And humans evolved this way.  Our brains were built on the African plains because our species was a generalist species.  We evolved out of the biological niches of our ancestors to a migratory species that traveled from savannah to ocean and needed to differentiate between a myriad of plants, bulbs, roots, tubers, insects, shellfish and small game that either nourished or caused sickness.

This is why people collect wine; discussing the variations of grapes.  This is why people hunt, or birdwatch.  This is why they fish.  And why they garden.  Even the finest cosmopolitan passions; the most sophisticated urbane desires, seem to be connected to this idea that our psychology isn’t very removed from our evolutionary history. 

A human, in ninety-nine percent of human history, excelled at breaking apart the natural world into its subcomponents.  A modern-day botanist may be able to knock off the scientific names of a few thousand plants; but in our past, a ten year-old could do the folk biologist equivalent to his entire environment; intuitive about edibility and medicinal uses or thousands of species.

And so, all of Kil’iii’s friends, learning to flintknap, or becoming expert native basket-makers, are their passions really that unusual; or are they just maybe more tapped into the human psychology?  Regardless, I recognize I will never match their primitive skill sets.  Nor do I need to. 

But I do want to replicate ‘the matrix’ achieved by our ancestors as best as I can; to learn about the sophisticated civilizations and cultures that may have made my stone tool, I need to first see Oregon through their eyes.

Maybe because an earwig crawled out of the mushroom heap on the kitchen counter, I eat my sulphur shelf mushrooms alone.  They say that this mushroom tastes like chicken.  I’d say my sulphur shelf mushrooms taste like too much olive oil.  Too light on the salt.  Maybe some more garlic next time.

A week later, a friend of my brother’s calls me.  Trey is half-Indian, and a native of the foothills of Mount St. Helens, where as a youngster, he built up a deep interest in native Northwest skills, language and culture. 

He says on the phone, he was out in his truck in Southern Washington early in the morning, and a buck was crossing the road.  He stopped the truck, pulled his shotgun out, kneeled down, aimed, and fired.

Trey makes good venison sausage.

Trey says I should come up to Cougar, Washington next weekend.  And to bring my stone tool.

I have no stomach for blood, so I am openly nervous.  But when I notice Trey’s fiancé in the truck with him, I am relieved.  If a girl can do this, what am I to complain?

Trey grew up next door to a man who built a hobby butcher-house in his backyard.  Only thing, the butcher-house looks twice the size of his own house.  It’s gigantic, it’s clean, it has the stuffed heads of moose and bears from places like the Yukon and Russia.  The butcher-house has hosted famous hunters.  Rule is, if you use it, put a six pack in the fridge as an offering to the owner.  And clean up after yourself.