March and some "madness"...

      Despite the fact that the calendar says its Spring, someone forgot to tell Mother Nature…Cold and damp with a constant annoying drizzle, Drew and I watched a hidden clear cut, tucked away in an oak flat, deep in the middle of a 1000 acres of Tennessee forest. Old oaks and towering hemlocks surrounded our hiding spot as we waited for our prey to make its appearance. Maples just on the verge of exploding with their new leaves…

      Two hours into our vigil and it seemed that our chosen quarry had other plans. No sign of game anywhere as the drizzle faded into a mist and the temperature slowly began to rise. We discussed our game plan and decided it was time to make a move and see if we could find our target. The boy and I bickered back and forth about which direction to hike and what logging road to take…I bit my tongue and remembered that I too was once a 15 year old boy and more often than not, didn’t see eye to eye with my dad. Testing his wings and feeling his oats I surmised…

      We sneaked through the soft woods and slipped our way along the muddy logging roads looking for sign. We came to a crossroads, littered with hoof prints and took up the trail. Twenty minutes into our track, we spied a rooted up area under a stand of white oaks. A good sign I thought, but again disagreement between the kid and I. I insisted that the damage to the woods’ floor was caused by our goal, he contended it was nothing more than evidence of squirrels working for acorns or turkeys scratching out their next meal…We grumbled back and forth and then decided to split up and cool off…

      Another hour or so had passed, thoughts had been thought and tempers calmed. The two of us met back up and all was well. Neither had loosed and arrow while we were separated, but both of us found signs of encouragement that lifted our spirits and hopes that we’d soon cross paths with the appropriate critter…

      We later met up with property manager, Johnny, and he had further news that added a hop to our step. He had seen four animals earlier that morning feeding through a stand of oaks, searching out acorns. We hatched a plan and in short order, the three of us were making our way up the steep side of a Tennessee foot hill. We slowly crested the hill and there they were, 70 yards to our front, but oblivious to our presence. By the looks of things, romance was in the air as they chased each other about. Drew took the lead and we crept closer in hopes of getting within range of his stickbow…Slowly we cut the distance. Finally, 30 yards out and we’re busted. The matriarch of the group stood and faced us. A stare down was on…She bristled and took a few angry steps towards us causing uneasy feelings and a quickened pulse! I secretly looked for trees for us to climb in the event of a bull rush! She had had enough and the group crashed their way down the logging road and into the thick tangles of downed tree tops.

      Disheartened, but excited, Johnny told us to crouch down at the edge of the road and felt that they would circle back and hopefully give Drew and chance for a shot. We caught glimpses of black and grey, muscle and gristle working their way back to our spot and the white oak acorns. The old gal was leading the way, following a trail right to our impromptu hiding spot. At first we were invisible, but then she locked her gaze on us…

      Normally, the moment of truth in hunting situations causes all the world to go into slow motion mode. Not this time…As soon as eye contact was made, the nasty looking old broad picked up her pace and trotted directly at us. The closer she got, the louder her teeth popping and tusk clacking became. She grunted and huffed and finally veered off our path at ten yards. She paused for a moment, debating a full on charge, a bluff or a retreat…The pause became her downfall. Just as she was about to make her move, I caught movement to my right as Drew released an arrow from his recurve. The broadhead caught the rank, old sow just behind the shoulder. She let out a loud bark and squeals and in an instant, the entire group had vacated the country. The wild hog stopped about twenty yards out, staggered and fell, over in a matter of seconds.

      I looked over my right shoulder in time to see Johnny congratulate the boy on a fine shot and for keeping his cool under adrenalin filled circumstances. In my excitement and happiness for Drew’s success, I wanted to give the kid a hug, to still see him as a youngster, a little boy. But I knew that this moment deserved more…a handshake between a father and son, between a young man and his dad.

   

Shadows

     Contrary to what my sisters might think, growing up the youngest isn’t always as easy as it appears. Sure, being the baby of the family has some built in perks, doubly so if you’re the “baby” boy. Maybe the special treatment is a result of guilt from our parents for not taking enough photos of us who are the last of their spawn or maybe it’s the fact that they have already been ran through the mill by our older siblings…Yes there are some benefits to having older sisters, especially when it comes to the high school social scene and you’re a puny freshman with a senior as a big sis!

