Mark Warren's Blog: Mark Warren Blog - Posts Tagged "medicine-bow"
The Value of Wildness
Though on the surface of my teaching it appears that I peddle the physical skills of native lore—fire creation, shelter building, stalking, tracking, water purification, crafts, plants used as foods, medicines, crafts, insect repellents, weaponry, traps and snares, etc.—a hidden agenda lurks beneath. I am most interested in turning metaphorical keys that show people inroads to nature. I believe that each person develops his/her own unique relationship with the wild world, one that no one else can claim. That uniqueness is one of the beauties of this equation.
When students first come to my school to learn a particular skill, I often ask what urged them to plunge into such a topic. Usually, they do not have a ready answer. By the time they visit for a second class we have gotten to know each other enough that they feel comfortable delving into that question again.
“I just felt like something was missing in my life.”
I have heard that answer time and again. Once those words are out, we can then enter into an exchange that dips into our spiritual needs. It always boils down to this: That student vaguely recognizes this void: He has no practical or intimate interaction with the natural world into which he was born. That student can feel like a stranger to his own land. He is more familiar with the constructs of civilization: stores, highways, Internet sites, cell phones, etc.
Living among wild plants and animals on a daily basis was the original “real world.” To move through a paleo day and draw nourishment and warmth from the surroundings (and ensuring protection from those same surroundings) was the definition of life. It was the most fundamental procedure for existence. Today it is an adventure that only a small percentage of humans can accomplish. No wonder there is a gap between modern man and nature.
There are two subjects I always suggest for those who want to build a bridge to the intimacy of nature: plant study and animal stalking. I know of no better thresholds to cross to affect the psyche of the hungry student. By learning and using plants, we become part of the forest and field by developing relationships with individual species. If we eat a plant, are we not what we eat? If a plant heals us, do we not owe it some allegiance and respect? If we make a tool from nature, are we not holding that tool in gratitude? If a nibble of yellowroot’s bright yellow root resolves an upset stomach, each time we encounter it in a new place, do we not feel at home in this new place by the presence of an old friend?
In dedicating oneself to the rigors of stalking—a discipline that, arguably, could be called a martial art—a very simple shift occurs: The student transcends from being a spectator in nature to being a participant. This last sentence is the answer to the riddle. This is what was missing from the lives of those students mentioned above.
Why do I want this for people? Two answers. One: I value the enrichment of their lives. This path boosts self-esteem. I have seen it do wonders for curious children, troubled young adults, and introspective adults. Two: If we do not continue to produce generations of people who understand the value of wildness, we will lose it. When that happens, the world as we know it loses. If a person does not care about plants, animals, rock outcrops, rivers . . . how can we expect that person to conserve it?
As grandiose as the term may sound, I’m talking about saving the world. The real one.
Secrets of the Forest, My Life in Teaching, My Legacy to Leave Behind
http://medicinebow.net/media/books/se...
When students first come to my school to learn a particular skill, I often ask what urged them to plunge into such a topic. Usually, they do not have a ready answer. By the time they visit for a second class we have gotten to know each other enough that they feel comfortable delving into that question again.
“I just felt like something was missing in my life.”
I have heard that answer time and again. Once those words are out, we can then enter into an exchange that dips into our spiritual needs. It always boils down to this: That student vaguely recognizes this void: He has no practical or intimate interaction with the natural world into which he was born. That student can feel like a stranger to his own land. He is more familiar with the constructs of civilization: stores, highways, Internet sites, cell phones, etc.
Living among wild plants and animals on a daily basis was the original “real world.” To move through a paleo day and draw nourishment and warmth from the surroundings (and ensuring protection from those same surroundings) was the definition of life. It was the most fundamental procedure for existence. Today it is an adventure that only a small percentage of humans can accomplish. No wonder there is a gap between modern man and nature.
There are two subjects I always suggest for those who want to build a bridge to the intimacy of nature: plant study and animal stalking. I know of no better thresholds to cross to affect the psyche of the hungry student. By learning and using plants, we become part of the forest and field by developing relationships with individual species. If we eat a plant, are we not what we eat? If a plant heals us, do we not owe it some allegiance and respect? If we make a tool from nature, are we not holding that tool in gratitude? If a nibble of yellowroot’s bright yellow root resolves an upset stomach, each time we encounter it in a new place, do we not feel at home in this new place by the presence of an old friend?
