2004 Hunter-Gatherer Intensive

Oct 17, 2004

Everybody!

I just got done teaching the first intensive course for Dancing Hawk (my native skills school), and there is so much to say. Lots of learning, lots of joy, lots of food.

As usual, photographs tell stories like nothing else. Here they are:
www.dancinghawk.com/gallery/hgifall04

I had three students, plus a certain Spanish visitor, and an occasional Hungarian dropping in on the course. We spent a week and a half preparing, and did a semi-primitive trip into Washington.

I cannot express how amazing it is what happened. We harvested more food than we could eat, by a good deal. We sang songs by the fire, bonded over cold nights on steamy coal beds, and were thoroughly humbled by the elements.

We harvested cattails and acorns in Oregon, getting muddy and wet. We ran through cascades of water above a water pipe only to discover a natural formation of basalt, and knapped stone tools that we used the rest of the time.

Somehow we managed to take a trip to the coast, and there we discovered all those great resources the Northwest Coast people had-- kelp and crabs and mussels and jellyfish and clay and cedar trees. We had a huge roast of steamed mussels, made cedar spears for salmon.

Running out of time, I had the students pull a primitive all-nighter and we all enthusiastically made salmon spears and harpoons and hooks, tied with cedar bark and dogbane.

It was a bit of chaos. I am learning how difficult it is to be a good leader, to make difficult decisions on the spot and stand by them. But I feel risen to the occasion, with of course many lessons on how to teach and how to be and how to plan and how to learn.

The earth taught us so many lessons. We were very water oriented this time around. There was the river with the salmon, cold and fierce with rapids. There was the might of the buffeting Pacific waves, raising the tide as we scampered about. There was the moist air, seeping into our fire kits and humbling us with our abilities to make fire. There was the creek near our camp, so cold but clean, which was far enough away that we knew what life would be like, difficult away from our water, our life.

It rained on us as we picked acorns. It dewed in the mornings and kept us chilled and in our beds. Yet our bodies slowly, slowly recaptured their ancient understandings and began to move in pace with the natural world again.

The greatest joy of all was the Chinook salmon. Hunting with our spears and lines, wading in the frigid rapids, ever grateful but impatient with those beautiful fish. They averaged about thirty pounds, sleek and rosy purple, rocketing out of the water like unearthly possessed angels.

I found my own salmon fishing to be frustrating at first, having hit one very hard and sinking my leister spear deep into it, only to have the salmon twist off the head and swim away. Much later that day I had a second chance at a salmon that barely had any fight in it, fortunately. I speared that one through and the spearhead again slipped, so I threw my spear and dove down into the shallows and scooped it up with my hands, ready to do battle with this amazing fish, only to find it so tired that it gave up with a sigh and a nod, a gift of spirit. It turns out my king salmon (35 lbs) had two spear holes in it, from being hit earlier either by me or one of my students. It was such a beautiful fish, mouth full of fierce teeth, swimming with a ferocity that only those who live on the very edge of life and death can know.

We fished eighty-five pounds of salmon that day, and I found that the site I had chosen was too close to human habitation on all sides. It was a ridiculous mistake, and I had to break down and move our trip into the mountains, upset at myself for lack of planning and upset at the modern world for leaving only the undesirable cold and foodless places for the aboriginal-minded. But it was an important set of lessons that I take to heart dearly this time.

We had no fire that first night. The dark came upon us too quickly, and we slept very, very close, huddling and learning that our boundaries quickly changed in the face of the unforgiving elements. The next night we made it a priority to make fire, and it happened because we needed it and gave fire all the respect it needed. We earned that fire, and it was a good feeling to sleep that night on the ground dried and warmed by it.

Our acorns processed well, though they never lost all their bitterness. Somehow, I think we just weren't out there long enough to lose our modern taste buds and enjoy the magic of the bitter, but the acorns filled us and gave us fat and protein.
Salmon fillets roasted on the coals, and everyone was so thankful that all I heard all night was, "This is the best salmon I have ever eaten!" And so it goes, that connection between man and fish goes deep when we know where it comes from, and how hard we had to work before that life would give itself to us.

I can't speak for everyone else, and it's a strange thing to be writing as the leader of a group instead of just any other smiling participant (which I certainly still feel like). I think my optimism out there is easily one of the greatest qualities, but also a weakness. If I can ground it a little more, with time and experience and preparation, I think I'll be on the way. Hell, I feel like I'm on my way!

The world keeps turning, and the leaves keep falling, and the land gets colder. I'm sitting in a warm cafe thinking about the start of the great Oregon rain, which was today, and trying hard to keep that magic stillness called peace in my body.

Oh the rain!
kerrke