Tovar Cerulli

by The Mindful Carnivore: A Vegetarian's Hunt for Sustenance

  Willie, too, remained part of that circle. Though he mostly fished, he had hunted as a boy and, shortly before his death, had mentioned that he might return to the woods someday. A month ago, just before rifle season, Cath and I had taken a weekend trip to southern Maine to see Beth. We brought along a welded sculpture Mark had made in Willie’s honor: a miniature metal fishing pole less than two feet long, crafted from odds and ends.

  The steel rod was slightly bent toward the tip, as if a fish had just taken the bait. A wire leader ran up through the guide rings and from it dangled a small, shapely fish, painted bright blue with a white belly. Mark had made the fish out of an old barbecue fork—the tang cut off short, a hole drilled for the fish’s eye, the two tines twisted together to form the caudal curve and the widely forked tail. The fork made me think of the enthusiasm with which Willie sat down to every meal, and of the joy he took in presiding over the grill.

  With Beth, we placed the rod at the head of his grave, planting the butt firmly in the earth, where the cemetery lawn met the woods. The fish danced above grass and oak leaves.

  15

  The Red Deer

  We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals.… They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.

  —Henry Beston, The Outermost House

  In the predawn dark, my flashlight illuminated half a dozen large hoofprints in the freshly pawed earth. A big scrape.

  A year had passed since I first hunted these woods with Richard. Over the summer, I had scouted here, sometimes alone, sometimes with our two-year-old black Lab, Kaia, the first dog either Cath or I had had in many years: an affectionate animal who kept us company, left her ominous canine scent around our gardens, and might become a hunting companion if I ever got serious about pursuing birds.

  Now it was opening morning of rifle season. Near the scrape, a deer trail crossed the top of this little valley. Close by was a small cluster of maples where, in September, I had leaned pieces of fallen deadwood this way and that, fashioning a makeshift blind that would break up the outlines of a hunter’s form, preparing a ground stand for Mark as he had once done for me. The second weekend in October, in bow season, my uncle had been here with me. He had lain in wait in that ring of maples, while I hunted a quarter mile farther down, near Seven Point Draw.

  Now, in mid-November, I again headed down the small valley. Richard, tied up with another commitment, would not be in the woods today. As I approached the draw, I came to a place where several deer paths converged. My flashlight showed a second scrape. And a third. And a fourth. In his e-mailed report of a week earlier, Richard had written that there was “plenty of testosterone flowing in those woods this year.” He wasn’t kidding. The bucks were active.

  I sat on a folding stool with my back to the trunk of a partly fallen spruce—windthrown, its top caught by another tree in mid-descent—and watched light come to the forest, glinting off the needles of the tall pines. After an hour, I heard something tromping around up on the ridge behind me: perhaps a deer, or a moose, or a hunter. There was no sense in trying to go have a look. The cover was too thick, the ground too thoroughly covered in dry, noisy leaves and branches. All I could do was wait, listen, and watch.

  Scanning the woods below me, from the cleft of the draw on my left to the convergence of deer trails on my right, I knew the vantage point was good. I might not get an unobstructed shot, but deer would have trouble passing by unseen.

  Sitting here on the second morning of Mark’s visit in October, I had spotted two does at forty yards or more. Apparently at ease, they passed within fifteen paces of where I crouched, waiting for the moment when their attention would be focused elsewhere, the moment when one of them would pause and give me the opportunity to send a razor-sharp broadhead through her heart or lungs. This time, I felt sure the arrow would fly true. I now wielded a compound bow with sights. It lacked the aesthetic charm of my longbow, but in target practice the shafts clustered together far more consistently and tightly, often touching.

  The moment did not come. Both deer kept moving and, just before reaching Seven Point Draw, turned aside from the gentle, well-worn path and bounded effortlessly up the steep, thickly grown bank. Half an hour later, another doe had come through. She paused and looked away, offering the perfect broadside shot. But a pair of tiny fawns minced along behind her. I didn’t even raise my bow.