     But, it’s not always easy…Growing up with an older sister who is beautiful, smart, witty and popular isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I lived in the shadow of my closest sister for years, known more as “Lisa’s little brother” than by my first name.

     I have been blessed with two of the greatest kids I could’ve ever hoped for. A wonderful daughter and a fine son, 3 years her junior. Much like my childhood, my son has the benefits that go along with having an older sister that is smart, beautiful, social and popular…and, the challenges that come with having an older sister that is smart, beautiful, etc., etc…

     My two couldn’t be any more different. Liv is outgoing, comfortable in just about any situation, an accomplished public speaker and would rather lead than follow. Always busy, always on the go. Drew on the other hand is quiet and reserved, almost shy. Listens and learns, but not quick to speak. A real home body that would rather be in the company of a couple close friends or family.

     It can be tough living in your sister’s shadow…

     Where Liv hits her stride, either in the classroom or on the athletic field, doesn’t hold much interest for the boy. Yes, he’s a good student and extremely athletic, but he’s found his niche in the woods and the outdoors and there isn’t much fanfare or accolades… and to be honest, he’s perfectly fine that way.

     But this past weekend, he stepped out from his “big” sister’s shadow and received some well deserved recognition. Humble and meek, he was called to a stage in Kansas City, Missouri in front of a couple hundred hunters, all members of the Compton Traditional Bowhunters. His lanky frame and long stride made its way to the podium where he was presented with a beautiful plaque honoring his achievements and prowess as a hunter in the world of traditional archers. The “boy” thrust his hand forward and gave a firm handshake to the presenter, paused for a photograph and then made his way back to his chair as the audience clapped their approval for the 15 year old.

     I’ll probably never get to experience a Senior night or a high school athletic banquet with him, but as we made the long drive back home and I glanced at the 6’2 “kid” poured into the seat next me, I think to myself that he’s starting to cast quite a shadow of his own.

The Compton Traditional Bowhunters is a national organization of nearly 2000 members that promotes the use of traditional archery equipment and preserving the heritage of bowhunting and the sport of archery.

    

Saws, logs and memories...

     Work over the past week had been trying, so when I saw an opportunity to duck out a little early on Friday afternoon, I peeled out of the office and headed for the peace and quiet of my favorite hunting spot…A couple hours of shed hunting was just what the doctor ordered!

     I pulled in next to the grain bin and hopped out and made my way across the edge of the bean field under an on again-off again sunny sky. I trod along to one of my lucky spots and something caught my attention…off in the distance, the distinct high pitch whine of a chainsaw working hard. The saw revved and bogged down, as I struggled in the wind to find its direction. A loud crack followed by an earth shaking boom as a behemoth slammed to the forest floor.

     I sneaked along an old fence row, drawn to the noise of the loggers like a summertime moth to a porch light. More saws chimed in along with the constant “beeping” of heavy equipment moving forward and backing up. I pushed my way through the overgrown pasture, snagging myself on every rose bush and briars. I made it to the edge of the woods and found a high spot to get a better look…

     Across the creek, a handful of men in hardhats were making quick work of the red oaks and hickories in what I’d always known as the “open woods”…A couple of the guys acted as “fellers” and another worker went to work limbing up the fallen giants. A skidder and other heavy equipment gingerly worked their way around the labyrinth of fallen trees and limbs. White oaks for whiskey casks and wine barrels, hard maples for furniture...

     I found myself a seat on the remains of a long dead cedar and watched the show…The boy in me enjoyed the sounds of the 2-cycle saws screaming through the large trees. The awesome power of four and five story  red oaks crashing to the ground creating a mini-earthquake in their wake…The tremendous cracking and popping of the trunks as they splinter before falling off the stump. I had a front row seat from a couple hundred yards away. 

     The harvest of mature hardwoods is necessary and in this case, probably long overdue. To the best of my knowledge, this woods was last logged in 1974 or ‘75. By taking some of the big, old trees, it opens the canopy and gives the saplings their turn in the sun and a chance to grow and mature. It creates new habitat for the wildlife…Nesting areas for the turkeys and songbirds and browse for the whitetails. The scars left behind heal and the woods takes care of itself.

