By Blood

The splayed body of the dead deer lay before me. It was a large buck, steaming in the November dawn, with the grass about it frosted and standing like a field of bayonets, each blade icy and sharp. I had begun to cut in already, carefully through the paunch, up through the skin at the sternum, and forcefully in through the ribs. I stood back for a moment. On it’s back, the cauldron formed from the buck’s spread chest held a sea of blood, enough, it seemed, to swamp the world. More than enough. My hands already bloody, I pushed my rolled sleeves farther up my arms with the bridge of my nose. Kneeling, knife in hand, I sank my fists into that red gulf.

The blood was scalding. Half numb from the morning’s cold, my hands burned in the pooled liquid. I was amazed that anything could carry such fire within it, that anything could hold such a heat and yet live. If ever there was a meaning, if ever there was a secret to be discovered, it would be here, I thought, in the once-living fire of the buck’s blood. My hands disappeared to the wrist, running over and across the organs, plumbing the depths of the dead animal’s chest for some mystery, some clue.

I found…nothing.

Well, certainly not nothing. But of the great and romantic ideal I sought, there was hardly a trace. There was blood, sickly bright, clotting here and there, and the close, fecal stench of the deer’s guts rising up into my lowered face. There was bone, and flaps of cut skin, and white hairs plastered, with blood, on my arms. Beyond all that, behind it, I could discern nothing clear. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for.

I had been raised in a hunting family. The sight of a gutted whitetail hanging from a limb was a childhood sight, an unexamined facet of youth, and of home. Yet years had separated me from the practice, first at boarding school, then college, till the hunt became a half-mythologized pursuit of my father, of my fore-fathers. I studied it, and read about it, more than I did it. I came to love Hemingway, the rugged white hunter stalking the green hills of Africa, and the measured philosophies of Josè Ortega y Gasset’s Meditations on Hunting. Both men, and writers like them, romanticized the hunt, turning it into an idealized concept of masculinity and death. I was captivated by it, struggling as I was to place my family’s acts in a context other than redneck gun-love. I heard such literature called hunter porn; I despised the term. Hunting was a sport, an art, the past-time of kings and the heritage left us by our stone-armed ancestors. Hunting was never about the killing. The killing was anathema to the pursuit, a sad byproduct, if anything. It was a dirty word, uttered by the base and unlearned, disrespectful to the sacred sacrifice of the quarry. The chase was all that mattered, the heart-rending ballet of man and beast, the duet of predator and prey, a passion play between equals. Hunting was never about the killing.

Yet I had just killed the deer. It was dead, by my hand, when minutes earlier it had walked, very much alive, from the woods on the other side of the field. It came on with a quickness and a purpose as the dawn was still spilling out around us, perhaps following the scent of a doe, perhaps hungry. Still and waiting in the boll of a tree, I had shot the buck twice. The rifle had been shatteringly loud in the quiet air. The deer had only fallen with the second shot: I watched it go to its knees and fall through the hard lens of the scope. To say that I had done anything other than kill it would be a lie.

There were other cracks in the romantic façade as well. I had not been stalking wapiti in the Wasatch Range or the Absarokas, I had not been tracking cape buffalo along Kenya’s Mau Escarpment; I was on the driving range of a golf course in Connecticut. The whitetail there had become as thick on the ground as rabbits. I was hunting to protect the landscaping as much as anything.

Nor was that deer the first I’d shot. I’d killed several deer over the years, yet always with my father, who, out of habit or impatience, or lack of trust, had always done the messy work of cleaning the carcass. Though I was in my mid-twenties, the buck I was now wrist deep within was merely the first I was attempting to dress on my own.

It proved a sobering task. The first cut had been made with delicacy, wicking the blade of the skinning knife across the abdomen, deep enough to pierce the hide without rupturing the stomach within. In contrast to that care, hacking through the rib-cage had been more of an exercise in shear brute force. As I then knelt, hands in the body cavity, it was the stink that became most immediate. So intimately close to the buck, the mess of scents overwhelmed me. Male whitetails have a musk, carried in glands on the rear legs, strong enough that, hiking in the woods, I’d often known by smell when a buck had recently passed. Inches away, that musk was cloying and sickly. It mingled with the bloated stench of bowel and dung rising from the deer’s exposed gut. Breathing through my mouth, I bent into the odor.

