There is a Catholic parish a block-and-a-half from our house, and during the year-plus my wife Lori and I have lived here, we’ve often spoken of checking it out. I have been the main obstacle to this occurring, because a sign I drive by every day promises fellowship. “Fellowship,” to me, means enforced hanging out with people you don’t know. Anyway, the parish recently had their biggest annual fundraiser, a parish picnic, and cars lined our street for four days. I got to thinking what an alien anthropologist observing from outer space might write in a scholarly journal if he mistook simple fundraising for actual spiritual practice:
 
  “The indigenous peoples attempt to curry the favor of their deity by the eating of corn and bratwurst and the drinking of a fermented beverage called beer, and by playing a game of chance called “Bingo” which brings about undue excitement over relatively small prizes. Oh, and by listening to really crummy cover bands.”
 
   When I was a student at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, I took as many Anthropology courses as I could, in addition to my required Natural Resources curriculum. In one class we studied “cargo cults.” My column is not usually a forum for matters of metaphysics, but one cult believed that the large amounts of goods delivered to Pacific islands in World War II by U.S. servicemen would return, post-war, if the islanders conducted certain rituals. These included the construction of mock airstrips, wooden headsets, and even aircraft and radios made of straw.

     Well, right then and there, like St. Paul on the road to Emmaus, I saw the light and converted, in a little classroom on the third floor of The College of Letters and Science. I can’t say that it has been an easy road I have chosen, and I have endured much persecution for my beliefs. And yet I have persevered, confident that if I keep my nose clean, eventually a large truck full of free Cabela’s merchandise will show up at my door.
 
  Another aspect of cargo cults, according to Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia, is that “members, leaders, and prophets of cargo cults maintain that the manufactured goods (“cargo”) of the non-native culture have been created by spiritual means, such as through their deities and ancestors, and are intended for the local indigenous people, but that, unfairly, the foreigners have gained control of these objects…by malice or mistake.”

    I have recently gotten back into goose hunting after a ten-year sabbatical from the sport, and I'm more excited than ever. I love watching the sun rise over Horicon Marsh, I love seeing a bank of honkers turn and circle and finally commit, and yes, I get a kick out of watching a goose fold to a load of BBB’s. But I don’t have much in the way of gear—pretty much my Remington 870, a call, and a dozen “wind-activated” decoys which work great on those days when Canadas are attracted to a spread of spinning pinwheels. So I’d like to add to my collection. But if you’re a waterfowler, you know that the sport can bankrupt you pretty quickly if you don’t exercise some restraint.

     My neighbor gets a lot of UPS deliveries. Yesterday the delivery guy hauled a large rectangular box to his door, and I just knew it contained a dozen super-realistic full-body decoys. I conducted my ritual, imitating what my neighbor does when he’s out in the yard, but no dice. Then the deliveryman carted a long, flat box to my neighbor's door, and I was certain that inside the box was a state-of-the-art layout blind.

     “No! No! No!” I yelled, with my nose pressed against our living-room window. “That’s miiiine!”

    My younger brother Craig finds my religious beliefs bizarre, if not incredibly self-serving. That’s his prerogative. But I, in turn, take inspiration from his Buddhist leanings. The idea is to look clear-eyed and with an open mind at any spiritual practice and ask, “How can this help my hunting?”

    Many Eastern religions have a concept called “nothingness,” which boils down to taking each moment as it is, accepting it as it is, and not expecting it to be anything more. I thought, wow, this can help me sit still and remain on stand during those days later in the deer seasons when the excitement of opening weekend is long gone and the woods are seemingly empty. Following is my field diary for the third day of last year’s muzzleloader season:

8:02: No deer sighted yet. Can’t feel toes.
8:38: I hate this stand. Why did I pick it? Going to explode out of skin if sit any longer.
8:40: No. Must…remain…still. At least long enough to have Jolly Rancher.
9:00: Think will have ‘nother Jolly Rancher.
9:43: Better switch to sugar-free. Dental hygienist will not be impressed.
9:45: Hygienist is cute.
9:46: Hygienist is really cute.
9:47: Think hygienist enamored with hunter. Said “Rinse, then spit” in leading manner at last cleaning.
9:50: Dentist not bad, either.
10:00: Wonder if spouse would object if hygienist and dentist live with us. Certainly cannot be against proper dental care so close at hand.
10:14: Probably not. Wife unreasonable in such matters.
11:02: Warming up. Can feel toes. Don’t like newfangled in-line muzzleloaders. Not in keeping with spirit of season.
1:05: Deer!
1:06: Dang! Misfire!
1:10: Must buy newfangled in-line muzzleloader.
3:15: Think will have another Jolly Rancher.
3:20: Another hour left to hunt, but must get going. UPS truck is in neighborhood around dusk. Just know cargo will arrive, as have been very good boy. Oh, and must brush teeth.