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. 

The Greatest Catch

Originally from New York, I’ve lived in a few different states. For a spell, I lived near the Chesapeake with some roommates from out West. One beautiful weekend, the idea developed that we should go crab fishing on the bay. None of us had ever fished for crabs but somehow we came into the possession of some traps and a lead on a good place to round some up..

We set ourselves on a set of piers and tossed the bait-laden traps into the briny water. The sun was warm, the breeze refreshing and the company golden. All we had to do was wait. Unfortunately, the few crabs skittering around the sandy floor of the bay where we were showed little interest in the traps or the vittles they contained. So we chose to try our hand at “angling,” bobbing weighted fishing line with morsels of fish to lure the wary crabs into grabbing hold.

It was in the midst of this impromptu “fishing” that one of my roommates asked to borrow my pocket  knife to trim his line. Without hesitation I pulled the Uncle Henry stockman from my pocket and proffered the knife. No sooner did he cut the line than I heard a plunk a few feet below and beside me.

My roommate’s response was a mix of embarrassment, hopelessness, apathy and condolence. I could just make out the fading shimmer of the open blade as is passed into the murkiness near the sea floor some 15 feet below.

“Um, I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish ambivalence. Under normal circumstances, this would be water off a duck’s back. After all, I owned nearly a dozen assorted knives. Some pocket, some belt. Some cheap bargain deals and others valuable either monetarily or for some sentimental reason.
The latter was front and center cause for my dismay.

I dropped what I was holding onto the concrete pier and trekked off to my ‘86 Ranger, shouting over my shoulder “Don’t you move!” with all the authority I could summon. Shocked by my demand, he held fast while I began scouring for something to retrieve the old knife. The nets we brought were only a few feet long and we had nothing to attach them to to reach the depth where the knife rested. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tore through the cab of my little pickup, mentally cobbling  together everyday objects, MacGyver-like, to rescue the treasure I feared would be carried off by crabs or the tide.

Leaning heavy on the open door under a brilliant and hot Maryland sun, I just about gave up when I realized where my eyes were staring - there in the door of my truck resided a large magnet in the form of a speaker. Sure, ripping out the speaker would mean no more stereo experience but then again, the amplifier had blown months ago so I had grown accustomed to driving around tunes free.

While the roommate who lost the knife to the water stood affixed in the same place he had been when the knife left his hand, my other roommate had abandoned his crabbing exploits to check on me.

“It’s just a knife, man.” His consolation fell on deaf ears.

“Do we have any rope? Nothing thick. Just big enough to tie this speaker off to?”  I asked.

By now, the intensity of a pursuit was questioned as either some form of temporary insanity or that they misjudged the value of the knife patiently waiting for retrieval. Ignoring the questioning looks of my friends, I yanked the cover off the speaker and used a rusty screw driver that had long rolled around the floor boards of my truck. Once I backed the retaining screws out of their holes, I ripped loose the speaker wires, grabbed the thin nylon rope my roommate had found, and made a makeshift fishing magnet (long before I knew that was a real thing).

I returned to my other roommate’s position at a sprint and asked him, forcefully, to point to where he dropped it. I ignored their doubt filled glances and began carefully lowering the magnet. Bobbing it ever so slowly in contiguous circles, I kept fishing for the old stockman, praying, hoping I would hit proverbial pay dirt.

After what seemed ages, while my friends began packing away the gear and hauling up pitifully empty buckets, I finally happened upon my target. Pulling the magnet clear of the bay and over dry land, the gleam of sharp steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Sure enough, with a grunt of victory and smile of relief, there stuck to the speaker’s driver was the knife.

So we didn’t succeed in catching enough crabs for dinner, nor did what we catch survive the trip home in a single bucket of warm water. Dinner was then to be takeout. But I had my knife.

Why all this about a knife? After all, this was a “fishing trip”, not hunting. There was no game to be had, no trees or wide open places. No peaceful hours in the woods. But there was the thrill of the hunt and the greater thrill of the “catch”.

The knife is a vintage stockman by Uncle Henry. $20 can get you a fair copy today. But a new one wouldn’t have the connection. See, this knife was carried in my grandfather’s pocket for years. He did all sorts of things with it I’m certain, just as my father did when it was gifted to him. And just as I do once it was handed to me. I have very few things that belonged to my father’s father. And only a few more that also belonged to my dad.

There are hunters who brag and boast about the Boonies they drop and the fortunes they pay to show them off to anyone who sits still long enough to hear about their victorious exploit. And there are hunters (and fisherman!) who understand sometimes it’s not the size or even type of game that makes the hunt, it’s the hunt itself. The trophy is more often the story and the emotions it evokes over that of the “ value” of the harvest. My first deer was a button buck taken with a muzzleloader after one of the first snows of winter. He wasn’t much. But I can tell where I was sitting, which way he came and where he ran and dropped after I pulled the trigger. I can tell you who I called to lend me a hand dressing the deer and how unprepared I was. I can tell you where I aimed and how true my shot was. And more.

The hunt is what draws us. Not always the game. Like the story of the pearl of great price, the moral isn’t is the getting of the pearl, it’s what the man went through to get it, the hunt if you will.

One day I will pass on this knife to one of my children. And be sure, I will tell the story of how I went fishing for a knife and what it cost and why it was worth it. And hopefully they’ll think twice about lending it to someone over open water!