In dedicating oneself to the rigors of stalking—a discipline that, arguably, could be called a martial art—a very simple shift occurs: The student transcends from being a spectator in nature to being a participant. This last sentence is the answer to the riddle. This is what was missing from the lives of those students mentioned above.
Why do I want this for people? Two answers. One: I value the enrichment of their lives. This path boosts self-esteem. I have seen it do wonders for curious children, troubled young adults, and introspective adults. Two: If we do not continue to produce generations of people who understand the value of wildness, we will lose it. When that happens, the world as we know it loses. If a person does not care about plants, animals, rock outcrops, rivers . . . how can we expect that person to conserve it?
As grandiose as the term may sound, I’m talking about saving the world. The real one.
Secrets of the Forest, My Life in Teaching, My Legacy to Leave Behind
http://medicinebow.net/media/books/se...
The Voice Was Mine, But Where Did The Words Come From?
There are two reasons that the last book of my Secrets of the Forest series is my favorite: Archery and canoeing have intertwined with my soul to become two of the most precious and defining parts of my life. So, in essence, I have saved the best for last.
Both arts originally came to me in the same arcane way. In each instance I was alone in the forest without a thought relating to either skill. One late afternoon – back in 1969 – on a self-imposed “survival trip,” I stood by the Chattooga River staring out over a dark emerald pool, a smooth tongue of water pouring into it from an upstream level three or four feet higher. The little falls made a steady rending sound as it broke into the lower pool’s surface – a liquid song containing both treble and bass parts, a steady roar that filled the air in the gorge like a never-ending exhalation from deep in the Earth.
Wafting from that breath, it seemed, was every secret of the forest that had existed since the beginning of time. I looked out at the moving water, and, unexpectedly, after days of not hearing my own voice, I spoke aloud.
“I should be in a canoe.”
No truer words have I spoken. From that day on, I began a mission of riverine passion, exploring hundreds of streams by canoe from the Chattooga in Georgia, west to the Rio Grande and Colorado River, north to Minnesota’s St. Croix and the Deerfield in Connecticut, and south to the mysterious blackwater rivers of northern Florida. Even in Georgia alone, one cannot cover all the creeks and rivers in one lifetime. But I tried.
A near identical revelation hit me one day as I walked a long open lane among the great white pines standing on the flood plain of Warwoman Creek. Again, without any premonition that I would do so, I spoke aloud.
“I should be shooting a bow,” I said. And so it began.
The first simple projectiles were sticks and stones. The compact heft of a rock must have quickly suggested its killing or maiming potential, but as a weapon it was most effective when affixed to the end of a handle. So attached it was a fearsome skull-cracker (the war-club), but to use it for hunting required one to stalk within reach of an animal. This proved to be, by and large, impractical. A “hunting” rock needed to travel through the air. And so, at first, man threw stones.
The first leap in stone-throwing technology came with the sling. From there the story evolved to modifying a stone to a sleek, sharp point and lashing it to a stick. Such a spear was originally a long-handled stabbing implement, until some unknown deft innovator(s) learned to send it sailing through the air javelin-style along a steady trajectory.
This tool was further improved by a mechanical advantage that might be said to emulate the architecture of a grasshopper’s powerful rear leg. The atlatl – a wooden spear-launcher – had the effect of extending the length of the thrower’s “arm” to provide more thrust. Eventually, a smaller spear came along to make a quantum leap, this one powered by the energy stored inside a stick that was bent out of shape by a taut string.
Surpassing the spear, the bow and arrow offered more distance and less chance for human error. However, the delicate technique for releasing the string is the deciding factor in an archer’s level of expertise and consistency. Archery epitomizes the marriage of strength and grace. Its proper technique is not innate. In fact, its secrets of operation seem so arcane as to elude all who pick up a bow for the first time without the benefit of instruction.
The blowgun is in a category of its own. It was not employed in warfare but used to hunt small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Invented in the Southeastern corner of North America, it spread to Central and South America. Its uniqueness lies in its power source: a sudden expulsion of breath.
All but two of the weapons covered in "Secrets of the Forest" volume 4 held their glory days as “top-of-the-line” airborne implements of hunting and/or warfare, each in its own time. The exceptions are the knife and tomahawk. Both were highly valued tools and had their essential places in history – but not as projectiles … especially in warfare. (It was ill-advised to hand over one’s weapon to an enemy, even if by a hostile throw.)
