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…

We call it "hunting"???

     When I’m sitting high up in my tree stand, sometimes my mind wanders…I think about serious issues and other times, nonsense. This will come as no shock to my friends, but lately, my thoughts have been about hunting and the direction we as hunters are going in today’s world.

     It’s often been said that hunting is just a generation away from being “extinct” and I’d have to say that I agree with that. Most people no longer hunt for sustenance and the rural lifestyle that surrounds hunting and the outdoors seems to losing ground in our fast-paced, hectic society. For hunting to survive in this day and age, it’s critical to recruit new hunters into the fold. Things such as hunter’s education classes, youth hunting weekends and ladies in the outdoors seminars have done a great job to get new blood into the mix.

     But, in our zeal to get younger hunters involved, to get the kids into the woods, we’ve diluted the “hunting” experience. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you might ask…Here’s how I see it. We have eliminated failure for our kids in almost every aspect of their young lives. Hunting Dad’s today are akin to the soccer moms of 10 years ago. We have become helicopter parents, hovering around our kids until they are young adults, trying to ensure their success and fighting all their battles. We have raised an entire generation that doesn’t know what it means to fail, to lose, to be defeated or challenged and I’ve been guilty of it too…

     We no longer keep score at kids’ youth basketball games, every child in soccer gets a trophy and the same can be said for hunting. We as hunting parents or mentor’s have removed the chase, the challenge and the “hunt” from hunting…We have cleared overgrown pastures and replaced them with food plots, especially planted and designed to attract deer into range of our budding “hunters”. We have built elevated, enclosed, comfortable “shooting shacks” or blinds, some even with padded, easy chairs and all the creature comforts of home! We’ve created a generation of hunters that think that there ought to be a trophy buck behind every tree and along with it, an undeserved sense of entitlement.

     We have turned hunting for our kids into something that resembles shooting fish in a barrel…No real chance of failure, no real challenge. Rock solid shooting rests, no shivers from the cold as Dad lines up the sights on the buck for Junior to pull the trigger and ‘”boom”, it’s over… The buck falls dead in the food plot and we drive our ATV or side-by-side to the fallen animal and load him up…

   

       We are turning our hunting kids into “shooters”, but there sure isn’t much “hunting” going on. We’re foregoing teaching time honored skills and woodsmanship in exchange for quick fixes and the path of least resistance. We have made “hunting” too easy for our young hunters today…We’re not instilling a passion and a love for the outdoors and the animals we pursue. We’re not building on tradition and heritage. There’s no longer a connection to the land… What’s wrong with teaching a kid how to slip around a hickory grove with a .410, honing his or her skills chasing squirrels? Hunting behind a brace of beagles or kicking fence rows and brush piles for rabbits used to be rungs on the hunting ladder. Dues to be paid…Today, it’s all about getting a trophy buck in front of our 8 and 9 year old hunters…We don’t start kids off fishing the open ocean for blue marlin, so why is it now that we expect our youngsters to be ready to take a deer before they are mentally and emotionally able to understand all that goes along with taking the life of an animal? It’s all part of the instant gratification, “mine, mine, mine”, “gimme, gimme” attitude that is so prevalent today…

      There is something to be said for losing, for defeat at the hand of Mother Nature. Challenges are good in that they help us know our place in the world and where we fit in. We need to have our mettle tested from time to time… It builds character. It’s good for our “new” hunters to know how it feels to have cold toes. To miss a deer or two…To blow a stalk, to feel the adrenalin rush of having a deer 10 yards or less. To know what it means to take an animal. To grab that downed buck by the antlers and use the quads God gave you to drag it out rather than your  4-wheeler and to feel his weight against your own.  To learn the way of the woods and to build memories, to have shared experiences. That’s what we should be teaching our young hunters today if we want this sport and lifestyle to continue. If we want the next generation of outdoorsmen and women to pass on our legacy, they need to have their hunting roots planted deep in fertile soil, not in the shallow dirt that passes as hunting today…Now excuse me as I hop off my soap box!

The Gift

     I hate to shop…I don’t care if it’s for groceries or a trip to the mall. I despise fighting the crowds, trying to find the right parking spot and then waiting behind someone at the checkout with a cart full of items in the 20 item or less line…and don’t even get me started on coupons! And, there’s the grand daddy of them all, Christmas shopping! That is the worst!

     I’m lucky I suppose…my kids are fairly easy to shop for, especially my son, so gift buying isn’t too bad. A trip to Bass Pro Shops or Dick’s Sporting Goods or the click of the mouse, enter my credit card on-line and “poof”, my Christmas shopping can be done. But sometimes, it seems a little hollow. Sure he likes an Xbox game or some new sort of hunting or fishing paraphernalia, but sometimes those sort of gifts lack the heartfelt spirit behind giving a gift…

     Last fall, I wanted to get him something different. Something from “me” and that’s when the idea hit ... “I’ll make him some hunting arrows”…I hadn’t made my own arrows for several years, so it would take me a little time to get back into the practice. I rummaged around in the hall closet and found a dozen cedar arrow shafts that had been collecting dust for years. I cut them down to length and tapered both ends to accept a nock and field tip. The shafts were sanded smooth with some fine grit paper and a once over with steel wool and I sealed them with stain left over from some long forgotten wood working project. I wanted these arrows to be special and to look “cool”, so I searched the internet and ordered the rest of my supplies that would give them just the right look. Neon green cresting wraps and bright green, barred feathers gave them a racy look and the vivid, white cock feather would make them easy to see in flight. One arrow at a time, it took me several evenings to get them finished at the dining room table, but once they were finally done, I was pleased with the outcome. I could only hope he would be as well, come Christmas morning.

     The gifts were unwrapped and the long, narrow arrow box was the last to be ripped into. His reaction was about what I had expected it to be…Video games are stiff competition for a dozen wooden arrows, but as the 3D archery season rolled around in January and on through the spring, the “green arrows” were put through their paces as he launched them over and over at the targets and I’d secretly stand behind him and smile…

     Archery season was finally here at last and both of us had been putting in hours in various hiding spots, hoping for a nice buck to come within range of our traditional bows. In my mind, my son still needs me by his side when he’s out in the woods, but the fact is, he is a very accomplished hunter and outdoorsman, even at his young age and he’s more than capable of bow hunting on his own.

