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. 

 

 

Arrow Paradox

 

When an arrow leaves the string in a forward direction, it flexes side to side. In slow motion, it almost appears as if the arrow is snaking its way towards the target. This is called the "archer's paradox."

As stated by Wikipedia: it is the "phenomenon of an arrow traveling in the direction it is pointed at full draw, when it seems that the arrow would have to pass through the starting position it was in before being drawn, where it was pointed to the side of the target."

Some bow makers have even gone to the extent to modify the riser of the bow to have a window directly in line with the arrow so as to limit, if not eliminate this paradox. 

Keep in mind, one aspect of this paradox is the flexing of the arrow's shaft. This, no matter the style of bow (excluding air bows) will still result in some flexing. The softer the shaft (the spine) and the greater the poundage of the bow, the greater that flexing will be. 

Yet for millennia, archer's have compensated. Regardless of the existence of the paradox, archer's have perfected their skills to compensate for this mysterious factor. 

Recently, as I prepare for opening day of archery season, I was studying arrow building and a YouTuber coined a phrase that intrigued me - impact paradox. 

To paraphrase, his theory is that an arrow traveling at speed will, upon impact with a target medium, flex much in the same way as when it released from the string due to the force exerted upon impact and the energy dissipated through the remainder of the arrow, reducing the effective penetration of said arrow.

My whole life I have been raised with the belief that we are born with purpose. Like an arrow fired from a bow we are on a journey to a target, a target we may not know or see, but are propelled toward nonetheless. The force of our sending may seem great or insignificant, but much of that may be effected by our character, our "spine" as it were.

Some of us are made of firmer stuff. Some have been honed and sharpened to be the best we can, much like Olympic athletes. The challenge is that unlike those who aspire to win precious metals, many of us are just trying to get there - wherever there is.

The idea of impact paradox is fascinating because unlike the archer's paradox, it has less to do with flight and more to due with the results of being sent. In life, we can practice to be precise, for our aim to be as true as we can make it. But ultimately is it not about how we are propelled so much as how, and where, we hit the target. 

In hunting, vitals are the only suitable target to aim for. Ethical hunting requires hunters to be precise and effective, hitting those points that result in the quickest and pain-less expiration as possible. If the arrow flies true, irrespective of the paradox, and hits its mark but suffers energy dissipation, the result may be a wounded and suffering animal. One never able to be harvested. 

So the build of the arrow then becomes crucial. And this is where understanding both paradoxes are important. There are several sections in arrow building that become essential: points, nocks, inserts, shaft, and fletching. And of those sections weight, length, quantity, form, installation all can impact the performance. No longer should it be acceptable to simply buy a set of pre-made arrows and points and shoot until you are "tuned" to the bow and able to hit your mark. Now it is about tuning the arrow, then skill. 

We can't always decide our destination. But we can hone our effectiveness to do what we need to do when we get there. In another post I talked about the Secret of Three. Where these cross is the build of the arrow. The point, the shaft, and the fletchings. Consider a moment the point is hope, the faith is faith and the fletchings are love. When our hope is strong, weighty and to the point, faith becomes integral, riding that sharpened tip towards its objective. With love, love of life, family, friends, God, the arrow stays on course, propelled to hit the mark. Hope is that thing that makes all the difference. Our faith may flex as we chase our mark. And love helps keep us on track. But without that sharp point, heavy with hope, we may just bounce right off the target.

You can have the strongest, stiffest faith and perfectly aligned and shaped love, but without the point, there's not much to be had. Hope isn't the thing that should drive us, it's the thing that should enable us to land our target. 

This is no different in hunting. My hope isn't that the bullet or arrow makes its way to the deer's vitals, it's that once it's there, it is severe and complete in its delivery. The impact paradox suggests that the target can affect the effectiveness of the arrow (or even bullet). A shoulder blade, a rib, or just heavy muscle can alter the impact. But weight your hope. Faith is good. Love necessary. But hope, that's the thing that drives everything home. With a proper build, there's no chasing the trophy - it's assured. 

