“In answer to your question, my boy,” said Major Nathaniel Peabody, “there are many reasons why a man hunts. In the millions of years following mankind’s decision to supplement its diet of grass and roots with meat, hunting has been indelibly stamped into the psyche of everyone who is able to successfully capture birds and animals.
“Historically, Homo sapiens hunted only for food. With the advent of canned goods and super market grocery stores, the foodstuff motivation for the hunt has markedly declined. Nevertheless, man’s primal urge to hunt has not been bred out of most of us. The people who have lost whatever it is that creates that urge will never be able to fully understand why men hunt.
“Moreover, there are still many good people who prefer meals of pheasant or wild duck or Ruffed Grouse or venison over meals of soy bean and chemical laced viands injected with artificial coloring to make them look palatable. I am one of them. You would be, too, if you carefully read the list of unnatural ingredients printed on the boxes of the junk sold in supermarkets.
“Of course, men hunt for many reasons other than securing healthful foods or following the ancient genetically stamped impulses that lead them to dogs and shotguns and fields and lakes and woods. Some men hunt to have an opportunity to ‘knit up the raveled sleeve of care’. They want to get away from brain numbing television programs and talking head newsmen who feel they must do their best to scare the hell out of them on a daily basis.
“The next earthquake will cause California to sink into the Pacific. Its screwball inhabitants will drown, polluting the sea and killing all the fish. A comet will strike the earth and we will all be in for it. The ice cap will melt, but New York City will not end up under water. The liberals will take over Congress. Everything you eat will cause cancer.
“If those threatened cataclysms aren’t enough to cause an epidemic of diarrhea or bleeding ulcers, wives threaten you with additional dire consequences if you don’t haul the garbage to the curb.
“Is it any wonder rational men want to get away from that kind of civilization induced stress and take a silent walk with a good dog in a field containing pheasants or seek out the peace of an early morning spent in a duck blind watching the sun rise or simply enjoy the beauty of the fall colors of a grouse covert, far from the madding crowd?”
The Major paused for a second before looking directly at me and adding: “There is also an advantage in getting away from people who persist in asking silly questions.”
Being thus chastised for asking the question, I intended to let the matter drop, but Peabody wasn’t inclined to do so. He blew a smoke ring and watched it float in the air. “In my own case,” he continued, “I suspect a part of the reason for my attraction to shotgunning is my search for peace of mind. If I didn’t have frequent opportunities to get away from people and cities, I’m afraid I might become vituperative, sarcastic, anti-social, and develop curmudgeon-like tendencies.”
I did not make any of the more obvious comments.
“We live in an era when too many people insist on controlling our lives,” he said. “So-called experts, social engineers, weird college professors and high school drop-out actors insist they know what is best for all of us. If our wimpy politicians think they can gain a single vote by doing it, they will support and pass the most insane legislation. Unless we have occasional opportunities to call “Time Out” and develop a healthy sense of skepticism, we run the risk of becoming brainless sponges, absorbing as truthful whatever nonsense is thrown at us.”
“And,” I ventured, “just what has all of that that got to do with why you hunt?”
“The point is so obvious,” Peabody responded, “it doesn’t need explanation. Let me explain it to you. When I am hunting no one can tell me I can’t enjoy a cigar or own a 20 ga. Lefever or relax with a glass of The Macallan. I even have the ability to descry the movement toward monolithic government without fear of being pilloried or accused of holding politically improper attitudes and sentenced to a term in prison. Hunting puts me in an environment where I can experience a feeling of freedom and, my young friend,” he continued, “this country wasn’t made by social engineers and bureaucrats. The men who tamed the wilderness did it without much help from them.”
“Like Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery?” I said.
“Exactly like Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery,” the Major answered. “That was a time in our history when men were on their own. Lewis and Clark’s expedition wasn’t subjected to governmental micromanagement. They organized their expedition without some bureaucrat telling them what to do. Imagine the fun they must have had. Unfettered exploration. I wish I had been with them.”
That night Major Nathaniel Peabody had a nightmare.
