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Roast Duck, Or How I Learned to Love the Gun

I might never have taken up hunting if there hadn't been an opportunity to try it close to home. About 15 years ago, when a friend asked me to join him on a trip to Grizzly Island, a refuge on San Pablo Bay, the fact that it was no more than about an hour's drive from Berkeley prompted me to accept. Steve was a model sportsman and a great teacher. Rather than frightening me away with the typical foray at dawn, we took a leisurely drive at noon. We arrived well in time for a casual walk out past some ponds to a larger pond, waded out to a cattail-choked island, and sat down in solitude to watch the egrets, harriers, and countless other species frolic in the open space. Close to sunset, when the prospect of getting skunked seemed highly probable, Steve cautioned me to lower my profile, remain still, and await the passing of a small flock of pintails flying low enough to shoot. At his signal, we rose, aimed, and fired. Four shots rang out in quick sequence, and two beautiful drakes dropped in the water nearby. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure I missed, but Steve over-generously congratulated me on my first duck, and sent me home with a meal-in-the-making that still lives on in my memory.

I can't say that the act of killing was repugnant to me, which remains a bit of a mystery. Pulling wings off flies has never appealed to me. On the other hand, as a child I was always unfazed by the act of feeding a mouse to my pet boa constrictor. I don't view hunting as inconsistent with population management and habitat protection, and in fact believe it is downright necessary sometimes. My curiosity was aroused by my outing with Steve, and although I lived in a major metropolitan area, I was blessed to have 30 hunting clubs two to three hours away, and wildlife refuges like Grizzly Island close to home.

No Common Ground at the Commonwealth

About four years ago, I attended a meeting at the Commonwealth Club in San Francisco titled "Hunting in the 21st Century: Its Economics, Politics, and Culture."

Rhetoric clashed with reality as the hunters in the room struggled to come to grips with dismaying facts: their ranks were shrinking, opposition from the animal rights movement was gaining strength, and urban residents had become increasingly disdainful of the messages of the NRA. My hope that the meeting would lead toward reconciliation with the urbanized population was soon dispelled.

The keynote speaker was James Swan, a psychologist, sometime actor, documentary producer, and author of The Sacred Art of Hunting. He was flanked by Robert Treanor, director of the California Department of Fish and Game under Governor Gray Davis; Huey Johnson, Secretary of Resources under Governor Jerry Brown; Bill Gaines of the California Waterfowl Association; and a representative of the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation.

Swan began with a curious defense of hunting, "the taproot of civilization," and with blunderbuss broadside attacks on environmentalists. "Hunters are an endangered species," he declared, segueing disjointedly into an argument that eating meat had enlarged the brains of our species, which had promoted tool invention, which improved hunting, which spurred the development of civilization. If the logic sounds strained, it's because it was. Harkening back to the 1950s glory days when Davy Crockett was every kid's hero, he lamented a lack of hunting heroes in today's popular culture, mentioning that only three contemporary films he knew of portrayed hunters in a positive light. But he added a bright note: Madonna had taken up the sport.

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