April 2013: A Month of Firsts

What has been a long, cold winter in which I have found myself tolerating the onslaught of snow in three different states has perhaps saved its best punch for last; the arrival of a mid-April snow storm in what is supposed to be the time of year we are awaiting turkey season, not anticipating icy roads. As I look to the sky I can sense that Old Man Winter is holding tight and while his resistance is admirable he will soon fall as he always does. It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff and his grip is flagging. While his fingers reach and search for each and every crevice to dig themselves into, the tremendous force of gravity will soon pull him down and give way to a new equinox. As we await the change it is no longer a matter of if but when.

As I look back though I have little reason to complain as this has so far been a month of firsts, a spring in which I have realized the fulfillment of one of my most longstanding and sincere wishes; a month that added an equally moving ripple to my wish and a month that as is by all accounts, only half way past. I can only hope that the next two weeks live up to the preceding two.

A few weeks ago I wrote an article entitled “Encounters of the Wild Kind” in which I delved into the unexpected wildlife encounters we are often confronted with in the outdoors. But there are other times in the course of our lives in which we have these face to face meetings outside the hunting world and find a very routine day turn into something entirely beyond words. These days are the ones we talk about with friends for years to come as those moments that keep the day to day living out in agrarian America exciting.

Without divulging what I do for a living I can say that I often times find myself in the middle of nowhere, driving around in the land of no cell service where getting your truck stuck means you and your shovel are in it for the long haul (quick tip for rural living: make sure you have a shovel). Earlier this week, shortly after the sun had risen I was beginning my work day when I approached a small, inconspicuous town in east-central Minnesota.  With the brakes pressing against the wheels I could feel my rig begin to slow and then, there in front of me out of a ditch came a broad figure, moving quickly and clearly intent on beating me across the road. It took me only half a second to process the image but what I had just seem emerge from the woods and take two or three bounds across the county highway was a bobcat, my first ever.

He was beautiful and sleek, his powerful legs driving him up across the road, his short bobbed tail following suit. His coat was lighter in color, perfectly adapted for the winter wilderness. He moved with a speed and art that clearly separated him from anything I had ever come across. He looked powerful and stalwart yet realizing his vulnerability at that moment, decidedly wanted to immerse himself in the woods once again. It was as I mentioned a ripple, an anomaly, a break in the stillness of time as to go unseen by so many but presenting itself right before me. That day is a blur, I’m not even sure what I did or if I really accomplished anything but that moment was more than enough to leave me feeling thoroughly gratified. However, I had no idea at the time that the bobcat was only a precursor in what would soon be one a wildlife week worth remembering.

The very next day I woke up, still picturing the cat in my head and began my work before dawn. As the morning progressed I found myself driving down an old dirt road and without warning I was removed from the forests that lined the landscape and entered a stretch of open hay fields. With the inclination to let my eyes wander I looked over to see what I had been wanting to see since I was a teenager, what everyone should see once in their lives; the animal that is both loved and hated and the center of much debate, a wolf. And not some wolf kept for show or some wolf rehabilitating in a wildlife facility but a real live, wild Minnesota wolf. The pleasure was something bordering on ecstasy and to think about it now is to feel my cheeks tighten as a smile works its way onto my face.

I had over the years wondered if I would actually be able to spot a wolf if I were to come across one. You often hear these stories of mistaken identity (a large coyote, a domestic dog) but when I laid eyes on that animal at just over a hundred yards, I knew it instantly. His physique, size, and stature were that of an apex predator and he looked every bit the part. His head had weight to it, his body was muscular, his tail long, and his feet as big as on any canine I have ever run across. And there he stood, literally, looking dead at me, unsure whether he should run or go about his business, everything in my head hoping for the latter. It was awe-inspiring and as it turns out, unlike so many wildlife moments that are fleeting, he decided to stay a while. I rolled down the window, put my seat back and watched him as the morning moisture burned off.