   

 

      My cell phone rings and I see that it’s my son’s number calling me. At this hour in the evening, I know it can only mean one thing as I quickly answer…”Hello” barely leaves my lips as my son’s excited voice exclaims that he has just shot a nice buck with his recurve! We talk for a few moments and I ask too many questions as he explains the shot and all the pertinent details…An hour later, I meet up with him and some good friends to help take up the track. The boy leads the way and in short order, he finds traces of crimson on the ground and we follow the trail and it ends with him wrapping his hands around a fine buck’s antlers…Smiles all around and a hearty handshake to the 14 year old kid, throwing a large shadow in front of the flashlights. Then it dawns on me that the arrow used to take this beautiful animal is one that I had made for him and I realize that it’s me that has received the gift…

One last time...

     It seems the older we get, the faster time seems to pass by…especially when it comes to time spent with our children…

     It was the last evening of Indiana’s youth deer hunting weekend as we made our way around the edge of the field. The dried leaves of the soybeans bounced in the breeze of a perfect early autumn afternoon with blue bird skies and a hint of high pressure in the wind. I led the way packing our gear for the evening’s watch. Every now and then, I’d glance over my shoulder to make sure she was still there, her footsteps so light, they barely made a noise.

     I took in the sights as we hiked to our spot. The golden rod alive with the buzzing of hundreds of bees…The poplars and water maples that lined the edge of the field were doing their best to put on their fall colors of yellow and red. As we stepped into the woods, I paused for a moment and breathed in…Breathed in the smell of the damp dirt and the fallen leaves. The smell of the autumn woods and deer season. But the pause was more than to soak in the woods, it was an unconscious attempt to stop time…To stop this very moment and freeze it in my mind. The sun pouring through the tree tops. The leaves rattling in the breeze. The feel of the wind on my face. The sight of my 17 year old daughter walking in my shadow…

     We quickly made our way to our hiding spot for the evening’s hunt. An old, cobbled together log cabin. It was thrown together years ago by me with the help of my two kids, both barley young enough to lift a hammer, let alone swing one. As we took up our positions inside the now falling down shack, my thoughts floated back in time and I can still see my 7 year old daughter trying her best to drive a nail, bending more than I can count…and a smile crept across my face as I became entranced by the smell of the old sassafras logs used for the walls.

     Over the next couple of hours, our conversation was sparse. We both had high hopes for a buck to come close enough for a shot and I tried to pray and will a deer to cross in front of her sights…We talked about the squirrels and laughed under our breath at their noisy fights. We talked about blue jays and pileated woodpeckers as they squawked and carried on. We watched a hen turkey and her chicken sized poults make their way past. We talked about volley ball and school and a little about cars, but most of all, we just sat and watched as the woods came alive…

     I caught myself wondering how my 7 year old girl had turned into a beautiful young lady, seemingly overnight… “Where had the time gone”, I thought to myself. We watched as the shadows grew longer and the gray of dusk made its way to our spot. It was time to go and I knew it. But, I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready for tonight to be over. Time has an unfairness about it…

 

       We retraced our steps and I knew that this was her last hunt as a “youth” and it brought a lump to my throat.  A doe made her way across the field, but neither of us even gave a thought to her shooting it…This hunt had nothing to do with antlers or venison. No this hunt was about time…Time spent between a father and his  daughter and trying to hold onto as much of it as possible.

     As if on cue, a flock of wood ducks whistled over the bean field, heading south and they reminded me that there is a season for everything and that change is inevitable and time stops for no one…

Don't Be Stupid! Public service announcement...

     I’ve done a lot of risky things in my 43 years…Some irresponsible, most unnecessary and others just plain stupid! I could’ve been the poster child for “Hey ya’ll watch this!”

     Most of my reckless acts came in my teens and as a young man feeling his way through adulthood, but even at a young age, I pushed my limits. A misspent youth I suppose… Jumping from the porch roof under an open umbrella, racing down a sledding hill in a Radio Flyer wagon or chasing a softball into the middle of a busy intersection that nearly cost me my life as a 5^th grader…Ramping an old Chevy pickup on SR 262 or defying gravity and putting a ’72 Coupe DeVille’s brakes to the test as I sped along narrow county roads. Racing motorcycles at Hilltop or knocking around in the woods and up steep banks of a gravel pit in an unreliable 4x4 without a thought of wearing a seatbelt.  Launching an old, aluminum john boat in a rain swollen Laughery near Milton and praying to make it back to the shore before getting sucked into the whirlpool at Hartford. Leaping from Arnold’s Creek Bridge into less than 6’ of water or playing stretch or chicken with a sharp pocket knife or jumping from a moving ski boat and hitting water that felt more like concrete…Yep, I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life and the ones above barely scratched the surface. And if it weren’t for the fact that my parents read these articles, I could go on and on!

     But of all my senseless acts, none were more risky or just plain ignorant than hunting from my deer stands without a safety belt. I freely admit it, for years in my early hunting career, I was never concerned about safety. As a young man, you tend to think that you’re invincible and nothing can happen to “you”…I knew the stats, but a safety belt or harness just seemed to be more of a hassle than a necessity. Then came along my kids…suddenly, as a young father of two, I was no longer just responsible for myself when I was out there enjoying Mother Nature…I had two beautiful children at home that wanted to hear about “Daddy’s” adventures while hunting and I knew that when the time was right, they’d join me in the woods. How could I not take the time to “buckle in” when I was high up in my treestand?

     For the last 17 years, there hasn’t been a hunt that’s taken place when I haven’t worn my safety equipment. The belts and harnesses have gotten better and more user friendly over the years and there really is no good excuse not to use one. Statistically, more hunters are hurt or killed from falls each year than shooting accidents and ATV accidents combined. Archery season is upon us and we as hunters owe it to our loved ones to wear our safety harnesses. No deer, no matter how large the antlers, is worth the risk of hunting from an elevated stand without taking the proper precautions.

