Character and Recovery

     The last fifteen minutes of shooting light and I was on pins and needles. My son was in a hot spot owned by a good friend and the bucks had been up and moving. I was full of anticipation and optimistic that the boy would get to release an arrow from his recurve bow.

      I paced back and forth like an expectant father, constantly checking the time and keeping an eye to the sky as darkness was falling fast. The sign I was waiting for, my cell phone rang and as I answered it, the excited voice of my son on the other end blurted out that he had just arrowed a big buck. His voice shook with a rush of adrenaline and his breathing was heavy. I couldn't help but  share in the excitement as he recounted the story.

      He made his way out of the woods and we made our plan. The shot appeared to be a good one. A little high and a steep downward angle into the ribs, but he felt confident in the placement of the arrow. A heavy, keen broadhead should have done its job and hopefully we'd recover his trophy after a short trail. After a half an hour wait, we took up the track...

      The night was dark, stars in the sky as we searched for sign with our flashlights. He had done a fine job of marking the buck's location and the last spot he had seen him as tore out of the area, but we struggled to find any evidence of the hit. No tell-tale crimson on the leaves or weeds, no hair to signal the hit. Only a couple of splayed hoof prints in the mud where the old buck had leaped a tangle of briars. I tried to remain optimistic for the boy and we decided to pull out for the night and hit it again at first light.

      After a long, restless night, we were back at it at day break with a couple more sets of fresh eyes. We were certain that we'd find the deer piled up in one of the many hollers and drainages on our buddy's farm. Our little group covered what we thought was every inch of ground. We did manage to find the arrow, but the damp fog from over night had frozen on the aluminum shaft, all but erasing any sign of blood along the length of the arrow. We were at a loss and after several hours of the fruitless search, we all had convinced ourselves that the buck was lost. The boy wasn't so certain and still felt confident in the his arrow placement. You could see the disappointment and remorse on the kid's face. It was a long, quiet drive home.

      A few days later and the boy was back at our friend's place, giving it one more shot before the woods was covered in fluorescent orange with the opening day of gun season. He took to the same stand where he had shot the big deer and I kept my fingers crossed that he'd get another crack at a good buck and erase the bad memory of losing a fine animal.

      I hadn't been gone long when my friend called me with a surprise. “You're never gonna believe what I just found”, my good friend stated. “I found Drew's buck!” My pal had watched as a few buzzards circled around a spot on his farm. He slipped through the woods and made his way to an overgrown pond dam. There hidden in a low spot, nearly invisible from every angle was the kid's buck. A fine, mature 10 pointer.

      We immediately called the boy and he climbed down from his stand and rushed to our spot. It was a bittersweet moment. None of us wanted to recover the buck like this, but it happened. We examined the deer and just as Drew had described, the arrow had taken him high towards the rear of the rib cage, hence the non-existent blood trail. We estimated that the buck hadn't traveled more than a couple hundred yards, had bedded down in the hidden spot and then expired. What made it even more of a difficult pill to swallow is that I had walked within 30' of the dead deer during our original, early morning search...

     After some discussion, my son made the choice to stop his hunt for the evening and for the rest of the season. He claimed the buck and checked it in according the to rules and regulations of the State. It wasn't a tough decision for him and he had no regrets, other than not locating the deer sooner and the loss of the meat.

      Yes, I'm happy that my boy had taken a trophy buck with his traditional bow in today's world of speed and technology, but I'm even more proud of the character he showed. The easy thing to do would have been to take the big buck's antlers and keep right on hunting and possibly harvesting another buck, but he chose to do the right thing and for me, that is the real trophy...Well done son, well done.

 

Passing it on...

     5am comes too early as the alarm clock jolts me awake. I shake the cobwebs out of my head and listen to my knees pop as I throw on my hunting clothes for the morning's hunt. I head out the door and I'm greeted by a cool, damp September day. “Should be a perfect morning for the kids” goes through my mind as I drive to the spot...

      All the youth hunters are ready and the camp is buzzing with excitement. Too much energy for this early in the morning...Five kids in total. Ohio, Kentucky, New Jersey, Mississippi and Indiana are all represented. A couple of real pistols in the bunch as I size up the youngsters. Before I give them the safety speech, the group draws numbers for stand sights and each of them are paired up with a guide to chaperon the hunt.