I was tempted to reach back and get my camera but told myself that the seconds wasted fumbling in the back would be precious seconds I could never get back. I knew that I may never get this chance again and if I was going to watch this amazing animal I was going to see him with my own eyes, not through of that of a camera lens. And there he stayed, poking his head into gopher holes, ignoring a group of sharp-tailed grouse dancing in the distance behind him. He strolled along lifting his head every so often to look at me and then back down to the ground. I just remember thinking he was so big, so unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. It was as the Gods had seen to personally taking my wildlife wish list and were presenting me with a gift. To whoever is up there, all I can say is, “Thank you”.

Eventually the wolf would meander his way into a willow stand and fade off into the distance and I had never been so happy. I stepped out of the truck, put my hands on my head and smiled. Does it get any better? And I have to wonder, if not for hunting, would I have ever noticed him. We, over time, as hunters, develop a sort of peripheral vision, tuned in and locked in to any small movements, incredibly wild in essence. But it gives us that slight edge, that slight advantage that may just make a missed opportunity the moment of a lifetime. This was certainly one of those moments for me. I still can’t believe it, a wolf, a wild wolf. And despite the national conflict that has emerged in the past 25 years there is still something to be said by everyone in laying their eyes upon this secluded predator.

As we move onward the first will keep coming. This month is only half over and tomorrow I make my way out onto the frozen Minnesota lakes to drop my first line in for ice fishing. We’ll head out in the evening in search of freshwater crappies and bluegill, a co-worker, a seasoned fisherman preparing to show me the ropes, literally. With 30 inches of ice still bearing down on the lake’s underbelly we are assured a measure of relaxation.

Bobcats, wolves, and ice fishing...what more could an outdoorsman ask for?

What's in a Blog?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Over the past few years writing this blog has brought me a lot of joy. It has forced me to put down in words what I was experiencing in the field and I have subsequently found myself reliving intricate details of events that would have otherwise been forgotten. I have found myself scrolling through photos which filled me with inimitable happiness and recounted great successes. But I would be a fool to think that just because I enjoy writing and believe that I have something to say, that that alone would translate into readers.

I’ve had this notion in my head that if I wrote enough and documented enough of our adventures people would begin to follow. But alas, and not to sulk or in any way diminish what I have been doing, I fear there are very few readers outside my immediate friends and family come here. I have long thought that I could just put pen to paper and that the “people will (would) come”, as Terrance Mann so profoundly proclaimed in “Field of Dreams”, hoping somewhere along the line those readers would connect with me. And maybe they have, maybe some reader or readers have visited and found something to move or inspire them, something to get them out of their routine and enter an unknown world; one can only hope. As they say, “nothing ventured, nothing gained”.

As I see it though, writing alone is not enough. For anyone that follows hunting sports the name Steven Rinella has recently come to the forefront of American hunting culture and many, like myself, have become fascinated by his adventures and moreover, jealous of his lifestyle. However, in a recent interview I learned that Steven actually has a Master’s degree in writing, a crushing blow to a small town, rural blog dreamer. However, recovering from the knockdown I reminded myself that writing is but one dynamic of engaging an audience; it is only one aspect of creating a world for people to escape the salt mines. To engage others in this world is to employ multiple senses in a short period of time. More and more, whether we like it or not our interactions with the outside world and with others are perpetually being driven by a digital reality. Others like me have been able to avoid the chaos but at some point, at some junction we have to accept that to be a player in this game, one must enter into foreign territory to be successful. And that unknown, that uneasy path, inevitably leads to video.

I have never recorded or clipped together any film of any kind. I have never been called a movie editor or really ever cared to piece something from many parts into one. It just seems complicated. But I have always known that I wanted to incorporate video into the blog. I have always wanted to bring to life some of these adventures and with the latest addition of a GoPro Hero 3 into my life, I may just finally have that chance. I cannot promise anything spectacular or something that will end up with tens of thousands of hits on YouTube but, it’s worth exploring, it’s worth interacting, it’s worth a shot; I mean, hell, not like I have any readers to lose.

