I don’t believe that every animal/human
interaction is spiritually loaded. I am one who typically views
wildlife with a consumer’s eye or, to put it bluntly, with the
question “Can I eat it?” in my mind. But sometimes we have
experiences which animals are a part of, where we know there is
something going on that is more than what meets the eye. I have now
had many experiences in which the boundaries between animal and
human blur for a time, and where there is a merging of energy. It is
something that cannot be described through words alone. In fact, I
am generally opposed to talking too much about any sacred
experience, because in doing so we take the risk of leaking the
light that the experience brought to us. In this case, however, I
talk about the caribou because he is now a community Caribou, so I
suppose there is a story in here for All.
The Hunt
I walk with my dad across the hummocks, splashing water that has
gathered in the miniature moss valleys. I can’t say that I am really
enjoying myself. I am uncomfortable in my boots and the terrain is
awkward to walk across. I am neither happy, nor unhappy. I am just
there, walking across the tundra with my dad, going towards a
caribou we had spotted. Walking towards a caribou that I was about
to kill.
That is the first time I went out with the conscious intention to
take an animal. I had been with my dad before on hunting and
trapping excursions. The idea of taking an animal for food or fur
was within my realm of normalcy. It was a fact of life as far as I
was concerned. I was 18, I had been on my own for two years, and
getting meat seemed like the right thing to do.
Looking back on it now, I see something different than a homestead
girl out hunting with her dad. I see a girl who knows so little that
it feels like a lot. A girl who feels in control of life, but is
soon to find out she’s not. I see a young woman who in six months
will become a mother. I see a young lady who is about to be
initiated to the path of the Divine Mother. It all began with the
caribou...
“You can take him,” my dad was telling me. “He’s small,” I said,
thinking, he’s just a kid caribou. It’s not that I wanted an
animal with a trophy rack or anything like that, I just felt funny
about killing a youngster. We watched him walk in one direction,
then turn and walk in another. He was separated from the herd,
vulnerable and alone. “Either you can eat him or a wolf will eat
him.” said my dad. When the time was right, I raised my 270 and took
my first four legged animal.
The actual killing is only a minor detail of any type of harvest. It
is what is before, and after, that is important. I know this because
I have had the chance to take game under the guidance of people who
have an inner, but often unspoken, reverence for the animals they
take. When I raised my rifle to take that caribou, I was relying on
my dad’s respect to make it all right (spiritually speaking); I was
just focused on having a good aim.
Apparently my aim wasn’t good enough. The bullet nicked the caribou
on the antler and he tossed his head and took off running. I looked
to my dad for direction. “The gun can do it,” he said. I waited no
further and got the caribou back in my sights, following along and
then instinctually shooting right in front of him with the knowing
that he would run into the bullet. And he did. And it was done. And
that’s when everything began to change.
The Invitation
Following the death of the caribou, came the death of my self. Deer
are very gracious creatures. They live with grace, and they die with
grace. Me...I went out fighting, and then whimpering. I didn’t
surrender to death. I tried to outrun it and ended up scattering
pieces of my soul all around the land. I didn’t let the hunter with
the good heart take me to my transformation; instead, I waited till
the wolves closed in on me and tore me to shreds. This was a long
time ago, but I carry scars still. I don’t mind now, I just see that
maybe there was a better way. I hope if the good hunter calls on me
again that I go willingly.
I was a shattered soul trying to fill a big role when I first
encountered the circle where we go to remember our ancestors, to
remember who we are. It was the caribou who led me to the circle; I
see this now, in ways both big and small. I came limping to the
fire, with barely enough life force inside to handle the drive and
flight from rural Alaska to inner city Oakland, where the Indigenous
Mind intensive was taking place. The Spirits are smart. They saw
that I wasn’t listening so they got my attention with a young deer,
and then a dear Elder. And then I found the path that leads to home.
The Hide
My father is a master furrier. He tans furs and hides, which my mom
then makes into fur hats and other handicrafts. It is a team effort
and their livelihood—literally, their bread and butter. I grew up
donned in fine furs. Had I know how decadent that was, I would have
walked a little taller and probably taken better care of my early
fur hats. But to me it was just something one wore because it was
warmer than anything else. If you weren’t wearing fur outside in the
winter time, you weren’t warm or comfortable.
There were always furs around our house when I was growing up. Some
of my earliest memories of my father are of him sitting in a rocking
chair working on a hide as it dried, twisting and manipulating it as
a final step in the tanning process. Sometimes he would make a game
of it and throw a piece of fur to me. I would work it a little and
toss it back to him, and he would work it and throw it back to me,
and so the game went. Now that I’m a parent I recognize it as a way
to get the work done and play with your kids at the same time!
Even though tanned animal hides were abundant in my home, I knew
they weren’t mine. I knew how much work went into the process, and I
knew who did the work. I also recognized that my parents didn’t have
very much money. Us kids never were poor. We were always clean, well
fed, and well dressed (thanks to my mom’s love of thrift stores!),
but we all had a keen awareness of the lack of monetary resources
within the family home. I can say for sure that us girls grew up
knowing how to make our own living, and we never considered it a
right, or maybe even an option, to lay claim to another’s nest egg.
So when my dad tanned that caribou hide, it never crossed my mind
that it was anyone’s but his.
The Offering
On my second visit to Oakland, I knew that I had to give if I wanted
to get. And did I ever want to get! I wanted to become a student,
not for the sake of getting any credentials, but for the sake of
finding my way back to life. I knew enough from my upbringing to
understand there is protocol in asking someone to teach you. I
prayed at inner levels to be led to take the right actions, so I
could become a student of someone who I felt could teach me. I may
have been a broken mess, but I still had an inner knowing of the
importance of what I was asking. I was asking someone to lead me
back to myself — or at least point me in the right direction.
It came to me that I had to make a traditional offering as an outer
symbol of the trade I wanted to make. I didn’t know what was
considered traditional from my culture, but the thought of the
caribou hide kept coming to mind. It wouldn’t leave me, just kept
pestering my thoughts until I finally looked at it in a serious
manner. I didn’t know how to explain to my dad that I wanted to take
this hide that he labored over, and just give it away to someone
that I wanted to learn from, all because I couldn’t get the image of
it out of my head.
I needn’t have worried because when I finally stammered to my dad
what it was I wanted to do, he just said “Okay.” Okay? That’s it?
“Well, okay then...” That was the extent of our conversation. Very
odd!
And so I gave the caribou hide to the Elder who was holding the
circle of remembrance, as a humble offering from me, my family, and
my ancestors. The meat of the caribou nourished me, the baby that
was growing inside of me, and continues to nourish dreams and
visions to this day. And I feel its work is not done yet.
Chantelle Pence
lives in Chistochina, Alaska, with her husband and three sons. She
is a writer, practitioner of the healing arts and owner of Copper
River Consulting.
Author’s Note: This story was written as an open letter to the
World Indigenous Science Network as an offering and a thanks to the
founder and director Apela Colorado (Oneida/Franc). For more
information go to
www.wisn.org.