  It was good to know that I could get that close to deer when hunting from the ground. Though I knew that being in a tree stand probably increased my chances of success, it felt good to keep both feet on the earth.

  Now, rifle in hand, I again sat and waited. A kinglet darted past. Chickadees flitted among nearby branches. Nothing more. After four hours, I grew restless and nearly headed home. But I knew I wouldn’t get much time in the woods in the sixteen-day season, so I moved quietly through the draw where pine needles covered the ground, eased over the noisier maple-leafed shoulder of the ridge where I had watched the two bucks fighting a year earlier, and descended to the shaded softwood stand where I had watched a young buck cross the stream. I noted an active deer trail: a subtle furrow in the duff, hoofprints showing in places. Farther up the side of the ridge, I found a cluster of hoof-marked scrapes. For an hour I sat where a deer trail crossed an old stone wall. Finally, I came full circle to the ring of maples where Mark had hunted in October.

  Now, in daylight, I saw that the big scrape I had found in the dark was only thirty yards from the crude blind I had constructed. Two more scrapes were even closer, one just five paces from where Mark had sat.

  Inside the ring of young maples, I cleared out the dry, noisy leaves that had accumulated and then sat down. I liked the feel of the spot. But after another hour and a half, I had had enough for one day. I had been in the woods for more than eight hours and had seen neither hide nor hair of deer.

  That evening, talking with Cath, I unraveled. I was doing it again, doing what I promised myself not to. I was trying too hard. And for what?

  Was I hunting to procure local, wild meat and to confront what it meant to eat flesh? Well, that wasn’t happening. Even if I did succeed someday, my hunting had proved a ridiculously inefficient way to obtain food. Over the past four years, I had invested hundreds of hours in the hunt: taking hunter education, reading about hunting, scouting the land, practicing with rifle and bow, and actually hunting. I had invested hundreds and hundreds of dollars, too: purchasing rifle, muzzleloader, longbow, compound bow, projectiles for each, tree stand, camo and blaze-orange clothing, and on and on. And I had not one pound of venison to show for it, except those given to me by Mark and Richard.

  Was I hunting to commune with nature? Well, I wasn’t getting any transcendental insights. I didn’t come back from the hunt feeling all warm and fuzzy and one with everything. I came back feeling cold. If I wanted to go sit in the woods and meditate, I could do that anytime, without getting up at four in the morning and without toting a gun or bow. And if such attentiveness was my main goal, why not cultivate it in some other way? Why not become a birder or take up serious nature photography?

  The more I talked, the deeper I spun into the vortex. All Cath could do was listen.

  Was I hunting to develop my woodscraft? I supposed I had learned a few things. Hunting, like fishing, had sharpened my awareness, drawing my attention to details I would not have noticed before: to clipped twigs and seedlings where whitetails had browsed, to how deer tracks always crossed a hiking trail at a particular spot. I knew enough to pay attention to the direction of the breeze and to keep my hunting clothes from smelling too much like a human—most of the year, I kept them sealed in a plastic box with balsam sprigs and dry leaves from the forest floor. I knew that a grunting sound, or even a whistle, could stop a walking deer for a moment, giving a hunter a clear shot at a motionless target. But compared to hunters who had
spent decades learning about woods and deer, I knew zilch.

  I imagined that if I took a deer once, I would feel less pressure to succeed a second time. That would make the whole hunting experience more enjoyable. And yet, I said, reminding both Cath and myself of the obvious, I had never really wanted to kill a deer in the first place. If I felt that veganism could keep my body completely healthy and could truly prevent harm to animals and their habitats, I wouldn’t be eating vertebrates at all, let alone wielding a deer rifle. I felt I ought to kill a deer, yes. Like feminist and vegan Carol Adams, I objected to the “absent referent”—the separation between meat eater and animal, between animal and meat. I felt obliged to meet the requirement suggested by Christopher Camuto in his book Hunting from Home: “I’ve long had an odd thought that no one who hasn’t killed, skinned and butchered at least one animal on his or her own should be allowed to buy meat in a grocery store.”

