“Hi ya, Grandma and Grandpa. Se ya.” The blur going past us to the boatshed down by the lake was our grandson, Jacob. The next noise was the sound of the sliding door of the boatshed and in about 30 seconds Jacob was on the end of the dock. He was wearing his life jacket and supporting his favourite casting rod, his tackle box and dog on either side of him. He was fishing for squawfish otherwise known by its new politically correct name, the northern pikeminnow.
‘Pikeminnow’ is an odd choice for a name for a fish that was historically hugely important in the native food fishery and can grow to more than a dozen pounds in weight. Such is the way of political correctness that we would end up with a name that neither reflects the fish’s size nor its history with First Nations people. But Jacob doesn’t care what they are called; they have been the mainstay of his time spent at grandpa and grandma’s house ever since he was a pollywog (otherwise known as porwigle or tadpole).
On this particular day, Jacob began catching pikeminnows hand over fist right off the bat. They varied in size from small minnows to about a foot in length. Each fish was quickly dispatched with a fish bonker that Jake had proudly carved himself in his pollywog days. They were then each carefully laid out on an old rotting log jutting out into the lake not far from the dock where he was fishing. Soon a huge and odd-looking bird began to do occasional and ponderous flybys just off the end of the dock. On this day, after laying out about 20 pikeminnows, Jake came into the house and later as the sun set, we all watched as Gronk the Great Blue Heron came and helped himself at the pikeminnow market on the old rotting log. The next morning, all the pikeminnows were gone and Gronk was waiting for Jacob at the end of the dock for a repeat pikeminnow performance.
This procedure, or one like it, has been going on now for several years.
On one level, this story surprises me. As an amateur naturalist, I don’t think it is very common for fish predators to feed on fish that they haven’t caught themselves. And yet, for whatever reason, this particular predaceous great blue heron and this particular boy have an odd thing going on. I have no idea how it got started or what has perpetuated it, but it is something that both boy and heron seem to greatly enjoy. As Jake has blossomed into a teenager who absolutely adores the outdoors, I am not sure whether he now fishes for pikeminnows primarily for the fun of it or for the satisfaction he gets from continuing his longstanding relationship with Gronk.
On another level, this story does not surprise me. As unusual as it sounds, I know it is not really that uncommon.
I also know that most wildlife biologists would write off what is going on between Jake and Gronk as merely food habituation, and I suspect would have something pejorative to say about it. No doubt there is an element of food habituation in the story, but there is something more going on. I could tell you other stories—like the loon that is nowhere in sight and within five minutes after we sit on the dock be bobbing away just a few meters off shore, obviously socializing with us; like the beaver that can’t seem to resist a romantic campfire and Linda and I sharing a glass of wine beside it, swimming all the way across the lake to come and share in the ambiance; like the coyote who waits for the cowboy to mount his horse and daily ride out to check fences and cows, drifting alone almost unseen in the shadows for most of the day. There appears to be many odd connections between wild thing and humans that science will neither acknowledge nor explain but most people who have lived in the bush have experienced. Could there be a spiritual explanation, a biblical explanation perhaps?
Lately Linda and I have been enjoying reading Genesis together. Ever since coming to faith, the creation stories have deeply touched me. One of the most touching stories for me is about God deciding that it was not good for the first man to be alone (see Gen. 2:18-25). To negate this loneliness, God creates all the animals and birds and brings them one by one before Adam. What takes place is a special naming process. There are deep elements of intimacy and connectedness that I see here between God, humanity and animals, one that eventually finds its epitome in God creating Eve.
I for one cannot interpret this passage as it often is interpreted. I cannot interpret this story about God recognizing that it is detrimental for Adam to be alone and then creating all of the animals and birds and bringing them before Adam for naming as being some kind of divine failure because Adam does not find a mate amongst them. God does not make mistakes. Rather, I see this story-telling of a divinely inspired continuum in connectedness between animals and humankind that eventually finds its highest expression in the creation of woman and the sexual union between man and woman described as the ‘two becoming one flesh.’
Perhaps this is why it has always been a part of my Christian faith to look for some kind of connectedness with the wild critters I share my life with. I am often pleasantly touched as I observe. And as I observe, even as I hunt and fish, I continually find this connectedness between myself and all wild things. It’s not about me expressing dominion over creation when I keep a fish or take a game animal to feed my family with; it is instead connectedness and relationship, and so I pause and worship and give thanks as part of the process. In this, I find the practices of traditional First Nations people to be quite informative, especially as I look out my window through my Bible and ponder God, humankind and nature.