     So fellow deer hunting addicts, get out there, chase some antlers, bring home some venison, thin the herd for the farmers, but most of all, hunt smart, hunt hard and hunt safe and come home to your family.

Camo Doesn't Make the Man...

     There's an old quote that goes something like this...”The clothes don't make the man, but when he is made, his appearance is greatly improved.” Absolutely true. After all, you can put me in a Stetson, a pair of dusty boots and big, ol' shiny belt buckle, but that doesn't make me a cowboy. I can wear scrubs, carry a clipboard and a stethoscope, but you wouldn't want me as your doctor! The same can be said in the hunting world...Just because I wear camo brand A or camo brand B and have my 4x4 decal'ed up like a NASCAR racer doesn't make me a hunter...

      Hunting and being a hunter is more than appearances and looking the part. It's something deeper. Enjoyable and fun, but at the same time, serious and thought provoking. A hunter is an ambassador to the non-hunting public. He's part of a small, but visible group, in the publics eye and under the microscope in today's world. A hunter's individual actions represent our entire fraternity.

      A hunter isn't made by hours in front of the Sportsman Channel or Outdoor Network. A hunter isn't made by buying the must have, latest and greatest from the big box stores or by hanging onto every word from an outdoor “celebrity”...A hunter isn't made overnight. Being a hunter is about paying your outdoor dues in the cold, the heat, the rain and the snow. Dues paid through poison ivy rashes, stinging nettles and locust thorns. Dues paid with mosquito bites, ticks and deer flies.

      A hunter is ethical. Its about doing the right thing when no one is around. Hunting is about character. A hunter is respectful...Respect to the animals he pursues and the land he hunts. He respects the landowner who graciously opens up opportunities and the landowner that chooses to not allow access. A hunter honors fences and boundaries and the rights of other sportsman.

      Hunting isn't about instant gratification and over the top technology. Hunting is about skill and tradition and lessons learned and passed on. Being a hunter isn't always about inches of antler or the length of a turkey's beard. It's not about score this or weight of that. A hunter is patient and willing to wait. A hunter is a provider and self-sufficient and able to make do...A hunter is a survivor and a conservationist of the highest degree. A hunter is connected to the land he hunts and the game he chases. Being a hunter isn't about taking short cuts and ease of the path...

      Being a hunter is more than wearing this year's newest camouflage and looking the role...So yeah, the clothing or the “camo” in this case, doesn't make the man or the hunter, but when he is made, his appearance is greatly improved...A lesson I hope some of today's hunters will take to heart.

  

Tis the Season...

     The air feels of football and flannel shirts, bonfires and fleece…My favorite time of the year is just around the corner and you can bet I’ll be perched high above some well worn deer trail waiting on an unsuspecting buck to pass my way…

    

     My mind will wonder to hunts from the past and my thoughts will drift to the future. I’ll soak in the sun of an Indian summer and enjoy the first frost. I’ll solve the world’s problems and maybe a few of my own out there in the trees. I’ll re-live the excitement of my first buck and the thrill at launching my first arrow. I’ll feel the warmth of the wood handle of my recurve and see how the oils from my skin have polished it to a shine. I’ll pretend I’m 16 again and my imagination will take me to far off places and exotic hunts. In my mind I see moose, caribou, elk and more…

     I’ll feel the cool breeze on my cheek and watch the musk rat fur silencers on my bowstring dance in the wind. I’ll get to watch as the chipmunks and squirrels gather their seeds and nuts for the upcoming winter and not a moment waste. I’ll listen to the songbirds and the crows as they sing and call out to one another.

 I’ll hear the eerie cry of a barred owl in the fading evening light. I’ll see the stars and moon of the predawn morning and feel the pitch black and shake off a shiver as I can see my breath…

     I’ll hear the footfalls of a doe as she delicately picks her way along the trail with a yearling in tow. I’ll watch as a redtail hawk swoops in and makes dinner out of a field mouse and witness coyotes as they slink along on the prowl, ever vigilant for a meal. I’ll see a red fox make his pounce, looking more like a cat than a canine…

     I’ll get to see the woods put on her finest hue and color of autumn…oranges, golds and yellows of every shade. I’ll listen to the leaves as they rain down onto the forest floor. The acorns will drop and the hickories and hedge apples will fall with a thump as they roll down the hollers…

     I’ll feel the adrenalin rush at the sight of a mature, old buck and feel my heart race and palms sweat. My throat dry and coarse. I’ll feel humble and proud and grateful at the moment of truth. I’ll make my own meat and bloody my hands and feel gratitude and remorse for the animal that provided me.

     But, most of all, I’ll add to “me” and my memories. I’ll spend time with my children and with friends. I’ll experience the real world, nature as it was intended to be. This is why I hunt, this is my deer season…

The Trade...

      The tarp was rolled out on the ground as the hunters dragged their chairs to the circle with their barter goods in tow...bows and some arrows, knives and quivers and all sorts of items that any outdoorsman would like to have in his camp. The rules were explained and discussed and all nodded in agreement...

      The trade blanket was about to begin. The crew was a gnarley old bunch of experienced traders, each a die hard traditional bowhunter with years of experience in the woods and in life. A few in their “20 somethings”, but most in their 50's and 60's, trying to put on their best poker face as deals were about to be made. But one trader looked out of place. A young kid of 14, ball cap, red flannel and denim. Tall and lanky, that awkward in between space, no longer a kid, but not quite a man...Thin build and broad shoulders, not yet grown into his giant hands and long arms.

      He's quiet and his nerves show a bit, but he does his best not to fidget or twitch or show his hand. It's time for the bartering to begin as the goods are laid out. Stories are told and stories embellished. Laughter and joking, flavored with some banter before getting down to business. A few jabs are given and a few taken as each player “plays” or passes. A couple of rounds through and the kid is getting his feet wet and the nerves settle...

      Now it's his turn as he lays out a handmade straight knife and leather sheath...Dad holds his breath as his son speaks up. His young voice now deep, not a pop or crack to be heard as he describes the blade in front of him. It's on to the next trader as he proposes a deal and then to the next and so on and so on...Another knife hits the tarp, a long up swept, fixed blade, perfect for “working up” a deer. The boy picks it up and eyes it for a moment...pondering as I can almost see his mind working as he thinks. In an instant, he juts his right hand forward and shakes the knife owner's hand with a manlike grip and in a baritone voice says “We have a good trade”...

