I am taking my son and a friend of his hunting today. They are the main effort. I put them in blinds and I sit on bales, stillhunt through wooded draws in hope, should I kick one up, they flush the boys’ way.
I see a doe in the timber. She sees me too, and we study each other for a time. I see, also, a fox—close quarters hunting on pond shore—and wood ducks on the timbered pond, perhaps the fox’s quarry.
From the draw and pond bank edge, I return back to open pasture and find another bale to oversee the timbered draws in wrapping frame of open grass.
It’s my son’s first time hunting alone, first time going with a friend. It reminds me of his years and age, growing up and doing same—adventures and explorings in woods and fields in ideal that such, somehow makes a man.
In the company of men, and in empowerment of trust and confidence to leave alone in woods—I believe it can. We hunt same timber and pastures I knew and hunted at his age. I was always excited, looking forward to go; waking early and traveling from city; or coming day before and sleeping at my grandparents’ home.
It’s these memories and moments that are large reason we live here now, making home in place I always loved and believed as special.
Living here, as with anywhere, it’s easy to take for granted the specialness and opportunities that are our everyday. Living here, I don’t hunt as much as I thought I would. But it’s not as fun—or meaningful—only going alone, main effort of one’s self.
I find the special and meaningful now in the make of special and meaningful for others—to hear and see my sons excited, their friends as well—to live the supporting as others take the lead, main effort of a new generation, youth, which is the only way tradition and history survive.
I’ll make a big breakfast, extra adding experience, then hunt in drive in the middle of day, pushing draws as the boys block in wait—same as my father and uncles did for me when I was young and hunting was new. After we’ll sit again in afternoon, until dark and we cannot see light through reticle lens; and if we’re blessed, we’ll eat on fare harvested from day; first-tell of stories they’ll repeat for life—only way such tales and memories remain.
I hope it’s special to them too.