With a knife, I felt gingerly around the buck’s stomach, carefully cutting the fascia that held it in place. I traced down along the intestines, holding back gagging, to the deer’s rectum, unceremoniously and swiftly circling it with the knife as best I could. The entire workings, the means by which the buck ate and lived, became a sloppy armful, a blood-slick sack filled with digested and digesting plant matter. I scooped it up, and plopped it onto the cold ground.

Then, reluctantly, hesitantly, I cut away the deer’s penis and testes, emasculating the buck. It was an important step; the testosterone and hormones found within can sour the meat, making everything a waste. Still, it was awkward. I tried to muster up a journeyman’s nonchalance, but nothing in the world felt more disrespectful in that moment than stealing the buck’s pride. Not sure quite what to do, I heaved the remains into the brush.

I set about removing the rest of the organs from the body. The heavy liver, I picked up in two hands, and then took out kidneys, bladder, and everything else below the diaphragm. From where I had cut off the stomach, I followed the throat up into the chest, pulling down on the windpipe and slicing it out as far up as I could reach. The lungs were two ruins: I had aimed for the deer’s chest, the region of vital organs my father had always called the boiler-room. The slugs’ passing through the buck’s breast had made a mess of the twin lungs. And the heart as well.

It seemed like the heart should have been talismanic, that I should have been able to pull it out fully formed, and hold it in my hand, biting it perhaps as the Cheyenne and Pawnee had been known to bite into bison hearts. At the very least weighing it there upon my palm, hoping that on those scales of balance my own life measured worthy. But the buck’s heart had been left a broken and pulpy thing. I told myself that meant the kill had been clean, the death as sudden as I could make it. I scooped out the pieces of heart in handfuls.

The cleaning largely done, I grasped the buck by his legs, and tipped it over. The body, though heavily muscled, had not yet stiffened, and it turned loosely. The opened torso of the deer spilled out all that blood across the ground, down the slight rise on which the body had lain. The frosted grass melted under the tide, and the earth soaked up the blood. Everything was left red.

I was un-traumatized, I was un-astounded. I took the deer to the butchers, and would receive it back again wrapped in butcher’s paper. The cleaning, the stink and the indecency and the puzzlingly out of muscle and bone, was suitably repugnant; perhaps it should be so. Perhaps such things, killing, dismemberment, need to remain terrible enough to give us pause. It should not be easy. It should not be as easy as cellophane and bar codes. We should choke on it all, a little. We should know the sometimes-awful scramble by which life perpetuates itself, always to the cost of other life. I hunted for the deer, I killed him. I hoped that I deserved the life more. I might not have.

That night, I stood at the kitchen sink in my home. I scrubbed my hands, again and again, with the tallow of the buck stuck beneath my nails. I would smell him on my hands for days to come. The fat also clung to the blades of the knives I had used, and with a sponge I washed it off as best I could. Not paying attention, my hand slipped. The blade ran along the outside of my right index finger, deeply, mercifully not bone deep. Deep enough, though, to make me queasy. I stood there with my hand beneath the cold water, streaming blood down the drain, holding the flaps of my own flesh together. The blood, running out, was as red and bright as the buck’s, as red and bright and precious as anything. I wanted to hold it back inside me, to close up the wound and seal that living-fire back within. But I couldn’t.

Earth Hour

Tonight we celebrate Earth Hour, perhaps the most important thing that nobody seems to know nor care about.  A WWF initiative, Earth Hour's premise is simple: turn out your lights (and everything else that runs on electricity) for a whole hour, starting at 8:30 pm whatever time zone you're in.  It's a gesture more than anything, a sign that we at least acknowledge global warming and the effects of rampant energy consumption.  But few people know about it, and fewer still will actually go dark.  Some of us will forget, some of us will not be able to live without TV's warming glow for so much as an hour, and some of us will be nervous about giving to much power to the dreaded candlewax consortium.  But, at least, it's an effort.  You've gotta start somewhere.  Right?