Now I could get philosophical about all of this. But the importance should be evident. Life messes with our aim. That's where skill comes in. Our environment and circumstances (think rain and branches) can seem like hard obstacles to overcome. But it's been said - run the race to win, doing everything you can to ensure you finish the race. This is arrow building. Shooting for hours and hours to develop reflexes keeps you ready for the hunt. But having done everything, including the right arrow, will determine if you take the deer or wander through the thick looking for blood trails.  

The Secret of Three

 The holidays are upon us and for many that means time in the woods searching for a proper harvest of venison. I am no exception to this. For the past several years I have had the opportunity to participate in state park reduction hunts either at the early end or late end of our rifle season. I've done it all from ground sitting, stalking, and using a climber to get a better view and hopefully opportunities. 

Every year has been a bust. Not to be dissuaded, I took to the wonder of another state park again this year. And this time around it was a day of firsts: first harvest on a reduction hunt, first deer taken with a new rifle (350 Legend Savage Axis), and first deer taken using a tree saddle. Three firsts!

As this is the time of Thanksgiving, I am exceptionally grateful for these. Yet on the heels of this incredible hunt my family was assailed by difficult news. My wife, who has had several mysterious health issues over the last few years received an unwelcome and potentially devastating diagnosis. By all rights this should give us reason to fret, to fear, and to be consumed by the "what ifs" that often plague these  determinations. 

Hope can be a fragile thing. But there's an interesting thing about hope. There is a proverb that says "a strand of three cords is not easily broken." Years ago I set out to investigate the relationship between hope, faith, and love. Let me be clear - I'm not talking romantic love, nor am I talking wispy faith in the form of wishful thinking. I speak of concrete, though intangible, terms. 

These three are tied together, inextricably so. Like an archer with a bow and arrow. The arrow cannot fly without the bow and the bow cannot shoot without the archer. Hope is the arrow, faith is the bow, and love is the archer. No, forget that silly cartoon image of cupid with puffy little cheeks floating on a cloud. Think instead the warrior whose aim determines the prize, the reward, the trophy, the harvest. Hope is propelled by faith. Faith gets its focus from the archer and the archer determines the target. 

This is the secret of three. 

No bow and an arrow is nothing more than a spindly stick. No arrow and the bow is just a stick taught with string. No archer and the two others, filled with potential, will sit idly for all time.

I could take this further - the arrow is point, shaft and fletchings. The bow is limbs, riser and string. The archer is mind, body and spirit. Each need the three components to do what they do best. A bow is useless with out string or limbs or riser. An arrow cannot be aimed or hit effectively without fletchings or point. Never mind the foolishness of shooting an arrow without a shaft.

This is true for the archer. You. Me. Anyone. If we have no body, how could we hold the bow, the arrow? If no mind, how could we draw or aim or shoot? But what of spirit? This is like the force of Love. The spirit of the hunt is like this force. It's the motivation, the drive, the energy that sends us scampering through the trees in search of that harvest of plenty. 

In the wake of dire news, that energy can either dissipate like air from a leaky ballon or ignite a passion to seek answers. 

The park hunt was weeks ago, and while I hit the woods several times since, I saw nor heard any deer. Rarely have I had such a long spell without at least seeing or hearing something of a deer. But this last time, as I sat for hours shivering in the wind as a cold front moved in, I felt my hope begin to wane. It was in this moment that I pondered the Three. To saddle hunt you need a rope, a harness and a good tree. Even a leaning stand needs the stand, the tree and a good tether to hold it in place. To shoot a deer with a rifle you need the gun, the ammo and hunter - just like the archer. And the ammo is itself three - bullet, powder, casing. 

By now you might be weary of this analogy. I'll stay the course. 