     The game of trade continued on, as the smell of the campfire drifted through cool evening air. Good deals made, some not so good deals made, but all of the participants enjoying the round. It's almost over and time to go all in, lay it all out...when its all said and done, the kid came away with more than he had started with. A beautiful, primitive selfbow of Osage, a fine boning knife and a buffalo hide quiver. But his dad came away with even more...a memory made and an experience had and pride felt as he witnessed his boy take another step further from childhood, as his gains his footing as a young man...a lump raised in dad's throat.

(This trade blanket could've taken place a hundred or even two hundred years ago, but it just happened last weekend at a gathering of the Indiana Traditional Bowhunter's Association and a good time was had by all. No Xbox, no non stop texting, no constant FB...only a group of folks with a shared interest in traditional archery and keeping old traditions alive in a world that has sadly become too fast paced)

  

Squirrels and memories...

      It's already daylight as we head out the door and down the road to our favorite stand of hickories and oaks. The air is cool and crisp, fog hanging in the low spots and dips...A cruel tease or maybe just a preview of whats to come, but I'll take it! The dog days of August can return tomorrow and the fall like weather is a welcome reprieve from last month's triple digits.

      Dew soaks our pant legs as we skirt around the bean field and step into the woods. I can just barely see my breath as I exhale in the cool air. The recent rains have softened the forest floor and what had been like a carpet of popcorn was now an earthy, soft path under my feet. I slip down the old two track logging trail keeping my eyes focused in the tree tops as I listen for any sign of their presence. A couple of whitetail does spot me and make their escape through the woods. I take my seat on a huge, old red oak log that fell victim to a lightning strike and breathe in the woods...The damp soil, the decaying leaves, the scent of the autumn air all mingle together and bring my senses alive. It's good to be back among the trees, it's good to be hunting...

      My wait isn't long as I hear the familiar “rnt, rnt, rnt” sound of a squirrel grinding his incisors on a hickory or walnut...I try to drown out the noise of screeching blue jays and the singing of nuthatches as they flit from limb to limb...There! There he is...high up a shag bark, pieces of nuts raining down giving him away as he enjoys his early morning breakfast. I watch the little rodent make short work of his meal and hop to another limb for his next treat. Still too high for a shot, so I kneel down and wait and wait and wait some more, knees aching and reminding me of my age...This battle of wills goes to the squirrel as he's content to gorge himself comfortably 35' feet above me and I'm unwilling to launch an arrow knowing it will be forever lost in space...

      I make my way down the trail, amazed at how quiet the woods have become...I lean up against a massive old beechnut, carved full of initials and listen for another bushytail, hoping to catch one on the ground for my recurve. As I scan and listen, the woods take over and my mind starts to drift. In the blink of an eye, I'm a 12 year old kid again, transported back to some long forgotten squirrel woods. An H&R 12 gauge over my shoulder as I stumble through the trees trying to become a hunter...In my mind, I'm about ready to take aim when the “crack” of a .22 snaps me back to reality...

      I turn and head back and as I round the bend in the logging path, I see my son and the smile on his face says it all as he holds up his prize. I nod my approval as we silently part ways again, looking for more squirrels and for more memories, old and new...

Middle-aged musings and Presidential quote

      “Some people ask why men go hunting. They must be the kind of people who seldom get far from highways. What do they know of the tryst a hunting man keeps with the wind and the trees and the sky? Hunting? The means are greater than the end and...every hunter knows it.” Gordon MacQuerrie-1938(via Colorado bowhunter Jason Cox)

      The above quote hits the nail squarely on the head for me. I often sit back and wonder why the outdoors, hunting and fishing are so important to me. I'm normally not one that's at a loss for words, but it really is hard to describe why I need the outdoors, why I need nature. You see, I'm part of nature and it's part of me...my time outdoors is like a cool drink of water on a scorching day or a bite to eat when I'm famished. It helps sustain me...My job has me behind a desk or the steering wheel of a car or seated in a chair at a meeting. All well and good and it pays the bills, but it's not my environment. It's foreign...uncomfortable, but a part of everyday life. I need my escape, my sanctuary...wilderness and nature.

      As I age and mature, my vision seems to be getting worse and my hearing is heading South, although I've been accused of having selective hearing! But, when I'm in the woods, among the trees, my senses come back. I'm tingling with life...my ears hear and my eyes more acute. My imagination takes over and I'm a younger man again and I feel connected... This is where I'm meant to be and what I'm supposed to be doing as I sneak along a trail or sit high in my perch waiting on a buck to pass under. Sometimes, I think I should've been born in a different time and place, another era... When I'm out there, in the shadows and under the limbs, I become part of the woods...I experience it and get to witness real life, just as God created it. If things go well, I participate in the show, but most of the time, I'm content to sit back and soak it in...

      The older I get, the more important my time outdoors means to me. It's not about the catch or the kill or the size of the antlers or weight of the fish. It's the experiences, it's the memories made... The journey really has become more than the destination...

      President Calvin Coolidge once said... “There is new life in the soil for every man. There is healing in the trees for the tired minds and for our over-burdened spirits. There is strength in the hills if only we lift up our eyes. Remember that nature is your great restorer.”

      Right on Mr. Coolidge...right on.

 

A fish story...

     Hot doesn't even begin to describe it...This wasn't just your run of the mill early July weather...This was that oppressive, thick, damp heat. The kind that takes your breath and makes you sweat without without moving an inch or lifting a finger. The kind that causes everything to wither and curl. The trees, corn, tobacco and beans are showing the effects of the prolonged heat wave and dry weather. Literally 100 degrees in the shade and to make matters worse, the central air had been zapped by a lightning strike during last night's pop up storm...My nerves were on edge and the prospect of coughing up thousands to replace the A/C unit had my already short fuse burning fast!

