"Old Songs"

Like many young men I started hunting by pursuing squirrel and rabbits in my back yard. I lived in Pennsylvania where the Opening Day of Deer Season was on the first Monday after Thanksgiving. The schools were closed. Most businesses were closed. Everything except essential organizations was closed to celebrate Opening Day.

I was 13 years old when my father, who rarely had time to do so, took me to his hometown of Grampian to meet his childhood cronies. These characters had names like “Crappy Hepburn” and “Uncle Pick” that seemed to define a simpler time in our history. One where young boys would gain status by how well they fought. My father was a scrapper, the 10^th child in a dirt poor coal mining family. He swore that he would not allow his children to grow up poor, so he spent virtually every waking moment pursuing business deals and focusing on making money. There was little time for leisure.

So when he asked if I wanted to go deer hunting, even though I wasn’t sure about actually killing one of these beautiful creatures, I enthusiastically replied “Yes!” It was going to be time with my father, the most cherished of moments. Since this didn’t come very often, it carried tremendous emotional weight for me. My senses were awakened in his presence. For the first time in my childhood I was connected to something. I had always been a miserable ball player. My baseball coach put me in right field for 2 innings because it was a regulation to play all the team. Although my hometown was football-obsessed, I was too small and too sensitive to take the teasing and hazing that went along with it. I was kind of a loner. But when my father took me out into the hills of Central Pennsylvania, I came alive.

I wondered at the mountain laurel that grew on the hillsides. I would stare for hours into the trees, examining the bark and watching leaves flutter to the ground to land in a swirling stream of color. The chattering of squirrels and the screaming of blue jays made me feel like I was welcome here. I was safe from towel-snapping linebackers and bullies. I was in a place where I belonged.

Just as the pines swaying in the cold northern breeze, just as the first snowflakes touching the musky earth, just as the snap of a twig in the distance. Just as a dark brown object climbed over a hummock down the steep hillside from me. I belonged, as did the doe now pawing the ground just 40 yards away.

She batted her eyes and looked at me. Our eyes connected and I felt my first wave of compassion and adrenalin course through my adolescent frame. She was in no danger from me. It was rifle season and bucks only. I smiled and said “hello” quietly. She twitched her ears as if to try to understand what I had just said, then she stomped her right foot and began walking away. I felt blessed.

When we got back to camp I said nothing of my encounter.I listened to all the guys tell their stories of what big bucks they had chased that day. They sat smoking cigars and drinking whiskey around a stone fireplace adorned with drying woolens draped over every overhanging obstacle. The smell of wood smoke and fresh liver and onions on the stove mixed with the laughter and camaraderie of these rough cut pillars of manhood.  On the ride to town that night, my father and I listened to a radio station that still played Hank Williams, Gene Autry and Earl Scruggs.

Later, when we moved to Stowe, Vermont my father would introduce me to a new country singer, John Denver. I would watch my grown father with a curious eye as he would actually cry when he sang along with “Take Me Home Country Roads”. It was in Stowe that my father and I got our first buck in 1977, the year I graduated high school. Since those first few episodes in Pennsylvania, I had become addicted to the serenity and connection that I found from being in the woods. It had been five years since we started hunting deer when it happened.

We had built a giant tree stand 30 feet up in a triangle of big-trunked pines. It was a huge space, about five feet in each direction. I had fallen asleep when my father woke me to say “Get ready! Here he comes!” He had heard a distant shot and then brush crashing around us. The buck appeared in the slash to our right. He whispered “Get him!” and I aimed my Winchester 30.30, leveling the front bead on his mighty chest. I do not remember hearing the shot, only seeing the deer drop to his knees. We had done it! My father and I had accomplished something – together!

Over the next 35 years my passion for hunting grew into a full time lifestyle. I fell in love with waterfowling and followed that path into guiding, but every year, out of respect for the memories that molded my spirit, I returned to the woods in search of my connection to the earth and the magnificent whitetail.

It was this same deep abiding love that drove me to the woods this past Saturday. My team of hunters had finished a wildly successful goose calling and hunting strategy seminar at Dead Creek Refuge in Addison for Dead Creek Day. The geese had cooperated as if they were trained. We started calling and about 300 birds lifted off of a farm to the East and flew directly over a crowd of about 30 absolutely stunned seminar attendees. But now it was time to spend some “alone time” in the woods behind my house.

 

As I sat in my treestand, 20 feet above the earth, I listened to the blue jays screaming to one another. A squirrel climbed the tree beside me and peeked around the trunk to stare at me just four feet away. I smiled at him and I could swear I heard his thoughts “Oh. Who are you? Is this your tree? OK…I’ll just go find another one.” He climbed down calmly and skittered across the crunchy forest floor.

