Murder Most Fowl: How I Learned to Put Food on the Table
Three decades on there I was, writhing in the grass in full camouflage, trying to make the jump from fish to fowl. I had taken my hunter-safety and gun-safety courses — and finally, I was in the field for the first time. Which is why earlier in the day I had felt rather chuffed at being able to tell hen from tom (never mind turkey from vulture, and other assorted wildlife).
But now, wilting in the heat, wearying from stalking such uncooperative quarry, desperately hungry, horribly thirsty, and vaguely nauseated by the intense need for a long pee, I was suddenly acutely aware of never having fired a shotgun before. And more particularly, of the unlikelihood that when I did, bird and pellet would connect in any meaningful way. Worse still were my chances of successfully separating tom from his harem — or head from tom, as in all those turkey snuff videos that American crossbow hunters like to post on YouTube. (If unacquainted, and curious, search “gobbler guillotine.”)
But despite the encroaching sense of doubt, I gathered what focus I could, and slowly craned my neck to see over and down to where the birds had last been seen. Nothing. Nothing but grass. There was no reason even to disengage the safety on my gun. For a moment or two, this rather deflating culmination of the day’s activities coloured all the sizeable effort behind it with an unmistakeable streak of absurdity. Lying there, camouflaged and over-insulated in the sweltering heat, I wondered as I often do what my late father would make of this particular picture. And the answer came not in words but in the form of laughter — hearty laughter, the sort that seemed to get started deep in his belly before slowly fighting its way out.
I remembered our last salmon trip. We were at a lodge on the Miramichi, where you fish from hip waders (unlike on the Restigouche where you cast from boats). And for my father, the job of finding a foothold on the slippery rocks of the riverbed while working your way downstream, casting all the while, was altogether too much work. I pictured him, not reeling in a big fish, or even casting for one, but instead resting on the shoreline. To be precise, reclining on a boulder for a relaxing Schimmelpenninck and a dram of warming Glenfiddich from the hip flask, which — along with his flies — he packed in his hip waders for just such emergencies.
This I realise now is the principal difference between hunting and fishing. Simply put, when the fish are not biting, it is entirely acceptable to pop open the hamper for a nice snack, put up your feet, light a cigar and pour a drink. But, if your quarry is large and draws air through its nose rather than water, you must forgo such creature comforts; their aromas travel on the wind, signaling danger and occasion to flee to the very creatures you are trying to get close to.
In any case, unlike drinking and casting, drinking and shooting is frowned upon. Still undertaken in some quarters, no doubt — but, rather like drinking and driving, no longer considered to be a legitimate sport. Hunting is full on, full time, for the duration of your expedition. There is either an awful lot of traipsing about, pushing your way through difficult terrain and dense brush, or a lot of time spent perfectly still — too still, even, to turn the pages of a book, or scroll a Kindle. Either way, my father would not have liked it.
For me, though, hunting and fishing are all but the same. For starters they both feature a communing with nature of unusual intensity. Sometimes, you’re wading in a river, all alone but for the sound of the birds and your soaring line and fly. And then a passing salmon leaps out of the water, checking for familiar signposts on the long swim home. It is a magical scene to witness. Other times, when you are still and in camouflage, a bird lands on a branch a few inches away without seeing you, and just exists, unwary and unhurried. Or you look down from a tree stand on a bear sow playing with her cubs. The nature you feel a part of when you go for a stroll in the woods does not come close to this. When out for a walk, undisguised and making noise, you are afforded only a glimpse.
And then there is the fun part: bringing home dinner. For non-vegetarians like me, the daily catch is what much of life, manhood, and pleasure is all about. So what for me got started with salmon on the Restigouche, and was temporarily stymied by those crafty turkeys in Thornbury, has since continued apace with bear, woodcock, pheasant and ducks. I have, in other words, been getting in touch with my congenital caveman. And as it happens I enjoy making his acquaintance more than expected.
Fortunately my cooking inspirations are more contemporary. And of what I put on the plate these days, I’m sure my father would have approved. Because the funny thing is, even though he liked fishing and would never have taken up hunting, he did not much like eating fish at all. Pickled herring was a good snack, or, in a pinch, lunch. Salmon was okay — ideally cold smoked, on rye bread. But dinner, well, in a perfect world that was a meat-and-two-veg situation. Or better yet, meat-and-one-veg. Especially if it was a potato. Which I guess goes to show that he had a small streak of inner caveman, too.
