stillhunterman
Active Member
- Messages
- 608
Been a while since I posted, dealing with some stuff...but need to get this done for a friend, hope you all don't mind...
Every once in a while life catches us off guard, sometimes in a way we can't seem to handle, or want to try to handle. That can be pretty damn difficult to get through. Someone very dear to me, whom I haven't met in person, is going through such a time, the worst of times. She asked me to help her remember those things that mean so much to her, those things wild and free, borne of the mountains and the waters running cold and clear. Today I am finally having a good day, one that I need to take advantage of on her behalf. I think the best way to help C remember, is for me to do likewise, for the ?things? that mean so much to each of us is the same, as it is for many of us on these forums. Maybe some of you can help relate as well?
I often tend to ramble and become more than a bit too wordy, so heed the warning: this will probably be a long post, my apologies ahead of time?
As hunters and/or fisherman, we belong to a wonderful club. A club that is often misunderstood; and often times, from within our own ranks, taken for granted. We live a lifestyle that is difficult to accurately express in words. It must be lived to be understood to its fullest extent. It is a fire ignited in the blood, most often kindled at a young age and stoked through the years with battle upon battle of predator and prey, until the final glowing embers of memories in our waning years feed our wild hunger to return to mountain and stream.
As a young man learning the ropes of hunting and fishing along side my dad, the adventure was just beginning and the excitement was an addiction to which there was no cure. In the spring, we spent many days chasing trout. Steam side or lakeside, didn't really matter; we fished and we fished and we fished, not caring about the size or the number in our creels. For me, it wasn?t unlike a fairytale land: a place to lose myself in a world of magic, where the fish tugging against my line pulled me along side, taking me deep into its kingdom where taking out the trash, pulling weeds in the garden, and homework never existed. The skies were never so blue nor the clouds so puffy and white as when we fished. Even bologna sandwiches took on a gourmet taste, washed down with a Nehi?
As much as I loved to go fishing, it was the mountains and hunting deer that fueled my soul. Even at a young age, I knew there was something special, something beyond words that lay atop the peaks and within the valleys hidden far from the city. Pop?s never really taught me with words of advice: He was the strong silent type who spoke with ?pictures? drawn from experience. He would simply say ?watch?, as he took his time with a piece of rope, moving one end here, the other there, until a knot was completed for its special task. Then he would untie it, and do it again, even slower, until he saw the faint sparkle of ?I get it!? in my eyes. It was such with most things he taught me in the mountains. Following deer tracks that were straight and steady on trail until they began to meander, he would stop and look at me, smile and put his finger to his lips with a ?shush?, letting me know something had changed, something was about to happen. Sometimes he would look up, point to the clouds and say, ?lets find some cover?. Half hour later the rain came, and I would remember the look and feel of the clouds that foreshadowed the storm. These teachings were the kindling that ignited the fire within my blood. After dad passed when I was 16, I began to stoke my own fire and the adventure began?
Being a solo hunter is quite different than most experience with friends and family afield, and as such, holds a different perspective on things to some extent. I could go on and on about my different adventures, but I think to stay on topic I should consolidate some ?things? that we share as hunters that few others can relate to, and help C to remember what it is that stokes the fire within us. Dang, this is harder than I thought it would be! Hang in there; I will try to make sense of things.
In my early hunting years, I remember thinking mostly about the kill: using all my skills as a hunter to outwit my buck and making a great shot, feeling that rush of adrenaline. Well, it's probably dads fault, but that only lasted a few hunts before my perspective changed. The ?hunt? began to take on a meaning that I didn't really comprehend until my late 20?s, when things seemed to come into focus. I began to understand what some of those looks in my dad?s eyes were trying to tell me way back when?
Life comes at us hard and fast, and coping can take a lot out of a person. We need distractions, a way to recharge the batteries to keep going. Back then, after the Air Force, I had a couple of good friends who joined me in the insurance business. It was a fast pace with long hour?s business, but the money was great. These guys would ?recharge? their batteries a bit different than me. Their vacations were filled with 5 star hotels and restaurants, Disneyland and water slides, escapades within the concrete jungle that, when their vacation was over, left them worn out and wanting for more?
I recharged my batteries in the mountains: Nothing like the hunter?s moon guiding you through black timber, weaving your way up a mountain trail to a basin you found on a topo map, wondering what it would look like as you focus on the lonesome cries of a coyote off in the distance, waiting for the soft purple hue?s of the dawn to pull the light of morning in tow over the ridgeline; tramping through a foot of snow following tracks of a deer through timber and meadow; sitting down at the edge of plateau where below the ravines and canyons go on for as far as the eye can see; standing at lakes edge watching an eagle swoop down and snatching a trout in its talons; spying on a black bear tearing a rotting log apart for the goodies tucked deep inside; pulling your sight just behind the front leg of buck or bull, finger ready to end its life? Coming back to the grind after my ?vacation? has never left me wanting for more the way it did my buddies.
If my health can take it, I want to walk with C somewhere on the south slope and chase an elk, slow down the entangling chains of life?s grind, and listen to the mountains whisper their calming song, wiping away the tears and the hurt and the pain, leaving a soft glow in the heart that can only come from a peace of mind found on the paths chiseled by hoof and claw. I hope you understand what I tried to say C. Maybe some of you good folks can add to what I have a hard time saying...