A few years ago, I went through a season of what I call "smooth seas." Everything was routine, typical, uneventful. Even as I became complacent there was this idea that something was on the horizon. Little did I know a storm was brewing. As a manager of a small central department to the company I worked for, I was prone to posting words of encouragement, inspiration and motivation to keep morale moving on an upward trend. One such quote struck me:

"Smooth seas never made a skilled sailor." 

I'm not sure exactly who coined that phrase, but I do wonder if they truly understood what they were saying. I grew up on the water. Sailing was familiar to me and I have memories of good and bad trips in all manner of boats. But this, this was different. A good sailor learns almost exclusively by experience. They can have all the knowledge in the world about sails, sheets, masts, rudders, and so forth and be just as likely to capsize as a youth inadvertently rocking over a canoe. 

 Life gets like this. Storms of unforeseen circumstances can blow in and shake our confidence, even try our mettle as when they company I worked nearly a decade for shuttered its doors. These are the seas we need to learn to sail, trim the sails, drive into the waves and fight the rudder. This is where we learn the skills needed to make it to a safe harbor, though battered and beaten we may be. In this the secret of the Three make all the difference. 

Love is the foundation. Most of us have a basic understanding of love. Loving our family, our friends, even our pets. But what does that look like in hard times? Love is pushing through the flotsam and jetsam of tragedy and hardship. It's the giving up of yourself to help or even rescue others. But without faith, without hope, love becomes empty motions. Its bailing water on a sinking ship. 

Faith is the thing that gets us moving. It's the belief that we'll make it through, one way or the other and maybe by a thread but make it nonetheless. It's the trust that something's gotta give, even if that something is ourselves. But that giving is what's tied to hope. 

One of my favorite songs has the line "We're all cast-aways in need of rope Hangin' on by the last threads of our hope"

Here is where empty hours in a treestand yield fruit. Here is where time in the crashing waves finds its anchor. Hope isn't the capstone on a pyramid of faith and love. Nor is it the strands that tie them together. Without faith, without love, hope is dreaming of better times. Instead, hope is the arrow. It's the thing that once focused and let loose flies to its mark. Certainly winds of change conflict its flight, but it will hit regardless. It's our hope that it hits where we aim, the bullseye at the other end of the field, the heart of the matter we're pursuing. 

Just as I'll continue to take to the woods in search of another bountiful harvest, I'll take to the circumstances and fight for answers, search for meaning, and push for more. This is how three cords are stronger than one. Like the rope I use to keep me safe and to climb for higher perspective, so do these aid me in give me the courage to work throw these hard times. 

Going Hot

Every person who has put a bead or crosshair on a potential target feels the “fever” – that adrenaline spike that leads to hyper focus through tunnel vision, hyper hearing, increased heart rate, etc.

This is an expected physical response. But it’s emotionally triggered.

As a hunter, the social euphemism “triggered” leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But I get it. I understand the usage and the meaning. 

Like the fight or flight response every biological creature deals with when presented with a perilous or unexpected situation, we humans face the same set of reactions when something proverbially raises our hackles. It’s that innate feeling of facing the unknown without being in control or able to determine the outcome in the blink of an eye. 

This same response is what can lead a deer to “jump the string” when bow hunting – that split second hop into the air the moment the string is released and begins to hum its way back to rest. 

I’ve watched people yell at officials, public figures, or complete strangers over a few choice words, regardless of the overall content of the message. These people were already “triggered”, at full draw, hammer cocked ready to unleash a volley of wrath at the first perceived instance of offense. And it usually ends up a mess; bruises and bloody noses if not worse.

Last year I took my first buck. A little four pointer, he certainly wasn’t what I was hoping for, especially after tracking a beautiful heavy six pointer on my cameras.

Prior to this hunt, I had been reading up the physiological response to shooting and self-defense. Whether targeting or being targeted, the response is identical. The difference is the predator/attacker expects it, plans for it. The prey, the victim is swallowed up in the surprise influx of chemicals and the unexpected psychological effects. But when the moment came there was a choice. 

