Basic Hunger

This blog is about the things that keep me going. 'Basic Hunger' is about more than food and water. It's about family, nature, working, playing, and learning. The material objects I enjoy are tools, books, and machines that have been well used. The subjects I enjoy are biology, geography, and philosophy. The activities I enjoy are gardening, hunting, fishing, and every kind of locomotion. I hope that blogging about my life will help me become a more thoughtful person.

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You gotta stand for something. I'm all for nature and freedom, like so many of my peers.

We also proclaim our land to be American territory, and we enthusiastically practice Traditional American Values.

1) individual freedom and self-reliance

2) equality of opportunity and competition

3) the American dream and hardwork

This description of American cultural values, the six basic American cultural values, was first introduced in American Ways: An Introduction

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Puzzle master and his little sister on New Years Day.

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The fruit version of peas and carrots...

We're inside feasting on kiwis and tangerines, and the fresh fruits are rations from another planet.

Our shop-house is a mere ten miles out of town, but I like to think of it as a space station, especially during winter months. Out here surrounded by trees, where it gets quiet, I can really feel the depth and intensity of a north Idaho winter. But I'm not suffering.

Ten years ago, before I moved to Alaska, I read Animal, Vegatable, Miracle. It's a really enjoyable book for gardening enthusiasts, with stories of harvests, agricultural philosophy, and vivid farming imagery. The author makes the case for all willing and able people to become "localvores," people who get their food locally. This includes eating what's in season, food preservation, and giving up the exotic, shipped-across-the-globe foods we adore.

I was a Fairbanks resident, shopping at Freddy's and packing my bags full of fresh fruits and vegetables, before I gave local-vorism a second thought. I had no garden, hardly a pantry, and I didn't hunt or farm. I bought my food and disregarded eating local as currently impossible.

Nowadays I rely upon a portion of my own local food, but I still indulge my mouth with flavors from far away lands. It's hard for me to drop this habit because I am excited for humans to inhabit other planets. Thus, I accept shipping as a part of human existence.

On this day, near the end of December 2021, it's ten degrees and there's almost two feet of snow layered across all stationary surfaces. The biggest struggle Atlas and I are having about this fruit is restraint. We are saving some for Dana.

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The egg-bots in their winter quarters.

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I wish elk poop tasted as good as chocolate covered, coconut coated almonds. They're better frozen. I bet poop is too.

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Sled Season

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This year my deer hunting experience was stay-at-home mom themed. My buck was sniped from the living room window as he passed through our yard shortly after sunrise.

For one reason after another, I never got out into the woods during deer season. As the deadline approached my focus narrowed, and I began scanning each passer-by for antlers. I watched the fat does and fluffy fawns who have been raiding my garden all summer make their usual visits, and there was a spike buck hanging around that I passed on a few times. Finally I saw a decent buck out front. I rushed to get my dog inside, secure my baby and fetch my rifle. By the time I made it outside to a shooting spot, he had vanished into the brush. I made a new plan, exchanged the shotgun I keep mounted in my living room for a rifle, and hoped he would return.

I went back to my domestic tasks and made frequent scans of our steep brushy front and back yards. Finally the opportunity arose on Thanksgiving morning. I sipped coffee in my rocking chair and watched the sunrise. Atlas rolled out of bed and climbed onto my lap. He and I are the early-risers in the house. We talked, and he practiced looking through the binoculars. Then a dark familiar shape in the brush caught my eye. I lifted the field glasses and sure enough it was that same buck I missed a few days earlier. The young male emerged from the brush and paused long enough to be shot. I notched my tag, divvied up some quick breakfast to the family, and pushed the back of the sled rather feebly as Dana hauled him up to the house.

Even though I love time outdoors and exciting encounters, ultimately I hunt for the healthy, free-range meat. Thus, I am happy to have this modest haul of meat. He'll nourish us the same, no matter if it was skill or dumb-luck that brought him down.

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My little crew had a rough week being sick. After a few long days and long sleepless nights in a row of being nurse-mama I developed a persistent tension headache. Luckily my immunity was on the job, my husband laid his strong hands on my shoulders, and my kids are so cute I don't care how many snot bubbles they blow, I adore them.

We laid low reading, drawing, watching cartoons and staring out the windows all week, but before the fever and snot was upon this household we had some fun. Geneva is walking and trying to figure out how to ride a tricycle. Atlas is learning how to care for his leather boots. Meanwhile, I am drinking coffee and remembering to enjoy each day with my little ones, no matter how unpleasant some moments can be.

Also, most notably this week the wind blew mightily and a cold snap arrived. It's been near freezing every day, and the ponds are growing icy. It's about time to trade the wagon in for a sled.

