Hunting Down Old Man Winter

Devoting chunks of winter days to hunting flips the script: hunting is visceral, bloody. This isn’t about this isn’t about rest or quiet contemplation, this isn’t about a dormant period. There’s no hint of surrender to the painful days of February — hunting is vital. It’s pure action — even the image of a still hunter quietly awaiting prey is one of tensed muscles and sharp concentration.

It’s becoming more commonly understood that Native Americans were deliberate forest managers, using techniques such as controlled burns and selective cutting to increase the health of their home and ultimate food source. Traditional Abenaki hunting practices were similar: the groups of deer were monitored and intentionally culled to maintain healthy populations of a reasonable size. Hunting described this way is really an act of selection and discernment, of long-range vision and planning, of selection for maximum life as much as it is about bloodshed and death.

Abenaki winter was not, of course, a nonstop deer-pursuing jamboree. There were plenty of days spent mending and tending to things that lend themselves to the seasonal lull. During those evenings of early dark, they’d also tell the important stories of their people. Storytelling was saved for this time of year partly because it was needed then, a way to pass the time when they were away from the group energy of the wider tribe.

I’ve been curling up almost every night with a TV show for the past six weeks — I feel no guilt about indulging in storytelling in a modern medium. We’re great about spending cozy afternoons reading stacks of books, too. The story part of winter, I have pretty well sorted.

It’s really the hunting that has thrown me. I’ve never actually hunted an animal (unless you count stalking lizards with sticks with my brother so we could catch them, expanding our menagerie), and maybe I don’t need to.

Described as a form of population management, I guess I’ve done a little hunting this season. It has all been mental, wrestling with projects and plans, but it has meant the death of things. It has meant making difficult culls. It has also meant that those selective kills support the birth of new, wonderful things — this very publication represents some of the spoils of these pursuits. What I’ve missed, I think, is the thrilling part, the flying across slick snow, the physical aspect of the chase.

Every Yankee I know who loves winter loves it because of the sporting opportunities, that become possible with frozen weather, just like the snow made hunting easier for the Abenaki. Even my kids, through forces not understood by me, became ice-skating enthusiasts this year. I almost hate to admit this, considering that I’ve been rejecting what seems like an easy way to break a lot of bones quickly for ten years, but even I am really starting to understand the appeal of skiing.

For now I’ll just be grateful it’s March, grateful for the mud. And if February must be the doldrums of the year, at least now I know that the hunt will continue.