Yep, some great stories for sure. I only had dad for a short time, he passed on just as I entered High School, but his teachings and the memories we shared still live on. He was on my mind quite a bit the night I wrote the following...
MY MENTOR
I would guess most of us had a mentor of some sorts who took our hand and walked us through the door leading to the wonderful world of hunting. Mine was my dad. Over the years I have often wondered if he did it to purposefully introduce me to that magical lifestyle or simply to have someone to accompany him, as I know he mostly hunted alone until I could follow along. It really doesn't matter I guess, the outcome was still the same for me.
My earliest memories are of tromping through the fields chasing doves. I must have been a tender 5 or 6, but I still remember insisting to hold a double he took one morning. I cradled both birds in my small hands, the soft warm feathers filling my fingers with awe and wonder while etching the day and the Hunt deep inside my memory. It was but a hint of a lifestyle to come spanning several decades. I will be forever grateful to Pops for letting me tag along that particular path in life?
We, as hunters, often express our thoughts of what hunting means to us in many ways: To be in the woods with family and friends sharing the bounties and beauty of nature: The telling of stories long passed by others who touched our hunting lives over a crackling campfire the night before the hunt: Witnessing things in the forests and mountains that others couldn't begin to dream of. Some who don't hunt would say we could experience the same things with a camera instead of a gun or bow and arrow and not have to kill to do the same thing. I can understand where they might be coming from, but the thing is I don't believe those folks really comprehend the ?entire experience? we as hunters truly do.
Pops taught me at a very early age it would be up to ME to make sure I could continue to enjoy and even come to love the world of hunting. He instilled in me the truth that I must be the steward of my hunting realm, and do all those things necessary to take care of my quarry and their habitat in such a way as to respect and insure their existence. He taught me I HAD to do my part and not simply leave it in the hands of others and hope they would treat this great heritage as I would. Though I only had a few short years with him, I continue to live by his teachings, even though it has been nearly 5 decades.
I have watched the sun rise more times than I can remember, and so many of them have taken my breath away with their utter beauty. But none have been so wondrous as those I have witnessed while hunting. While hunting, dawn is not simply the herald of the morn: it is the herald that pumps the blood, quickens the nerves, and sharpens the eyes of the hunter! It brings with it anticipation of the days hunt, of what will or will not be. Whether there will be life or death by our own hand. Sure, that sounds a bit dramatic, but I think it's true for the most part. It's something the bird watcher or photographer simply can't comprehend. I see the same beauty and animals that they do, but with different eyes?
One of my favorite times in the woods while hunting is what I call the ?magic hour of silence?. First time I remember it was on a deer hunt with Pops, I must have been about 13 or 14. It always happens late morning, and always when I have stopped to rest, or to just simply take in my surroundings. I don't know whether I am the cause, or if this magical time causes me to stop and take notice. The air becomes still and full, not so much as a leaf moves. One by one, the birds are silenced; the chipmunks and squirrels freeze like statues. The light seems to float on the air, misting through the trees like an apparition. My ears prick for the slightest sound but none comes. The silence is almost overwhelming. My eyes scan all around me but nothing moves. I can hear the soft rhythm of my heartbeat, and I too become as the forest, frozen and unyielding.
As quickly as it came, it departs with the first rustle of leaves; a soft breeze against my face; the chirp of a bird. The light becomes focused and true. I always smile when I stand and continue my hunt, knowing I have witnessed something special once again.
Thanks Pops, for showing me the way of the hunter?
www.unitedwildlifecooperative.org
