It is autumn again. Like most of us, I must once again try to explain to my non-hunting friends why we hunt.

One group of friends with whom I recently had this conversation is the leaders of 30 of the nation's leading environmental groups -- the "green group," as it is called.

During a recent dinner, the discussion turned to the subject of the ancient practice of meditation. One person mentioning how she sat quietly for three hours and felt it was a beneficial experience. Of course, I could not resist: "When we hunt, we often sit quietly for three days!"

A few months later, I was asked to make an informal presentation to this group on something personal and important, as an icebreaker to a planning meeting. Remembering our conversation, this is what I said....

"I know a little about an ancient contemplative tradition, one that has been practiced on this continent and throughout much of the world for thousands of years.

If you would, join me for a minute in imagining the verdant North American continent, before the Europeans arrived. This is the world of the Labrador duck, sea mink, Carolina parakeet, the passenger pigeons that darkened the skies and the bison that covered the plains. Elk live east to Pennsylvania; cougars and wolves live throughout the continent in great climax forests of mature trees.

Joining that world to ours for a moment, imagine with me a deeply spiritual tradition that is central to life in this world. At times, its pursuit is so fundamental and essential to life that of all of your friends and loved ones depend on it for their very existence, for their food.

Imagine rising well before dawn. In the early morning darkness we walk silently to a chosen place that is unimaginably revered and sacred, because it has been so integral to self-awareness and so responsible for the survival of our clan for many years. It is on a game trail, by a buffalo wallow, under a historic turkey roost, near a lake, or in a marsh blind by a staging ground for ducks. To you, the spot is as beautiful as any temple or any human made place, but even more powerful because it gives you and yours life itself.

We cover ourselves completely with clothing painted to look like our surroundings. We may sit for a long time, so we put a piece of our staple, venison jerky [at this point I pass out some deer jerky I made], in our mouth and let it sit there -- its taste as familiar as our own name. In our deep and absolute stillness and silence we become, in effect, invisible to the natural world around us.

Oblivious to us, birds land on our feet and the tip of our weapon, squirrels scurry up and down the tree we sit against. The familiar symphony of avians, amphibians and mammals around us is deeply comforting. Our intimate knowledge of these sounds tells us much about those lives.

At times, we attempt to imitate this music, [at this point I use several game calls: turkey, cow elk, deer grunt, bull elk, duck, goose, crow, and a few of the group that closed their eyes almost jumped out of their skin]. This makes us even more a part of the natural scene around us, and even more profoundly invisible to the creatures around us. Wild creatures come to us, and walk by just a few feet upwind. Often enough, one is taken with great skill, care and joy, to become our sustenance.

Today, the urgency of this practice is, obviously, long gone; but for some there is a connection that remains. Like many spiritual or religious pursuits, much of the practice has become lost, perverted, or even worse commercialized; but the ancient connection, and the beauty of it, is not yet entirely lost to many of us."