MEDITATIONS ON THE ORIGIN OF THE ASCETIC OR TALE OF THE WET ASS MEAT HUNTER

 The beauty of writing a blog is you do not have to run such a title past an editor. Cheeky gives me the paw over the eye, the cat equivalent to our "thumbs up" and I go forward.

   In many ways this has been my worst season ever in the deer woods. I couldn't get the bow string back on a good buck, I passed on an 8 I had a good shot at and I killed a button buck by mistake. My self identification as a Trophy Hunter has been modified to desperate meat hunter. How the mighty have fallen. Lets spin towards Avid Locavore. The front end of a Nor-Easter is already upon us and I barely saw a deer all day. The roads were too icy to make it to Mr. X's Mystery Farm, so I holed up in back of the house. The sleet turned to rain. Luckily I found an empty hut and sat out the morning relatively dry. It was then I thought of today's blog theme.

    Firstly, I'm not hunting for wet ass meat. Rather, my ass is constantly wet as I hunt for meat. And this got me to thinking about the parallels with asceticism and the not so obvious fact that religion and art probably come directly out of hunting. Those little striations on that clam shell from 400,000 years ago were probably done while waiting for something to show up, by a guy with a wet ass. And these kinda thoughts don't enter the inner conversation until late in a very trying season. When they do, it makes the sit easier. My legs were crossed, muzzleloader in my lap.. I twisted in yoga-like moves, in order to see movement through the dripping woods. Nothing. Nothing. The ascetic prays. I fantasize a big, juicy doe. If I had a clam shell, I'd be scratching it. 

   Tomorrow we're suppose to get snow. This could be a game changer. After this storm passes I'll get back to the farm. But, in the meantime I'll play the wind, still hunt from hut to hut, and see what happens. The profundity of my thought patterns will ebb and flow, as the wet snow falls down my neck into my ass crack. I'll walk down the hill on the road in the morning and hunt the mountain back. It won't be easy and I may never see a deer, but I guarantee you, as the barb wire tightens, the hair shirt itches and I pour more pebbles into my boots, there's nowhere I would rather be. And that is my version of spirituality.