      I'm secretly crossing my fingers and hoping for the young man from Kentucky. He and I have shared a hunting blind in the past and I'd enjoyed spending time in the woods with him. “Yes!”, my mind yells as it's decided my little friend from across the river and I will hunt together. The hunting spots are divided up and our plan for the morning is set.

      We make our way under the cover of darkness to our hiding spot, a large comfortable blind tucked back in the edge of the woods along the base of a steep hill. Before us is a small patch of clover and with any luck, a buck will stop by for a quick bite on his way back to his bedroom. We settle in and wait for the sun to come...

      Daylight is a long time coming up the Grant's Creek valley. The first sign of sunlight hits the opposite hill on the far side of the creek. A barred owl fires off its last call of the gray morning and sets off a fierce howl and barrage of barking from a pack of coyotes somewhere further down the holler...My young partner and I exchange a glance at each other, acknowledging the coyote's presence and the eeriness of their howling. We focus our gaze back out to the field and wait for light.

      The air is thick, cool and heavy. As the sun creeps higher, a breeze begins to blow, swirling a fog bank from side to side, back and forth across the valley. We sit in silence, waiting for a buck to emerge from the fog, laying low across the clover. I shake off the chill as my buddy tucks his chin further into the top of his coat. We wait and we watch...

      Each minute brings with it more daylight and I'm rooting for the sun to win and burn off the fog. The damp coolness and my stiff joints don't mix well. I peek out the windows of the blind as does my Kentucky friend. We pass the time whispering and talking about hunting, friends, school and the like. All the things a 12 year old, country boy would talk about. I listen hard as his thick, Appalachian accent almost sounds like a different language at times. We talk for a few minutes and then minutes of silence. My mind subconsciously tries to distinguish all the sounds coming from the woods around us. The bird calls blend together into one song, but my brain somehow sorts them out, dissects them into individuals. Cardinals, nuthatches, titmouse, wrens, sapsuckers and woodpeckers can all be heard in the chorus.

      Minutes turn into hours and I can't help but recall past youth hunts. Hunts where I've sat with my own kids, grown too fast. Memories of my now adult daughter and my near 16 year old son, good memories. The kind of memories that put a lump in your throat and a smile to your lips.

      Finally, movement as a buck glides into the clover from our left. A nice buck from his profile view. I do my best impression of a deer and grunt the fella to a stop, 40 yards in front of my partner's muzzle loader. The deer stops on a dime, just as planned and looks directly at us. He's carrying a solid four point rack on one side of his head and a spindly two point antler on the opposite side. My pal looks at me for some guidance and without saying a word, he lowers his gun and gives the strange antlered buck a free pass to continue on his way...Had it been any of the other kids in the group, I'd have given them the green light to take th shot, but this young man is quite an accomplished hunter and has several deer to his credit and to be honest, he wasn't ready for his hunt to end and the more I thought about it, neither was I...

      We spent the rest of the morning watching and listening. Joking and smiling, whittling sticks and dozing off a time or two and creating memories. No Ethan isn't my own son, but I am grateful for the time we shared out in the woods, grateful for jogging my own memory, evoking thoughts of my children, grateful for giving me a reason to get out there and grateful for the opportunity to share and enjoy the outdoors and to pass on a tradition that hopefully he'll carry on.

The Tease...

     Can you hear it? I can...faint, barely audible, but calling out to me, ghostly. You can feel it on the breeze and hear it in the rattle of the leaves and see it in the vivid azure sky and star filled night. The calendar says late July, but Mother Nature is teasing us with early Autumn. Just a taste, just a hint, for we know that sticky, dull days of August lie ahead...but every bowhunter hears the same voice calling, the same whisper in his ear that accompanies the first cool morning and chill of night...

      Turkey season is a distant memory as the time between seasons is too long and the hunter has to be idle and wait for his turn again. We long for the coolness of fall, the crisp air, the sting of our lungs as we inhale that first breath of a frosty, pre-dawn morning. The sharpness of the changing colors, that time when the whole world is set ablaze. The lemon yellows, the watermelon reds of the maples and poplars. The tangerine, ambers and auburn of the oaks and hickories as the leaves wither and the trees ready themselves for the cold of winter...