I was lost in revelry once again. The gentle north wind scattered gold and red maple leaves to the ground. The sun had set and the light started to surrender to the canopy shadows. In the distance I could hear a train whistle. The smell of someone’s distant woodstove wafted through the evening air. As I was breathing in the fragrant autumn scents, I noticed something moving to my left down the hill. It was large and brown. I stood up very slowly and prepared my arrow.

It was a doe. My thoughts flew back to my first deer that I had seen as a teenager in Pennsylvania and I wondered if this time the scene might play out differently. I decided to wait and see what she would do. She continued to walk toward my stand, then crossed to the right and stood broadside to me just 28 yards away. As she put her head down behind a tree, I drew my bow. Something told me that if she presented herself to me as a gift, that this time I should take her.

Crossing from behind the oak tree, she stood still, her flanks in perfect position for a shot. At that moment, the voice inside said “It’s OK” and I released the arrow.

It was pitch dark by the time I shimmied down the tree and found the arrow. It had passed through her and there was no blood trail. I would have to wait until morning and enlist my friends to help find her.

I did not sleep all night and when the alarm clock went off at 5:00am I had finally fallen asleep. There was a knock on my door and I rolled over to see that it was now 7:00 and my friend John Lesher was waiting for me on the front porch. My other pal, Chris Thayer, arrived next and with some very valuable coaching from Chris Peacock of Burlington, Vermont we were able to locate the doe in about 15 minutes.

After an awkward picture where I felt both pride and remorse, we dressed her out and took her to Dattilios Guns & Tackle to check her in.  Upon returning we hoisted her into the tree and skinned and quartered her. It began to drizzle as we were boxing up the venison and I needed a break.

I asked my wife if she wanted to go for a foliage drive. We took the truck up into the mountains, through Lincoln and down through Bristol Notch. The trees seemed to be particularly beautiful this year. We sipped coffee and enjoyed one another’s company like we were on a honeymoon, grateful for all we had in our lives.

On the way home my wife popped in a CD and as the first song began to play, I started to cry. Then I burst out singing with the chorus “Take Me Home Country Roads.”

September Dreams

We’d been working on the farm last month when we noticed the large flock of resident Canada geese using the wheat field to the north. The farmer was visibly perturbed that the birds had imprinted on his field and he knew that later this year he would have a problem when he tilled it under and the winter wheat sprouts began to pop up out of the fertile soil. Two hundred geese can do a lot of damage to a seeded field.

Some local folks, who walked the road every day for exercise, looked upon the birds as harmless and beautiful. To the farmer they were a nuisance, destroying his livelihood and making it more difficult to bring his grains to market, where they would be turned into bread and beer that the walking people enjoyed when they returned home.

To my merry band of Sacred Hunters, the geese were a majestic resource.

Personally, of all the animals on earth, I feel the strongest kinship with the goose. Maybe it’s that some people perceive both of us a nuisance, while others see us as wondrous and communicative beings. I enjoy talking to the geese and have learned more than twenty distinctly different vocalizations.

Some folks may think that hunters are only focused on one thing, killing. This is an oversimplification of a profoundly deep experience.

As dawn begins to fade from its dark blues and purples into the pastel hues of salmon, sage and helio, we listen intently for the waking honks of the flock roosting on the bay. The occasional “Her-Onk” echoes over the brightening gold landscape. We tuck our heads down into the layout blinds, camouflaged in wheat stalks. We are surrounded by full-body decoys with velvet-flocked heads in multiple positions, each displaying a specific posture to an incoming flock.

We wait.

When we finally decide that they may not show up for a while, we decide to pour a cup of french roast coffee with maple syrup out of the shiny thermos with the Ducks Unlimited logo on it. One of my closest hunting partners, J0hn, offers up the ubiquitous cruellers. It’s an annual ritual to watch the sun come up and share laughter, donuts and coffee with my crew. As another hunting partner, Larry, passes the chrome-plated cup to me, we both hear the sound. “Herrrrrp.”

It is too close.

There is a bird in the air and he sees us sitting upright and sharing our breakfast. “Busted!” I proclaim, as he glides over us from behind and pumps his powerful wings, carrying him to the distant horizon.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t go to the bay flock and tell them what he saw!” says another hunting buddy, Chris. We must be more careful. Coffee and donuts are stored beneath the fabric doors of the blind and we slink back down into our camo caves.

