Post by rabbet on Sept 8, 2007 19:16:18 GMT -5
I was up before dawn and it was already oppressively hot. Not so much hot as muggy. The thought of clapping my hands and making it rain on my shoes crossed my mind more than once.
For sheer need of activity, I dressed and confirmed that Sophie-dog was still in the yard. My wife had put her out earlier in the morning before coming back to bed. I grabbed my hat, walking stick, and Sophie's new bridle leather leash, and was out the door.
Almost the first thing I noticed was the latch on our garden gate standing straight up, not at all the position it should've been in. The stainless steel carabiner that we used as a latch was missing, and it was a wonder Sophie hadn't gone walkabout, as a push against the gate would've been sufficient to open it.
So the walk was suspended as we investigated the yard for theft, vandalism, whatever. The garage was locked, so that wasn't an issue. My wife checked the neighbor's house and garage and found nothing out of place. I found a BMX bike lying on the ground between our parked cars out back and brought it into the yard thinking it might be stolen.
Sophie and I finally got on with our walk and moved off toward the floodwall and some semblance of wilderness. The north side of the floodwall is just a common lower-middle class neighborhood teetering between blossoming into something really nice and sliding into an outright slum. What a strange dichotomy, this neighborhood of ours.
Falling over onto the south side of the floodwall brought us into grass and falling leaves and the deep, uninhabited woods. Although ridiculously muggy, the temperature was just low enough to carry a tremendous amount of scent. The acidity of the moldering forest was carried to us on the sporadic breeze. The drought-stricken leaves crunched under foot and if I squinted my eyes and ignored the heat I could almost taste autumn in the air.
Sophie trotted along merrily, occasionally performing her characteristic "sudden stops for absolutely no reason" that we've come to expect from her. I've gotten used to falling over her, jumping over her, trampling her. We both seem to take it in stride, now. The six-foot leather lead was a much-welcome improvement over the twenty-five foot (knotted up to around eleven feet) nylon lead the wife prefers.
The defense mechanisms we put in place as children to survive abuse should be allowed to fall away as we mature and move away from the abuse. In some people, like myself, those mechanisms are never holstered and we grow aloof, distant, secretive, and so forth. Pondering this as I walked through the dead leaves there was no question that I've never holstered anything. Guns out and ready, that's me.
Entering the woods I saw a house cat cross the path and slink into the underbrush. I hoped that Sophie would smell the cat and make at least some kind of move to the side of the trail. She lumbered right across the just-laid scent cone without the least twitch. Poor dog, she is sight hound to the very core.
Walking in the woods, I realize a great deal about who I am, who I was, who I could've been. I was born at the lingering wisps of a dying time. I keep a number of older hunting books and magazines ranging from the 1930's up through the late 60's, and seem to identify heavily with the men of that era. Having no father during my early years, I had only the writers of those publications to guide me toward manhood.
The husband of my earliest babysitter was one of those men. He didn't write, but he hunted and fished with a zeal not often seen, even in that long-ago time. I remember his hunting dress of brown canvas trousers, jacket, vest, and hat. Wearing either L. L. Bean's ubiquitous Maine Hunting Shoes (or an old pair of hip boots, were waterfowl the quarry) he looked exactly like one of the men pictured in those books and magazines that occupied most of my free time, in spite of the severe poverty in which he and his ever-sickly wife lived.
Don had been a tail gunner on a B-29 Superfortress during the big war, scanning the vanishing contrails of his plane for the incessant threat of Japanese fighter planes. He never elaborated on his wartime experiences, just that he went "over there and emptied a few cans of .50 cal ammo".
He started taking me out into the field with him, allowing me to fire a .22 rifle for the first time when I was three years old. Looking back, it seems a bit strange that this man would take a three year old out into the game fields with him, but he did. I sometimes wonder if he had problems like mine. Did he not feel comfortable around other men? Maybe he genuinely appreciated my joy at being included. I don't know and I've never really felt compelled to explore that.
His wife was always too sick to work. She's been at Death's door for about forty years, now, and he has trudged along merrily pulling all the weight. Then again, maybe that's just the way you did things back then. The man worked and the woman stayed home and kept the house. I do remember her always cooking and when he came home from work he was mostly left alone to unwind from a hard day's labor.