But enough of the internal processes that drift through my head. Immediate results will be slow but hopefully by the time fall hits the recording will be in full swing. Until then, it’s typing as usual. Check out the blog, read our old posts, get to know us and wait for a revitalized campaign, wait for Haines Hunters v. 2.0!

Encounters of the Wild Kind

If it’s been said before, well, it’s worth saying again. A large part of the reason we wake squinty eyed to the buzzing of our alarm clocks in the waning hours of the night’s darkness is not only to aspire to find the animals which we seek but also, to encounter the ones we never planned on seeing in the first place. To come face to face with another organism of whom we had no intention of visiting yet before the day ends, an animal we will know well as either an antagonist or ally; the latter being preferable.

These confrontations, if you will, provide us with a spell of ephemeral amnesia during which we are allowed, almost unsuspectingly, to enjoy life beyond a particular goal or objective and just enjoy the woods for what they are…wild. I have had many such encounters during my time in the woods, especially while hunting. I have seen a great grey owl perched in a Douglas fir, watching over me as I wailed away on a predator call, turkeys gobbling in the distance. I have been in search of early season deer when I heard a bull elk crash through the undergrowth across a ravine and then gazed up to see his chest distend and release a most euphonious sound. And I have been fighting a head on snow storm crossing a barren, frozen lake only to see a bald eagle burst forth from the adjacent tree line and soar out over the white world, a potentate of this forgotten landscape. But these moments are not unique to me; they permeate our backwoods and mountain tops. They know no bounds and the men and women who fight their way every day in the wilderness must have collective stories that would rival the publications in the Library of Congress in sheer volume and content. What stories there must be out there.

Most recently while out for a stroll with my dog we had a meeting of a very different kind. I was not hunting nor was I actively seeking anything but rest for my tired mind and some exercise for the dog; both of which are necessities for my daily sanity. But while my brain was shutting down my dog had spotted some deer across an open field and with the body clinching that can only be described as a dog on a mission, he was locked in. Knowing that the snow was some 20 inches deep I knew the deer would be long gone before he could ever catch them and as I watched them watching us, I let the dog go.

Faster than one can blink he was off, working his little heart out to make ground on “his” adversary. But the moment was not to last and without warning, another foe was upon us. I looked quickly and saw the outline of a robber, a thief, a masked killer, a bandit or, as is more widely accepted…a raccoon. He immediately jumped in the air which I believe just about caused my dog to leap out of his skin and then, without hesitation, the inquest was abruptly begun. Wavering back and forth the two animals looked like ancient warriors from a lost Chinese culture; my dog sporting his best “Contorted Crane” while the raccoon chose a form of what can best be described as, “Slender Dragonfly”. The scene was a combination of wanting to get my dog away from the foe and wanting to let him handle his own encounters with the wild. They would size each other up over the next minute, both no doubt feeling a sense of imminent danger but unable to resist the attraction. However, I will admit my dog was certainly more interested in the coon than the coon was in him. But nonetheless, the chance meeting was something for all to enjoy. The action was brief and once I pulled my dog away the small larcenist steadily worked his way back into the woods, unsure how his afternoon had taken such an erratic turn. And away we went, the image of an urban brawler now seared into my memory bank.

These run-ins with wildlife and other organisms lead us down all sorts of roads and while I have had many pleasurable interactions in my life others have not been so fortunate. There are examples right here in Minnesota where birds hunters have been forced to make difficult decisions when confronted with wolves, a man shooting one dead last fall as his canine companion was in quick retreat. But overall these are the exceptions and even though those stories can be harrowing ones, they will be told over campfires for friends and posterity alike, adding to the diverse array of anecdotes behind us. In the end though, the stories we hold on to and retell over and over, occasionally embellishing as we get older, are all what make hunting a unique American tradition. We keep these stories close to us, we keep them so we can share them with the ones who will understand, and we keep them to keep them. They are what make the hunter the hunter and the man the man. So, here’s to our next encounter.