      We pass the time preparing. Scouting trips in the heat, swatting mosquitoes and biting flies, wiping sweat from our eyes. We spy on the deer from a far, spotting scopes and binoculars at the ready. Hidden cameras are placed at likely spots, some heavily used trail deep in the shaded woods or a well worn corner at the edge of the bean field. Food plots tilled and planted, feeding stations checked and re-checked. Evenings are spent driving the back roads, watching the fields, hoping to catch a glimpses of velvet covered antlers and big bucks in their orange coats of summer.

      August arrives, muggy, damp and warm...Squirrel season rings in and helps take the edge off with a few mornings spent under a stand of hickory or walnuts waiting for a gray or fox squirrel to make his mistake and show himself. But fighting through poison ivy and dew covered spider webs in the heat of late summer chasing rodents is no comparison to the freshness of October and the majesty and grace of a whitetail deer...

      Arrows are shot and shot again. Shoulders and back strong from repetition...The targets are worn and tattered from repeated hits and being baked in the summer sun. Equipment is examined...knives sharpened to a razor's edge, broadheads keen and honed, ready to do their job went the time comes. The hunter compares notes with like-minded, when and where the big boys are moving, discussion about spread and points and inches of antler, typical and non-typical. Tree stands are placed and shooting lanes trimmed, all for that one moment.

      August is barely here and plenty of summer is left, but we've been tempted by the weather, a cruel tease, a bad joke. The hunter's heart has been piqued by the snap in the air, the clean, clear skies...Two months out, but the bowhunter knows his time is coming, days spent in the trees, among the wildlife, breathing in deep...So we anxiously wait for our turn, all the while listening to the whisper on the wind calling us to Autumn, calling us to October.

  

Road trip...

     This week, the trail pointed North. Straight up U.S.31 and into Michigan to be exact for the annual Compton Traditional Bowhunters Rendezvous. The event is one of the largest gatherings of traditional bowhunters and archers in America and draws folks from all over the country and even a few international guests. One thing for certain, it is always guaranteed to be a good time. New friends are met, old friendships rekindled and plenty of stories to be told...But for me, this trip is about making memories.

      We turn North and this year, the boy helps to split up the five hour drive with his new permit in his wallet and Driver's Ed under his belt. Hands at 10 and 2, shoulders forward and eyes locked on the road, I glance over at what used to be my little buddy. “No longer that shy, quiet, silly little boy”, I think to myself as he gradually relaxes his grip on the steering wheel and finds his groove. We motor along and I find myself enjoying being the passenger for once, taking in the corn fields and farm houses between Kokomo and farther on...

      We talk about bows and arrows, swapping and trading and hoping for a good deal. He talks about music and four wheel drives as I try not to critique his driving skills or stomp my foot through an imaginary brake pedal on my side of the SUV. The miles click off and the conversations rises and falls which it always does with fathers and sons. We agree, we disagree...We laugh and sometimes we're quiet and I can't help but wander what goes through his brain at times, what does he think of me?

      Almost to the border, the land of the Irish and Notre Dame, no sign of an IU fan to be had. We're not in Southern Indiana anymore as evidenced by the distinct lack of sweet tea and the ever present Northern, upper Midwest accent punctuated with “Ya's” “Sure” and even a few “Eh's”, no "twangs" to be heard...Not long and we're pulling into the sportsman's club and greeted by the sight of dozens and dozens of tents, teepee's and campers. The smell of the blue campfire smoke fills the St. Joe River valley and we quickly find our own spot and set camp. The tent is up, the cots set and sleeping bags rolled out for the night. In typical Michigan fashion, the temperature bottoms out below 50 degrees for the night and I try to get deeper in the sleeping bag for extra warmth.