Walking through the sandy gravel near the river, I watched my own Maine Hunting Shoes as they slipped and slid and struggled to plow forward. Sophie was having her own problems with this loose footing but we kept pressing forward. It wouldn't be much longer until we were at the visitor's center and could mount the floodwall for a brisk hike back home in good, solid grass.
Walking with Sophie this morning made me think of the endless walks afield with ol' Red when I was much, MUCH younger. Red was a big English Setter, picture perfect in every way, except he was a stray that had wandered up looking for something to eat and ended up staying for almost three years. I remember the grief I felt when his original owner reclaimed him. Hell, I still feel it. I was amazed when told my old friend had been "appraised" at over twenty five hundred dollars for his stellar birding abilities. How's a kid supposed to recover after hunting with a dog of that caliber? Even stranger was the picture of a nine-year-old boy released to the field with a dog and a borrowed shotgun to hunt birds. When was the last time you heard of something like that happening?
The squirrels rummaging about in the leaves fascinated Sophie, but she never offered to actually go after one. It's been so hot here this year that in spite of the hunting season's being open for almost a month I've yet to set foot in the field with the intention of actually hunting anything.
Grouse season opens October 1st. While I entertain almost no thoughts of actually shooting anything, I look forward to the few days when I'll steal away from work and home responsibilities and wander the thickets looking for the big, golden birds. I actually heard one drumming last year, way off, but could never manage to locate him. Funny, but it really doesn't matter if I actually take game or not.
Meandering through the brush with the little 20 gauge slung in the crook of my arm, it seems like my mind can detach from the noise and the rush and the indifference of modern life and carry me back to a far-simpler time. Just a man with a sandwich and a few shells stuffed in his brown canvas pockets wandering through deserted fields looking for game that may or may not be there. No sensory assault of questions that must be answered, booming stereos, revving engines, self-doubt, spinning tires, yelling, cursing, celebrity worship, buy this, buy that…
The briars snap, pop, and hiss lightly as they slide across my double-layered upland trousers. The wind contributes its gentle rustle to the dead leaves. There's no one here but me, and my spirit stills.
For sheer need of activity, I dressed and confirmed that Sophie-dog was still in the yard. My wife had put her out earlier in the morning before coming back to bed. I grabbed my hat, walking stick, and Sophie's new bridle leather leash, and was out the door.
Almost the first thing I noticed was the latch on our garden gate standing straight up, not at all the position it should've been in. The stainless steel carabiner that we used as a latch was missing, and it was a wonder Sophie hadn't gone walkabout, as a push against the gate would've been sufficient to open it.
So the walk was suspended as we investigated the yard for theft, vandalism, whatever. The garage was locked, so that wasn't an issue. My wife checked the neighbor's house and garage and found nothing out of place. I found a BMX bike lying on the ground between our parked cars out back and brought it into the yard thinking it might be stolen.
Sophie and I finally got on with our walk and moved off toward the floodwall and some semblance of wilderness. The north side of the floodwall is just a common lower-middle class neighborhood teetering between blossoming into something really nice and sliding into an outright slum. What a strange dichotomy, this neighborhood of ours.
Falling over onto the south side of the floodwall brought us into grass and falling leaves and the deep, uninhabited woods. Although ridiculously muggy, the temperature was just low enough to carry a tremendous amount of scent. The acidity of the moldering forest was carried to us on the sporadic breeze. The drought-stricken leaves crunched under foot and if I squinted my eyes and ignored the heat I could almost taste autumn in the air.
Sophie trotted along merrily, occasionally performing her characteristic "sudden stops for absolutely no reason" that we've come to expect from her. I've gotten used to falling over her, jumping over her, trampling her. We both seem to take it in stride, now. The six-foot leather lead was a much-welcome improvement over the twenty-five foot (knotted up to around eleven feet) nylon lead the wife prefers.
The defense mechanisms we put in place as children to survive abuse should be allowed to fall away as we mature and move away from the abuse. In some people, like myself, those mechanisms are never holstered and we grow aloof, distant, secretive, and so forth. Pondering this as I walked through the dead leaves there was no question that I've never holstered anything. Guns out and ready, that's me.