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On this month's edition of 'Living with a Country Boy,' Dana added to our meat supply, finished the hearth around our wood stove, accompanied his mom to a Veteran's Day parade wearing his old cavalry hat, and sniped two rodents under the oven with his BB gun. He did some other manly stuff, like hauling fire wood, playing with his kids, and giving his (super sweet and always reasobable) wife some much needed and appreciated massages. Country boys are notoriously difficult to live with, with their strong opinions and high-standards, but they're worth the patience and effort. What I'm getting at is, I'm proud of my stubborn, handsome, useful man.

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On the last day elk season we visited a favorite area of ours. This is area we know by heart and navigate by memory. It's Forest Service Land where I got my first bull back in 2018. Behind Dana in the above photo are logs we have sat on many times, sipping tea and silently waiting for the darkness to turn to day. We cleared this trail during our first summer together back in 2016, and this place feels like home to us.

Here is a glimpse of the terrain we were in yesterday. There's a cow and calf moose somewhere in that photo. We saw many elk yesterday, but no shots were fired. It was rainy and foggy most of the day, and they would just appear in the mist a few yards away when we least expected. Once we came face to face with a cow elk on the edge of a clear cut at 1030 in the morning. All of our mammal brains registered what was in front of us at the same time. She turned and started busting through brush away from us as I chased up the hill after her to get a view and assess the situation. The terrain was hilly, and when the herd emerged from the brush climbing up the next hill, we saw four cows in a single file line, trailed by a spike bull. I had the spike in my crosshairs, but I decided not to pull the trigger. It would not have been a good shot for me, and I was relieved when Dana affirmed my decision. It would have been a standing shot, which I've practiced but not mastered, and he was about 400 yards and moving away. I smiled a defeated smile as he disappeared into the tree line.

We went deep into the timber mid-day to try our luck. We found none, so I built a fire under a cedar to dry and defrost slightly. Looking back, I think I created my own lucky situation, when there was none to be found in the dark wet woods.

Towards evening we scanned the same huge clear-cuts where we've spied so many animals over the years. Once it was too dark to distinguish the shapes in the distance, I declared the season over with a whisper. We stopped and dug our headlamps out. I thanked Dana for his help, wiped the snot from my nose (real life romance) and gave him a smooch. We agreed that it was an excellent day in the woods.

On the drive home we cranked up the heaters and talked with happy hearts. We did the "shoulda, woulda, coulda" recap that follows every animal encounter. Then we started talking about deer hunting and rattling bucks in, so I guess that means it's on to the next adventures.

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Here's Dana with his archery bull from this year. He thwacked the bull right at sunset back in mid-September. Then he ran home to fetch his faithful packing partner. I finished frying potatoes and onions for dinner while we waited for his parents to arrive and babysit.

Then man, woman, and dog returned to the kill site to field dress and quarter. Scout did a good job tracking the blood trail and loacting the downed creature in the dark. We worked as quickly as possible and didn't de-bone, much less de-hoove, the quarters. Apparently, we are still young enough to "work harder, not smarter." I guess that's a nice feeling as we venture well into into our thirties and see the signs of aging everywhere besides our minds and muscles.

Also, we didn't want to take multiple trips because... who does?! So we brought along a sled for this down hill pack out. It worked, but we were at our dragging limit. We held our free hands together like we were ballroom dancers as we heaved the load all the way down the hill. The layer of pine needles made the journey much smoother.

It took 3 or 4 hours to complete the process. By this time it was midnight. 

We thanked Dana's parents, and as they drove away we winched the meat up in our garage.

Back up stairs I reheated the potatoes and piled on a few fried eggs. I made an egg for our loyal dog too. We leaned over our shared plate, and our forks competed for every yolk covered potato. 

Dana was hungry for more so I suggested he make a bowl of cereal, but only after a shower. I threatened to use all the hot water in he dawdled in the kitchen any longer. We rinsed the blood from under our nails and soaped off the dirt and sweat. Then I was back in my leisure wear before Dana finished his second course of dinner. While he spooned wheat bran and strawberries into his tired jaws, I carried baby Geneva from her crib into my bed and snuggled her up. Whew, sleep came quickly. 

Dana's bull was young. The meat smelled good. We spent the week processing this truly local food. 

Since we have this one elk down for the year, we aren't desperate for meat. However, another elk during my rifle season will provide us with enough meat to meet my above average jerky needs and will provide plenty to share with our close family and friends.

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I brought him along to kill charging bears, but I was happy to learn that my body guard can handle threats of all sizes. Especially when they're crawling towards my face! Don't worry tree huggers, we let this evil eight legged monster live... to die another day!