Our Bandit:

Beyond the Culture & Into the Language

With my ongoing exploration into our country’s hunting culture I have, over the years, been inundated with a panoply of backwoods terms and common vernacular; phrases and expressions that when spoken out of context would seem better fodder for a mythical children’s book than everyday gas station chit chat. But while theses terms are common to all hunters and relatively consistent across the country as a whole, there is often no accounting for regional differences.  And, like any language, confusion and debate are likely to ensue.

The diversity of seasons and regional cultures provide us with a plethora of examples of how across the country a word in one area meaning one thing is the antithesis of a word’s definition in another. We see these differences in New England where a white-tailed buck sporting eight tines would be referred to as an “8-point” or “4x4”, whereas in the foothills of eastern Oregon that same buck would simply be known as a “4-point”. We hear illustrations of these differences on the east coast where the term “spike” simply implies a second year deer. But out west, where elk also roam the landscape, a spike refers to a young elk with a non-forked antler (or just one antler forked). I remember I once ran into a group of hunters along an old forest road and, as is practically law, chatted with them about their hunt. They mentioned they were looking for elk and after some casual banter I told them I had only seen a spike (in my mind a deer) down the road about 15 minutes earlier. They quickly bid me adieu and were off. I never understood their rush but looking back, I could see that I had inadvertently led them on a wild goose chase. Poor souls, ignorant me.

But there are other terms, much more basic in nature that as you become enveloped in the culture you begin to say without even thinking. We see evidence of this when we are out on a bird hunt and a guy asks what shot you are shooting. You quickly holler back, “high brass 6’s” and you have immediately passed on that information, nothing more need be said.   When out on a deer hunt a guy asks you what caliber you rifle is and you respond, “it’s a .308”, again, immediately conveying a single piece of information upon which the questioner can extract a wealth of information. They are basic terms and knowledge but ones which until a few years ago would have had me thinking more about algebra than hunting.

And then, for those moments when talking would only serve to scare off your prey, hunting has developed a sort of sign language. It’s a crude, coarse, and inchoate language that has no universal guide but one which takes many lessons from the phrase, “necessity is the mother of all invention”. Whether through finger signals, Special Forces hand signs or full body gestures, the information to be conveyed is often simple yet highly informative. And when hunting with a partner whom you have spent much time in the woods with, a sort of pattern emerges. Something as simple as making the shape of a “C” with your hand after hearing a disturbance in the forest below; the “C” implying the noise came from a cow elk. On to the more involved signals such as quickly pointing to your ear and following that up with two fingers placed together, pointing downwards, and moving them up and down across the forest floor, implying you heard a deer bounding through the woods. This would differ from an elk in which your two fingers, instead of bouncing, would kick, or scissor, back and forth, as elk aren’t quite as graceful as their smaller brethren. They are very simply gestures but depending on which game you are after, those non-verbal cures can make all the difference in deciding how to proceed.

The language of hunting is no different than any of the other numerous dialects spoken across the globe. The more we immerse ourselves into these worlds the more we learn. We learn not only basic definitions but how they present themselves in speech. This jargon helps us relate to one another and with this knowledge we inch ever closer to a secretive world hidden from the national spotlight. Knowing and understanding this language means that we can go anywhere in the country and immediately connect with another. In a sense it is comforting to know these terms. While many of us may travel the country and visit new states we will find that despite regional accents and indigenous vernacular because we understand and speak English, we adapt quickly. Thus, we can move on to understanding a place, rather than getting caught up in the basics. For hunting, it is exactly the same. Once you get beyond the beginner’s nomenclature a whole new world opens up to you and from there, the adventures begin.