Fifteen minutes pass and we start thinking that maybe he did tattle on us. We begin to relax again when our mentee, Zack, spots a flock of a dozen against the trees to the north. They are not calling. “Flag ‘Em!” I whisper. My friend, Chris, begins to wave the goose shaped black, brown and white flag with zestful enthusiasm, flapping the wings as if to imitate a bird landing in the spread. “No calling,” I whisper again. “When they get in close enough, let’s hit ‘em with a feeding murmur and a gentle spit cluck or two, OK?”

The birds turn, a good ½ mile away and begin a beeline for our field. In less than a minute they are a mere 300 yards out, cupping their mighty wings and waffling air through their primaries, dropping altitude. “One more flag sequence, then set it down,” I instruct Chris. He does a quick 3 flaps and sets the flag on the ground.

They are now 150 yards out and my heart is pounding through my chest. I can feel it in my ears, thumping with excitement.

“Feeding murmur and gentle clucks” I command the troops. As if we were sitting at the Old Brick Store, conversing with the locals, the birds begin to talk back to us. “Her-her-onk  Er-er-er-er” they reply. Black patent leather feet drop from their bodies, like aircraft dropping their landing gear.

“Get ready gentlemen!” I call out.

As the giant geese begin to back pedal at the foot of the decoy spread, I say to myself “Great Spirit, please help us to shoot straight.”

I call out loud “Take ‘Em!” and the valley erupts in the percussive rhythm of hunting history. We are here to participate in the cycle of life.

6 birds are down. We rush out of our blinds to pick them up as the remainder of the flock lights out for the lake, sounding the alarm. We watch them fly over the horizon and drop down toward the bay.

Before they disappear over the hill Larry calls out “More geese! 3 o’clock!” We scurry back to the blinds and jump in. The birds are to the East this time, in the rising sun, and hard to distinguish just above the tree line. “Don’t bother flagging” I say. “They’ve already caught our motion. They’re talking a lot. Let’s give it back to them.”

We all begin a symphony of clucks, moans, hail calls and murmurs. It sounds like Grand Central at rush hour. They are pumping their massive wings and aiming right at us.  When they are 200 yards out they begin to break off to the south. We pick up the tempo and volume of the calling to a callback cadence. I feel like my cheeks are going to pop as I blow my call from deep within using my diaphragm as I was taught by my opera training mentor (that’s a whole ‘nother story).

Before they reach the foot of the small mountain to the south, they turn decisively. Are they going away or toward us? It’s hard to tell.

After a few seconds it is apparent that they are getting larger not smaller. “Stand up and flag the heck outta ‘em, Chris!” I say. He crawls out of his blind as my friend, Larry, leans hard on his call and hammers out a screaming callback series. “OK. Now get down and let ‘em come in!” The flock of 20 birds circles us twice, checking out every detail of our spread. They are talking the whole time, questioning our sincerity. We call back at them in a cacophony of clucks, moans and murmurs. After the second pass, the lead bird circles north and drops his feet. He is committed. The rest of the flock follow suit.

Suddenly they swing right and look like they’re going to leave, but wait, no….they are simply approaching from the starboard. They will swing in front of us from right to left. Larry says “That’s my favorite shot.” They begin to cup and glide right into the sweet spot. Larry says “Whenever you’re ready to call it Bradley” as if to chide me that I may be waiting too long. But I am waiting for the flock to pass far enough in front of us that the far left shooter will still have a shot. Then, in a split second, I realize that I must call the shot NOW!

“Take ‘Em” I shout. 

Bodies spring into action from beneath the wheat sheathed blinds. Guns pop up into the sky

and ring out their deep resonant booms.

I pick out a bird at the tail end of the flock and drop him soundly to the ground then turn to pick up a bird that has already landed and is jumping up off the ground, in an attempt to secure his escape. I do not even hear the gun fire. But he drops.

This time 7 birds are down. We gather them among cheers and whoops and we hear Chris say “Did you see that? Larry shot a triple!” Zack says “Carleton shot a double. I shot one and John shot one. That means that you, Chris, missed!” I chime in. “I think that Chris and I were shooting at the same bird.” Zack insists “No, I think he missed!” Everyone looks at Chris and the silence is deafening. Chris states proudly “I think I shot all those birds with just 3 shots!” We all laugh.

Our rule is no matter who shoots, we all share, as long as no one shoots another man’s limit. And none of it will go to waste.