  Over the past five years, though, I had already done some killing. I had caught and eaten trout from nearby streams and lakes. Twice, I had caught striped bass while fishing with Mark on Cape Cod, the second time using a rod of Willie’s that Beth had given to me. I had shot at least two garden-raiding woodchucks, one of which ended up in the stewpot. And I had hunted, killed, and eaten a pair of snowshoe hares. What point was there in killing a whitetail, too? Was it just that a deer would provide substantially more food? Was I just trying to prove something to myself? Or was there more to it?

  I’d had some exciting moments in the woods these past few years, especially my encounters with deer. But taking a life still did not appeal. For me, hunting would never be what Ortega y Gasset called a “case in which the killing of one creature constitutes the delight of another.” Where killing and delight were concerned, Rachel Carson’s words rang truer: “We cannot have peace among men whose hearts delight in killing any living creature.”

  But was I, after all, following the path the Spanish philosopher spelled out for the sportsman, seeking a deer’s death as “the sign of reality for the whole hunting process”? Was it no more than some immature symbolic urge?

  These doubts, I realized, had been with me for some time. I had been keeping them quiet, only half admitting them to myself, only partially sharing them with Mark, avoiding any mention of them to Cath. Even now, as I talked, I regretted subjecting her to my inner contortions.

  Simply put, I was failing as a hunter—not only failing to bring home meat, but also failing to find meaning in the pursuit. If the hunt culminated in little more than exhaustion interspersed with mental and emotional chaos, what was the point in continuing? Maybe I would just stay home the next day. Better to spend Sunday morning doing something productive around the house than to waste several more hours sitting in the woods.

  Later that evening, though, Richard called. He planned to hunt in the morning and asked if I would be coming. It would, I knew, be easier to sit in the woods if I had a companion nearby. Okay, I told him. I would be there, if only for the first few hours of the day.

  As I drifted toward sleep, I considered the next morning’s hunt. During our conversation, Cath had gently reminded me that my experience of hunting had everything to do with the set of my mind, heart, and soul. If I was going back to the woods, I needed an attitude adjustment. I thought back several years, to my earliest interest in the hunt. I remembered all my correspondence with Mark, all my questions, all his insights and helpful tips. I remembered the magic of receiving that old knife in the mail from him—with the gorgeous sheath he had stitched and painted with red buck and black hoofprints—and my confidence that it would bring me luck. I remembered the excitement of hunting with him for the first time, and my contentment when he got a deer and I was able to help with the butchering. I remembered the simple faith I’d had. My first deer would come in good time. I was in no hurry.

  Though Richard had said I could have my pick of hunting spots, I decided I would not return to Seven Point Draw. It might be the most likely spot for seeing a buck, with deer trails funneling there as they did. But in the morning my focus would not be outward, on killing a deer. It would be inward, on returning to that quiet, open place. I would go back to the ring of maples where Mark had hunted in October.

  Down in the basement, well before dawn, I pulled the old hunting knife from my pack. Richard had recently given me the tail from his seven-point buck, for tying trout flies. I plucked a few long, white hairs and tucked them into the knife sheath.

  When I arrived at Richard’s, he wasn’t quite ready. He might be another fifteen minutes, he said. I should go ahead. He would be along soon and would probably sit up on the ridge near the Four Directions Stand.

  I reached the ring of maples shortly before first light. Before I sat, I took out the knife and propped it against the base of a tree four feet in front of me. As the sky brightened, my eyes began to wander the woods. But they weren’t needed there. With the leaves dry and frosty, my ears would tell me if anything moved. Instead, I looked at the knife, the rich orange-brown of the sheath, the long, white hairs sprouting from between blade and leather. The buck on the front, dyed red, seemed to stand among the maple leaves. The image could easily have taken form by flickering torchlight, in the caves of Lascaux in southwestern France, in ancient Europe, my ancestral homeland. But this was no pale imitation of some ancient hunting totem, European or North American. Painted for me by my uncle, this deer belonged in this place. The four of us—land, deer, uncle, and nephew—were linked.