Minnesota: Grouse, Moose, and Wolves

When I finally left Oregon three months ago it was preceded by much internal debate and subsequently followed by great sadness. It was a place I had learned more about hunting than I could have ever imagined and it was there that I found a mentor to push me harder than I had ever been pushed. I met many hunters along the way and was privy to elk bugling in the snowy mountains and ruffed grouse flushing from the water soaked lowlands; all experiences I will never forget but ones which are, ostensibly behind me.

Now I find myself in a very different land and one filled with, at the moment, layers upon layers of snow accompanied by temperatures that surely rival any of our other states. It’s flat, covered in hardwoods, and true to its self-professed motto, it’s the land of 10,000 lakes. The land to which I speak of is none other than northern Minnesota; a part of the country that like much of the west has maintained its aura of wild lands and sports some of the largest numbers of outdoorsmen in the lower 48. Its southern neighbor Wisconsin sports nearly 600,000 deer hunters annually making it, in pure numbers, the eighth largest army in the world. Even the name given to this region by the southern metropolitans of “The Northland” brings to mind archaic woodsmen begat from the Vikings and as of yet, still roaming about undiscovered. But more than its remoteness, it’s the wildlife that lays claim to this place which has any sensible hunter itching for the fall, myself included.

For me, the biggest draw of this region is the birds and in no place have I ever been where so many grouse covered the landscape. Ruffed grouse fill the woods in a seemingly endless supply. On average, over the past 30 years nearly 545,000 per year have been harvested from Minnesota’s timberland. In the past decade spruce grouse have experienced annual harvest numbers between 10 and 20,000 and the sharp-tailed grouse, while less common, can still be found in many northern parts of the state. What more could a bird hunter ask for? And to be bordering one of the most prolific pheasant states in South Dakota I would dare say I have found myself in the bosom of upland bird country.

But their big game is not to be overlooked and with so much forested land and moisture abound, deer and moose find themselves perfectly adept to walking through this state’s many wetlands and bogs. It should be noted however that moose will not be in my future. For reasons as yet to be explained the moose population has seen dramatic declines in the past five years and as such all seasons have been called off. For both the greater population and myself, that is a disappointing discovery, but nonetheless their presence speaks volumes to the country forgotten by many. Knowing I may have the chance to get out and chase deer through such a wilderness already has me skimming over game units and planning my trips.

And of course there is the matter of wolves. I don’t believe that you could ever talk about Minnesota without talking about wolves and as was unknown to me upon my arrival, there are nearly 3,000 in this state; multiple packs in my county. Needless to say I’ve been keeping the dog a bit closer than usual. But wolves, like the cougars of eastern Oregon, provide an added element to the woods that cannot be overlooked. It heightens your senses and when you are out there, to know that amongst such powerful animals is inspiring and exciting. However, that is not to say that their presence doesn’t elicit the occasional pause in the woods, but as a good friend once told me, if you spend all your time looking over your shoulder, you’ll never be able to enjoy the adventure. Since that day, I’ve never backtracked and have always kept my eyes ahead of me.

It will still be many months until I can pull out my gun and head into the woods but when the time comes I’ll be ready. Until then, one of the other wonders of Minnesota will have to keep me occupied.

When I arrived here I was quickly taken aback by the not only the number of lakes but by the fact that they were all, well, frozen over. And like a scene out of documentaries I have watched over the years, trucks and ice fishing hunts speckled their surface. Upon telling a co-worker I had never seen such a thing in my life, let alone gone ice fishing, he quickly called together all his cohorts and began the planning. It would appear I am soon to cut into some ice and bring home some fresh Minnesota crappies, oh boy.  Let the Minnesota boondoggle begin.

"No Hunting on Sundays"

Are there any more sacred days on a hunter’s calendar than those that fall between Thursday and Monday? Do any of the other days really matter if we cannot have those few precious mornings to get out in the woods? And what if those days were taken away from us? What if we were told that on some of those days, the days we rise early to slip into the darkness of the forests and beat the morning light, we could not hunt? Well, for some in this country that is the law of the land. A law that dates back to our begins and one which is still followed in its entirety. But looking more closely at the practice, perhaps it is time we take a step back and reevaluate what hunting, and Sundays, really mean to us.