Dusk was fast approaching, leaving about 20 minutes before sunset and less than an hour before the end of shooting time. I had been sitting in my prime stand, the one I have taken more deer in than any other spot. For hours nothing more than squirrels, chipmunks and flittering birds could be seen or heard. I was preparing to pack up, taking a quiet and quick inventory of my gear when there, at the edge of my periphery I glimpsed a rust-colored silhouette. 

Immediately my heart launched into my throat, my hearing tweaked to pick up every single amplified sound at once and filter them at light speed while my vision blurred and darkened around the edge as my pupils locked onto the target. My pulse rang like a thrumming of a freight train speeding down the track and my breath rasping in bursts as my brain finally made sense of what I was seeing. 

There he stood, browsing the leaves of an autumn olive shrub at the edge of the groomed path some 40 yards from where I sat. And he was meandering towards the foot of the tree I was fastened to - 30 yards. 20 yards. 10 yards. 5. Then he stopped and raised his nose, eyes locking on to my form. 

My rifle lay across my lap. After all, just minutes before I was planning on vacating, calling it quits for the day. All I could see was his eyes staring a hole in my mine. 

Then I remembered what I had been reading about the physical response of the fight or flight reflex. That it could be controlled, tempered. I could use it to my advantage rather than be handicapped by the flood of chemicals and the near-autonomous response they presented.

I measured my breathing, slowing it and listened as my heart rate began to fall from the high-rate thumping to a steady measured, although still speedy, rhythm. Keeping my eyes on his general form, I pushed my vision out wider, taking in the peripheral objects and cataloging them to my advantage or dismissing them as visual chatter. 

Curiously, he stepped forward toward the base of a large cherry-wood tree that stood some ten feet directly in front of my position. This may seem a poor choice, but it was strategic. Not only did the trunk of that tree provide suitable cover, but on the other side of that tree were several old, neglected farm implements and trucks that became overgrown with saplings, briars and scrub. A perfect place for rabbits and small critters, but an obstacle to anything larger. 

As the buck neared the far side of the tree, I recognized the opportunity that the tree created. With each step he gingerly took, passing the far side of the trunk, I gained a few seconds of invisibility. And I used each and every one. 

By the time he walked the few feet from one side to the other, I was able to raise my rifle to my shoulder and set to shoot. He was quartered away and slightly below me as I took aim at his vitals. Waiting for him to take one last step out of the brush he was passing through, I felt the trigger. Two more steps and I squeezed off a single round from my grandfather’s Winchester ’94 30-30. 

The four pointer ran about 45 yards before slamming into an old, rusted field wire fence at the property line. A picture-perfect take if you ask me. 

But what’s this to do with social commentary? Everything. From road rage to verbal abuse to escalated reactions, people have lost or forgotten the ability to take an emotional trigger and wind it down to something civilized. We, the general public, have developed a trigger mechanism based purely on the emotional content of what others say. And that trigger is personal offense.

My hunt could have gone very differently. I could have pulled up my rifle at the first glimpse of brown, firing a wild shot in his general direction and sending him off into the woods without another opportunity. I could have tried to pull the stock to my shoulder as he took another mouthful of leaves just yards from my stand and spooked him into running behind something that took away any future opportunity. 

There are any number of ways that could have gone. But it didn’t. All because someone took the time to explain my response was perfectly normal, but I didn’t have to be hobbled by it, a victim of my own chemical inclinations. 

Whether you’re an immense fan or major critic of the president, a celebrity, an ideology or worldview, take a breath. Literally, take a moment and think about breathing. Widen your vision to see more than just the narrow scope of the offense you perceive. Check your hearing and be sure there’s not something else at work. 

Because of the steps I took to think about my situation and the outcome, I was able to harvest my first buck, ever. Had I gone hot too soon, that buck might still be wandering around out there somewhere, a product of my failure.* And that’s what many people must live with – failure. Failure to control their temper. Failure to censor their own words. Failure to consider the consequences of their actions. 

