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. 

Pack In Pack Out

 I had been trailing the small herd for nearly a week. The lead doe slipping between the trees at the edge of the shooting lane, obscuring her vitals every few steps and never stopping long enough to draw a clear bead. I had seen her weeks prior on my cameras, a matriarch leading her small band of younger does: yearlings and two fawns. Six in all. 

I watched the line drawn by the deer making their way from thick cover to a grazing area just shy of 80 yards from where I set my stand. This stand has been my primary platform for harvesting deer over the last couple of years. Most of them taken from or near the very tree I hung from that day. 

The lead doe was canny, smart. Well aware of the dangers lurking nearby, she kept herself alert and light of step. Her entourage was less keen to presence of predators, especially the fawns, frolicking from time to time in the open area at the bottom of the hill, within clear range of my rifle. 

Perhaps something tipped her off; the hushed squeak of my boots on the foot rest or a whiff of my scent that I covered as best I could. 

No one knows what they sense, but when they do, they rarely stay put. 

Off she went, a few quick steps and she was in the thickets at the far edge of the clearing... and 15 yards from a fence row I knew they frequently crossed. Behind her some of the older does caught the cue and started after while the fawns, distracted by their games, moved further away. 

The last opportunity was one older doe that seemed torn between leaving the fawns and staying put. She may have been a young mother, or just inexperienced at how to react to ensure the safety of her and the rest of the group. 

But her indecision cost her. With a careful pull, I let loose a round, bead fixed on the vitals at 85 yards. 

She vertical leap was awkward, a clean hit. But her reflexes took her quickly into the thickets and beyond the fence row. I tracked her in the waning hours of light. The blood thick and red, marking the trail like road signs. In no rush, I made my way along the path, alert to any possibility there was another doe nearby or that she hadn't yet expired, all the way to the fence row. There the trail ended. Neither to the north or south along the row or to the east across the wide pasture. It simply vanished. 

At this point, doubts and second thoughts begin to swarm. But the reality was, I hadn't gain permission to be on the property where the trail seemed to lead. 

She was lost.

Coyotes were on the cameras for the next three days, moving along the blood trail. My suspicions all but confirmed that she was now fodder for lesser predators. 

When hunting, you can pack in almost anything you need. From weapons to safety equipment to furniture, yes furniture. Today's hunter can choose to be as minimalist or indulgent as they choose with what they bring. But the goal is always the same, to pack out with a suitable and ethical harvest, whether buck or doe. 

We don't have that luxury in life. We can't choose what we bring into the hunt when we are born and when we leave this earth, we leave it all behind - body included. 

But regrets and guilt are the greatest weights a person can carry through life. The "should'ves, could'ves, would'ves" can be crushing. The "why did or didn't I's" can be overwhelming.

My brother passed a few weeks past. He packed out. Permanently. But when that time comes, there is no "leave no trace" option. He left a wide and long mark on his community and family. Through his passing I was united with family I never knew I truly had. We came together and shared in the memories that his life shaped in those around him. Like the blood trail, we marveled at all the points along the way where he gave of himself for others. And like that doe, he crossed a boundary we can't cross...not yet. 

The doe fed scavengers and predators alike, all because of the shot I made. Right or wrong, I took the shot and I lost the deer. I can choose to regret the pull of the trigger or the guilt of losing her to elements beyond my control. Regardless, in life we can only pack in what we're given, but we can gain even more during the journey. 

This where the boot meets the trail. he chose to go through life giving what could be given. He wasn't trying to be noticed, but he wasn't living in stealth mode. He recognized choices have consequences and I'm certain he was aware of how final those consequences could be as his heart failed to continue to beat. 

What he packed in was genuine. Genuine love and compassion. Charisma was never far from him, but it wasn't his identity. He never hung his hat on what he could accomplish with a roguish smile or witty turn of phrase. In this he recognized the fleeting value of such things. What mattered was legacy. 

What he packed out was a legacy that reached hundreds and drew us all together in a most unexpected way. Certainly his absence is noticed, felt daily. And yet through his passing many have been fed with inspiration, with encouragement even in the wake of grief and loss.

There will be a time to cross that boundary and we most likely won't have a say in it. It will simply stand before us like that fence row and then we'll find ourselves on the other side. May our legacy be more than the sum of our regrets, may it be more than guilt. 

Predator or Prey

Prey and predator have existed for millennia. And so it is no surprise that man has witnessed and participated in the hunt, recording the outcomes in poems and epic stories.

For every form of prey, there is a master predator. And man has tried to master them all. Sometimes with success. Other times at great pain and peril.

Even for those who abhor the idea of taking the life of another creature, the idea of overcoming the edge of death’s sickle still echoes in the human heart. Wolves at the door and she holds them at bay with nothing more than a firebrand while he faces down the great brown giant, unleashing a single shot to the heart. Countless stories tell the tale of the hunter and the hunted. And we are not always who we think we are.

For nearly a decade I have walked woods, public and private. I’ve missed my mark through failures to prepare or practice and through the mysterious unknowns that seem to rob of the great bounty for which I hunt. And I have brought home more than I could have hoped for. More than my family could keep.

To be clear, I am exceedingly grateful for every harvest. Every one. And whether or not you agree with my pursuits and successes, I hunt not for sport or for trophies. Each take is provision. They feed my family and others. And I process every one. A responsibility I esteem and believe every hunter should be capable of.

Whether stalking, in a blind, or sitting suspended in the air or on the cold earth, countless treasures have been stored in my memory. The first time I saw hawk grab its meal out the tall grass a few yards from where I sat to a rafter of turkeys the flew overhead like a gust of black wind. Or the elation of dropping my first deer only to feel it wash away as the reality I didn’t know what to do next set in.
Memories of frigid hours witnessing nothing more than blowing snow and gray skies to unseasonably  warm December days that provoked squirrels to incessant barking on branches mere feet from my station.

Over the course of these posts, I hope to break down the lessons learned and share the majesty of the more memorable experiences. Maybe walking through the pain and failures and weaving back to the valuable insights gained from all those hours invested will spark some revelation in your own hunt for life.