As I have found myself in a period of change and uncertainty I have moved back to New England, the place where I grew up and the place that will forever define me. It is a place with vast beauty, unique culture, and unprecedented history; a land where our nation was founded and where millions upon millions of people now call home. But inherent in our region’s co-evolution with the birth of this country, this area has been exposed to an ever changing culture, one where shifts in laws and attitudes are nearly an everyday occurrence. However, despite this, there are some laws, namely Blue Laws, which have held on since the colonial days and which many still see as having purpose in our modern day society.

Blue Laws often refer to legislation that was designed to enforce religious standards, such as protecting Sunday as a day of worship. They were put in place to act as a shield and guide for our citizens and allow for a universal day of reflection and rest. The idea being that by prohibiting activities on these days one could protect shop owners, saloon owners and others of the like from being forced to open their doors on a sacred day. But the question has recently become, do these laws still apply in today’s world? Is the banning of certain activities fair?

Without going into boring detail, the Supreme Court has several times voted in favor of Blue Laws, stating that they are not exclusively religious in nature but have a secular basis as well. The day of rest providing all citizens, religious or not, with a day to recover, relax, and enjoy one another’s company. But who defines what one finds as relaxing? Who defines what is best for me personally?

I think Blue Laws walk a fine line. I like them in theory because they promote the religious values that this country was founded on. I like them because in an increasingly secular society having a little religion in our lives is, for me, still very important. However, we come back to the question of who decides how I should practice my religion? Why does one have to follow a strict standard when it comes to faith? My point is not to sit here and push religion or talk about the ins and outs of faith, but simply to question the true meaning behind the law.

I am a Catholic. I believe in God and I have tried to live my life in a moral and honest way however, I am sure that I do not conform to the model of a standard worshipper. I find that I connect with God in many ways outside of organized religion and one of those ways is in the early morning, on top of a dew covered mountain glassing for deer in the sun’s first light. When I am up there I feel more connected to my faith that anywhere else on Earth. I appreciate all that is in front of me and when I am thousands of feet above the valley floors I am thankful for all I have and for the promise of a new day.

Why do we need to sit idly by while a perfectly good day passes by? It is on those days out hunting that I relax, that I find my relief from the world and when I am able to take a step back from the chaos that is life and just let everything go. Those are the days when my little dog finds himself up early and at the ready. He waits patiently all week, knowing that one day I will come down the stairs, shotgun in hand, and the game will be on. For him and me, that is our time together, a time of complete happiness and joy. A bond reinforced every five days, over and over again.

Looking over some of the New England states we find that in Connecticut, Massachusetts and Maine there is still no hunting on Sundays (some exemptions apply). Can this really be the case? These laws were designed to protect our religious traditions but I only write to ask, could they in fact, be hindering the few opportunities I have to get closer to my faith? Or, if you have a more secular view, are theses laws hindering your ability to just let go, hunt, and enjoy my weekend for what it is, a few days away from work?

So, I say, let’s hunt on Sundays, let’s enjoy it for the recreational activity it is and let us connect with nature. Whether God is included in that is up to the individual, but let us have our Sundays. Let us have our day of repose. Let us hunt.

Goodbye, Oregon. Thanks for Everything.

I am now faced with the reality that in just over two weeks my journey of almost two and a half years spent in eastern Oregon will come to an end. I am keenly aware that all I have learned and all I have experienced in this unbelievable place will become but a memory and thus will end this chapter in my life. It will end a time that saw me find a true mentor for a true hunting passion and a place that brought my dog out of the darkness that was his sheltered, small world into an era in which his relentless pursuit of all things wild has completely washed over him. It is with sadness that I write this last post from Oregon and often nights that notion drags me into a reflective state.

