to a constantly angry person. It’s been a while now. Nearly ten years of watching the normalization of hatred and division, the disrespect for the rule of law, and now the threat of a complete dismantling and destruction of this country’s admittedly flawed but hopeful foundation looms so large for me and tens of millions of others that every day every thing is laced or suffused with dread. Including this privilege of walking around public land (who knows how long that’ll last) searching for game birds with my dogs and wife.

    So it would feel ignorantly irresponsible of me not to say that I’m voting for Kamala Harris and to encourage everyone I know to do the same. Actually, I voted early. It was easy for me. I know it’s not for many. As I’ve written here and elsewhere, strong women have been a formative part of my life from its beginning. This shouldn’t strike anyone as irrelevant to this blog: it’s been a satisfying impossibility for me to separate chukar hunting from everything else and vice versa. Worry, dread, shadows all play their part at some point in every outing; the ups and downs of any hunt reflect life in reassuring ways. But when those dark things spread so opaquely over everything they demand all of my attention, paralyzingly so. The thing that saved this country in the fallout from Black Tuesday, after so many people died and suffered needlessly for years because of the un-democratic power and greed of a few, was FDR’s New Deal, which is the model for what Biden’s done to rescue the economy from his predecessor’s grift and graft. Harris, obviously, will build on that success if she wins. But there’s more to this than just “the economy, stupid.” Obviously. There’s the abyss, which is always all shadow.

    Stupidity is one thing. Ignorance is another, and it is truly deplorable. Our dogs and the birds we chase, god love them, are stupid, but their instincts — at least on this playing field — are smarter by far than ours. Their lacking of the anatomy that makes us intelligent is the basis for our love of them: dogs, for one, can only do what’s right and good. Ignorance, on the other hand, is having the ability to know the difference between right and wrong and choosing not to give a shit, choosing not to pay attention. There is only one right choice out of the two we have for who leads this country. The wrong choice is simply, obviously, wilfully ignorant. I know there are many who think, like Macbeth, that it doesn’t matter. Even a smarter writer like Emily Dickinson thought that

    Diadems – drop –
    And Doges surrender –
    Soundless as Dots, 
    On a Disk of Snow

    but I like to think she wasn’t as serious about that as she was about shadows holding their breath. I’m holding mine. Don’t be ignorant. Do the right thing.

  • Younger

    Younger

    Just got home from a great week hunting chukar in Oregon. We were blessed with mostly good weather, and my shooting actually seemed to get better. Imagine that. To be honest, I’d switched from the #7 steel Rio shells (1-1/8 ounce, 1350 fps) that were sent to me in error last season (I’d ordered #6, but they wouldn’t take them back) to some lighter target #6 steel loads (1 ounce, 1365 fps) I’d brought as backups. Who knows? Biorhythms? Planetary alignment? Jerky? Payday bars? A penchant for Joni Mitchell?

    The revelation of the week, for me, came accidentally. Peat, who’s now nearing 10, is wearing out and it breaks my heart. He was limping badly from some abrasions on his pads and also the arthritis or tendonitis that has crept up on him the past few seasons after tough hunts. To call this an accident is dishonest, but I’m still gonna call it that. I was hoping to take Peat for a fourth straight hunt, seeing as it would have been our last day on this trip. But he wasn’t up for it. He didn’t even get off the bed in the camper when I walked out the door with Bloom. Leslie had very kindly encouraged me to go alone with the younger dog. Her dog.

    I didn’t have high hopes for the hunt. I’d never hunted alone with Bloom, who’ll be 4 next March. His nose has always seemed to be almost too sensitive, leading — we’ve theorized — to lots of false pointing. But he’s also found us a ton of birds. Peat, whose favorite thing in the world has always been backing another pointing dog, and, as Angus did with Peat in his early days, seems to have gotten comfortable letting the younger dog do the most work. My log shows Peat barely outrunning Bloom their first season together, then Bloom besting Peat by about a mile or two per hunt, and this season so far (after 17 hunts) Bloom is outrunning Peat by 3 or 4 miles. Bloom is an athlete, a freight train of uncut and solid muscle, and runs 4 to 5 times what we hike. Peat’s a finesse hunter, and has always “only” averaged about 3 times our mileage. The upshot of the discrepancy in the ground each dog covers is that I’d never really paid careful attention to how Bloom hunted, only noticing that he covered much more ground than Peat did. Still, when Peat points it’s a sure thing. I’d gotten used to 50-50-ing Bloom’s points, and focusing mostly on Peat.