Part of this omission was due to the weapon’s composition. What sane craftsman would hurl his stone axe or knife at anything? Too much work went into the production of a fine edge. Even so, it is almost certain that men were sometimes forced to throw a knife or hand-axe out of desperation. If an enemy eyed you over the sights of a rifle, wouldn’t you?
With the advent of knives and hawks forged from steel, it was inevitable that they would be thrown. Anyone who handles metal knives long enough will eventually yield to the compelling urge to throw one, trying to stick it in a stump. Once one has success at it, he will likely repeat it. In fact, it can become a passion. This I know, because I began my “knife-throwing career” when I was nine-years-old, secretly experimenting with all things with a sharp point from my mother’s kitchen. More than six decades later I continue to feel that same craving to sink a blade into a target.
The novelty of throwing edged steel did emerge among the mountain men of the Rockies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At an annual rendezvous – the social event of their year – contests of knife- and hawk-throwing provided one more arena for taking bets and boosting reputations. Once it became a sport, I am inclined to bet that throwing these implements may have worked its way into practical application.
Whether or not that is true, these two sports are still alive today. The temptation to throw anything at a target is probably an atavistic itch – a carry-over from mankind’s long history of hurling weapons toward prey. I see evidence of this every time a group of young students arrives at my school in my gravel parking lot. To their eyes, every stone is a projectile, every tree a target. Imagine their faces when I inform them that our agenda will include spears or knifes or tomahawks. In an age of all things electronic and glittery, such enthusiasm is gratifying.
secretsoftheforestbook.com
Archery, Projectiles, and Canoeing: Secrets of the Forest
Both arts originally came to me in the same arcane way. In each instance I was alone in the forest without a thought relating to either skill. One late afternoon – back in 1969 – on a self-imposed “survival trip,” I stood by the Chattooga River staring out over a dark emerald pool, a smooth tongue of water pouring into it from an upstream level three or four feet higher. The little falls made a steady rending sound as it broke into the lower pool’s surface – a liquid song containing both treble and bass parts, a steady roar that filled the air in the gorge like a never-ending exhalation from deep in the Earth.
Wafting from that breath, it seemed, was every secret of the forest that had existed since the beginning of time. I looked out at the moving water, and, unexpectedly, after days of not hearing my own voice, I spoke aloud.
“I should be in a canoe.”
No truer words have I spoken. From that day on, I began a mission of riverine passion, exploring hundreds of streams by canoe from the Chattooga in Georgia, west to the Rio Grande and Colorado River, north to Minnesota’s St. Croix and the Deerfield in Connecticut, and south to the mysterious blackwater rivers of northern Florida. Even in Georgia alone, one cannot cover all the creeks and rivers in one lifetime. But I tried.
A near identical revelation hit me one day as I walked a long open lane among the great white pines standing on the flood plain of Warwoman Creek. Again, without any premonition that I would do so, I spoke aloud.
“I should be shooting a bow,” I said. And so it began.
The first simple projectiles were sticks and stones. The compact heft of a rock must have quickly suggested its killing or maiming potential, but as a weapon it was most effective when affixed to the end of a handle. So attached it was a fearsome skull-cracker (the war-club), but to use it for hunting required one to stalk within reach of an animal. This proved to be, by and large, impractical. A “hunting” rock needed to travel through the air. And so, at first, man threw stones.
The first leap in stone-throwing technology came with the sling. From there the story evolved to modifying a stone to a sleek, sharp point and lashing it to a stick. Such a spear was originally a long-handled stabbing implement, until some unknown deft innovator(s) learned to send it sailing through the air javelin-style along a steady trajectory.
This tool was further improved by a mechanical advantage that might be said to emulate the architecture of a grasshopper’s powerful rear leg. The atlatl – a wooden spear-launcher – had the effect of extending the length of the thrower’s “arm” to provide more thrust. Eventually, a smaller spear came along to make a quantum leap, this one powered by the energy stored inside a stick that was bent out of shape by a taut string.
Surpassing the spear, the bow and arrow offered more distance and less chance for human error. However, the delicate technique for releasing the string is the deciding factor in an archer’s level of expertise and consistency. Archery epitomizes the marriage of strength and grace. Its proper technique is not innate. In fact, its secrets of operation seem so arcane as to elude all who pick up a bow for the first time without the benefit of instruction.