I came to the pacific northwest in June of 2009, fresh out of college and wondering what the hell I was doing in this far away place. I had grown up in New England, a child of privilege, living in one of the most affluent counties in the United States. I did not struggle to put food on my table and I did not have to fend for myself in a family of six. I was given every opportunity but up until I was nearly 20 I had squandered my life. I had lived in the haze of excessive alcohol, tobacco, and drug use, ignorantly believing that somehow I would be immune to the realities of the world. But I wasn’t, and I would unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, learn that the hard way.

By the time I attended the University of New Hampshire in the fall of 2006 I was finally beginning to get my life together. After many years wandering, mangled from the car crash that was my teenage years, I was finally coming into a state of stability. I was coming out of the chaos with renewed hope in my second chance and three years later I emerged from a fog of troubles that were now behind me and earned my college degree in Wildlife Ecology; a feat which only years ago had seemed but a dream. And it was then, walking up to receive my diploma that I shed the great weight of the person I had been and became that man I wanted to be.

I would leave for the northwest that spring and spend just over a year living in southeast Washington. It was a strange, eerie, arid landscape where I would eventually meet many dear friends and have my first real introduction to agriculture and a different way of life. But it was Oregon that changed everything. It was Oregon that opened my eyes to the life I wanted to live, one in which doing it yourself was respected above all else.  And it was Oregon where I would learn to hunt.

When you talk to anyone outside this geographic region and mention Oregon they have these images of moss covered forests and beautiful coastlines; images of Portland and Mt. Hood. They think of a place far removed from the arid west and its rolling lowlands but in truth the state is very much divided. Between the dew covered forests of the west and sun soaked sagebrush of the east you can hardly believe you’re in the same state at times. The Cascade Range draws a clear line, north to south, and when you enter into this rural eastern world you enter into a culture forgotten by many but which is very much alive on the land and in the hearts of westerners.

To go over the list of all the things I will take away and remember from Oregon would provide better material for a book than a blog but there are still many things I will never forget.

Before I moved here the knowledge of where our nation’s beef supply came from was something I had never thought about. I, like many, just accepted that our store shelves were lined with the latest trimmings of beef for all to buy. But after living here, experiencing it firsthand, I have found a vibrant culture, one where the only traffic jams are those caused by ranchers moving their cattle out to pasture, cow dogs guarding the roadsides. It’s a culture where the words cowboy and range rider aren’t some forgotten professions left to paintings on dark barroom walls. There are still men and women out here with incredible skill and stamina. Families that get up seven days a week to tend to their livelihood despite living in a world where ever advancing technologies are pushing their way of life further and further from the public eye. It’s telling and troubling to know the average age of a rancher now exceeds 50. Ironically enough, feeding our nation is becoming more important than ever.

It’s a culture where rodeos aren’t some spectacle of times past for tourists but yearly events that bring together small communities from across county lines. Counties which I might add are sometimes bigger than the whole of the region I grew up. And these counties are made up of small towns, ones like North Powder which upon my recent attending of a high school graduation saw a total of twelve seniors. And despite many folks not having children at that school the entire town was out to watch. There was even a slideshow for each of the graduates; it was really something else.

It’s a part of the country where homesteaders settled and till this day men and women can recall the ancestry of a family property. It’s where the spirit of hard work and self sacrifice isn’t some fodder for debate or posters but real, genuine necessity. And the people, with a culture completely foreign to my own, were more than happy to welcome me when I wanted to know more.

I was privy to these acts of kindness during my travels when I knocked on a rancher’s door to ask him about a tractor. Within an hour I was seated at his table, many hours from my own home, accompanied by his wife and daughters, neighbors, and other family friends. I was treated to a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and a raspberry dessert like something out of an old western tale; the experience was pure bliss. Many hours later I would shake their hands and wave goodbye to those dear people, all of them whom now hold the greatest of affections in my heart.

