Compilation Sunday: that special time of week when picture and prose become as one.Rolling over the African landscape the casual American on safari would come in contact with the most unusual of beasts. There’d be zebras and tigers and wildebeests and giraffes dotting the horizon all over the continent. The animal population teems with prides and packs and herds and troops and broods of all kinds. There are literally millions of wild beasts covering the land. However, to find this particular oryx shown in the picture, one would have to travel to the most exotic of all locations:
My brother-in-law Chris bagged this oryx while on a hunting safari about a year and half ago. (Technically, I’m not all that certain of hunting terminology. I’ve heard the hunter-gatherers among us talk of “bagging” a deer. Can “bagging” be used to refer to animals of all sizes and shapes? Were I a rugged outdoorsman, might I be able to describe my capture of wild game as “bagging a cheetah” or “bagging an elephant?” Or does the term “bagging” only refer to taking down an animal that can fit into a bag? If the prey is somewhat larger, does a different term get used? Would it be correct to say that I “boxed” or “crated” or “industrial size trash-canned” a rhino?) On a visit to their house this past weekend, Carla and I got a first-hand look at the various heads of a wildebeest and an impala and others all ready for mounting in an office or den in the near future (or not so near future- depending on if you’re asking Chris or his wife. I'm not so sure that Pottery Barn has a line that features the wildebeest very prominently.)
Seeing all the fruit of an African taxidermist’s labor got me thinking about the concept of hunting.
Some people, especially men, take to it like ducks to water. It’s in their blood, their DNA. For them nothing is more enjoyable than traipsing over the landscape, looking and watching for the most elusive of game, bringing the sight to their eyes, quieting their bodies and preparing to unleash explosion, all in the hopes of ending the life of an unsuspecting animal.
This is not me. If you know me at all, you realize that I might just be the farthest thing from a hunter on this green planet. Perhaps it’s a result of my formative years. I imagine that such tracking instincts are learned rather than embedded at birth. My dad was not the hunting type, unless the term “hunting” could be stretched to include the “take-no-prisoners”, life or death pursuit of real estate upon which to chase a little white ball. This is the closest I ever got as a boy to outdoor, wilderness recreation. Granted, with clubs in hand I’d take mighty violent swings at the ball, but never have I come close to taking life with such forceful lunges, except of course for the time at Veenker Memorial on the campus of Iowa State when my 4-iron veered screaming sideways, line-driving straight at my beloved father, who was saved only by my forceful shout of “Fore” and the solid fiberglass construction of the golf cart which he desperately dove behind.
For me, this is likely as close as I will ever get to taking life with some sort of weapon. The tale of former Vice-President Cheney’s exploits on the hunting trail, while fodder for late night talk show hosts, to me was much more of a cautionary tale. Were I to head out into the wild with explosive in tow, I’d not be scared of shooting someone else in the hunting party. I’d be plenty scared of shooting myself.
Thus, in this area of life, I’ll be content to live vicariously through my brother-in-law. When I visit his abode, I’ll look at the various mounted brutes, perhaps imagine that I bagged them myself, picture myself with deluxe hunting jacket and hat on standing with one foot upon the brute and pipe in mouth and then leave that reverie and his house and return to my blissful, peaceful life devoid of such manly accomplishment.
Are we lesser a man because we pay for our food to be killed? I think not!
ReplyDeleteScott