  Admiring the buck, thinking of Mark, my mind let go. Killing a deer didn’t matter. Praying for a deer to appear didn’t even matter. What mattered was sitting, listening, being there, attentive to the forest, grateful for the earth from which it sprang. What mattered was the rekindling of wonder.

  For two hours, I sat. In the crisp leaves, red squirrels scampered, sounding huge.

  To take the chill off, I poured myself a thermos cap of hot tea and sipped carefully. I had learned to breathe out, not in, as I was about to drink, to keep myself from inhaling steam that would tickle my throat and make me cough, disrupting the quiet of the forest.

  I had just set down the empty cap when I heard the rhythm of steps in the leaves. Looking up the gentle slope among the trees, I saw a deer forty yards off and walking my way. A doe, surely. Then I got a good look.

  Legal forked antlers. I hardly believed it.

  But my body was in motion, easing forward off the folding stool, turning, finding some kind of stable position, half crouching, half kneeling. The buck was thirty yards away now, by that big scrape, his nose to the ground, reading scents among the maple leaves and pine needles.

  I avoided looking at his head and eyes. Mark had told me how animals seemed to stay more relaxed if he didn’t make direct eye contact. He guessed that deer could sense his gaze, the same way he sometimes felt the focus of someone’s vision on him, even from hundreds of yards away.

  I eased the safety off. The crosshairs trembled behind the buck’s left shoulder.

  There were branches in the way, two or three of them, not much thicker than my thumb. A bullet might pass between them. Or it might not. In my mind’s eye, I saw the dark silhouette of the buck I had fired at two years earlier, the gouged earth where he leapt away, the torn wood where the bullet struck the spruce branch. I imagined this buck with a bullet, or fragments of a bullet, in his leg or gut. My trigger finger relaxed.

  The buck’s head came up fast. He had winded me, perhaps, or heard some slight rustle. I had missed my chance. In a moment, he would flee. I would not shoot at a running deer.

  He dropped his head again, sniffed the ground, and licked his nose. Then he took a step. He was broadside to me. There was an open space among the branches. I barely heard the shot.

  The buck jumped—a small, hunched movement—then leapt forward among the trees, running in a downhill arc. I stood up and absently remembered to chamber a second round. Something about his gait told me I wouldn’t have to shoot again. In midrun
, just twenty paces from me, he collapsed into the forest floor.

  A wave of disbelief rolled over me as I walked toward him, rifle unloaded. His ribs heaved with a final, shuddering breath. I took the last few steps to where he lay and, from behind, touched the rifle muzzle to his eye. There was no reflexive flinch. He was gone. Confident that neither hooves nor antlers would lash out in one last spasm, I crouched beside him, inhaled the musky odor of his body, and put a hand to his side.

  If I ever succeeded in killing a deer, I had imagined that I, like Mark, would experience that flood of mixed emotions, sorrow and elation and awe and gratitude all jumbled together. But now that it had happened, now that this whitetail had gone down and stayed down, I didn’t know what I felt. My feelings were obscured by shock: an invisible, impenetrable veil. Crouching there, I had no idea what gesture of gratitude or apology to make.

  Finally, I whispered a few inadequate words, retrieved the sheathed knife from where it leaned against the maple, and unfolded my page of instructions on how to gut a deer. Tentatively, I made the first incisions through hair and hide, then through abdominal wall. The smells of the buck’s blood and viscera mingled intensely with the musk of skin and hair. His entrails, jarringly hot against my hands in the freezing air, slid out, stomach full, liver heavy and dark, neat folds of intestines coming undone. I reached up inside him, cut the taut membrane of his diaphragm, and drew out the rest of his organs. His heart was torn in two.

  When my clumsy field dressing was complete, I scrubbed my hands with maple leaves. Then I remembered that, by law, the first thing I should have done was tag the buck. I dug out my hunting and fishing license and there was the laminated funeral card: Willie looking up at me, smiling broadly. He would be proud of me, I thought. Mark, too, would be proud. But was I proud of myself?