     But, part of me couldn’t help but feel some sadness…I’m not a “tree hugger” or a bleeding heart and I’m all for responsible logging of timber. I know the landowner well and the logging crew and have complete faith in both. Part of the sadness for me comes from seeing these ancient trees meet their demise. I can only imagine how old a red oak, 3 or 4 feet in diameter is. How many storms, how many woodpeckers, how many insects have they survived…? How many seasons have came and went, how many birds reared their young among the branches?  

     But the real lump in my throat comes from change. I’d been connected to this spot for over 20 years. I’ve sat countless hours under the shade of these trees waiting on squirrels to show themselves or listening to a Tom in the pre-dawn darkness  thunder a gobble, as he readies to fly off the roost. I’ve perched myself among the limbs in hopes of catching a buck as he feasted on the white oak acorns that littered the ground each fall. My kids and I have camped under the leaves and the stars in those very woods. I’ve been witness to them becoming hunters and creating their own story, their own memories. We cobbled together a log cabin years ago, never quite finished, but full of life from a dad and his young daughter and toddler son… If I close my eyes and listen hard enough, I can still hear their young voices and laughter as they played in the tree house just over the hill from my vantage point. I sit here and try to remember how many times I’ve walked through the “open woods” and no number I could come up with would even come close.

     I watched a few more minutes and then silently slipped out and left the fellows to their work. I picked my way through some cedars hoping to find a cast antler. As I made my way back to the grain bin, the sky had darkened and sleet began to fall, reminding me that just like Southeastern Indiana weather, everything changes...

Then and now...

     Recently, I was part of a meeting where the topic of the “Good Old Days” came up. The meeting was small and work related. We were all 40 somthings with a couple squeaking in around 50 years old, but generally a mix of Gen X’ers and late Baby Boomers. As we sat around the conference table and discussed the state of today’s school systems and safety concerns and kids, my mind started to drift as it often does when meetings run too long…

     I began to think of my own childhood and growing up in a rural farming community and how that sort of youth helped shape me into the outdoors lover I am today. Now, I’m not old by any stretch, but I’ve been around long enough to say “I remember” or “when I was a kid”...and I bear the scars, wrinkles and a few gray hairs to prove it.

     When I look at the shape of today’s youth, to look at how our kids are growing up, I shake my head and worry for our collective future. We live in a rural community, one that is still deeply entrenched in agriculture and our outdoor heritage. But, despite our farming and hunting traditions, even here in Switzerland County, it’s becoming more and more of a battle to hang on to that rural lifestyle.

     As a teenager, it was rare to ever find my truck without a shotgun or a .22 rifle hanging from the rack mounted in the rear glass. No boy worth his salt would be caught without a good pocket knife and camouflage and flannel weren’t fashion statements, they were tools of the trade. We all knew how to shoot, hunt and bait a hook.

     We spent our summers swimming a deep hole on Upper Grant’s Creek, four wheeling Lost Forties and Swiss Lakes or next to a bonfire while catfishing all night along the Ohio. We chased squirrels in late summer and built treestands out of scrap wood and pallets for the upcoming deer season. We drove country roads at night, shining for deer (no guns involved) and would wind up in some far off, exotic place like Moorefield or Dewberry or Canaan! We camped in and out of tents and stayed up ‘til the wee hours gigging frogs, chasing ‘coons or fishing some moss covered pond.

     Nearly every able bodied high school boy knew how to cut and house tobacco and my arms were worn raw from throwing hay and straw during the summer months. As products of our generation, we earned extra gas money by mowing lawns and shoveling snow, both seemingly lost arts amongst our youngsters today. Of course, cutting and selling firewood was always a sure way to get some quick cash…

  

     Maybe, just maybe if our kids put down the video games, slowed down a bit, stopped texting, tweeting and “facebooking”, they could get a taste of what it was like to grow up rural and in the outdoors. Encourage our kids to get outside. Get out of the basement and off the couch. Leave the TV alone and do something. Go for a hike, go camping, take them fishing, wade a creek, skip some rocks, share a campfire, whittle a stick and talk…Let’s let kids be kids and maybe it’s time for us as parents to be parents and not our kids’ best friends…Something to think about and I wasn’t even in a tree stand.

Heavy thoughts, heavier heart

     The SUV comes to rest in the same muddy ruts from last week’s excursion into Kentucky. I hop out of the driver’s seat, throw on my pack, grab my recurve and start my hike under cloudy skies…More mud and slop from recent rains and 60 degree temps. Sure doesn’t feel like deer season or Christmas for that matter.