The blowgun is in a category of its own. It was not employed in warfare but used to hunt small animals like squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Invented in the Southeastern corner of North America, it spread to Central and South America. Its uniqueness lies in its power source: a sudden expulsion of breath.
All but two of the weapons covered in "Secrets of the Forest" volume 4 held their glory days as “top-of-the-line” airborne implements of hunting and/or warfare, each in its own time. The exceptions are the knife and tomahawk. Both were highly valued tools and had their essential places in history – but not as projectiles … especially in warfare. (It was ill-advised to hand over one’s weapon to an enemy, even if by a hostile throw.)
Part of this omission was due to the weapon’s composition. What sane craftsman would hurl his stone axe or knife at anything? Too much work went into the production of a fine edge. Even so, it is almost certain that men were sometimes forced to throw a knife or hand-axe out of desperation. If an enemy eyed you over the sights of a rifle, wouldn’t you?
With the advent of knives and hawks forged from steel, it was inevitable that they would be thrown. Anyone who handles metal knives long enough will eventually yield to the compelling urge to throw one, trying to stick it in a stump. Once one has success at it, he will likely repeat it. In fact, it can become a passion. This I know, because I began my “knife-throwing career” when I was nine-years-old, secretly experimenting with all things with a sharp point from my mother’s kitchen. More than six decades later I continue to feel that same craving to sink a blade into a target.
The novelty of throwing edged steel did emerge among the mountain men of the Rockies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At an annual rendezvous – the social event of their year – contests of knife- and hawk-throwing provided one more arena for taking bets and boosting reputations. Once it became a sport, I am inclined to bet that throwing these implements may have worked its way into practical application.
Whether or not that is true, these two sports are still alive today. The temptation to throw anything at a target is probably an atavistic itch – a carry-over from mankind’s long history of hurling weapons toward prey. I see evidence of this every time a group of young students arrives at my school in my gravel parking lot. To their eyes, every stone is a projectile, every tree a target. Imagine their faces when I inform them that our agenda will include spears or knifes or tomahawks. In an age of all things electronic and glittery, such enthusiasm is gratifying.
secretsoftheforestbook.com
Archery, Projectiles, and Canoeing: Secrets of the Forest
A Window to the World of the Wild
If you are a nature-lover, an animal-lover, a nature-writer, nature photographer, or simply a natural explorer, you might be interested in an old hunter's trick.
Simply put, stalking is all about being sneaky. It is an art of deception that requires both physical and mental discipline. To successfully stalk an animal of the wild, a human must hide, mask, alter, or eliminate the following telltale clues to his or her presence: 1.) eye-catching movement, 2.) displaying the classic human silhouette, 3.) vocal sounds and sounds from articles worn (rustling, swishing, creaking) or carried (sloshing, clinking, jingling, rattling), 4.) sounds underfoot from body weight, 5.) body scent, and 6.) alarming other animals incidental to the area.
There is a part of us that will always love the concept of hiding. Think how many times in your life you have enjoyed “sneaking up on” someone – a friend, a relative … or even a pet. The thrill of becoming invisible is probably atavistic, trickling down to us through our genes from our paleo-ancestor-hunters. Even outside the hunting arena, there is a singular excitement in being present to observe while, in turn, not being observed.
Centuries ago Cherokee hunters stalked through these Eastern woodlands where I live. They moved slower than you might guess, gliding on legs made strong by the demands of hunting and by the mountain terrain itself. It takes great patience to stalk successfully, but in the old days such a hunter might never have mentioned this quality. Slowing down was simply a necessity that brooked no lapses or short-cuts. It was part of the daily work of surviving. Without a dedication to that work, he went hungry.
In the dense forests of the Eastern U.S., a bow-hunter faced two consistent problems almost everywhere he turned. First, he needed an open “window” through which his arrow could fly undisturbed toward his target. Obstacles to deflect a projectile were everywhere: tree trunks, branches, shrubs, vines, and boughs of leaves. Even a single leaf can spoil the trajectory of an otherwise perfectly launched arrow.
The second problem lay beneath the hunter’s moccasins. Whenever he moved, the stalker had to step upon the forest’s ground cover of dead leaves and twigs … without alerting wildlife. How did the Cherokees solve these problems?