We hunted a clear-cut at daybreak and saw about twenty elk. Unfortunately none had antlers. We went home for a nap and some yard work. Then with excellent timing, a brief and anticipated downpour arrived just as we set off from home, on foot for an evening hunt. We spied moose and spider, and we flinched each time a grouse was flushed from our trail.

Our destination was a big clear cut right at day's end. The woods were so quiet, not a breeze or a bird song. I was careful about my baggy pant legs rubbing together too loudly. We searched till thirty minutes after sunset, then pulled our headlamps out of our packs, rummaged for a quick snack, and trotted home for two rounds of dinner.

Tomorrow we have a rough plan for visiting a clear-cut at day break and slinking through deep timber for the middle hours of the day. All it takes is being in the right spot at the right time. I still have hope!

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My father-in-law and I did dawn patrol and dusk patrol together. We saw a fluffy baby raccoon and a pacing spike elk first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, they were just in the headlights as we drove to one of Rod's favorite spots.

Toward the end of the day, he handed me a little bag of elk jerky. As I sat chewing dry meat and watching does graze, my hunger for a harvest grew. My hunger for next year's supply of jerky turned me from day dreamer under a pine tree into a bushman hunter. I stared at the treeline and readied myself. I imagined cows emerging from the brush first, followed by a proud bull. I visualized placing a kill shot. I steadied my nerves and pressed back the sentimental concerns that sometimes cause me to waver. Crouched among the pine cones, there were no questions in my mind about what I desired. As the sun vanished and the light followed, my hope grew. My ears caught every sound. I checked visibility in my scope minute by minute as night closed in. Every minute towards nightfall I felt my chances of seeing a bull grew. Anticipation grew until it suddenly stopped. Shooting light was over. We quietly packed up and headed for home.

The final two days of the season are upon me, and rain is forecast. I do it all for the jerky, and I'm feeling optimistic.

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This week I read a book called 'In Order to Live,' by Yeonmi Park, a North Korean defector. I was surprised to learn that once she eventually made it to South Korea and became a free citizen, she struggled with freewill and in some cases thinking for herself felt like a burden.

While hunting alone this morning, I started to understand her sentiment, and I realized I can relate to that idea. When I am hunting alone I have to do all my own thinking. I have to decide where to go, how to set up for shot oppurtunities, and how to react when I encounter a big animal. All those choices challenge me.

I find myself less willing to wade through the colorful brush in search of bedding areas when I'm alone. I am extra careful not to get turned around in the brush because I don't have the same navigation system as Dana. In fact, I have no navigation system besides a compass buried in my bag and a mental map. I usually rely on him to navigate, or I go to places I know like the back of my hand. I'm in new, unfamiliar country this season, so I'm limited to old logging roads and the simplest trails. Today I realized I need to get my own mapping system, so I'm able to follow my killer instincts into the brush mid-morning and get lost without concern.

Another challenge is that I question my judgment, and I blow oppurtunities. I miss shots, spook animals, and overlook details. Frustrating as it can be, I accept that messing up is part of the learning process. I'm still mastering the basics, like minding wind direction, using calls convincingly, connecting to a moving target, and hunting as stealthy as possible. I make these mistakes when Dana is with me too, but he is able to run interference sometimes.

My final struggle probably afflicts all hunters to an extent, not just women who are missing their body guards. It feels good to have someone capable watching my back. I don't feel as prepared or confident about reacting to a pissed-off moose or a predator when I'm alone. So far I've survived all wildlife encounters with minimal screaming, so this fear doesn't limit me too much. It does change my mood though. When I'm solo, I feel nervous and jumpy at times. I creep around bends, through tall grass making cow elk sounds, feigning estrus, and my heart pounds as I anticipate a bear's head popping up a few yards away. My one and only tactic is to hold the mindset of a predator, even as I try to exude the sexy cow vibes. After all I'm out there to ambush prey, armed with multiple weapons and a will to survive. This mood shift helps, yet unlike Dana, I don't linger too long before and after shooting light. I'm not that brave.

Overall, being married to a strong man who is able to provide guidance, material resources, and protection isn't really comparable to being the subject of an evil dictator, except for one aspect. Any person can give up their freedom and independence by relying wholly upon another.

Then when that dependent person takes on personal responsibility again, it can feel like a burden. I recognized this dynamic right away when I got married, so I've made it a point to continue to cultivate my independence from time to time, challenges and all. My successes and failures are in my own hands when I take on challenges alone. That opportunity to sink or swim is what keeps me focused and encourages me to press forward.

When I get home to my kids, my mom (the babysitter) and the loyal blonde dog, I build a fire, take off my boots and relax. As I sip hot coco out of a little pink mug, like Jeremiah Johnston probably did, I feel good knowing I wasn't too scared, too lazy or too indifferent to think for myself on the mountain today. I tried, but still no elk. I have four more days to fill my tag.