I suppose you could say that the Four Rules of Firearm Safety apply to more than just firearms.

The entire purpose of those rules is to prevent unnecessary and accidental loss whether of life or property, and to promote conscious engagement.

Maybe Americans would be better off learning these rules as much as they learn how to drive or about sexual orientation. And if you find yourself triggered by that statement, please take a breath and read this article again. 

*Disclosure – There may be critics of the choice I made. Certainly, that smaller buck could’ve become a bigger better take the following year. However, this was the last day for rifle season and a prime opportunity. I haven’t ever, and most likely won’t, hunt for the trophy. I hunt to feed my family and others. Like it or not, meat in the freezer is more important than tines on a wall. 

Blazing Opportunities

When I started hunting years ago, I had neither the means nor the know-how to use a stand. 

Working in food service doesn't always equate to good money. By the time I scratched enough together to buy myself a hanging stand and some screw-ins, I had been hunt public land for a couple of years. And unsuccessfully at that. 

Keep in mind, this little slice of public land was a mere 300 acres, split fairly evenly between marsh and crop land with smattering of hardwoods between. This equated to about 80 acres of truly accessible hunting land with proper cover and given that is was the only public wildlife area in four counties, the attraction for a lot of in-and-out hunters was high. 

Knowing next to nothing about tree stand placement and etiquette, I hung my stand a mere 40 yards from another hunter's stand and about 30 yards from a second. As you can imagine, the ire I raised between these two was a palpable heat that made sitting my newly hung stand unbearable. So I did the courteous thing and moved my stand a little father in and away from the two with established claims and made due. 

For two more years I hung my stand out at that property, only hanging it at the first permissible moment the state allowed in the hopes to beat out the competition. 

To no advantage. 

The property was simply too crowded and pressured to hunt successfully. While the area yielded several dozen deer, antlered and antlerless alike, the ratio of deer to hunter was weighted too heavily on the hunters side to make it worthwhile. Between the immense amount of effort and competition with both seasoned ethical hunters and those willing to bend or even break the rules tipped the scales for me. 

Not long after, I was presented with a golden opportunity - a slice of private property with very little pressure, great habitat and a shorter drive (which meant more time and opportunities in the hunt!)

This property did come with one other hunter, a seasoned fellow who kept the back half of the property groomed with trails and several stands that he used off and on. After we crossed paths one fine autumn day, we worked out a schedule. He would hunt when I couldn't and vice-versa. He even offered the use of his stands so long as I kept him apprise of herd movements when we crossed paths every now and again.

The partnership worked out well and I learned the value of a good stand and even more importantly, proper location. Between his friendly advice and the use of his vantage points I took my first deer - ever. 

As time wore on, his situation changed and he vacated the property, taking every stand but one. The one he left behind was nearly forgotten and heavily neglected. On an overgrown fence row leaning against a tree slowly choked out by wild grape vines was one of those big box store economical ladder stands. The tree had grown over the now rotting straps holding up the ladder by way of a few young branches from neighboring box elders. The view was insufficient, the location difficult to get to and the stand no longer safe to ascend. 

When autumn was at its end and winter winds stripped the leaves from every branch, I took the opportunity to cut the stand free and relocate it. To date, it still sits in the same spot I set it up in after replacing all the straps and mending what needed. 

But a ladder stand has draw backs. They are not very portable for one. And they are limited in height. Some may feel this is of little significance if you find a prime location. But in my experience, deer aren't always keepers of routine. They are not always predictable. Especially when the landscape changes with the growth of vegetation, storm damage and lack of maintenance. 

Fast forward a couple years and my hunting partner registered us for a reserve hunt. Excitedly, he reported we had been drawn and we began to prepare - scout out the property, gear up and map out locations we felt would be most profitable. When the day came, he brought his brand new climbing stand while I had a Thermaseat. Yes, those round cushions that resembled a creme filled doughnut filled with the same stuffing you find in old bean bags. 

