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One Man’s Adventure Planning His Own Natural BurialOld Arctic Inuit hunters could supposedly sit for days, harpoon poised and ready to strike, just staring at a hole on an otherwise desolate sheet of windswept ice, waiting for a seal to surface and steal a breath of air. Enduring frosty cold and, presumably, mind-numbing boredom, the hungry hunter, clad in his mukluks and furry caribou coat, would peer endlessly at his ice hole and enter an alert yet hypnotic state of blissful and cleansing awareness.All Zen aside, death was probably never far from this primitive hunter’s mind and, courtesy of my reading material for the past three days, neither was it from mine. After what amounted to 36 hours of waiting for an antelope to come drink at the water hole where I lay hidden in ambush (ostensibly) with a old wooden bow and a couple arrows, it occurred to me that the only thing conceivably more mind-bending than staring at an ice hole in the middle of a frozen plain was spending three days in a dusty, pollen-choked hay bale blind, reading about human decomposition while periodically staring at an empty puddl …

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