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...