Needless to say, the hunt was an adventure. Though between the two of use, we only walked out of there with one little button buck that my partner dropped a little before midday the last day of the hunt.

His success lead me to start looking for a better way to get a better view, an advantage. The following year I was ready with my own climbing stand. But they have their drawbacks too: bulky, heavy and cumbersome to hook properly to a tree in the quiet dark of the early morning. 

In the years that followed, I used the climber regularly and only harvested one deer from it. Again, location is key and finding suitable trees can be a challenge. 

So when I came across a forum post about saddle hunting, I was inspired to find a better way. 

What's the point of all this? Trappings. One of the most memorable hunts was another reserve hunt that took place on a property that was bisected by old railroad tracks. I had done a good bit of scouting and found a nice tree to hole up in with my climber about 50 yards from the track and right near the main intersect of a heavily used run and a foot path. Gaining entrance to the woods an hour and half before sun up, I was set and ready to shoot well before it would be light enough to see anything. As time ticked on and the sun broke the horizon I saw a spot of orange through the branches slowly heading in my general direction. I knew it was another hunter, coming in late and tramping up the railroad track as a leisurely pace. 

The footpath near my stand bent in a soft curve to tee off the railroad track as I watched the bright orange resolve itself into the clomping form of heavyset hunter I could just make out the gray smoke of the cigarette he was greedily burning down. Right at the end of the footpath he stopped, unslung his shotgun and racked a round before dropping to the ground with a grunt. And there he sat, like an orange beacon fire smoking away at the base of an old gnarly maple. 

Frustrated that I could smell the cigarettes he kept smoking and that he took no effort to blend in, I turned by attention off along the run I had seen fresh tracks on the day before. No sooner did I turn my head than I heard the BOOM of his slug gun thundering down the track. Startled I looked back down the path through the mess of branches to see the fellow climb to his feet, sling his gun over his shoulder and head back down the path the way he came. 

A little while longer I heard the rumble of a Gator piloted by the glaring orange form of hunter followed by the familiar scent of cigarette smoke. The Gator motored down the track and shut off some 30 yards from the beginning of the foot path I sat suspended near. Within another 20 to 30 minutes, the Gator revved to life and trucked on down the path with the tell tale white of a deer's tail bouncing off the back of the vehicle. Sure enough, the man bagged a nice six point with little effort and virtually no preparation.

Now I am a huge believer in that preparation is not wasted time, but sometimes it's more about how you prepare rather than what you prepare. Nearly everything that man did flew in the face of what I thought was required for a successful hunt - he came in late, was noisy, absolutely no scent control (especially with the number of cigarettes he burned through) and no concern about his silhouette sticking out against the back drop of all that timber. But, he left with a trophy within an hour of sitting down and I plodded out empty handed after hours of patiently waiting. 

Since then, I've found that knowing where and when to be is almost more important than what you bring. 

So saddle hunting may be a bust this year. And it won't be without effort. But you be sure I will take the time to figure the where and when. 

In life we can get all the gear and gizmos in the world that promise us success. We can spend a fortune for the perfect tools, the best clothing, and even spend untold hours perfecting our skills. I'm not diminishing any of that. They certainly afford better chances and hopefully more ethical harvests.  

In the end, being where you need to be is where it's at. And that, that's something you can't buy and you can't make. It's something you have to learn and be aware of; constantly vigilant.

Opportunities for a better job can come from applying to the right company with the perfect resume. It can also come from a choice encounter with a guy at gas station chatting about the weather. Finding the right person to spend the rest of your life with can come from countless dates with countless people. Or it can come from some polite chit chat after bumping into someone at a cafe. Take stock in every opportunity. Which, for those like me who prefer the company of trees, birds and squirrels while seated 15 feet in the air to the bustling of city streets or the clamor of revelers at the local watering hole that may be a challenge. But let it challenge. Those are the moments when you just might land that Booner you've been hoping for.