    But hunting alone with Bloom the other day let me see him work more clearly. Before too long, it had become obvious how utterly methodical he was. He’d almost intuit the path I moved along, and would run ovals apexing at almost exactly 200 yards in front of me, then circle around just behind me and start another oval. He did this for 3 straight hours, deviating only when chukar scent pulled him “off” course. Which happened five times, resulting in four shots and three bagged birds. My “best” hunt (as far as numbers go) this season.

    Bloom seemed to appreciate the simplicity of our hunt, too. He didn’t have two hunters and another more experienced dog to contend with. It was reassuring, in a bittersweet way. It was almost as if we both responded to being able to focus better on the task at hand, where the sum of the affair was greater than its parts. How sweet. But the bitter part remains. Anyone who’s had multiple dogs knows this game: you favor a certain dog and then he or she starts showing the inevitable decline that comes with age. The cloud moves in. I’m at the point where I can, finally, hunt more consecutive days than Peat can, but I know it won’t last long, both because of my age (And if no other misery yet age?) and because of his. We look for things that might mitigate this sadness, and a younger dog improving, or just being able to appreciate him without comparing him to an older, more beloved beast, certainly doesn’t hurt.

    I’m glad Leslie encouraged me to take her pup out, and that she sacrificed a gorgeous late October day (the day before her birthday no less!) to stay at camp with Peat.

    Bloom pointing stylishly (note his tongue). He seems to like it this way.
    Just checking to make sure I’m still there
    Bringing home the bacon
    Bloom’s most similar behavior to his great-uncle Angus: retrieving a bird to the closest sagebrush shade to me. He runs hot.
  • Will

    Will

    “Will you go to lunch.” — Kevin Spacey as Williamson, Glengarry Glen Ross

    “If others have their will Ann hath a way.” — James Joyce, Ulysses

    “Jem and I were accustomed to our father’s last-will-and-testament diction…” Harper Lee, To Kill A Mockingbird

    “The will to live, which forms the inmost core of every living being, exhibits itself most conspicuously in the higher order of animals, that is, the cleverer ones…” — Arthur Schopenhauer, “Psychological Observations” (1817)

    I had this thought last night: “There are four dead birds _________ in my refrigerator.” I couldn’t think of any present participles. Actually, I could, but they didn’t make any sense, their cognitive dissonance was too great. The idea doesn’t really need a participle but, you know. Habits of language. Then I wondered why I was having this trouble. And it occurred to me that death can not be a state of existence that warrants any present anything, participles, verbs, presence. It’s the absence of being.

    I would say that chukar are among the “cleverer” animals, so when their will to live is extinguished by a mortal wound caused by some number 6 steel shot fired from my gun, that bird is from that point forward verbless, regardless of whether it’s in my fridge or freezer, or even taxidermied on a beautiful mount that hangs on the wall. Its being no longer is, which includes its will to live. Or, as John Cleese described his dead parrot to the falsely incredulous pet shop owner, “This is an ex-parrot.” And I did that.

    This all might seem pretty basic. But it wasn’t to me, and still isn’t. The problem intensifies, of course, when it’s turned onto me and my mortality. What’s the connection between all of our individual mortalnesses and this hobby of ours, trying to bag birds, trying to create ex-chukar?