* * * * *
“How are you Nate?” the President asked as he arose from his desk and extended his hand in greeting.
“I’m fine, Red,” Major Peabody responded. Only President Thomas Jefferson’s closest friends called him ‘Red’. “Well, perhaps I’m not so fine,” the Major admitted. “I’m having trouble with this Voyage of Discovery thing.”
Jefferson was having his own troubles. Some people thought he paid too much for the Louisiana Purchase. The press was attacking him. Protesters were marching in the streets. They were carrying signs like: ‘Jefferson Just Wants a City In Missouri Named After Him.’
“What is it, Major?” the President asked. “Do you need more money? I don’t think we can expect much from Congress. Damned politicians! Most of them are only interested in re-election. A bunch of Senators are already raising Cain. Half of them want to get rid of me. Some say I wasn’t properly authorized to buy anything from Napoleon. They want to have hearings and start an investigation.”
“It’s not a matter of money, Red,” the Major said. “There’s so much pork in the budget Congress has authorized that I could fund a rocket expedition to the moon. The Voyage of Discovery should come in well under Congressional estimates. I’ve got plenty of money, but I’ve run into a lot of other problems.
“First of all, the OSHA people won’t give their approval to the project. They want me to carry eighty more oars in case the boys break or lose some. They want me to provide every man with a Coast Guard approved life jacket. They insist every man be issued a supply of sun block and Polaroid glasses to protect them from ultra violet rays. Ultra violet rays! Hell, Red, they haven’t even been discovered yet.
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg. If I tried to carry half the stuff OSHA is requiring, I’d have to rebuild the boat. It would be so big the boys wouldn’t be able to pole it up the river. Talk about a Catch 22. They won’t let us leave St. Louis unless we have a boat so big that we can’t leave St. Louis.
“That’s not all. The EPA is giving me fits.
“They want an Environmental Impact Study and won’t let me go until they get one. Environmental Impact Study! Impact on what? Nobody knows what’s out there. How on earth can we give them an impact study when no one knows what is going to be impacted? Another Catch 22, Red. The EPA wants an Impact Study before they’ll let me leave St Louis and I can’t give them an Impact Study unless I leave St. Louis and get to the places where the ‘impact’ is to be ‘studied.”
President Jefferson looked out the window and mused, “I like that phrase, ‘Catch 22’, Nate. I sure hope it will some day inspire Joseph Heller to write a novel and use it as the title.” Major Peabody disregarded him and continued with his litany of complaint.
“The only success I can report,” he said, “is with the EEOC. I’ve made a deal with Toussaint Charbonneau. He’s a French trapper. He’ll come with me and bring one of his wives along. She’s a Shoshone Indian woman named Sacagawea. That will take care of both of the EEOC’s ethnic and gender diversity objections.
“I suspect I’ll have some kind of a Union problem. The Barge Polers, Beaver Skinners and Mountain Men’s Local #1739 is trying to organize us. If they’re successful, I’m sure they want to cut us down to 12 hour days and you know what that will do to out time schedule. And how in hell am I going to provide health and dental care when I’m half way up the Columbia River?
“To make matters worse, today I got a certified letter from the anti-gun people. I’m sure you know all about them. They’re the ones who argue that if the Minute Men didn’t have guns, they wouldn’t have killed all those Brits at Concord, Lexington and Breed’s Hill. Their letter says they’re going to raise absolute hell if we take muskets, side arms, knives or swords with us. They claim they have a lot of support from Massachusetts politicians. Massachusetts, of all places! Have they forgotten so soon?
“I’d hate to see the Brits or the Russians or the Spaniards take control of the West Coast, Red, but I’ve had it right up to here with the politicians, the special interest groups and the bureaucrats. The only reason I agreed to head up this expedition was because of the reports of the great dove and Prairie Chicken hunting out on the plains. If I can’t bring a shotgun with me, I’m not going. I hate to leave you in the lurch, Red, but I QUIT.”
Then the Major put on his coonskin hat and left the White House.