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. 

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. 

Sign Posting

 This summer has been unusual to say the least. While the weather ran comfortable through summer, it's pushed on into late fall here in the Midwest. Indian Summer at its' longest. 

Then there's the global calamity called COVID. Indiana has suffered little in comparison to some states. The economy, despite the media-mongers pervasive declarations to the contrary, is revving strong. 

And deer hunting, I suspect, will prove to be a record year. Pair the mild winter of 2019 and summer stretching well in to November of 2020, there certainly is abundant opportunity to harvest a worthy buck and a meat doe or two. 

Oddly enough, while my trail cameras have recorded constant and consistent movement across the property I hunt, the signs are lacking. If I didn't know better I would think this year would fall short of even a single buck sighting. The sign posts just haven't been there. 

Sure, there's a rub or two. Old and far apart. And scrapes? Well, the mock scrape I used in prior years that typically roused at least a response from the littler bucks has been completely ignored. 

The cameras hold the proof that the rut has started, but where are the other tell tale signs of activity?

In a way, the world we live in under the shroud of this viral crisis is much like this year's deer sign. One could scout the paths thinking deer movement at an all time low. They could sign the scrapes, weeks old, collecting the newly falling leaves of autumn. They could ponder on the sparse and weathered rubs here and there with no real connection to the usual pre-rut movements. Just like one could look at record job numbers, stock markets highs, and revitalized consumerism and think, but we're in a pandemic? 

The sign posts of an economy roaring back to life after months sitting patiently idle should be a tell tale sign of a better tomorrow. The signs of lower unemployment and increased activity across all markets should be a sign the best is on it's way. The "trail cameras" recording what is happening in America show movement that isn't witnessed when and where we think it should be. 

Instead we read about riots, looting, and deadly confrontations. We read scandal and hoodwinking at the highest levels and grandest scales.  These are the old, dry and dusty scrapes and rubs that "they" want us to see. Resignation wielded like a vaccine so we don't take to the stand and look for this year's Boonie. 

My hunting partner and close friend recently won the lottery for elk hunting in Montana. He and his son took an extended trip to Big Sky Country to see if in their noble pursuit of antlered kings they could bring home a season's worth of meat in a single hunt. 

As he passionately retold the experiences they had, he threw in a single comment that caught me off guard.

"Out there are some of the laziest hunters I've ever seen.* They sit in their trucks and drive until they see something, then they jump out and take a shot."

Both he and I are like many hunters in the Midwest; we scout for the best location to throw up a stand or two (or three!) and then we sit there. Repeatedly. But in the midst of the sitting, there's also the midseason scouting and stalking. The "step and scan" as I call it. In know the private land I'm on. I've done my homework, set my positions, and know when, where, and how to slip in and slip out for a chance at dropping one. But that's not always a guarantee. Sometimes, as the season pushes on, other land may yield better results. And to get there means stalking in and stalking out. 

I don't think his comment was so much on the "work ethic" of Montana hunters as it was they resigned themselves to the path of least resistance. Staying toasting in the cab of a 4X4 pickup while driving and spotting requires a lot less effort and energy then tracking a bull elk through feet of snow in the hopes of actually sighting one and getting the window to take the shot. 

He did not bag an elk on that trip, but he didn't leave empty handed. He and his son both came home with good sized muleys. They chose not to settle for the heater in the truck, but for the chase. Which is what it is, the Great Chase. 

He may not have been as successful as some of the locals who knew the hot spots and weren't afraid to drive right to them, but his experience was one for the books. He and his son faced assorted challenges and met some worthy prey that challenge their hunting aptitude and craft. They didn't gloss over the chase in armchair style but embraced it, success or failure. 

In the many years of hunting under my belt, I can tell you the failures more clearly than the wins. I can recount the stupidity of certain moments and the ignorance of others. I can plainly tell you how I missed a sure shot or how a smart phone can become the worst enemy of a hunter. 

I have read article after article about sign posting. About how to make a lick, a mock scrape, even best times and places for minerals. I've watched videos on cover scents and how to use estrous or buck bombs. Experts explaining calls and how and when to use them. But all of that means nothing if I don't set foot in the blind or climb the stand or stalk the property. Knowing isn't always key. Understanding however, that can make the difference between a freezer full of venison or having to buy beef for the next several months. 

And yes, there's a difference. Knowing what a sign post is, where to find them, and even how to read them isn't the same as understanding why they are there and what the deer are doing. I've hunted long enough to know, sign posts can be useful. But watching the game and learning what they are doing in spite of what signs there are, one is more likely find what they are searching for than simply resigning to doing the same thing on repeat. There is always more to be gained by the pursuit, the great chase, than by sitting on the sideline wishing for a better outcome. 

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!

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.