     I shimmy up the Ash tree, buckle in and wait…But this evening’s sit is restless. Normally, the woods works her magic on me and takes me to another place, but not this time. This is too deep. Too heavy…Like everyone else, my mind is on Newtown and any minor problem that I usually bring out here in the trees seems trivial at best.

     How? Why? What would cause someone to commit such a horrible act? I want answers! I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m frustrated. I want a piece of the coward’s flesh! My mind has a million questions and I catch myself wandering how I would react to such a tragedy. How would I react as a father? How would I react as a police officer? Could I keep it together or would I fold like a house of cards? I try to concentrate on the woods and the hunt and for a time, I get lost among the trees and the wind, but the news reports and media attention that has bombarded us for the last 48 hours creeps back in…

     My thoughts race as I search for reason and answers in my head, but none are found. The snap of a twig brings me back to the present as a doe and a yearling cross the logging road to my right. My shoulder tenses, but I don’t even lift my bow as the gals pass over the ridge.

    Before long, I’m back to trying to make sense of the incident and I go over scenario after scenario in my head. I question myself and my agency’s own policies. I close my eyes and subconsciously go over the layout of our local schools. Each entrance, each classroom. Lockdown procedures and emergency plans. I bounce back and forth from father mode to police mode as I continue to look for answers…

     Darkness is falling and it’s time to climb down and make my long walk out. Along the way, it strikes me that we can’t make sense of the senseless. I’m sure in weeks to come; there will be plenty of blame spread around by all the arm chair quarterbacks and political pundits. It will be “The police could have done more or the school should have had a better safety plan” or “It’s the gun’s fault and a 2^nd Amendment issue” or “it’s a failure of the mental health system in our country.”

     It’s a long, somber, dark drive back to Switzerland County…

     Try as I might, I had a difficult time tying this week’s article in, but then I thought of an old quote that goes something like this; “Take a boy hunting, and you’ll never have to hunt for a boy”. Parents, spend time with your kids. Love them, hug them. Listen and talk…cherish them and savor every moment.

     

Now or never...

     Despite all the obstacles that get in our way, the two of us still managed to make time to be in the woods. We walked back through the edge of the field along the Grant's Creek bottoms, steep hillsides jutting up out of the valley. The evening air was cold and crisp, typical late November weather in our part of the country. We sneaked along the trail, trying to avoid crunching the fallen sycamore leaves covering the ground and giving us away to our quarry.

      Climb up and settle in for the evening watch. Close quarters as our shoulders bump one another while we hope and wait for a buck to make his appearance. This hunt will be the last of the year for she and I together as the life of an active high school girl and her Dad's hectic schedule rarely mesh...The breeze is cool as she pulls the knit cap down over her ears and tucks her hands up the sleeves of her camouflage coat...I close my eyes and I'm instantly reminded of a time when she was bundled up head to toe in the winter, toboggan headed, mittens on her delicate hands and a scarf covering her face as she played out in the cold as a little kid and I silently smile to myself...

      We passed the time watching the birds and listening to the rustling of the leaves in the wind, occasionally our ears playing tricks on us as we'd strain to hear something making its way towards our hiding spot. We talked a little about sports and her future, colleges and dorm rooms, friendships growing and friendships fading as she navigates her way through life. I shared a few words of advice and offered up experiences from my youth, but mainly, I just sat and listened as she whispered...

     Light was fading fast and darkness will be crashing in soon. Now is the time, that witching hour that all hunters are familiar with. Something snaps us to attention as limbs rattle and twigs break... I jerk my head to the right, hoping to see a buck heading our way, but to my surprise, it's a Cooper's Hawk that has swooped in and captured a squirrel in his talons. He sits on a low limb picking at his meal and as he attempts to fly off, he drops the squirrel's lifeless body and flies up the creek, out of sight. We look at each other in disbelief and then get back to the task at hand...

      Just as I'm about to to throw in the towel for her season, there's hope as a doe pokes her head out of the brush and then trots into the field, looking over her shoulder. I tell her to get ready and there he is...A young buck in pursuit of a potential lady friend. The doe passes our stand, but the buck decides to take a moment and gorge himself on some clover before courting the doe... Darkness is now our enemy as the light gets lower. I whisper to her that it's now or never as she kneels down in the stand to get a good rest for her rifle. Solid and steady, she pulls the hammer back with a click and lines up the sights. I unconsciously hold my breath and wait. Her thin finger squeezes the trigger and the .44 reports and echoes it's shot down the holler towards the Ohio. The buck falls in his tracks, the shot perfectly placed.