If the cluttered maze of the woods denied a long shot at an animal, then these native bow-hunters were forced to reduce the distance between hunter and prey. (This is one of many stories about the land shaping the lives of the people who inhabit it.) There were four ways to achieve a closer shot: 1.) setting up a blind (or simply hiding) and waiting for an animal to approach, 2.) luring an animal with an intriguing sound, scent, or curious motion, 3.) setting a trap that could maim, kill, or contain the animal, or 4.) approaching the animal with stealth. The ancient hunters used all these techniques, but none so shaped their physical lives as the last option: stalking.
Ironically, by choosing to close the distance of hunter and prey to solve the first problem, the Cherokees exacerbated the second problem. Moving across that noisy forest floor only became more challenging as he got closer to his prey. How did he eliminate the sounds produced by his body-weight on all of the crumbly items underfoot? He didn’t. He simply spread them out by applying his weight to the earth so slowly that the little “ticks” and “pops” and “cracks” of crushed leaves were heard individually rather than en masse. It is true that a twig can break no matter how slowly a foot comes down on it, and such a “snap” is undoubtedly an alarm to an animal. But the supple sole of his moccasin allowed the stalker to detect twigs by touch and thereby avoid them.
What was left – the crackling of leaves – was so spread out that it could easily have been interpreted as the ramblings of a beetle. In fact, many insects are noisier in dry leaves than a skilled stalker.
Stalking was also necessary in warfare, where the stakes were higher. Stealth could save the life of a man or woman moving through enemy territory.
Hollywood has given us the wrong impression about the actual mechanics of stalking. In terms of movie-making, it would be impractical to show an authentic stalker moving even one step. The scene would last three minutes. Instead, filmmakers have chosen to depict “Indians” with preternatural abilities of soundless movement by simply turning off the sound on a sneaking-up-on-the-white-man scene. As a result, movies have duped audiences into believing that Native Americans possessed some kind of innate magic. It wasn’t magic. They exercised supreme body control, strength, and balance … all dictated by need. Stalking had to be learned, practiced, and mastered.
It does take work and practice to stalk well, but – barring a severe handicap – most people have the necessary ingredients to become successful stalkers. What is lacking is need. Few Americans need to hunt to live. Strolling the aisles of a grocery store is easier. Even among those who do hunt, only a small percentage choose to stalk. Most sit in a tree stand – usually a small, factory-made seat attached to a tree trunk. I have seen cushioned armchairs perched fifteen feet off the ground on more elaborate platforms.
The first hunter-stalkers of history also faced a mental challenge: to remain calm and controlled under the high-tension and stress of a stalking-to-kill scenario. They probably sensed by instinct the arguable point that “nerves” alone can announce an interloper’s presence in the forest, and so they mastered a relaxed mindset.
More than a hunter’s skill, stalking is a method of getting closer to wildlife simply to observe. The grace of stalking even finds its way into everyday life. It can change the way one walks or runs by using the legs like shock-absorbers. Powers of awareness are heightened. Movement becomes more economical. Strength and balance improve.
One of stalking’s greatest contributions is in adding to the scrapbook of a person’s life. The memories of animal encounters that I have earned by stalking are some of the most powerful images filed away inside my head. These treasures could not have been acquired by any shortcut, save the technology of a high-powered lens, but that piece of optical equipment removes a person from the intimacy of the “duet.” From a distance an observer does not hear, smell, and feel the same stimuli that the animal is experiencing.
Stalking emphasizes an all-important tenet of primitive skills: that merit is the abiding law of Nature. Deer and bear, chipmunk and turkey, fox and crow … all are unforgiving critics to the beginner stalker. To be successful one must perform with an excellence measured by the standards of the animals he stalks.
Perhaps most importantly, stalking elevates one’s status in the forest from visitor to participant. In a sense, the stalker must “go wild.” He abandons as much of his human traits as possible: silhouette, scent, habitual gait rhythm, talkativeness, and heavy-footed passage through the forest. To transcend to this state of wildness is a profound shift. Perhaps only those who experience it can appreciate its depth.
Even on days when I struck out into wilderness for the sole purpose of simply seeing whatever animal I could see – if my only sightings were birds, squirrels, chipmunks, spiders, and insects – still I was keenly aware of my place in the community of the forest.
Naturally, when I set out, I hoped for a more dramatic sighting – a bear, fox or deer – but I felt my intimacy with the forest take a quantum leap. Whenever a student asks me about the best ways to find that personal portal into the bonding of human and Nature, I often recommend: “Go out alone into the wild … and stalk.”