Entering the woods I saw a house cat cross the path and slink into the underbrush. I hoped that Sophie would smell the cat and make at least some kind of move to the side of the trail. She lumbered right across the just-laid scent cone without the least twitch. Poor dog, she is sight hound to the very core.
Walking in the woods, I realize a great deal about who I am, who I was, who I could've been. I was born at the lingering wisps of a dying time. I keep a number of older hunting books and magazines ranging from the 1930's up through the late 60's, and seem to identify heavily with the men of that era. Having no father during my early years, I had only the writers of those publications to guide me toward manhood.
The husband of my earliest babysitter was one of those men. He didn't write, but he hunted and fished with a zeal not often seen, even in that long-ago time. I remember his hunting dress of brown canvas trousers, jacket, vest, and hat. Wearing either L. L. Bean's ubiquitous Maine Hunting Shoes (or an old pair of hip boots, were waterfowl the quarry) he looked exactly like one of the men pictured in those books and magazines that occupied most of my free time, in spite of the severe poverty in which he and his ever-sickly wife lived.
Don had been a tail gunner on a B-29 Superfortress during the big war, scanning the vanishing contrails of his plane for the incessant threat of Japanese fighter planes. He never elaborated on his wartime experiences, just that he went "over there and emptied a few cans of .50 cal ammo".
He started taking me out into the field with him, allowing me to fire a .22 rifle for the first time when I was three years old. Looking back, it seems a bit strange that this man would take a three year old out into the game fields with him, but he did. I sometimes wonder if he had problems like mine. Did he not feel comfortable around other men? Maybe he genuinely appreciated my joy at being included. I don't know and I've never really felt compelled to explore that.
His wife was always too sick to work. She's been at Death's door for about forty years, now, and he has trudged along merrily pulling all the weight. Then again, maybe that's just the way you did things back then. The man worked and the woman stayed home and kept the house. I do remember her always cooking and when he came home from work he was mostly left alone to unwind from a hard day's labor.
Walking through the sandy gravel near the river, I watched my own Maine Hunting Shoes as they slipped and slid and struggled to plow forward. Sophie was having her own problems with this loose footing but we kept pressing forward. It wouldn't be much longer until we were at the visitor's center and could mount the floodwall for a brisk hike back home in good, solid grass.
Walking with Sophie this morning made me think of the endless walks afield with ol' Red when I was much, MUCH younger. Red was a big English Setter, picture perfect in every way, except he was a stray that had wandered up looking for something to eat and ended up staying for almost three years. I remember the grief I felt when his original owner reclaimed him. Hell, I still feel it. I was amazed when told my old friend had been "appraised" at over twenty five hundred dollars for his stellar birding abilities. How's a kid supposed to recover after hunting with a dog of that caliber? Even stranger was the picture of a nine-year-old boy released to the field with a dog and a borrowed shotgun to hunt birds. When was the last time you heard of something like that happening?
The squirrels rummaging about in the leaves fascinated Sophie, but she never offered to actually go after one. It's been so hot here this year that in spite of the hunting season's being open for almost a month I've yet to set foot in the field with the intention of actually hunting anything.
Grouse season opens October 1st. While I entertain almost no thoughts of actually shooting anything, I look forward to the few days when I'll steal away from work and home responsibilities and wander the thickets looking for the big, golden birds. I actually heard one drumming last year, way off, but could never manage to locate him. Funny, but it really doesn't matter if I actually take game or not.
Meandering through the brush with the little 20 gauge slung in the crook of my arm, it seems like my mind can detach from the noise and the rush and the indifference of modern life and carry me back to a far-simpler time. Just a man with a sandwich and a few shells stuffed in his brown canvas pockets wandering through deserted fields looking for game that may or may not be there. No sensory assault of questions that must be answered, booming stereos, revving engines, self-doubt, spinning tires, yelling, cursing, celebrity worship, buy this, buy that…
The briars snap, pop, and hiss lightly as they slide across my double-layered upland trousers. The wind contributes its gentle rustle to the dead leaves. There's no one here but me, and my spirit stills.