Lonesome

A man I admire once said being alone isn't loneliness. Like him, I am comfortable in my own head. Mostly. I can spend hours in tree watching for that brown silhouette to come passing by. I can sit with my own thoughts, or lack thereof, as I watch pineys chittering off against each other or birds swooping and chirping the branches around me. 

Alone, I am me. More than any other time. And, for the most part, I'm good with that. 

In my younger years I spent hours trekking through the woods around my home in upstate New York. Hours upon hours. 

But there were times, as I grew, that being alone took on the shade of loneliness. I struggled with notions of who I was and what I should be. I think most kids go through this. 

Now, now it's a plague. Lost is the idea of being who you are and having purpose. So warped have things become that they are faced with degradation of self. Cut down by anyone who fears being them or believes they are more, better than others. 

Since I took up hunting, I've learned a lot about myself. I can usually tolerate the bitter cold and go home empty handed and still be at peace. I can sit quiet, still as a statue. Or stalk through the thick and muck of the deep overgrowth in marshes. Either way, I am at peace. 

Not always so. And sometimes those old haunting feelings try to keep in. 

In my mid-teens I hiked off to a spot that my brother and I had groomed for camping. The walk to this special place was nearly an hour in through the woods on a high hill. With just a bedroll, tent, and my little dog I tramped out this place, setting sun beaming through the canopy. I was in my place. Just me and my little furry friend. 

Sometime in the night the weather turned like fiend. Wind lashed and rain threatened to drown everything. So thick were the clouds that only the light from brief vicious strikes of lightning shown where I was. 

Alone. All alone. And lonesome. 

The thin fabric of the tent was sponge rather than a shield, soaking in the torrents. Everything inside was sloshing wet. Figuring home, a warm dry bed was better than waiting it out in the cold, wet confines of my flimsy tent, I scooped up my dog and flashlight and made a break down the hill. The flashlight died only a few paces from where I was moments before. The dog, frantic, wriggled and struggled in my arms. Stumbling through the dark and storm ridden night, I pressed on. I lost my way. The path completely erased by the deluge. 

Twice I fell. Hard. Once loosing the leash for my dog; the second, my glasses. Now with the storm hurling violence at the ground below, I more blind than before and my dog whimpering in the thundering darkness, desperate to be safe and sound. 

Hours seemed to pass. The trek home a journey through a proverbial shadow of death. Or so I thought. And felt. 

Storms come. Storms pass. They can wreak havoc and decimate whole towns in their wrath, scattering everything it touches. But in the end, they will dissipate. 

Loneliness is a storm. It can come on in an instant and unleash a hell of emotions. And most times, it will dissipate. 

I could have chosen to sit, wet, shivering, cradling my poor dog and waited in misery for what seemed to be an unending storm to pass and bring quiet and calm. Eventually the sun would rise and I would be able to see my way home, miserable and worse for wear. And alone.

I chose to brave the wilderness, the dark and foreboding. I trudged through the muck, the briars and thickets pushing through the miasma of the unknown. My only goal - home. Safety of family, warmth of the house, secure against the torrents and ripping winds. Even though I lost my vision (literally in some respects) and my bearings, I wanted to be with someone more than I wanted to be alone in the mess of weather beating me down.

Sometimes choosing not to be alone is the means to fight the loneliness. But getting there is a fight, an exercise in motion away from what you don't want towards where you want to be - not alone.

Make no mistake, I never looked back. I barely stopped long enough to feel for the glasses flung from my face by some whipping branch snatching at my face. And I was mad. Angry. I railed at the storm, at the thickets and briars, the wind, the rain. At myself. And to no useful end. 

Had I kept my calm, cool and collected, I still may have lost my glasses. Probably would've lost my footing and fallen more than once. That's the problem with the darkness. You can't see. Anything. But I knew where home was. And my hope, the hope that drove me, was knowing by morning I would be with family. I would be warm and dry again. And not alone. Not lonely.

