July 29, 2022 A Moment By: Amber Casey Leaves rustle to the right as the last few minutes of shooting light approach. I roll my eyes, knowing it’s too dark to see what just came into shooting range with the naked eye. The .450 rests quietly against the pine tree. I reach across for it, making every noise possible – the rubber sling getting caught on a twig and lifting up every pine needle and leaf surrounding it, the fabric of my jacket scraping against the bark as I turn, and resting the gun a little too hard on my knee after raising it up. I find the dark blob in my scope, and the deer is facing me around 80 yards, ears up and very alert. After four hours of sitting, you’d think seeing that deer would be the highlight of the hunt. That is far from the truth. For a moment, my eyes only see rolling hills covered with towering pine trees that give a beautiful contrast against the bluebird sky. They only see the sun peeking through the boughs that periodically hit the tree trunks making it look like the soft glow of a fire. They only see a distant branch that looks like a whitetail buck causing my heart rate to spike. What they don’t see is the glow of a computer screen or television. They don’t see a highway filled with tail lights heading to the hustle and bustle of the city. They don’t see people that have been taught to panic and live in fear. For a moment, my nose only smells fresh dirt from pulling away the bed of pine needles and leaves for a quiet spot to sit. It only smells the inside of my fleece buff that hasn’t been washed all hunting season. It only smells the damp oak leaves packed on the forest floor and that distinct aroma of a wood stove that comes from nearby dwellings burning wood to heat their barns or homes. It doesn’t smell the exhaust fumes on busy city streets. It doesn’t smell the musty office building. It doesn’t smell food cooking in the kitchen at 5:30 PM – reminding me of the monotony of everyday life. For a moment, my ears hear that annoying rustle of leaves that can only be made by a fox squirrel, tricking you into thinking it’s the biggest buck of your life walking into your shooting lane. They hear a doe bleat can that sounds like a dying goat being put to use by another hunter a couple ridges over – maybe he’s here for the same reason as me though. Instead of getting frustrated, I smile. They hear the deafening silence of the evening as the sun sets and the breeze dies down to nothing. They don’t hear the radio playing in the kitchen/office for eight hours and fingers typing on a keyboard. They don’t hear the chatter of people in the grocery store or the news stories that make me cringe. For a moment, I feel at peace. I feel my head rest on my pack for a quick minute as the sun kisses my face before prime time hits. I feel my toes going numb even with 2,000 grams of insulation as Raynaud’s disease takes effect. Even though I can feel the chill of the evening come through my clothes, I feel my body relax. I feel the thermals start to drop as the sun descends. I feel my nose being turned on like a faucet, dripping into the fleece buff that needs a good washing. What I don’t feel for a moment is anxiety. I don’t feel trapped. I don’t feel overwhelmed. I don’t feel the buzzing of a cell phone because, thankfully, there’s no service out here. I don’t feel like I’m only existing. For a moment, my mind slows down. It stops overanalyzing every situation. It stops worrying and wondering. It stops reflecting on the good, the bad and the ugly throughout my life. It focuses on what’s in front of me right now – what I can see, smell, hear and feel. For a moment, I’m in the moment. I let down my gun as it gets too dark to see, even through the scope. The deer nervously walks away, then I hear bounding. I can only assume that damn white flag is up too. I pack up and wait, giving the other hunter time to do one last scan at last light and enjoy the final moments of the evening – alone and without me intruding on their quiet walk back. My heart sinks as I make my way off the ridge, knowing my four hours of therapy is over. I savor the walk back to the truck. As I come out of the woods and make my way across a field, I stop and look back. The last light of the day in the western sky contrasts with the sparse clouds and treeline. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, enjoying one last moment.