      The inside temperature wasn't much relief...The termostat read 87 degrees in the living room. Cold showers helped and the idea of lying perfectly still on the couch surrounded by fans and ice packs and a cold glass of tea seemed the rational thing to do. But, then there's the issue of two 14 year old boys being here and being 14 year old boys, they didn't care if it was 20 degrees or 100! They were bored and asked if we could go fishing...Fishing in this weather???

      We loaded the rods and tackle boxes and headed to one of my favorite ponds. By the time we walked the couple hundred yards to the pond, my shirt was soaked with sweat and I was re-thinking the prospect of lying on the fan blown couch and second guessing my decision to go fishing...

      The two teens spread out around the pond and I made my way along the dam and cast next to the mats of floating moss...Locusts and peepers singing and an occasional bullfrog would chime in. The air was thick and not the slightest hint of a breeze... “Maybe the fish won't bite and the boys will be ready to call it an evening and we can leave soon”, I thought to myself...just then, a small bass took my Rapala and fought hard as I reeled him in. The boys started to enjoy some success as well as the heat didn't seem to bother the little bass as they eagerly struck their baits.

      The boys and I talked back and forth across the pond and gradually, the thoughts of replacing my air conditioner and money drifted from my mind. Even the heat seemed tolerable as we cast and reeled and laughed and swatted bugs away from our faces...As I knelt to change lures and looked out at my son and his buddy, I almost felt guilty for not wanting to take them fishing...this is the kind of stuff that boyhood is made of and in today's world, too little fishing between fathers and sons and friends goes on...

      Evening is turning to night and we'll have to pack it in soon. A few more casts to be made. A likely looking patch of cattails...My Culprit worm is flipped into the water and as it settles into the depth, a slight tug on the line. I can immediately feel some heft to the fish and a quick flick of the wrist and the hook is set deep! The big bass makes a hard run and peels line from the bait caster as the rod bends...I yell to the boys that it's a good one, not completely sure that they believe me or not. The fight continues for a minute or two and the big ol' girl is hoisted on the bank. I hold her up and the boys yell their approval with hoots and holloring and I'm amazed at the size of the fish in my hands. The largest bass of I've ever caught. My fist is easily swallowed by the huge mouth as I remove the hook. She's a hair over 24 inches long and I can only imagine how much the big gal would've weighed a couple months ago when filled with eggs before she spawned...A few photos were nabbed and I quickly released her back into the warm water and as she swims away, I think to myself that I'm glad I chose the boys and the pond and the heat over the couch and the fans and iced tea...

House Hunter...

      It was an unassuming three bedroom vinyl sided ranch. Cookie cutter like most homes at my price point. Nothing particularly good, nothing bad. The upside is that it was neat and clean and turn key ready. At scarcely 2 acres, it was far from an estate, but it did have a small wooded hillside behind the house. In the country, but hardly remote. Exactly half way between Rising Sun for work and Vevay for the kids' school...So, like it or not, the little gray ranch would be our house for this full time dad with part time kids...

      The first summer passed by quickly with plenty of grass mowed, laundry washed and meals cooked. Before I knew it, early September rolled around and the evening air had just enough chill to turn my thoughts to deer hunting. A hike was in order and I made my way down the hill behind the house to the small creek below. It was a creek by definition only...Most of the time dry, it started it's life as a spillway for a new pond a few hundred yards up the road and then snaked its way down a shallow holler along Little Hominy. The small slice of woods was thick with locust, cedar and wild cherry trees, just the sort of tangled forest deer love. To my delight, the sandy creek bank was covered in deer tracks. A downed sycamore formed a pinch point and forced the animals to cross here...a well worn trail sneaked out of the cedars and a long, tall walnut tree at the edge was begging for a stand. This was the spot...

      The next few weeks wore on and the cooler temperatures had the neighborhood deer revealing themselves and I was determined to fill my freezer with one. October at last and archery season was in full swing. Broadheads razor sharp and hours of shooting my old yard sale recurve had my confidence in high form. I wheel into the driveway after a long day at work...The wind is perfect for a quick evening sit behind the house. I jump into my hunting garb, grab the bow and in a few minutes, I'm 20' up the walnut for my ritual...

      As I let the day evaporate from me, I listen to the cars whizzing by and wonder who's driving them...I surmise they're on the way to the steel plants or casino as they occasionally honk as they pass the house. A couple of acrobatic squirrels entertain me as the shadows grow longer and afternoon turns to dusk. I can't help but grin as I look through the trees and see the roof of the little ranch and listen to my dog barking his displeasure on the end of his chain, not more than 100 yards away.

      Then snap...as a twig breaks under foot. I glance down and there she is, a mature, healthy doe, not 12 yards away...No time to react or prepare. No time for nerves...she crosses my shooting window, perfectly broadside, just yards from me. Slow motion sets in as my shooting glove hits its anchor point...the cedar arrow speeds her way and buries deep and I know it's her end. The doe heaves forward and makes her last run up the hill and comes to rest within sight...over in seconds. I lean back in my stand and gather up my thoughts and my gear. The trail will be a short one, for which I am grateful and I give thanks above...

      I kneel down next to the old gal and run my hand across her graceful neck and pat her shoulder and as I glance up towards the house with it's windows glowing, and the kids' voices distant, it strikes me that the little vinyl ranch is more than a house, it has become home...

   

Fence posts...

     Change like time is a fact of life...just think how much things change. I can only imagine what my grandparents saw and experienced in their lifetimes and how much change occurred. I still hear from my parents about how different things are today compared to their youth. I'm not exactly what you'd call “long in the tooth”, but I've been around long enough to see my far share of change...satellite TV, internet, cell phones, technology run a muck and I'm still either too dense or stubborn to grasp on...

      Most of the time, change can be good. But, as things change, move forward and advance, we lose things. We lose parts of our past, we lose how things used to be, we lose our history, we forget...On a recent trip that I took from tip to tip of our State, I noticed something as I glanced out across the fields covered in soybeans and corn as the miles ticked by...no fence rows. It's the same here in our corner of Indiana. It's change...farming practices have changed and evolved to keep up with the times and the economy. More efficient methods of land use are the norm today and no one can blame the farmer as he eeks out his living and tries to get the most out of his soil...It's row to row and ditch to ditch and in doing so, the old fence rows are gone...A thing of the past. A memory, a dinosaur...