This make not help those struggling with loneliness. Because sometimes trying to fight through it isn't enough. There's no relief. Hope seems a far off thing. 

But I learned something about myself. I was alone and I was lonely. But in the scheme of things, I was not always alone. And I didn't need to be. Family was near - through the dark, through the storm, yes. But they were near. In the midst of the storm that notion was of little comfort. On the other side, when the sun rose and skies cleared, the truth was all the more - they were near to me. Maybe they didn't know what I went through; had no idea the pain and agony and fear I endured. But they loved me. They care. 

There is no greater teacher than experience. And failure is its friend. Either choice I made: stay or go, was a failure. Neither was of my own making. I could not change or stop the storm. I could only endure it and press on to something greater. Storms are like that, we are powerless against them. But we chose to move in the midst of the blinding rain and roaring winds. We can choose to endure and survive and learn and live. 

Every time I am in a stand or hanging in my saddle, I am reminded that I am not alone even though I'm hunting in a lone tree, watching the wildlife and land do as it has done for eons, living life and adapting. And as that lone deer comes underneath and passes by, I know there is a herd, a family nearby. Maybe not where I can see, but close enough that when it's ready, it will return. And its aloneness will pass. 

Breathe

 This past season was challenging. We are now several months removed from the end of the last hunting season and many more before the start of the next. There is preparation. And there is reflection.

While I was greatly challenged by a number of factors from scheduling and work, to family events and responsibilities, to changes in the landscape, one thing remains true - success is what you make it.

My daughter has begged to join me on some of my hunts. And I have prudently declined. Understand that she is adept at shooting, capable of following instruction, and willing to patiently wait. But she hasn't prepared. 

Like many things in life, she throws herself into things - head first and full tilt. This can be a blessing. Sometimes the courage and the drive make all the difference in accomplishing what goal you set to complete. But hunting is more about preparation. And reflection.

I've spent many hours reflecting about my hunting practices, strategies, equipment, skills, and more. Sometimes I reflect in the middle of the woods, hanging on the side of tree listening to the sounds of nature sing about me. Sometimes it's as I inventory my gear or work on my equipment. 

But the goal, the focus is always the same - where can I do better? Where did I come up short and what do I need to get that next tag filled?

My daughter is beautifully artistic. Passionate, she delves into things with oodles of energy. But often she becomes frustrated or feels defeated because her idea of completion, her picture of the final outcome doesn't match up with reality. She has taken to painting, but like any person fresh into a new craft, the skills are blunt and unwieldy. As she presses on, her hands become more controlled, her bearing more confident and the results only get better with each stroke. 

Hunting is just the same. No hunter should ever consider themselves perfect in shooting, in stalking, or any other skill that takes time and repetition to master. There are dozens of professional hunters who have testified to their mistakes, their failures. Sometimes these stem from arrogance, sometimes from lack of preparation. And sometimes, through no fault of their own.

She recently decided to start whittling. After watching several introductory videos on carving a simple figure from a block of basswood, she jumped into the exercise, fired up and buzzing with excitement. 

The challenge she faces is her perspective on the end result. Thinking that a few minutes slicing away curls of wood from a block with result is a perfect representation of a woodland animal stood in stark contrast to the rough shape that sort of looked like the silhouette of her imagination. 

And so she collapses. Defeated, angry and hopeless. 

The first thing I tell her is "breathe." Just breathe. Let the weight of it out and away. To me this is no different than when I've put the sight over the vitals of my target. With everything lined up and ready to go, holding my breath will only result in poor shot. I need to breathe. Let out the adrenaline and excitement. Focus on the moment, the trigger or string, the sight, the graceful movement of the game before me. Breathe and shoot. If I've done everything as I should, as I practiced and prepared for, I shouldn't have to go far to collect my harvest. But if I hold my breath and my vision starts to cloud, my hands tremble, my heart races and my lungs burn, I'll miss my mark. 