The Week in Review

So the Emperor Palpatine apparently hates blacks...who knew? I'm referring to Pope Benedict's recent comments on condom use, given at the beginning of his current visit to Africa.  In brief, the Pope stated that condom use will not stem the spread of AIDS/HIV, and that only abstinence can be used to stop the disease, in keeping with the Catholic Church's hardline view of birth control.  So, given the superstitious nature of people, especially the impovershed and uneducated, and given that abstinence is basically as fictitious as God, the Pope just got a bunch of Africans killed.  Listen to the Pope, catch AIDS and die: A equals B.  Now, I've always suspected that the new Pope was evil, I mean, just look at him.  And not the passive evil that has always been the trademark of the Catholic Church, but serious, Illuminati, Da Vinci Code style evil.  The guy was a Hitler Youth, after all; that sort of thing doesn't wash off easily.  And now, in keeping the Church's strangle hold on doctrine complete, the Pope is dooming people to slow and agonizing death.  Is it intentional?  Well, do you trust this guy?  Now, personally, I have differing views on the necessity of disease and its affect on human populations, but I don't wish a long suffering death on anybody (unlike Benedict).  But now more than ever, Africa, and the rest of the world, for that matter, needs to embrace birth control.  Populations are unsustainable, and in Africa, children are being born already infected with the virus, cursed with an early death from the get go.  Can we not say 'enough already'?  Can we not all admit that the Catholic Church is a particularly harmful form of nonsense?  Can we not all acknowledge the fact that the Pope is a sinister, wrong-headed motherfucker, and move on?  Please?

In other, happier news, the Obamas broke ground this week on an organic kitchen garden, to supply the White House Chefs with local, seasonal produce.  The garden had long been lobbied for by local food advocates, and the swiftness with which the President designated the garden after taking office is a sure sign that he's on our side in the fight for a healthier, more sustainable future.  The use of the garden to supplement the Obamas' diets is intended to show the nation an alternative to the fast-food lifestyle so many of us lead.  It's a clear case of leading by example: you there, you in the slums of east Baltimore, you too can grow your own organic arugula in your spacious backyard garden...wait a minute...  Let's face it, this garden is for show, mostly to make those of us who already embrace local, organic food feel better about ourselves.  Don't get me wrong, I'm pleased that the Obamas took this step, I think it's great, and with anyone else, attempting to lead by example like this would be enough.  But he's the President.  If you're concerned about the health of the people, sign a goddamn bill!  Outlaw McDonalds, close feedlots, change our national school lunch program to include a real vegetable here and there!  You can do that, you're the president, after all.  But don't just give us this little song and dance, as nice as it is, and call it enough.  Cause that doesn't taste like fresh, organic summer squash, that tastes a little bit like bullshit, and we've been eating that dish for the past eight years.

Also this week, Secretary Salazar announced that North American birds are in bad shape, with a third of all species being classified as endangered.  Sigh... Most people don't really care about birds, or at east don't think about them, small and flighty as they are.  Even a great many conservation minded people concern themselves primarily with the plight of the charismatic megafauna, the bears and bison and the like who are so exciting to watch.  But birds are an even more important indicator of ecosystem health, and people really need to pay more attention to them.  They are, pun intended, the canaries in the coal mine: if a habitat is in danger, they will be some of the first species to show signs of disruption, the first species to go.  Everything else follows.  Then, what we're left with is something that looks a lot like Cleveland, or northern Jersey, places devoid of any worthwhile life.  And no one wants that... 

To end on a happy note, I subbed in a vocational agriculture class this past thursday, and it was awesome.  I got to pet sheep, get my jacket chewed by a goat, get bitten by a rabbit, and watch a recently castrated horse get his temperature taken, the hard way.  I learned quite a bit from my students, like how to card wool, and that you should tie a string to the thermometer, in case it...you know...gets lost inside.  Ahem.  I highly recommend a little time with farm animals, before they reach your plate.  Because sheep are just plain cute. 