When I was younger and just beginning to embrace stalking as an adventure, hundreds of challenges popped up in my life that had nothing at all to do with animals. I became so interested in the cause-and-effect relationship of movement and sound that my curiosity carried over into every facet of my everyday life. I began to entertain little challenges that had not occurred to me before I was a stalker: setting a drinking glass down on a wooden tabletop without any sound; sitting on the ground Indian style and rising slowly without repositioning my feet and without a rustle of clothing; closing a door silently by pushing and pulling on it at the same time, letting the latch catch without a click, then easing the turned knob back to its resting place; moving so slowly through a room that the movement of my shadow could not be detected in my peripheral vision.
But the richest part of stalking is the collection of moments indelibly imprinted in memory: the gray fox trotting past my leg; the woodchuck herding her babies; the black bear climbing the serviceberry tree to feast on its fruit. Every image is priceless.
From Volume three of "Secrets of the Forest."
www.secretsoftheforestbook.com Stalking, Tracking, and Playing Games in the Wild: Secrets of the Forest
Simply put, stalking is all about being sneaky. It is an art of deception that requires both physical and mental discipline. To successfully stalk an animal of the wild, a human must hide, mask, alter, or eliminate the following telltale clues to his or her presence: 1.) eye-catching movement, 2.) displaying the classic human silhouette, 3.) vocal sounds and sounds from articles worn (rustling, swishing, creaking) or carried (sloshing, clinking, jingling, rattling), 4.) sounds underfoot from body weight, 5.) body scent, and 6.) alarming other animals incidental to the area.
There is a part of us that will always love the concept of hiding. Think how many times in your life you have enjoyed “sneaking up on” someone – a friend, a relative … or even a pet. The thrill of becoming invisible is probably atavistic, trickling down to us through our genes from our paleo-ancestor-hunters. Even outside the hunting arena, there is a singular excitement in being present to observe while, in turn, not being observed.
Centuries ago Cherokee hunters stalked through these Eastern woodlands where I live. They moved slower than you might guess, gliding on legs made strong by the demands of hunting and by the mountain terrain itself. It takes great patience to stalk successfully, but in the old days such a hunter might never have mentioned this quality. Slowing down was simply a necessity that brooked no lapses or short-cuts. It was part of the daily work of surviving. Without a dedication to that work, he went hungry.
In the dense forests of the Eastern U.S., a bow-hunter faced two consistent problems almost everywhere he turned. First, he needed an open “window” through which his arrow could fly undisturbed toward his target. Obstacles to deflect a projectile were everywhere: tree trunks, branches, shrubs, vines, and boughs of leaves. Even a single leaf can spoil the trajectory of an otherwise perfectly launched arrow.
The second problem lay beneath the hunter’s moccasins. Whenever he moved, the stalker had to step upon the forest’s ground cover of dead leaves and twigs … without alerting wildlife. How did the Cherokees solve these problems?
If the cluttered maze of the woods denied a long shot at an animal, then these native bow-hunters were forced to reduce the distance between hunter and prey. (This is one of many stories about the land shaping the lives of the people who inhabit it.) There were four ways to achieve a closer shot: 1.) setting up a blind (or simply hiding) and waiting for an animal to approach, 2.) luring an animal with an intriguing sound, scent, or curious motion, 3.) setting a trap that could maim, kill, or contain the animal, or 4.) approaching the animal with stealth. The ancient hunters used all these techniques, but none so shaped their physical lives as the last option: stalking.
Ironically, by choosing to close the distance of hunter and prey to solve the first problem, the Cherokees exacerbated the second problem. Moving across that noisy forest floor only became more challenging as he got closer to his prey. How did he eliminate the sounds produced by his body-weight on all of the crumbly items underfoot? He didn’t. He simply spread them out by applying his weight to the earth so slowly that the little “ticks” and “pops” and “cracks” of crushed leaves were heard individually rather than en masse. It is true that a twig can break no matter how slowly a foot comes down on it, and such a “snap” is undoubtedly an alarm to an animal. But the supple sole of his moccasin allowed the stalker to detect twigs by touch and thereby avoid them.
What was left – the crackling of leaves – was so spread out that it could easily have been interpreted as the ramblings of a beetle. In fact, many insects are noisier in dry leaves than a skilled stalker.