      Growing up as a budding hunter, I spent many an afternoon with pals trodding along overgrown fence rows hoping to scare out a rabbit for a waiting shotgun. If we were lucky, someone would have a willing beagle to work the rows, but most of the time, we chucked rocks, dirt clods or whatever else we could find into the brush. Occasionally, a covey of quail would bust from the cover and a hail of No. 6 shot would fill the air...I've spent hours tucked back in the vines and cedars that grew up between the rusted barbed wire along a well used deer trail. I'd wait in ambush in hopes for a shot at a deer, sometimes sitting on an old five gallon bucket, but most of the time sidled up against a weathered locust or hedge apple post sitting Indian style until my legs were numb. I can still remember the fence rows covered in blackberries and which ones seemed to ripen early and the best place to pick without ticks and chiggers and filling up sherbet containers or cool whip bowls with our prizes...

      One fence row in particular stands out...it was a hold out and managed to survive until a few years ago. I spent countless hours hidden there in the fall and a few deer fell to my slugs and arrows. It was choked with cedars and it's locust posts were worn gray and I've ripped more than several pairs of pants as I crossed its barbed wire strands on my trips to the woods...a cool, damp spring morning a few years ago, found my son and I stashed away along the fence row, almost invisible as we melted into our surroundings. Daylight broke and with it, turkeys gobbling on the roost up and down the valley behind us...A few minutes later, I had somehow managed to fool one of the birds with my calls and a tom sounded off directly behind us...my boy's eyes wide as my heart pounded and hair on the back of my neck raised on full alert. To our left, the fire engine red head of the tom as he poked out of the fence row and made a “B” line towards our decoy...The boy's 20 gauge barked and the big bird fell in his tracks as we leap to our feet and ran to his trophy. The smile across the nine year old's face said all that needed to be said...

      The old fence row has long since been bulldozed and all that remains is the heap of bleached white bones of the cedar trees and some tangled woven wire and broken strands of barbwire...but, each time I walk past the pile trees and fence posts, my mind races back to that morning years ago and I can still hear the turkeys thundering their calls, the blast of the shotgun and see the excitement of a young hunter and it brings a grin to my face and raises a lump in my throat. The fence row might have changed, but the memory hasn't...

Father's Day...

      It could've been any number of weekday summer mornings years ago...I couldn't have been much over 10 or 11 years old. Wide awake and ready to go. Rods in the boat, bait out of the freezer, now all I had to do was wait...About 8:30 he'd roll in, eyes bloodshot red and body tired after working the third shift, midnight 'til 8am, but most of the time 8pm to the next morning, never one to turn down overtime, blue collar to the core...Dad asks if I've got everything in the boat and ready to go? “Yep”, I'd reply as he sits his old plastic lunch box ,covered in Chiquita banana stickers on the counter. A few minutes later and we're dropping the old aluminum runabout into the water for a morning of catfishing on the river., a cloud of blue smoke puffing from the antique Evinrude...This scene played out more times than I can count and I can still remember watching the old fiberglass rods with the cork handles tap, tap, tap ever so slightly and then nearly be pulled overboard as a channel or flathead screamed line off the Zebco 33's...But more than the fish, I remember my dad and I sitting in the boat, anchored up in some deep hole spending time together. Sometimes the water fast, sometimes slack depending on what Markland was doing... Drinking Pepsi's and killing time and listening to a CB radio...Eventually, sleep deprivation would get the best of him and if the bite was slow, we'd reel in and call it a morning. Before heading home, we'd make a trip to the upper reaches of Grant's Creek to check a hidden minnow trap or make a pass out Arnold's Creek to seine more bait to replenish our supply. But the bait or the fish didn't mean that much to me then or now...it was the time spent.

      Years passed and the catfishing gave way to bass fishing in all the local ponds. We yanked a lot of fish, but most were released to swim another day. Rapalas and Jitterbugs tossed along the banks hoping to have a bucketmouth send the bait skyward. Dad was content to stand in one spot while I'd explore my way around the banks and hopefully catch more or bigger fish than the old man...The sun would finally beat us down or the darkness would set in and we knew it was time to head home and give it a rest. Certain catches and specific ponds still stick in my mind, but it was the memories made that meant more than the bass caught...

      Eventually, our fishing forays became fewer and farther between...high school, friends, girls, part-times jobs and college have a way of messing up time between fathers and sons. We'd still manage a few evenings here and there to wet a line, but the life of a young man gets in the way. Bass boats and an occasional tournament filled the void between us, but adulthood and responsibility has a way of chipping at time...work, family and kids came along and the boats were sold and the rods gathered dust, but the memories still last.

      My dad isn't an overly emotional or talkative type guy, never was...but he had his own way of encouraging my passion for the outdoors. At the drop of a hat, he was always willing to throw the poles in the back of the truck and walk across a chigger filled pasture to some cow pond to take his boy fishing. He isn't one to tell you how he feels, but I know...he showed it...whether we were building model trains, hitting fly balls and fielding grounders, or taking a pudgy, little kid with coke bottle thick glasses to a fishing hole...he showed it. I can only hope that I've shown my kids the same when our time is chipped a way.

Coming into His Own...

     Focus behind the shoulder, 10 ring...The recurve bow holding all of the energy he puts into it. His draw is smooth as he hits anchor, holds for a split second and the cedar arrow is released. It's flight fast, but still a graceful arch as the solid thump of arrow striking foam follows 20 yards distant...He turns and the grin he wears says it all. The older fellas in the group congratulate the boy on another great shot as we make our way to the target.

      We pull the arrows and call out the scores, his reads two 10's and the smile returns to his face as more back slapping and “good shots” and accolades are tossed his direction. The kid is meek, quiet, reserved...but with his recurve in hand and arrows launched, his 6 foot frame is a little straighter, his shoulders a little more broad. His whole demeanor changes and the quiet kid in the shadows stands out, even among the more experienced archers at the competition. He is developing a reputation among the ranks of traditionalists and his Dad's pride swells as the once little boy finds his own niche.