Hunting isn't about the taking of game. That's a goal, yes. But hunting is an active word. The connotation is movement, progress. That's where my daughter struggles.

The second thing I tell her is "you are not the sum of your failures." I don't know where I heard that, but it's stuck with me. It's so easy to condemn ourselves because of poor choices or mistakes. The moment we define ourselves as failure, we've lost. All of it. Our hope blinks out, our passion dies and our heart becomes too heavy with defeat to press on. And each subsequent trial becomes a practice in enduring pain.

I've missed my share of deer. And I've had a couple shots that landed in poorly placed locations leaving me with an empty tag and a wounded deer wandering until it doesn't. I'm not proud of those moments. And I hurts to know I could have avoided it if I did ____. Mostly, if I would have just breathed. 

I didn't stop hunting after I blew my first shot, or second, or third, or.... I pressed on. Checked myself. Practiced the skills. Prepared best I could so next time I would have the advantage. 

This year may be the year she goes out with me. But first, she'll need to learn to breathe. And then, learn that missing the mark doesn't make you a failure - it provides the opportunity reflect and to grow, mature. 

She continues to paint and she's gotten better at not being so hard on herself. She's learning to enjoy the process of growing. And it's inevitable. Growth takes time. It is a process and one that can't be circumvented or ignored. 

Empty Buckets

 

A year ago today I received an enigmatic message from my sister - Call me when you get home. Not before.

I didn't listen. She left the message in the middle of my shift and curiosity was creeping hard. Thoughts of my mom, my nephews, her, her husband - all several states away - flitted through my mind all afternoon.

Jumping in my car I headed out, dialing her number even as I put the key into the ignition. 

I was two blocks down the road when she sternly told me to call when I got home. Stubbornness set it and I refused to hang up, electing to pull off into a church parking lot just down the road. 

Her pronouncement was visceral - a sledge hammer to my chest, a Louisville slugger to the gut.

My mom was ok. And the boys too. She and her husband just returned from their anniversary trip running snowsleds up North.

My world shook. No - shattered. I could barely breathe as she wept in my ear. The phone slipped form my clenching fists and I scrambled to pick it back up. 

No. NO. I just talked with him this morning. He sent me a text before lunch!

She waited with me to pull myself together. An eternity. 

The only other time I had felt this was years before when my mom called me at work. My father had passed and... I finished out the day doing mindless work, focusing on the itty bitty pieces of my job rather than giving in to pain, the black. 

After an immeasurable time, I steeled myself. Holding everything like a solider hugging a grenade about to explode. 

I don't remember getting home. I remember rain drops on the windshield, maybe tears, and darkness. It was late evening and the sun had already set behind what looked like piles of ash. 

Pulling into the drive, I wheeled the car to a stop, as usual. And waited. My knees shook so I could barely stand. 

Breath after deep labored breath until the tremors eased. I didn't dare close my eyes. Didn't dare look at my phone. 

I fumbled through the lock, pushed open the door, still holding it together.

My wife and kids sat along the couch, reading, playing. One look from her and the question - what's wrong? and the floor hit me hard in the knees. 

Everything, I wanted to scream. I tried, tried hard but choked, choked on the grief. I was barely able to mumble out the words.

My bucket list is short. On it are a handful of things. Hunting big horns out West is on that list. Visiting Ireland with my wife like we hoped we could when we were first married. Not many things.

But hunting with my brother was on that list. Him and I stalking through the woods like we did when we were kids, but with real purpose and real rewards. I reside in the midWest and he midAtlantic. Once a year we would meet with my uncle, more a big brother than an uncle, and camp. Sometimes roughing it, sometimes "glaming" it, perusing the sights of Kentucky and Tennessee. 

We all have an admiration for guns. And maybe my love of hunting was flowing over to him. We discussed it on multiple occasions and at one point our annual trip was leaning in that direction but life doesn't always cooperate.

Still, it's been a full year and while the initial anguish has dulled, the agony is arthritic. It will be year since his memorial in a week or so. And that will be a bitter-sweet memory. 