    The phrase in the regulations sheds some light on this: “reduced to possession.” When we will it and execute it properly, the chukar’s will to live (our idea) is not actually reduced, is it? Instead, it’s eliminated. But what the regs mean is that — like the word they also seem to love, “harvest,” as if we’re talking about corn here — we’ve merely diminished the animal’s state of existence. One could also argue that the regulations’ language here simply marks the difference between a daily bag limit and how many previous days’ harvest one has in possession. Regardless, it’s dishonest language. The discrepancy in meaning between “reduced” and “eliminated” is our (as the putatively cleverest of the animals) inclination (or will) to minimize or obfuscate the fact that we’ve asserted our will over another creature’s and rendered it a former being. Further, it’s generally assumed that asserting our will over another creature’s — as long as they’re “lower” than us — is normal, okay, unproblematic. Ortega y Gasset’s Meditations on Hunting, probably the most-cited writing on this subject, normalizes this hierarchy in a specist and specious argument (which is why I have no use for it).

    Another aspect of the phrase strikes me, too: “possession.” When we possess the chukar, it’s not only dead but no longer free. We own it. But can something dead be owned, possessed? Grammar says no. Still, our will prevails. (I’m aware of my cultural bias here, as a non-Native Western European: Native American cosmology and ontology have much different takes on all this.)

    But, despite the linguistic obstacle, who can do this to us? How are we reducible to possession? That’s not a real question. We all know the myriad answers to it. Some eliminations are accidental, some intentional, and some just are as a matter of course (dying of old age, for example). Or, for some, it just comes down to God’s will. Not sure what to do with that, aside from saying that we’re assuming the status of God when we “harvest” game (Gasset would have no problem with this). But it’s ironic to me that we cleverest animals have mucked up our wills to live far beyond the less clever but still clever enough to will a life. Maybe in Schopenhauer’s time humans’ will to live was pretty uniformly “conspicuous.” Existence was harder then, and humans, regardless of economic or social status, spent enormously more time than we do on subsistence-related endeavors. Food, shelter, clothing. Now, we have Amazon and Blue Apron. So our wills to live have been diminished somewhat, at least for those privileged enough to have a relatively easy life. I’d say that anyone who hunts for sport (as opposed to necessity) falls into that category.

    If you’ve read this far you’re probably going, “Where the hell is he going with this?” For me, all this comes down to the question, Whose will to live shall prevail, and why? Clearly, we humans think our wills are superior to animals’ and therefore, duh, shall prevail. But I don’t actually buy that, although — hypocrite Me — I act on it at least fifty times a season. First, the concept of superiority, or hierarchy, is entirely ours, which is self-proving. “Fair chase” is probably the best known and most relied on ethical justification of this hierarchy, but in truth there’s nothing even remotely fair about it. It’s not a level playing field. Animals have no conception of the food chain, despite being programmed to fit in the various slots human analysis has constructed through observation over the millenia. This reminds me of the trouble Noah Lyles got in during the Olympics for criticizing the “World Champion” concept in American professional sport for assuming the U.S. equals “the world.” So yeah, bias is a bitch, and hackles will be raised when it’s called out. So I expect something.

    A lot of this has to do with my metastasizing distaste for tailgate shots, which I wrote about not too long ago. “Look what I did!” Poses with dead game and their killers litter social media. Despite what Gasset says, there is nothing noble about “tradition,” which has been used for nefarious purposes forever. Why the need or desire to associate oneself with an ex-chukar and share it with the world. Penance? Pride? A cry for absolution? Atonement? Adulation?

    When I kill a bird I feel guilty as hell. I think of the family I took it from. I think of the life it was endeavoring to live, the succulent blades of grass I found in its crop as I cleaned it (the vocabulary of all this rocks me). I think of the covey bust and its communal expression of the will of each of its members to live, and live together, going forward, fearing the demise of their lives, of being eliminated, of not wanting to be eliminated. I think of fear as a killer and a saver of life, and the crap shoot as to which it is in any given situation, and how my participation in this particular situation radically influences that outcome. I think of the things I share in the chukar’s fear, of my own fears about mortality, whether caused by an external force or not. I think of the dogs, and then I can barely take it, in good ways and bad.

    And I will do this. Until I won’t.

    Peat looking outside in Cambridge

    Angus, about ten years before we laid his ashes in exactly this spot, on Schoolhouse Ridge, overlooking Henry’s Lake, on the Continental Divide.