- Wild Game
Browse: Home / essays
Deer hunting in California’s vast coastal A Zone is a chancy affair. It had been six years since I’d tagged a buck in this area, but I had to give it a go again this year. It was a hunt I will never forget.
July in a garden’s high water mark. It is also time to contemplate the autumn to come. This year, it is time to do the same in my own life’s garden.
When you forage, fish or hunt, it takes a toll on your hands. But in this age when we are so divorced from the natural world, so distant from finding our own food, it’s becoming ever more important to earn some of those cuts and scrapes on your own hands.
Pukeko. Such a cool bird, yet so unloved by the New Zealanders. We hunted and cooked a bunch of this cross between a pheasant and a coot on our trip to Kiwi Country, and learned to love this fascinating game bird.
My cat has gone missing. We have not seen her in more than a week, and I feel dead inside because of it. I try to stay positive, or at least stoic, and busy myself with the green renewal that is my garden. My garden. Where my cat and I first met each other, years ago.
Seeing. Really seeing the world around you. How vital it is to human existence, yet how rare a thing it has become. In the world of foraging, seeing and reading the daily news that those signs tell you mark the difference between success and failure.
It is Super Bowl Sunday. Every year before the Big Game, I watch the movie “Any Given Sunday,” which has the greatest motivational speech I’ve ever heard. It’s about the inches between success and failure, between being great and failing. Those inches matter in all things, not just football.
Fat is not the enemy. We treat it as so because as humans, we so crave it that we’ve spent millennia making it more and more accessible to us. In so doing we’ve lost sight on just how precious and wondrous fat is in the wild world. Only with a diet hinging on game and fish does this come into focus