Middlebury College: Sporting Wood

Middlebury College, home of my beloved Bread Loaf School of English, recently took a giant step towards carbon neutrality by opening an advanced wood-burning power plant, one of the first of it's kind in the US.  The plant is a fairly progressive innovation, yet one so fittingly New England in its basic concept, that Middlebury seems to be the perfect candidate for the development.  The college is at once the epitome of traditional Northeast liberal arts quaintness, yet also a leader in ecological thinking and conservation; who better to try this oddly retro concept?

Advanced wood-burning plants, which have already begun to take hold in Northern Europe, combust wood chips at extreme temperatures to convert all the carbon in the wood to flammable gas, which in turn fuels the continued ignition, leaving little smoke or residue.  While traditional wood fires, whose smoking chimneys are a Vermont winter staple, are in actuality horribly polluting, this advanced combustion method greatly reduces both CO2 and ash.  Because the CO2 released is effectively offset by the CO2 the trees soak up during their lives, the carbon foot print for the process is fairly small, depending on how the wood was harvested and transported.  It's not a perfect power sources, but it certainly seems to have its upsides. 

I admit to a healthy level of skepticism over the process, and can see several problems immediately.  It's difficult to find clear data on an amount of wood burned to power produced ratio, but this issue is key to the method's viability: do you have to denude an entire hillside to get a week's worth of power?  New England was once almost entirely clear cut, and few people, I hope, would like to see the region returned to that condition.  For that matter, I would hate to see all that land, particularly in Maine, that is so close to being surrendered to permanent preservation suddenly looked again but the hungry and destructive timber barons. I worry that advanced wood combustion might be the next corn ethanol, a idea that looks good initially but soon proves to be an environmental paper tiger.    

But, I also must admit, if handled properly, advanced wood combustion might be a handy solution to several problems.  First and foremost, it would reduce our carbon foot print, which is an absolute and immediate necessity that we're nowhere near dealing with effectively.  To that end, the process would begin to get us off foreign oil, hopefully allowing some of our more egregious political sins to be forgiven.  Finally, the method could foster job growth in otherwise poverty stricken areas.  The backwoods of the North East are rough areas, and a revitalized timber industry could provide sorely needed employment and livelihood.  Of course, I support the movement only if handled correctly.  The wood must all be fairly local, and farmed in a sustainable way.  We need no further causes to tear down the old growth forests of the world, and shipping lumber from Canada or further afield largely defeats the purpose.  It's also important to handle timber management in an ecologically sound way.  the rain-forests of Indonesia are swiftly being torched and leveled to make room for oil palm plantations, largely in service of the bio-fuels industry.  We must not be so blinded by greed that we raze our environment in the same way.

But, if scientifically guided, locally produced, and ethically managed, a revitalized timber industry could prove a boon, at least for a region such as the Northeast.  Certainly, I'd much rather have the Great North Woods returned to their pristine and untrammeled original state, but, more and more, the cause of conservation is an issue of triage.  If the forest must be developed to some extent in the pursuit of reducing global warming, so be it.  It's all a game of attrition like it or not, and we move not so much towards any sort of victory as simply further away from defeat.  So I applaud Middlebury for taking this important measure, and I can't wait to get back there this summer, and hopefully take a tour of the plant if I can.  I absolutely love the smell of wood smoke, I admit, but hopefully, the smell of no smoke at all will be even sweeter.  

Putting the Cart Before the Horse

Or, perhaps more precisely, putting the rocket propelled space telescope before the Asiatic wild ass.  

I'm referring, with this oblique equine aphorism, to the recent launch of NASA's Kepler Mission, which will use the Kepler space telescope to search for Earth-like extra-solar planets.  By training itself on our closest neighboring stars, and recording the infinitesimal dimmings that result when a planet passes between the star and scope,  Kepler will be able, over the course of three or four years, to determine which solar systems harbor planets similar to our own.  And, theoretically, such planets could harbor life.  Alien life.  For real.

