Baer
trapper
Registered: 01/05/08
Posts: 341
Loc: Alberta, Canada
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A Hunters Ballad - Father to Son
Written by: Brent Austring
We long for danger, for excitement, for blood - even if it's our own! Yes, we need the danger, we lust for risk and for life on the edge of death. We pray for danger, because we know we have a God who thrives in taking us through adventures of great risk and faith - and who, should we perish, will catch us on the other side. We are not the breed of feeble soft fatties that sit in recliners and watch the adventures and dangers of others on 300 channels, with quivering, drooling, pink lips crusted with dried coward saliva. We are the ones who venture to make our own and experience the blood, sweat and tears of survival. We have the intellectual honesty and physical gifts to go out and challenge other living creatures on their own terms in their own territory, to a contest of life and limb. To a battle of matter and meat. Either they flee or fight. If they choose the former, we give chase, and the match of wits and instinct and stamina goes on. If they choose the latter - to stay and play - all the better, for the beast of nobility should in truth defend it's flesh with tooth and claw, hoof and horn.
It is a simple equation as old as sin itself. If we win, we eat. If they win, we do not. They live to fight or take flight another day.
And so we must go out to the hunt my man son. We go out with sharp steel, stick and string, with bullet, powder and horn, with trap and snare and deadfall. We go out with muscle and sinew and brain, to seek the flesh and fur of other beasts. We go armed with the wisdom of our hunter forefathers who truly knew the meaning of the survival game. And as our grandsons shall know again one day when the artificial structures society has built around us crumble. When the illusion of safety is shattered and electronic bank accounts and plastic purchasing has evaporated. When the dubious skills of virtual reality become moot.
And so we must keep the beastly skills alive, or we shall perish. Like the lard-laden buffoons who fight vicarious battles of imagined glory from the so-called safety of their sofas. They rot already in body, mind and soul. They die a slow voluntary death, and deep down they know it.
We must fight to avoid the same plague of sloth, stale air and wishful thinking. We must go and hunt. We must seek the danger that enlivens, risk that returns pain, blood and that precious awareness of reality. Not as shallow thrill-seekers who jump off buildings and out of airplanes. But as the warrior-providers of ancient days. As our Norse and Celtic and Gaul ancestors lived and ate and died. As those who provide for and defend our kin, with our own lives if necessary.
We are hunters to the bone, survivors to the soul, and warriors of integrity, and we need to go out. We need not return.
Blessings, Dad
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