ROCKWALL, TX (November 13, 2014) Dad cinched the rope around me and started up the tree with the other end. A few nailed boards in a bough of high limbs served as a deer stand, and alternating branches and two-by-fours posed as the ladder to get there. Reaching the top, he signaled for me to climb. I was young, barely able to reach from one limb to the next, so he pulled the rope each time I was stuck, hoisting me to the next set of “rungs.”
“We ain’t gonna tell your momma about this,” he whispered and winked.
It was a surprise first hunt. That autumn afternoon Dad had picked me up from school and sprung the news as we meandered out of the city and into the forests. Perched up high, we saw little more than an occasional bird soaring and scampering squirrel. Most modern kids would’ve been bored, but not me, I had just been introduced to man’s oldest pursuit, and each year from there as the weather cooled and leaves blushed, as Halloween and Thanksgiving approached, Dad and I ventured to the woods. When we weren’t there, I chomped at the bit, flipping through Bass Pro catalogues, dreaming of deer, duck, and goose.
Only 5% of Americans still hunt, many trading the ancestral adventure for swinging a club along a manicured course. Yet some who continue the tradition do it not for the bloodlust of wall trophies, but because of a deep longing for adventure, which is a rarity in our politically-correct, minutely-controlled, safety-conscious society. When I climbed that tree and Dad made me swear not to tell momma, I was all in, and for years after I floated streams and crossed frozen lakes on my four-wheeler, shivered in sleet-covered boats on theMississippi River, and traversed in woods and cotton fields where our only sense of direction came from a compass capturing North. We weren’t reckless, but there were tons of “don’t tell momma” moments that she cringed when we confessed years later.
Beyond the adventure; however, hunting begets a deep gratitude. It’s hard to explain but when you do find your prey and take the shot, something happens inside: you face the tough truth that in order to survive, something else must give its life, and being involved in that process instead of bypassing it to buy the meat, changes you when you sit at that table. Your meal becomes honest, wasting seems terribly wrong, and a deep sort of thankfulness simmers.
Last spring I felt it again when I took my first wild turkey. Our freezer was nearly empty and our bellies would soon follow, but when I entered with the big Tom, an excitement like the pilgrims of old must have enjoyed resonated in the house. We gathered around the food and I told of the hunt, how the gobbler came from behind us and charged before me, looking, peering to check for any movement. My family loved the adventure but more than that, as we savored the big bird, we were truly thankful.
By Blue Ribbon News guest columnist Scott Gill of Rockwall, a teacher, coach and author of Goliath Catfish. Follow Scott’s blog at scotttgill.tumblr.com and read all of his “Front Porch Ramblings” at BlueRibbonNews.com.
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