      We make our way to her deer, smiling and replaying the moment over and over and as she grabs hold of the young bucks antlers and I snap a few photos, I can't help but feel blessed to have had this time to share with my daughter and for the bond that we have. The size of the buck's antlers were of no consequence to me, as the memory is the trophy of a lifetime in my eyes...

Persistence pays...

     I was looking forward to the weekend more than usual. I had been burning through my banked vacation time for hunting season, but it seemed there was always something that needed attending too. A return phone call, a meeting that can’t wait, some last minute email or my signature on something…so much for days off. Throw into the mix all the drama associated with the election, the gloating from the winning side, the near depression state from the losing team…it all adds up to me needing to be in the woods more than ever. To be clean from work, from politics, from media, from the everyday…to wash my mind. The only kind of cleanliness I can find among the trees.

     Friday afternoon and it’s 65 degrees, Indian summer in mid-November. It was a beautiful evening for a sit in my tree…I had moved the stand into a new spot just a few hours earlier and was full of the anticipation that all hunters feel their first time in. Perched 22 feet up the white oak, I had a commanding view of the winding holler below me. A dry creek bed snaked its way from a thicket of walnut, cherry and cedars and gradually gave way to the open stand of hardwoods. Deer trails paralleled the creek and my hiding spot was within 20 yards of two well used paths worn into the hillside. A shiny new rub on a thick cedar glowed in the late afternoon sunlight and the warm breeze felt good as I breathed deep…

     A quick check of my watch, 4:30, as I thought to myself “It ought to happen soon”… Minutes later and movement down the creek bed catches my eye and the unmistakable glint of sun bouncing off antler starts my heart pumping. The buck is a good one and he’s meandering my way. Not in a hurry, but on a definite route that will bring him within range. In just a couple minutes, the old boy cut the distance in half and he’s tempting fate. Less than 30 yards as I silently encourage him to come on in… But this is his woods and he knows something isn’t right. I watch as his ears rotate like radar and his nostrils flare as he takes in all the scent that the breeze can send his way. My pulse races and I can hear my heart beat in my head as I try to control my breathing. The stand off continues for several more seconds, but he’s smelled enough and he turns and walks up the hill, out of the range of my arrow… Disappointed and excited at the same time, I sit back in my seat and catch my breath. Almost…almost. Persistence is the key I remind myself.

     My internal alarm goes off at 5am and I'm back at it Saturday morning and settled in my spot by 6:30. Warm and breezy again as I wait for the sun to make its appearance over the ridge. Barred owls talk up and down my little valley and something has the roosted turkeys on edge across the holler. Over my right shoulder, the darkness is losing it’s battle with daylight and the early morning sun  lights up the woods.

       

   The turkeys are now clucking and carrying on as they contemplate flying down for their morning routine. I scan the hillside around me and shake off the sleepiness that followed me out here. As I yawn and stretch my shoulders, my gaze shifts to my left and there…there he is. Impossibly quiet on this carpet of fallen, dry leaves. A fine buck, 25 yards below on one of the trails that I had hoped. He’s on a mission and walking with purpose, covering ground with each step. I look ahead and find my shooting window and as the buck steps through, time stops… “pick a spot” echoes in my head as I focus behind his front leg. The leg moves forward exposing his vitals and the string of my bow instinctively comes back to its anchor. I feel the string slip from my leather covered fingers as the arrow speeds to its mark.

     That familiar hollow “thump” tells me the buck is hit hard as he kicks and runs a short distance, his tail clamped down tight. He stops and looks around for what bit him and in a matter of seconds, he wobbles and is down, finished… I feel for the tree behind me as my knees too are wobbling and find my seat. My breath is ragged as I take in what just happened and absorb the moment.

     As I make my short walk to the buck, the story of the shot is left behind on the ground and I’m thankful that my arrow flew true. I owed that to the animal. I kneel by the buck and run my hand along his chocolate colored antlers and across his course winter hide. I look above and offer my thanks and feel honored, humbled and clean…