May 6, 2022 A Final Hunt: The Beaver Flow By: Justin Hunold The Sherman Brook And its Speckled Beauties By: Frank Williams God bless my soul, you are growing old. So I took my pole, line and hook and started Out back for the “Sherman Brook” Down through the barnyard, out through the gate. Each stop took me forward, not knowing my fate. Out thro’ the “Rye Lot”, I plodded with glee. Down round the curve by the “Old Beech Tree” Through the “Carter Lot Gate”, I traveled along. The brook was below me, singing its song. I baited my hook and got ready my pole. For out in the stream was my favorite hole. I cast in my line, and pulled him out, And there on the bank lay a “Beautiful Trout”, I gazed at the beauty with color sublime. I said to myself, “Well- You are mine.” Babble, babble went the stream, In answer to my “Final Dream” Before we talk about my plagiarism in this case, I believe that at this point the man that wrote this would give me his blessing in using it. He would likely enjoy giving the world a peek into his little slice of heaven and his flare for telling a story. You see, I’m not the only person in my family who would write about their passion for the natural world and our interaction with it. The man who wrote this was my Great Grandfather, Frank. The poem takes place on the farm he and my Great Grandmother Evelyn purchased. They then increased its holdings, production and number of occupants, with their growing family. The call of the wild has long been abided in my family. Frank Williams with Fox pelts from his farm and probably some that surrounded it. At the time I started exploring the surrounding lands it was owned by Don and Joan Williams, my Great Aunt and Uncle. These adventures started in earnest with my Uncle Stephen. Later my dad, Scott, would teach me how to really hunt there, on Sundays I didn’t have wrestling. After highschool I would drive the half an hour or so to get up to Panther Lake, almost weekly. Uncle Don even knew when I had gotten new tires on my S10 by the time the end of summer rolled around from the change in tread pattern in the sand. When I was little my Uncle Stephen would take me in those woods and we would put up or build some tree stands, do some fishing, catch some frogs and get me “lost”. By the time I was old enough to hunt there I had been “lost” enough that my compass became mostly useless. I knew where I was all the time. Not long after that my dad shot a seven point buck when I was with him, the first deer I had ever seen taken while hunting. My Uncle told me to sit on the front hill one evening, normally the deer would be coming through the woods behind the knob. That watch was at the edge of a pine patch and hardwoods. That evening a nice six point did exactly that. He was my first buck, I killed him with a borrowed 30-06 and a well placed shot. Many memorable mistakes were made before that, but those are stories for over a beer not in a blog. A fall or two after that I read “How to Bag The Biggest Buck of Your Life” by Larry Benoit. I decided I was going to become a tracker. At breakfast one particular morning, in the arrogance of a very young man, I told my Father and Uncle that I was going to do so. They chuckled and encouraged me. Well, at the end of a track that day was a three point buck that I shot at 10 yards. Not my biggest buck but maybe my favorite of all time. This was the only buck I have ever tracked in my life. Oh to be that self confident again. I realized I could catch more of those Speckled Beauties if I would float my bait under a small cork bobber on the Sherman Brook. The more natural color and presentation would not hold a Beautiful Trout back from hitting the worm or fly slinking past their nose. I have more outdoor memories on this property than just about any other place I’ve ever spent time outside. My Uncle and I are very close, and I believe this piece of land, this 400 or so acres helped make it that way. We had been inseparable in a lot of ways for all of my life. My son’s middle name is Stephen after my Uncle. This is the place he watched me grow into a man, and where he first really started to treat me like one. Our cumulative memories there were innumerable. I had moved away from Upstate New York. I went to North Carolina, attended college, worked full time to put myself through school and learned some hard life lessons. After a few years and a few miles I finally made my way back. Uncle Stephen called me. The news carried some weight. “Uncle Don is selling the property, closing soon”, he said. I can’t write the rest of that conversation in any sort of quotes, but I remember an immense feeling of loss. I can only speak for myself, but the idea of not being able to wander around this place carried the weight of losing a family member, or friend. And just as you would for a friend or family member we decided right there, we would have a vigil or remembrance. We would do it in the only fitting way we could. We would sneak on one last time and go for a hunt. But this hunt would be completely different. It would be a duck hunt. At the “Back” of the acreage was a beaver swamp, or as we call it The Beaver Flow. We often deer hunted back there, we’d hike back to it, hell, I had even tried to fish it before but never duck hunted it. When I was younger we didn’t hunt waterfowl. During the time I was gone, continuing the journey of becoming a man that I had started on this land, we had both started to enjoy the sport of duck hunting. During all the mornings we had sat over the beaver flow we had seen ducks fly over, around, and drop down into this bowl of standing timber, grass and water. Knowing what I do now, that place would be a go to honey hole, it just wasn’t on our radar for that before. So there, in the dark, with waders on, decoys, guns and headlamps we walked up and down the ridgelines for what seemed like way longer than it ever took in wool pants. We finally slid down the hill and spilled into the flow. We set the decoys up in a likely opening, chatting about all the things we enjoyed about the property, and how we couldn’t believe this was the last go round we’d have there. We shared stories of things we’d seen and done there, both together and separately, before and after I was born. The generations before me had either grown up on the farm or spent a lot of time there with their grandparents. We finished setting the decoys and tucked into some deadfall on the bank. As we watched the sun come over that place for the last time we spoke very little which is a rarity for me, my mouth tends to babble babble. And just then with a perfect fall morning crackling around us, in came….nothing. There were no ducks. Just as it seems to go, when you’re deer hunting all you see is squirrels and when you decide to hunt small game you see deer. So went the picturesque idea we both dreamed of the night before. We weren’t there for the ducks though. We just sat and took it all in. It was as if we were at a viewing or a funeral, that moment that you’re waiting for,when you think the loved one will talk back to you. Then it dawns on you that they cannot and won’t ever again. The parts of them you keep with you are the parts that stay alive. We had taken enough great things from that place and it owed us no more. But with that just like the special little things you tend to see around you after the loss of a loved one, we got to see one flock of Wood Ducks pass by us at about 100 yards. One last “Well, Hello There.” and an idea that maybe Frank and Evelyn wanted to let us know they saw how much we cared. Frank and Evelyn Williams When the closing happens to me, in the reverse fashion, and I buy the farm, I hope my loved ones think about me with their first impactful moment in nature after my moving on. That is one of my greatest wishes. And I hope one of them has enough reprobate left in them, with a bit of rue for authority, to sneak just a handful of my ashes onto that front hill or maybe even toss some into the Sherman Brook.