Statistically speaking, life on other planets is basically assured.  The galaxy is a vast place, the universe almost infinitely more so, and with every new discovery, the concept of Earth's particular life sustaining uniqueness is swiftly eroding.  There has already been evidence of liquid water and (just maybe) fossilized microbial life on Mars, and that's a veritable stone's throw away.  The potential for life in other star systems has moved from the realm of science fiction to that of science fact with remarkable swiftness, and skepticism amongst the scientific community is readily turning to excitement at the prospect.  While the search for alien life is still very much in the first stages of its infancy, the Kepler Mission is one of the first clear and intentional steps in that exploration.  

But I'm afraid it's all just an enormous waste of money.  Well, not a waste per se, just rather a gross misuse.  I do honestly believe in the importance of space exploration and research; it's simply where the trajectory of human evolution and development is headed.  And, quite frankly, I'm excited at the prospect of what we may find.  One day locating alien life would explode the preconceptions of our entire species, and change our outlook on our own lives and our role in the universe.  But for now, shouldn't we concern ourselves a little more with life here on earth? 

Wilderness is disappearing, the climate is heating up, the ice caps are melting, species are vanishing, and entire ecosystems, hell, the health of the entire planet, is slowly but surely circling the drain.  That's not doomsaying, that's fact, and if anything, I'm putting it lightly.  In such a situation, how can we possibly justify an expenditure on something as ephemeral as extra-solar photography?  I can't help feeling like this mission is being undertaken for no other reason than to slake the curiosity of a bunch of astrophysicists.  And while the $600+ million price tag for the mission may seem like a drop in the bucket, given the state of the economy, think of how much land could be permanently preserved in trust with that kind of money.  With $600 million we might be able to save the Javan rhinoceros, or conserve sections of Brazil's Atlantic forest, or even just get that much closer to developing clean energy sources.  With so many problems at hand, how can we still justify gazing off at the heavens?

I'm conflicted, certainly.  I support our funding of the sciences, and I support scientific pursuit in general, but even I have my limits.  I want to be excited for the prospects of Kepler's research (though I admit I couldn't understand a lick of the raw data if I tried), and I want to be able look up at the sky with the same interest and intent as the scientists at NASA.  But instead, I can't help but look around at the glory and diversity of life on this planet, and wonder just how much longer that will be the case. 

One Step Forward, One Step Back

Today, President Obama took a significant step towards rectifying the sins of the Bush administration's science policy, by reversing a blanket ban on embryonic stem cell research.  Stem cell research has long been at the forefront of the battle between faith and science, and the Bush presidency's stance on the subject was perfectly emblematic of it's response to scientific progress in general: 'not on our watch'.  Any aspect of scientific research that either cut against policy or offended the fundamentalist christian right was denounced or denied.  Climate data was suppressed, environmental mandates were ignored, and across the spectrum, information was massaged and mangled until it supported political decisions which had no true basis in scientific fact.  It was a very bleak eight years, a veritable dark age of the American scientific spirit.  And now, supposedly, a new day has dawned.

The importance of the stem cell reversal should not be underplayed; it is an enormous move in the right direction, at least in one particular field, and possibly for the scientific community overall.  The argument against embryonic stem cell research is reactionary and  superstitious at best, and because of our government's willingness to cave into fundamentalism, the true and daily suffering of individuals was prolonged unnecessarily.  We're effectively eight years behind where we should be as a logical and rational nation, and we must not forget that this course of action has been physically and mentally detrimental to many of our citizens.  Stem cell science isn't a magical fix of course, but the regenerative potential of the cells is also difficult to overestimate.  Who can say what we'd be capable of today, had Bush not chosen the cowardly and illogical route?   

By officially reversing course today, Obama is beginning to fulfill what, to me at least, was the most interesting and important promise of his inaugural speech, the returning of science to its proper stature within the American government.  That single line spoke directly to those of us dissatisfied, outraged really, by years of willful ignorance by both a government and its people.  It let us know that a veritable renaissance was at hand, not just for those who practice the sciences, but also for those, such as my self, who simply appreciate the continual cause of human enlightenment.  Today's executive order goes some distance towards reassuring me that Obama was serious in his commitment.  And yet, at the same time, I'm given pause by other actions of the administration.