Out of tragedy some of the most beautiful things grow. I lost one brother and gained two more through my nephews-in-law. We've held to keeping in touch, although sometimes it seems ages before we catch up. But I know they are there - a call, a text. A thought apart - they'll get it. We kept that tradition of camping but as our lives continue to move forward and families do what they ought - grow - we have to adjust to the new. 

But one thing is certain, my bucket is a little emptier now, a little lighter. Maybe I could change that, add something new. But for now, I can't bring myself to fill that empty space. Wounds heal with time they say. But no wound is as deep as the loss of kin. And nothing you pack it with will ever let you forget. 

He'll never read this as I write it on this earth. But that's ok. He doesn't need to. It's enough. 

It is enough. 

Shedding The Past

The season is well over. Temperatures in this part of the country have dipped sub zero at times and even the most stubborn leaves have left the branches. And soon, antlers will be falling as well. 

I have never hunted antler sheds. The closest I have come is stumbling over one three tined antler in the mountains of Montana in the middle of a cloudless, moon lit night. Truth is, I almost left it where it laid, believing it to be a weathered branch rather than the part of the crown of some small buck the year before.

This year I decided to set out a shed trap. A humane and passive attempt to catch antlers as bucks come to get some nourishment in the dead of winter. I have no idea if I'll be successful. But perhaps I'll have something to show for it.

When I first mentioned the idea to my wife, she stood perplexed. "Why would you want old antlers? What would you do with them?" To sportsman, antlers are the gold plating on the trophy. Rarely are does mounted unless paired with a buck, or in more lavish examples, taxidermied herds such as one might find on display at Bass Pro Shops or Cabela's. Besides, the creative outdoorsman will find no end of uses for sheds, even if they are just strewn about their domicile as decorations. 

I still have the one from Montana. I can't quite express the reason why. Maybe it ties me to the memories of that summer working at a riding ranch high in the mountains or because it was such a superb find, like finding a gleaming trinket on the sea shore. Why do people collect sea glass or other odd things that wash ashore? Perhaps for the same unspoken reason.

But there's something to the shedding of antlers. Antlers serve a purpose for deer, certainly. They are weapons of war and defense. They are signatures of status. And they are unique. Every year they grow different than the year before. While the deer may not have any further need when they detach, they are still a momento of the previous season, a lost badge of maturity. 

People aren't much different even though they don't grow antlers. We have achievements that we are proud of in the moment, but then we move on. We grow out of old habits and into new forms, develop skills and adapt to new environments and situations where those skills may not apply. 

Finding sheds is tangible reminiscence, a way to recall the previous season when the hunt is over. And an offering for the future. I don't mean this to be some spiritual demonstration, but metaphor. Shedding the past as we move into the future. 

Don't get me wrong, the past is important. It's a journal of ourselves - our failures, successes, achievements and struggles. But, as I've told my children many times and will continue to tell them, we are not our past. Good or bad. We are present. Though the choices we make certainly impact our future path, that path should not be defined solely on our past. 

Deer don't lose their antlers and whisper themselves "oh well, should've been bigger. Should've bred more does. Should've pushed those other bucks out." Neither do they gloat as their crown falls loose saying "how mighty I was! I was a stud. This heard is Mine and Mine alone."

Whether they were the dominate buck siring the next generation of giants or the runt barely able to sense the spikes sticking out, they live oblivious of the past rut or even the past year. 

We humans have the benefit and struggle of knowing our past and choosing our future. Something deer don't. But that doesn't mean we can't learn something from this.

Recently I took a trip through LinkedIn. In a way I've come full circle from where I was a few years ago. On track with a career but in a totally different industry. Many of my old contacts have moved into other areas or roles as well. A few are still going strong in the same position or with the same companies as when I left their circle. These might be considered sheds. Those moments I can look back and reflect on but can't bring with me. Just as a buck doesn't wear their crown of horn perpetually. 