Every once in a while life catches us off guard, sometimes in a way we can't seem to handle, or want to try to handle. That can be pretty damn difficult to get through. Someone very dear to me, whom I haven't met in person, is going through such a time, the worst of times. She asked me to help her remember those things that mean so much to her, those things wild and free, borne of the mountains and the waters running cold and clear. Today I am finally having a good day, one that I need to take advantage of on her behalf. I think the best way to help C remember, is for me to do likewise, for the ?things? that mean so much to each of us is the same, as it is for many of us on these forums. Maybe some of you can help relate as well?
I often tend to ramble and become more than a bit too wordy, so heed the warning: this will probably be a long post, my apologies ahead of time?
As hunters and/or fisherman, we belong to a wonderful club. A club that is often misunderstood; and often times, from within our own ranks, taken for granted. We live a lifestyle that is difficult to accurately express in words. It must be lived to be understood to its fullest extent. It is a fire ignited in the blood, most often kindled at a young age and stoked through the years with battle upon battle of predator and prey, until the final glowing embers of memories in our waning years feed our wild hunger to return to mountain and stream.
As a young man learning the ropes of hunting and fishing along side my dad, the adventure was just beginning and the excitement was an addiction to which there was no cure. In the spring, we spent many days chasing trout. Steam side or lakeside, didn't really matter; we fished and we fished and we fished, not caring about the size or the number in our creels. For me, it wasn?t unlike a fairytale land: a place to lose myself in a world of magic, where the fish tugging against my line pulled me along side, taking me deep into its kingdom where taking out the trash, pulling weeds in the garden, and homework never existed. The skies were never so blue nor the clouds so puffy and white as when we fished. Even bologna sandwiches took on a gourmet taste, washed down with a Nehi?
As much as I loved to go fishing, it was the mountains and hunting deer that fueled my soul. Even at a young age, I knew there was something special, something beyond words that lay atop the peaks and within the valleys hidden far from the city. Pop?s never really taught me with words of advice: He was the strong silent type who spoke with ?pictures? drawn from experience. He would simply say ?watch?, as he took his time with a piece of rope, moving one end here, the other there, until a knot was completed for its special task. Then he would untie it, and do it again, even slower, until he saw the faint sparkle of ?I get it!? in my eyes. It was such with most things he taught me in the mountains. Following deer tracks that were straight and steady on trail until they began to meander, he would stop and look at me, smile and put his finger to his lips with a ?shush?, letting me know something had changed, something was about to happen. Sometimes he would look up, point to the clouds and say, ?lets find some cover?. Half hour later the rain came, and I would remember the look and feel of the clouds that foreshadowed the storm. These teachings were the kindling that ignited the fire within my blood. After dad passed when I was 16, I began to stoke my own fire and the adventure began?
Being a solo hunter is quite different than most experience with friends and family afield, and as such, holds a different perspective on things to some extent. I could go on and on about my different adventures, but I think to stay on topic I should consolidate some ?things? that we share as hunters that few others can relate to, and help C to remember what it is that stokes the fire within us. Dang, this is harder than I thought it would be! Hang in there; I will try to make sense of things.
In my early hunting years, I remember thinking mostly about the kill: using all my skills as a hunter to outwit my buck and making a great shot, feeling that rush of adrenaline. Well, it's probably dads fault, but that only lasted a few hunts before my perspective changed. The ?hunt? began to take on a meaning that I didn't really comprehend until my late 20?s, when things seemed to come into focus. I began to understand what some of those looks in my dad?s eyes were trying to tell me way back when?
Life comes at us hard and fast, and coping can take a lot out of a person. We need distractions, a way to recharge the batteries to keep going. Back then, after the Air Force, I had a couple of good friends who joined me in the insurance business. It was a fast pace with long hour?s business, but the money was great. These guys would ?recharge? their batteries a bit different than me. Their vacations were filled with 5 star hotels and restaurants, Disneyland and water slides, escapades within the concrete jungle that, when their vacation was over, left them worn out and wanting for more?
I recharged my batteries in the mountains: Nothing like the hunter?s moon guiding you through black timber, weaving your way up a mountain trail to a basin you found on a topo map, wondering what it would look like as you focus on the lonesome cries of a coyote off in the distance, waiting for the soft purple hue?s of the dawn to pull the light of morning in tow over the ridgeline; tramping through a foot of snow following tracks of a deer through timber and meadow; sitting down at the edge of plateau where below the ravines and canyons go on for as far as the eye can see; standing at lakes edge watching an eagle swoop down and snatching a trout in its talons; spying on a black bear tearing a rotting log apart for the goodies tucked deep inside; pulling your sight just behind the front leg of buck or bull, finger ready to end its life? Coming back to the grind after my ?vacation? has never left me wanting for more the way it did my buddies.
If my health can take it, I want to walk with C somewhere on the south slope and chase an elk, slow down the entangling chains of life?s grind, and listen to the mountains whisper their calming song, wiping away the tears and the hurt and the pain, leaving a soft glow in the heart that can only come from a peace of mind found on the paths chiseled by hoof and claw. I hope you understand what I tried to say C. Maybe some of you good folks can add to what I have a hard time saying...