In almost the same breath as the stem cell decision, Obama's Secretary of the Interior struck a blow against the environment by upholding a Bush-era policy of de-listing the gray wolf from the ESA in the norther Rockies.  The secretary in question is Ken Salazar, former senator from Colorado, and the de-listing of the wolf places 'management' of the animals in the hands of state agencies rather than under federal oversight.  Such management will amount to little more than controlled extirpation, as cattlemen and ranchers are given free reign to scour the predators off the land.  It's a markedly non-scientific approach, one dictated by fear, hatred, and greed, and has no basis in good environmental policy.  The success of the Endangered Species Act for the gray wolf, years of protection and repatriation, has been undone with a pen stroke.  If what has occurred in Wyoming is and indication, what is to come is wholesale slaughter.  

Ken Salazar's choice to enact left-over Bush policy is indicative of his entire environmental outlook.  Though a democrat, Salazar comes from a frontier-minded, ranching background, and has long been a proponent of extraction based industries in the American west.  His cabinet appointment by President Obama gave many ecologists and environmentalists cause to doubt Obama's true commitment to reform, and the recent wolf decision shows that such fears were justified.  The disappointment of the Obama administration is its moderation.  It's not a surprise, exactly; politics dirties the cleanest of intentions.  But it is discouraging.  It's a sign that even in the most open and rational of recent times, every step in the right direction comes at a cost.   

Sweet and Smokey Venison Chili

Today I have a nice little recipe for a chili I currently have bubbling away on the stove.  I've been fairly interested in non-conventional flavor combinations and using regional ingredients lately, and with this chili I've given a New England spin on otherwise Meso-American basics, using venison and maple syrup (trust me) along with corn, beans, and chipotles.  The use of venison is sort of unique to my situation; I actually prefer a version of this chili made with wild turkey, and the best choice might be pork, cubed or ground, as that would complement the sweetness well.

I'm not a big fan of spicy-ness, but I appreciate enough in a good chili to let me know I'm eating a dish that, by it's very definition and name, is spicy.  I use chipotles, dried and smoked jalapenos, because you get as much flavor with them as you do heat.  Chipotle powder, like a good smoked pimenton, is a fine option, but I've been using chipotles canned in adobo sauce (available in that deserted section of the Stop & Shop known as 'ethnic foods').  The maple syrup, which may seem an odd ingredient, provides sweetness with more depth than honey, giving a fuller flavor to the dish.  In this way, both defining ingredients serve double duty, combining to be spicy, smoky, sweet, and, um...mapley.  One thing to go out of your way for, if you can, is to buy whole cumin seeds, and toast and grind them yourself.  I've been surprised by how much more flavor this gives than stock cumin powder, but I am a lazy bastard at heart too, so at the end of the day I'll understand if you just go with store bought powder.  The corn is a personal choice, cause I like the crunch and have found that Green Giant makes a really great summer fresh canned sweet corn.  Even though it's off season, I find it's a nice touch.  As for beans canned can work, but ideally, dried beans are cheaper and more authentic, adding that gourmet smuggness factor you just don't get from canned.  Pintos or kidneys are fine, but I really like Great Northern, if only because I live in the north, and I am great.

Ingredients:

1 pound ground venison (or turkey or pork)

1 large yellow or vidalia onion 

2 Italian sweet peppers

1 poblano chili

2 cups (or cans) of beans

1 can of sweet corn

4 cloves of garlic

1 large can diced tomatoes

1 can tomato paste

1 heaping tbsp. ground cumin (or more, to taste)

salt & pepper

1/2 can of chipotle chilis (or more, again, to taste)

1/3 cup of real maple syrup 

What I love about chili, like stew, is that it isn't rocket science: soak the beans over night, dice and sweat the onion, brown the meat, put it all together and cook the hell out of it.  Bob's your uncle.  Variations abound, and I'm even thinking now that what this dish may really need is a bottle of pale ale to tie it all together.  In fact, I think I need one too.  If nothing else, I've always found chili is a good excuse to drink.  Bon appetite.