As time progressed I would continue to experience life anew. I would learn that out here living in a trailer isn’t something one should be ashamed of but rather a challenge to be taken on and if anything, it is not a life just anyone can handle. There are holes to patch, straw bales to be placed and water pipes to keep warm. There isn’t anything quite like waking up, turning on your faucet and immediately knowing the lines are frozen. You know from there it’s going to be a long day.

You learn that when the pilot light on our furnace goes out, the small non-existent flame can bring your trailer to an abrupt and cold stop. Any attempts to resuscitate the furnace are thwarted by frozen filters and of course this happens on the eve of Christmas. You learn to adapt, not fret. You learn to call around, not sit idle; that fixing it will require parts hard to find but once again living in small town Oregon makes all the difference.

With the clock nearing ten a phone call is placed and before you know it you are meeting up with a local heating guy to talk shop and buy parts. After some shared cell phones pictures of the problem and some quick off the cuff instructions you head home. With the headlights of your truck shining on your trailer in the darkness of the evening the filters are changed and the furnace again roars to life, this time for good; something that could not have happened without the kindness of others. Covered in kerosene and with tools scattered about a smile crossed your face; Merry Christmas.

Out here you learn that owning a gun isn’t taboo, it’s simply part of life. Learning to drive a tractor at the age of five isn’t a fun activity but rather a necessity for the family. Staying up in middle of the night to spotlight a field for new born calves is just the reality of how one makes a living and dirt roads aren’t something you only hear about on country radio but are a prominent part of life. You learn that eastern Oregon mud is stickier, tackier, and harder to deal with than any other mud you have ever encountered and I truly believe that if you called the liquid, mucky roads anything but treacherous, they may very well be insulted.

In the urban centers of America moms drive mini-vans, out here they drive ¾ ton diesel Dodge trucks, flatbeds standard, dogs balanced at the ready. Where I grew up seeing some of these older, worn down trucks would turn heads. Out here, that’s the norm. Nowadays seeing anything resembling a high priced sports car is like seeing a mallard in the middle of the desert.  Out in the country old trucks aren’t just tossed aside, they are literally driven till they die and once they die, the beds are cut off and made into trailers. It’s a wonder.

Out here you can call a woman you don’t even know, ask her for some straw bales to put up alongside your trailer and her only response will be, “There are many for sale, about two miles up the road from my house. Go collect what you want and drop by with the money afterwards”. Not for a second questioning whether or not I would actually stop by after I had collected.

Out here the idea of government encroachment isn’t something that’s talked about on television, it’s a reality in a region where wildlife still roams opening and abundantly. It’s vast, beautiful, spectacular, wonderful, sensational, and rugged. It’s everything you dream about as a kid.

But that’s not to say this life is better or easier or for everyone. It’s simply different and for those like my brother, who lives in and loves New York City, both societies are a necessity. To hear him talk about cities is to hear me talking about the country. We all have our loves, none better or worse than others. However, I have found that mine love is out here, out west, living the life I never knew was available to me when I was younger.

And to top it all off I found myself immersed in the world of hunting, heading off for adventures of unspeakable pleasure and writing this blog. I have enjoyed hunting chukar on the rocky cliffs of the Burnt River Canyon, elk on the ridges of the Elkhorn Mountains, sage grouse on the slopes of the Steens Mountain Range, black bear in the foothills of Baker Valley, deer hidden in the shadows of Mt. Emily, and partridge amongst the sagebrush. I had a great guide to help me not only learn what needed to be done but what I could do on my own. A guide to help me discover that my dog was lacking the basic dog instincts and a guide to teach me the only things worth doing were those with your own two hands.

I leave here with much gained and with so much left on the table. But the things I have learned will stick with me. They will be carried onward to whatever place I end up and they will manifest into the life I want to live. In the end however there are some many other nuances of this place that perhaps can’t be expressed in words but which you can only truly understand by living here.

I leave Oregon next week with sadness but I understand that I am just shy of 30 and if I should get more years on this earth I know I may yet someday return. Until then this chapter has ended, but the book I believe, has just begun.