      His skills on the target range have far surpassed the old man's and his 20/20 vision bests his Dad's by far...What used to be a kid in awe of his pop has now turned into a game of peers. The boy launching arrows down range and hitting the 8's and 10's with regularity and his Dad trying to keep up and even the score. From pats on the head and encouragement after missed shots to joking and ribbing one another as the relationship matures and changes...I knew it was bound to happen, whether on range or the basketball court where he both beats his Dad...

     The time on the range passes quickly...Time to load up and head back home. The kid wolfs down a couple of burgers on the drive and then dozes off in the passenger seat, still revealing a fragment of childhood left in him. He looks peaceful at rest...As I drop him off at his mom's house and drive away, I think about how much he has grown. I think about how I used to drag him to the 3D shoots, a kid sized longbow and shortened arrows in his hands. I recall watching the tiny shafts bouncing off the targets and the smile that would come across his face when an arrow would actually stick in the side of the foam deer, elk or bear. How he would soak in the conversation from the other shooters and how he was always made to feel included by the guys at the range. I think about him now and how his shooting skills and manner has earned him the respect of that same group. I think about him being a young man and finding his own way...The time on the range has passed quickly...too quickly and I wonder where it has went and how to get it back...

     A friend of mine wrote that the growing up of children is like arrows...both are meant to fly.

The Fever!

      I settled back, comfortable in my perch...Higher than I normally hunt, easily 20 plus feet, but I'm safely strapped to the tree. My view is perfectly framed through the boughs of the cedar. A standing yellow cornfield to my front, an overgrown, clear cut pasture that hasn't seen cows in years behind me and a beat down deer trail to my right connecting the two...If all goes as planned, a willing deer will participate in my hunt...

      The evening passes quickly as I'm rocked almost asleep by the movement of the huge cedar tree in the breeze. I watch as the rows of corn sway back and forth, almost hypnotic...The weather is ideal, cool enough for my wool jacket and long johns, but warm enough for comfort. This is the perfect spot to be in early October...birds singing and squirrels chattering and skittering around in the leaves.

      The sun has dropped low, that magic time for deer hunters...the witching hour when the deer are up and on their feet. I take a look around and something is out of place in the pasture. As I concentrate on the spot 75 yards away, the twitch of an ear. Then I catch the glint of an antler in the fading sunlight...The shine of the buck's wet, black nose reveals itself. My heart pounds and the familiar excitement takes over...The old buck had been bedded right under my nose for the last 2 hours! I grunt the deer to his feet, but still only able to see his head and neck due to the tangle of brush he calls his bedroom. For 10 minutes, he teases me, gradually moving closer, then easing back, never getting closer than 50 yards from my hide...A big 9 pointer, no doubt a trophy deer. I'd never seen the old guy on the hoof, but have a couple of trail camera photos of him after hours. By the looks of him, he's seen his share of seasons...fat, pot bellied and sway backed like an old horse. The size of his body more impressive than his antlers. Try as I might, he doesn't fall for any of my tricks as he disappears into the brush and vanishes over the hill...

      Spent, I slump back against my tree and rest from the encounter. I think to myself that I'll have a good story to tell and a memory made...It's late now, time to climb down. I peel my face mask off and just about to lower the longbow to the ground...Movement across the way and I see a deer's leg. It's the old boy sneaking back for a second look. He has circled downwind to try and smell the source of the grunting and ready for a fight! I quickly nock an arrow to the bowstring and wait. I glance ahead and pick my spot...In seconds, the buck is there...15 yards quartering away exactly where I want him...

      I'd like to be able to tell you that my arrow sped to its mark. I'd like to be able to tell you that I recovered the prize at the end of a short trail and that he provided many meals and his antlers now grace the walls of my hunting shack...I'd love to tell you all of that, but if I did, it would be untrue...

                                                                        

      What I can tell you is that I was a victim...A victim of a horrible case of “Buck Fever”! A condition all deer hunters are familiar with...I don't know how it happened, but it happened! The last thing I recall is seeing my arrow dribble its way towards the buck and fall harmlessly in the high grass, 5 yards from his feet...I don't even remember drawing my bow or hitting my anchor point or releasing, but the brightly colored feathers of my arrow burying in the grass are etched in my mind...The big buck jumped and trotted back to the safety of the pasture and tromped and snorted for the next 5 minutes as I pouted in my treestand and wondered what just happened...feeling almost ill.

      Yep, even after 30 years of hunting, I am still afflicted by buck fever and if I ever become immune to it, that will be the day I sell my longbow and buy some new golf clubs...

A Day on the Range

      Focus behind the shoulder, 10 ring...The recurve bow holding all of the energy he puts into it. His draw is smooth as he hits anchor, holds for a split second and the cedar arrow is released. It's flight fast, but still a graceful arch as the solid thump of arrow striking foam follows 20 yards distant...He turns and the grin he wears says it all. The older fellas in the group congratulate the boy on another great shot as we make our way to the target.

      We pull the arrows and call out the scores, his reads two 10's and the smile returns to his face as more back slapping and “good shots” and accolades are tossed his direction. The kid is meek, quiet, reserved...but with his recurve in hand and arrows launched, his 6 foot frame is a little straighter, his shoulders a little more broad. His whole demeanor changes and the quiet kid in the shadows stands out, even among the more experienced archers at the competition. He is developing a reputation among the ranks of traditionalists and his Dad's pride swells as the once little boy finds his own niche.

      His skills on the target range have far surpassed the old man's and his 20/20 vision bests his Dad's by far...What used to be a kid in awe of his pop has now turned into a game of peers. The boy launching arrows down range and hitting the 8's and 10's with regularity and his Dad trying to keep up and even the score. From pats on the head and encouragement after missed shots to joking and ribbing one another as the relationship matures and changes...I knew it was bound to happen, whether on range or the basketball court where he both beats his Dad...

