Bear's Grease. . . -- cont.

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Outside Magazine July 2001

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Bear's Grease. . . -- cont.


	Chef David Barry faces off with dinner in the kitchen of the Horseradish Grill

The Jacksons, I'm happy to report, no longer content themselves with roadkill—though Jeff says he might eat a monkey if it was served to him. In fact, they exemplify a new kind of southern land ethic, one that is cosmopolitan yet self-sufficient, discerning yet omnivorous. In their house, everything has a dual purpose: The chimney is a nest for swifts; the cabinets, made of salvaged oak, are a lesson in recycling; the pear trees are food for deer and an orchard of heirloom species. Whenever a hunter leases his land, Jeff takes him around front to see the pyramid of deer skulls nailed to the front of the house. Arranged in order of size, with the largest on top, the skulls are a point of pride—an austere decoration, a warning to trespassers, and above all, a teaching aid. See those? Jeff says to the hunters, pointing to the ones with horns just budding from their foreheads. Those are less than a year old. Don't kill those.

One afternoon, Jeff takes me on a tour of his 350 acres, a patchwork of hardwood forest, hay meadow, and fruit trees outside the town of Arnoldsville. With his graying beard and kindly manner, his beat-up hat and blue eyes that go wide with feigned amazement, he looks like a latter-day Merlin. Living off the land isn't worth the bother anymore, he declares—"In terms of protein per effort, you can't justify it in any way"—but hunting still has its rewards. Jackson believes hunting is the missing link in most Americans' environmental education. Boys once learned how a forest works from spending hours in it, keeping perfectly still. But from 1975 to 1996, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, annual sales in hunting licenses dropped from 16.5 million to 15.2 million, and the percentage of Americans who hunt dropped even further. To Jeff, the main effect has been a rise not so much in ignorance as in sentimentality.

Take our attitudes toward deer, he says. As hunters have dwindled, deer have multiplied: There are nearly as many whitetails now as when the Pilgrims arrived, though only four percent of America's old-growth forests are still standing. As a result, songbirds and small mammals are being browsed out of house and home, rare plants are under attack, and hundreds of thousands of motorists crash into deer every year. And yet when new hunting permits are granted in places like Hilton Head, South Carolina, to try to control deer, wildlife-conservation groups protest and file lawsuits. "Deer aren't stupid," Jeff insists. "They realize that the rules have changed. Subdivisions used to be where they got shot; now it's where they're safe." As for the Jacksons, 95 percent of the red meat they eat is venison. Whenever the freezer is empty, Jeff simply wanders out into his meadow with a shotgun. "If I see a deer, I'll shoot it," he says.

The next morning Jeff has a class to teach in Athens, and I have hundreds of miles to drive by noon. But we head into the woods before dawn anyway, to stalk wild turkeys. Hunters sometimes go an entire season without bagging a bird. Nevertheless, only minutes from the house Jeff signals for me to stop. "Hear that?" he whispers, as a chortling sound echoes through the oaks. "That's the love song of the male turkey." He sits down, pulls a small cedar box from his pocket, and gently draws the lid across the frame, mimicking the female turkey's high, piping response. A few calls and responses later, he lifts his 12-gauge double-barrel and sends a ragged blast ripping through the trees. "This was an efficient hunt," he says, carrying the turkey back to the house by its feet. "It didn't take time away from other income-generating activities." He wraps the bird in a garbage bag, throws it into the trunk of his car, and strips off his camouflage. Beneath his canvas coveralls, a suit and tie emerge perfectly clean and unwrinkled, ready for his morning class.

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