      The next two days are spent flinging arrows, catching up with old friends and always searching out a deal. We meet up with some of our pals from Salem, Indiana and shoot a few rounds with them. We cut up with each other, joke and laugh and the boy is included. No longer just David's son, he has earned his keep with the other hunters and shooters. No shooting from youth stakes now, the kid steps up and launches his arrows just the same as us 40 somethings and on this day, he hands it to us, out shooting us on nearly every target. A standing elk, almost at 50 yards and he center punches it, easily one of the finest shots I've ever seen, no sights, no range finders, purely on instinct from years of shooting a bare bow...our buddies hoot and holler for the boy, and I stand off to the side and can't help but be proud of the kid, but almost sad at the same time, because there' not much kid left in him...

      A couple weekends ago, I watched my daughter graduate from high school and jump into the world of being an adult. She is ready to go, chomping at the bit and for all intensive purposes, she has already flown the nest. I know that in just a three short years, my second bird will make his leap from home and into life...It's things like this trip to Michigan, shooting bows and watching my kids with other adults, laughing, having fun, sharing experiences, making memories that keep me going.

     It's not necessarily about hunting and fishing, bows and arrows. It's about time...Friends, take time with your kids while you can. That's what they want, that's what they need. In the blink of an eye, it's over, in the past and you will have missed it. If the outdoors isn't your thing, find something that is, something that you can do together to make you own memories along the trail...

  

Flight...

      I've always enjoyed crafting my own arrows, whether for target practice or for hunting. Over the years, I've spent countless hours at the kitchen table making dozens and dozens of them. Some successful, some failures as I've waded my way through, learning how to make them one at a time. Most have fallen victim to errant shots...lost in high weeds or met their match against the trunk of a sturdy tree. Some though have hit their mark and brought down their quarry... quick, clean and efficient...silent. Others found the ten ring with a solid thump as they bury into the side of a foam target. There's something magical about their flight, graceful, captivating...

      The arrows start raw, smooth and straight, inexperienced. Aluminum, carbon, wood or fiberglass depending on the use and my mood, but I confess, the look and smell of Port Orford Cedar has me hooked. Steel wool and fine grit sand paper, the shafts and nurtured and ready for a coat of stain. The natural beauty of the grain is revealed with each coat as they're dipped in the sealer. The wooden shafts almost take on a life of their own as they're on the path to becoming straight and true...

       The nock points are added and aligned to ensure proper flight. Some of the shafts are crested and painted to add character to their appearance. Easily identifiable, easier to find when lost among the weeds. I want my arrows to stand out from the others, from the crowd...to be set apart, to be different.

      The feathers are attached. The fletching is key...it makes them fly right, helps them on the way to their intended target. It stabilizes them, it gives them a foundation. It's the soul of the arrow. Sometimes bright colored, vibrant for the world to see, other times, muted, quiet colors...unassuming and humble, but exactly what's needed for the job at hand.

      My arrows aren't always perfect...most of the time, there's a blemish or a rough spot, a place that I missed in the sanding process. They fly well for the most part, but need a little tweaking from time to time to get them just right. Sometimes they have a slight bend, sometimes they need a little coaxing...a little straightening. A little care and time...

      But once in a great while, one of the arrows hits all the marks. It's straight, true, an example of what an arrow is supposed to be. The wood grain shows all its beauty and even more so as it ages and matures and deepens. The feathers, cresting and paint combination all fall together as if made by an artist. The arrow stands out from the rest, it's different. The exact spine, the exact weight, the exact length to fly when loosed from my bow...The kind of arrow that you're afraid to lose. The type you want to protect, to keep in your quiver...to hold on to.

      The kind of arrow that you're proud of, that you had a hand in crafting. But, you know it has to fly, it has to be launched. I shoot it close, not wanting to send it down range, not wanting to risk losing her. But, with each shot, it hits the target. She flies true and has earned the right to go further and farther. She is released, letting her go, still hitting the marks at distance. But still I know, at some point, the distance will be too great...I'll miss my mark and the arrow will be gone. Into the world, on her own, into the high grass. Hopefully to stand apart from the others...tough and strong, able to bend and not break like a strong cedar shaft. Broadhead honed and sharp, ready to take on whatever target she meets.

      I'm proud of you Olivia Jane and look forward to what life has in store for you as you launch from high school and into college and the world. Like I've said it before, “Arrows and kids are both made to fly”, but this is a tough shot for your dad...

 

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.