Stalking was also necessary in warfare, where the stakes were higher. Stealth could save the life of a man or woman moving through enemy territory.
Hollywood has given us the wrong impression about the actual mechanics of stalking. In terms of movie-making, it would be impractical to show an authentic stalker moving even one step. The scene would last three minutes. Instead, filmmakers have chosen to depict “Indians” with preternatural abilities of soundless movement by simply turning off the sound on a sneaking-up-on-the-white-man scene. As a result, movies have duped audiences into believing that Native Americans possessed some kind of innate magic. It wasn’t magic. They exercised supreme body control, strength, and balance … all dictated by need. Stalking had to be learned, practiced, and mastered.
It does take work and practice to stalk well, but – barring a severe handicap – most people have the necessary ingredients to become successful stalkers. What is lacking is need. Few Americans need to hunt to live. Strolling the aisles of a grocery store is easier. Even among those who do hunt, only a small percentage choose to stalk. Most sit in a tree stand – usually a small, factory-made seat attached to a tree trunk. I have seen cushioned armchairs perched fifteen feet off the ground on more elaborate platforms.
The first hunter-stalkers of history also faced a mental challenge: to remain calm and controlled under the high-tension and stress of a stalking-to-kill scenario. They probably sensed by instinct the arguable point that “nerves” alone can announce an interloper’s presence in the forest, and so they mastered a relaxed mindset.
More than a hunter’s skill, stalking is a method of getting closer to wildlife simply to observe. The grace of stalking even finds its way into everyday life. It can change the way one walks or runs by using the legs like shock-absorbers. Powers of awareness are heightened. Movement becomes more economical. Strength and balance improve.
One of stalking’s greatest contributions is in adding to the scrapbook of a person’s life. The memories of animal encounters that I have earned by stalking are some of the most powerful images filed away inside my head. These treasures could not have been acquired by any shortcut, save the technology of a high-powered lens, but that piece of optical equipment removes a person from the intimacy of the “duet.” From a distance an observer does not hear, smell, and feel the same stimuli that the animal is experiencing.
Stalking emphasizes an all-important tenet of primitive skills: that merit is the abiding law of Nature. Deer and bear, chipmunk and turkey, fox and crow … all are unforgiving critics to the beginner stalker. To be successful one must perform with an excellence measured by the standards of the animals he stalks.
Perhaps most importantly, stalking elevates one’s status in the forest from visitor to participant. In a sense, the stalker must “go wild.” He abandons as much of his human traits as possible: silhouette, scent, habitual gait rhythm, talkativeness, and heavy-footed passage through the forest. To transcend to this state of wildness is a profound shift. Perhaps only those who experience it can appreciate its depth.
Even on days when I struck out into wilderness for the sole purpose of simply seeing whatever animal I could see – if my only sightings were birds, squirrels, chipmunks, spiders, and insects – still I was keenly aware of my place in the community of the forest.
Naturally, when I set out, I hoped for a more dramatic sighting – a bear, fox or deer – but I felt my intimacy with the forest take a quantum leap. Whenever a student asks me about the best ways to find that personal portal into the bonding of human and Nature, I often recommend: “Go out alone into the wild … and stalk.”
When I was younger and just beginning to embrace stalking as an adventure, hundreds of challenges popped up in my life that had nothing at all to do with animals. I became so interested in the cause-and-effect relationship of movement and sound that my curiosity carried over into every facet of my everyday life. I began to entertain little challenges that had not occurred to me before I was a stalker: setting a drinking glass down on a wooden tabletop without any sound; sitting on the ground Indian style and rising slowly without repositioning my feet and without a rustle of clothing; closing a door silently by pushing and pulling on it at the same time, letting the latch catch without a click, then easing the turned knob back to its resting place; moving so slowly through a room that the movement of my shadow could not be detected in my peripheral vision.
But the richest part of stalking is the collection of moments indelibly imprinted in memory: the gray fox trotting past my leg; the woodchuck herding her babies; the black bear climbing the serviceberry tree to feast on its fruit. Every image is priceless.
From Volume three of "Secrets of the Forest."
www.secretsoftheforestbook.com Stalking, Tracking, and Playing Games in the Wild: Secrets of the Forest
Mark Warren Blog
Every so often I write a blog about whatever might inspire me. They may pertain to my wilderness teachings, my books, or my personal experiences. I hope you enjoy reading them, and I look forward to y
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