      The time on the range passes quickly...Time to load up and head back home. The kid wolfs down a couple of burgers on the drive and then dozes off in the passenger seat, still revealing a fragment of childhood left in him. He looks peaceful at rest...As I drop him off at his mom's house and drive away, I think about how much he has grown. I think about how I used to drag him to the 3D shoots, a kid sized longbow and shortened arrows in his hands and a Fred Bear Fedora on his head. I recall watching the tiny shafts bouncing off the targets and the smile that would come across his face when an arrow would actually stick in the side of the foam deer, elk or bear. How he would soak in the conversation from the other shooters and how he was always made to feel included by the guys at the range. I think about him now and how his shooting skills and manner has earned him the respect of that same group. I think about him being a young man and finding his own way...The time on the range has passed quickly...too quickly and I wonder where it has went and how to get it back...

     A quote from a friend of mine compared the growing up of children to arrows...both are meant to fly.

End of the Season...

    Last day of turkey season and the morning broke gray, cool and rainy...This was it, the last hoorah, now or never, do or die...It was a greasy, dark, slog along the two track trail next to the clover field. I looked forward to the relative dryness of the pop-up blind. Decoys set, I shake off the rain and settle back into my hide and wait for daylight.

     Out the front window, fresh cut clover and a view of the woods beyond, fog rolling off the hollers like smoke. Behind me, the roar of rain swollen Grant's Creek as it tumbles along towards the Ohio and points further South and West. An hour into my watch and no turkeys...I don't blame them...no one in their right mind ought to be out in weather like this. Aside from the pouring rain and the rushing water, all is quiet. The rain has found the blind's weak points as I watch water trickle down the interior walls and eventually pool under my feet. The constant "pitter, patter" of the rain against the roof of my hiding spot lulls me into a trance and I'm certain I've dozed a time or two. I flinch myself awake and a quick peek out the window reveals nothing but more of the same...

     My mind drifts away from turkey hunting and I think to myself "It's Mother's Day"...and I'm grateful to still have my mom around when so many others I know have lost theirs. I'm grateful for a mom that always encouraged my love of the outdoors, hunting and fishing and was always eager to hear my tales, even if she wasn't interested. I think about her words of wisdom and how I didn't always understand them at the time, but now as a parent of teenagers, they ring true...I daydreamed and thought and head nodded and napped...

     Snapped back awake, a distant yelp across the creek. Three hours in and still no birds...As much as I hate to admit it, it's time to pack it in and call it a season. The rain continues to pound down and the sky is still thick with no let up in sight...It's over. Time to slip and slide back to the truck and dry clothes. So, was my turkey hunting season a success? In terms of meat on the table and a tail fan and beard for the wall, it was an abject failure...But, I saw the colors of an early morning sunrise painted by my Creator, I heard the calling of barred owls in the pre-dawn morning, I was serenaded each day by songbirds, I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle as it hung thick in the air, I experienced the anticipation and excitement of hunting new spots thanks to inviting friends. I saw deer and turkeys and felt my heart race with a few close encounters. I heard Tom's thunder their calls up and down the valley, from one hilltop to another. I watched a barren field transform almost overnight into a lush green carpet of soybeans. But best of all, I shared time in the woods with a boy that is growing up all to fast. To have taken a turkey with my bow would have been the chocolate icing on top of an already sweet cake! So...Was my season a success? I'll let you decide...

The Opener...

     My internal alarm clock goes off at 5 am despite the one next to my bed being set at 5:30…my mind’s way of telling my body not to over sleep on opening day. I wipe my eyes open and force my contacts under the swollen lids, burning with saline solution as I squint my way into the kitchen. The boy is already up and moving and dressed to go…I rummage through the fridge, find a piece of cheese and grab an oatmeal cookie as I slam down a diet coke for my morning caffeine fix and we’re out the door…

     Racing out SR250 like a couple of vampires running from the break of dawn, we make it to the farm just in time as the sun barely cracks the purple sky.  We beat tracks across the no till field to the safety of our dark, hidden little blind tucked away in the shadows at the edge of the trees…Organized we’re not, but everything, including us seems to find its place as we elbow and jockey one another for position in the cramp quarters.

     Finally settled in, we wait for day time’s return and an accommodating turkey to show up within range of our arrows…We’re shoe horned in the blind and I can’t help but wonder where the time has went. Just a couple years ago, we had room to spare in our hiding spot, I thought to myself as I happen to glance down at the kid’s Frankenstein sized 14 boot dwarfing my size 9’s…I still have a difficult time remembering that there’s not much “kid” left in the 6 feet of lanky teen to my right…where has the time went?

     The woods are waking up as the sun at our back creeps its way across the open field in front of us…eating away inch by inch, minute by minute the grayness of dawn. The boy spots a doe coming across the field 200 yards straight away, heading right to us…She puts on the skids at 50 yards, head bobbing trying to figure out what we are and why we’re here…She’s safe for now and continues on her way, followed in short order by two others heading for their bedrooms after night of dining. Songbirds fill the air along with the ever present noise of crows…A gang of four of the black birds making non-stop racket. A redtail glides over and is immediately bullied by the leader of the pack…I’ve never understood why a bird as strong and graceful as a hawk puts up with a crow…one grab by the hawk’s talon would be instant death. As I watch the dive bombing, aerial dog fight, I’m quietly rooting for the crow’s demise…

     Blue jays, woodpeckers and nuthatches talk back and forth…But my son and I quiet for the most part, listening for another bird. A yelp, a “cut”, a purr…hopefully a gobble? Two hours into our vigil and nothing heard. No turkeys to be found…The hunt will be over soon as I have to be responsible and get the boy to school…I think to myself that I probably should’ve made him go on time, but tomorrows aren’t guaranteed and the way I see it, we only get to be part of so many sunrises and I’m determined to share as many of them with my kids as possible, so any guilt at missing a period or two of studies is quickly washed away…Besides, some things learned aren’t taught in the classroom.

   

   “What time is it Dad?” he whispers… “15 more minutes Bud, then we’ll have to go” I reply, wishing it was hours…We manage to hear a distant yelp from a hen and call to her, but she’s not interested in our attempt to talk and we finally concede it’s time to go…Not much conversation was had, but we didn’t need to speak…In the stillness of the morning, in the coolness of the air, lost in our own thoughts, in our facial expressions, we spoke volumes…we didn’t need words.

     The turkeys might have won this round, but my success this morning wasn’t decided by an arrow launched or measured by the length of Tom’s beard or the hook of his spurs…