In the past two years I have left Oregon, moved back to New England, my original home, moved out to Minnesota and now settled down in West Texas. This is the eleventh state I have lived in in my short 30 years and I am now explicitly conscious of my invariably changing surroundings. I feel I am constantly searching for something new and virgin and as I age I believe more and more that I know what I want out of life but struggle increasingly to find it. Perhaps that’s the curse, the more you know, the more you struggle.
I want to get lost in the desert chasing bighorn sheep. I want to disappear in Idaho’s forest where the only sounds are the echoes of ghosts past letting me know the path is unknown. I want to watch my dog stretch his little dog legs on a western ranch and flush up birds in the setting sun. I want to learn to ride a horse, one that in the future may help me pack out my first bull elk. I want to shoot my first deer, man, I want to shoot my first deer. I want to stretch out my arms and not feel the weight of civilization pressing back down on me. Is that possible? Am I asking too much?
As a hunter you find yourself in landscapes near and distant, in lands aphotic and glistening, in mornings stunning and crisp. There are evenings where your legs feel so tired you smile as you turn and remember the miles traveled. As I walked by a pine tree dotting a city street today the look, smell, and feel all immediately transported me to a far off land where all was quiet; where the sounds of ambulances, car radios, overhead planes, and cell phones disappeared as if they never existed, as if the world had conspired to make that one moment all that was good and simple.
We travel into the woods seeking something unique, something personal. I feel more and more that I cannot explain that to anyone; that the call of the wilderness is dying in the hearts of many and it reminds me of a story from a bear hunt James and I partook in some years back…
As we sat, resting in the shade of such a fine pine tree, a songbird swooped in and began to whistle a simple tune. In return James whistled back, receiving the response we so desired, and the dance, or song, went on for several minutes. It was a moment in the woods so insignificant as to be meaningless to millions of people on this planet but not to an outdoorsmen, not to a hunter. Only those who have an intimate association with the wilderness, only those with a rare glimpse into the soul of our forests could have such fun with a small bird in the midst of our calm afternoon, black bears wandering about.
I recently finished a book about the first western explorers to the vast southern Rolling Plains and their pioneering spirit harkened back to the days of James Fenimore Cooper’s young adventurer, Natty Bumppo. Those men and woman, knowing the risks, knowing that what was in front of them was in fact, the unknown, they still took their chances, knowing in fact, that adventures and a new way of life were ahead of them. What I wouldn’t give for such an adventure.
I want to get lost in the desert, in the forests. I want to get lost in the rolling plains. I want to get lost on Earth. I want to throw on my leather pack, sling my rifle over my shoulder and head out the door in search of an animal deep in the wilderness. Is there anything else worth searching for? Life and a connection with the world? Is there anything so worthwhile as to sustain yourself in a way that dates back to the dawn of man? I don’t believe I could possibly come up with a better way to spend my fall days than out hidden in the trees or lost amongst a sea of sagebrush. I can smell it now.
The little dog taking in a West Texas sunset.
