Today is awash in brilliant sun, but the air still leads with the knife-edge of the wind. It’s not yet warm enough for our kind to withstand the trickster’s fury for long, or its mischief, either. The ambient air will not be comfortable for a time yet, despite highs reaching into sixties.
The wild creatures fare far better. Every day seems to bring us a new bird, whether in kind or simply in number. The butterflies remain, and the occasional bee, too. Prairie dogs are already out of the burrows and in plentiful supply, providing ample opportunity for the dogs to hone their hunting skills. Oddly enough, Coyote has remained invisible to us since before winter began, and this spring has brought us no evidence yet of Weasel, or of his siblings, Ferret and Ermine. The others have shown us their presence, this last half-year now, mostly indirectly: Skunk, by her scent, sprayed generously all over the dogs some weeks back; Bear, only months ago, and then only by what he leaves behind.
And then there are the elk. The Hoof Clan comes down from the mountain every winter in search of forage, and they may stay on into spring or depart early, depending on whatever complex internal calculus Nature provides them with regard to the food-to-danger ratio. They know that this is a place of sanctuary, and so they come here near every year, mostly at night. But to reach this spot, they must cross lands that may not harbor those who regard the elk as other than food, and, indeed, reaching us yet puts them in danger of poaching from a distance from the colonized areas just north and west, beyond the highway.
They have been availing themselves of our hay in the winter months for ten or twelve years now, and we make sure that there is enough left in the open, suitable for ruminants if not horses, that they will not be in danger of starving. A few weeks ago, we found fresh evidence of their presence in the south field, but there has been no sign of them since; a warmer, wetter winter has no doubt provided plenty of forage even in their mountain habitat. In this place, the elk are like the buffalo: elder brothers, family, spirits who, when one provides for us, are done the honor in return of full use, with nothing going to waste.
In this broader state now known as New Mexico, subject to colonial regulations, these spring months are not elk season for hunting. That begins in the fall, with various types permitted intermittently from September into January. For now people will be living off the last of the winter’s gifts. But fall is not so very far away, and in the meantime, as our peoples know, spring is the time to prepare for the whole of the year ahead. That is more true than ever this year, as the dangers of the outside world threaten to keep humanity mostly locked out of its usual patterns of acquisition and consumption.
Meanwhile, the elk navigate such changes in their own way. As I wrote last year, when we first offered today’s featured work:
Perhaps there have been other risks that have kept them from their usual winter patterns: a warming earth, multiple avalanches, increased human habitation at the lower elevations. They make easy targets in the cold season, and in this colonized space, there are always poachers willing to risk their own liberty for the sake of a trophy rack of antlers. The elk know all this, and they communicate accordingly.
The Indigenous people of this place long ago learned this language, in a manner of speaking — or, to be precisely accurate, not speech at all, but calling and . . . whistling? Yes, whistling. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, Google the phrase “elk whistle,” and you’ll learn that not all of their calls are of the bugling variety.
Old ways are still very much contemporary ways among our peoples, and that is true in this place. Hunting traditions are still practiced as they were a millennium ago; those practices, similarly, inform artistic traditions. The two may not be indistinguishable, but they are certainly intertwined, and today’s featured work is a perfect example of this symbiosis.
Yes, like the tiny birds setting the aspens alight yesterday with a constant chorus of bell-like notes, the Hoof Clan have their own songs, too. Colonial trophy hunting has led humanity to think of the languages of large game only in terms of warnings, of the sounds of aggression or fear. But as our peoples have always known, their modes of communication are far more complex than mere reactive responses to the presence of a reckless apex predator.
And some of our peoples have taken the trouble to learn the languages and the songs — songs that, at this time of year, are singing spring warmth and sunlight.
Today’s featured work, strung on hide in the shade of spring petals, is the way to such songs, to the language of the Hoof Clan and the ability to communicate beyond the rough notes of fear. From its description in the Other Artists: Leatherwork, Antler, and Bone gallery here on the site:
Sharpen your traditional hunting skills or simply learn to communicate with the herd with this hand-made elk whistle. Carved of deer antler entirely by hand by Joseph “Joe T” Trujillo (Taos Pueblo), this vintage-style whistle is fully functional for use in the back country. The deer antler is treated with a clear stain to seal it against the elements; a hole hand-drilled through the top holds a long thong made of bright, highly-visible red leather. The whistle stands 2-1/8″ high at the highest point by 3/4″ across at the widest point; thong is 26″ long, excluding knot (dimensions approximate). Other views shown below.
Sealed deer antler; leather thong
$75 + shipping, handling, and insurance
None of this is to say that our peoples do not hunt; we do, of course, and that was no doubt the driving force behind the creation of the very first elk whistle, millennia ago. But our methods of hunting differ greatly from those of the colonial world: It is, as the passage above notes, a symbiotic relationship rather than a predatory approach that seeks the unsatisfactory glory of a dead “trophy.”
And it’s why Wings and I make sure that the herd, when it makes its way down the mountain to this dangerous level, do not go hungry.
They are an essential part of this land, as much as any other — Mother Earth’s children and our own extended family. For us, speaking their language has to do only with communication, with shelter and protection and sanctuary for their now-small numbers here.
It has to do with ensuring they survive the winter, the better to share their song in the warmer months, singing spring warmth and sunlight.
~ Aji
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