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...