So what to do with these "sheds"? Get lost in the 'what ifs' and 'how comes' that could so easily distract us from the future? Or recognize them as what they are, marks of a season now past. 

2020 itself is a year of sheds. Many of them looked back upon with disdain, fear, and grief. And in the midst of them there are those of hope, love, and new beginnings. This is the cycle of the stag. He grows his crown to fight the battle of the season and when the season ends, readies himself for the coming year of unknowns. 

I read recently about a man who had everything he thought he'd need; all his ducks in a row. An amazing fianceé, options for placement at a prestigious institution, awards, the works. One night he was troubled by a dream that everything came to fruition - an internationally renown award, a houseful of cheery children, a supportive and lovely wife, regal house with two high status automobiles. For what? The dream drove home an emptiness. There was nothing more if he stayed the course. Fame, money, security. To what end? There was no meaning in them. So he shed everything. Left behind it all to pursue something with meaning, something worth striving for that would last.

Bucks will soon be loosing their antlers and foraging for survival. They haven't much else to do. No meaning to their lives but to eat, sleep, survive, breed, and repeat. But as a hunter, I recognize the fight for dominance in their season. I sympathize with their need to survive. Although my life is much more than that, I get the drive to continue on. 

I don't think bucks mourn the loss of their antlers. We shouldn't mourn the past. It is what was. A memory. The hope is next year the tines will be longer, the shafts hefty and the lessons learned etched in our memory so we can make the most of present situations. 

Memories are worth keeping though. Like the shed I still hold onto from that night hiking the sage and pines of the mountain side. That summer was as brutal as it was remarkable. And not one I'm likely to forget though it's some 20 years past. My life has change in marvelous ways, with great peaks and vales along the way. 

Sheds are something we should be willing to lose. But not just because they served their purpose, but because we're changing, growing. Next year, next season, even next week might be something different, life changing or at the very least, memorable. It's ok to go 'hunt' for those things, but only with the knowledge that those moments can't be reclaimed. Recalling the hurts and the joys, the losses and the wins is a good thing when looked upon in a healthy manner. 

An old sitcom was fodder for all sorts of jokes and remarks as one of the characters was middle aged father who sold shoes but always tried to live off the accomplishments of his youth as star quarterback in high school. He tried to drag the glory days of football with him into every facet of life and failed miserably at every turn, making him the brunt of jokes and derision. While it was all meant to be comedic, the writers drew from real life situations. How many times have people identified themselves as the person who accomplished (fill in the blank) yet continue to operate in a here-&-now devoid of any connection or meaning to the past accomplishment?

I am not opposed to taxidermy. The craft requires a fundamental understanding of biology as well as in innate respected for the animal on the table. A good taxidermist is able to take the lifeless form of a harvest, whether fowl, fish or mammal, and breathe the semblance of life back into the creature. Once complete and on display, it becomes a static reminder of the challenge that yielded the displayed result. But I have yet to meet a hunter or fisherman who would be fully satisfied just the one experience. It is not the win, it is not the trophy, that makes the hunter hunt or the fisherman fish. It is the process, the challenge of pitting oneself against a slew of variables and obstacles. Certainly there are less violent pursuits that challenge the participant - like golf.  But the prize is not in the taking. Any I would challenge any hunter who solely hunts for the prize - you've lost the plot. 

The prize is the hunt. Whether failed because you forgot to de-sent or you squeaked the stand trying to keep your muscles from freezing up as you sit like a statue for hours on end. Or whether it was a dead drop shot that played out perfectly as hoped because all the things were just right; the wind, the temperature, sighting in, the release... 

It's for this reason that I don't hunt for trophies. Every hunt is worth it. Rain or shine, blanketing snow or humid breezes. Those are just the fields of play. And if I don't catch a glimpse of a brown fur or hear the rousing sounds of creeping prey, there's still the practice of sitting, waiting, and remembering - and hunting for sheds in my memories.