Within an hour we have harvested 18 birds among the 5 of us and we all agree that “that is enough.” This will take us a long time to clean the birds. We use all the parts. I make a goose liver pate’ out of the livers – sort of a poor man’s foie’ gras – and a chunky country pate with the hearts and gizzards. We smoke the breasts and make smoked andouille-style sausage out of the leg meat.  The coyotes think that what we leave them is skimpy and unfair.

As we are picking up, one lone goose comes gliding in, as if he is choosing to join his peers in the transformation. I rush back to my blind and grab my gun. As he passes over the blinds, I take him cleanly with one shot and he drops to the ground with a thud.

I walk up to him with respect and admiration.

For a brief moment I am deeply connected to the spirit of this magnificent creature, our lives inextricably linked to one another. To live we must take the life of other beings, sentient or otherwise. “Even the trees and leaves have spirits. For when one Indian takes of the Earth, he does so with remorse and the knowledge that he must do so to sustain his people.”

As I approach him I see he has an aluminum band on his leg, designating that he has met mankind at least once before. I kneel down and put my hand on his chest. He is expiring. As I look into his eyes I say “Thank you brother.” As his spirit passes into mine, I pray.

August Ramblings

When I first started duck hunting, a friend of mine, a stockbroker (yes I did that too), told me that if I was considering taking up duck hunting as a primary passion, that I would need to love maintaining things. Tools, boats, engines, decoys, blinds, dogs, calls, guns, even the properties I would hunt on. And so, after choosing this path 30 years ago, I plunged into the deep end of the pool. I have accumulated an enormous amount of gear over 3 decades and I am not good at selling old equipment. I just keep adding new stuff.

So now, the month of August is all about the race to Opening Day. And I love it. Whenever a cool northwest breeze fluffs the curtains in my bedroom window, and my toes, sticking out of the bottom sheet, seek the warmth of my dog’s belly, I awaken early. Inhaling deeply the first breath of the morning, I cannot stay in bed. It may only be 5AM but the full moon is lighting up the yard and confused robins are singing in the old maple tree on the lawn. I am wide awake. I strain my ears to hear every sound and from a long distance across the fields, near the pond, I hear geese. The long lonely Her-onk of a gander calling to his mate in the moonlit sky to come sit with him and watch the eastern sky turn from black to dark blue, purple and sage green.

I shuffle down the steps to the kitchen. The floor is cool and my feet seek the warmth of the throw rug in front of the coffee maker. The fragrance of fresh coffee has a mesmerizingly comforting aroma. I pour the brew into my favorite mug, the one with the Canada goose on it and gingerly raise the hot liquid to my mouth. Life is good and the day is full of promise.

It’s a Saturday and the To Do list is long and pleasurable.

 About 12 years ago, with no woodworking experience at all, I built a boat. A Barnegat sneakboat variation called an Arthur Armstrong Broadbill. It took me 18 months to complete. I often feel waves of pride when I work on her. This month, I took out the floor and added a new drain plug, patched a few cracks in the transom and created a drain system through the ribs. New fastgrass will be ordered shortly and the custom David Clark canvas blind has had new zippers put in. A segment of the grass rail along the gunwhale will get replaced. The stern and bow light will be rewired with some fresh connectors. The fire extinguisher will be replaced and the PFDs will be checked for tears.

 The layout blinds have been sewn along the edges and winter wheat raffia has been purchased. We will be tying hanks of the raffia with the new plastic snap swivels that affix the raffia to the stubble straps of the blinds. This will allow us to lie in a field of cut wheat or hay and blend in like a small hump in the surface. Less than 30 days from now we will be lying in a field surrounded by newly flocked full body goose decoys, calling to distant flocks and flagging them with our new flag.In the mean time I am busy preparing all our equipment for “The Season” which starts September 1.

I practice shooting my bow every night from the tree stand in my back yard. I have pictures on my game camera that drive me to perfect my skills. There has been a large bear in the back field recently and I really want a crack at him with my bow. My merry band of gentlemen and young mentees and I have been practicing shooting our .22s at the range in anticipation for some squirrel hunts next month. 

Duck decoys need to be washed and anchor lines checked. A new batch of greenwing teal will

be procured through one of the online catalogs (somehow ½ dozen of these vanished last year amidst decoy exchanges between friends). Old anchors need to be replaced on some of the Greenhead Gear mallards. Black duck decoys will be checked for keel cracks and Mojo spinning ducks have new 9 volt batteries. Electric motors must be checked and lubed, every nut, bolt, swivel, screw and clip must be checked for sturdiness. In hunting situations a loose bolt or screw on a tree stand, a stressed shear pin on a boat, or a loosely tied anchor line can an the difference between a safe hunt, a night in the hospital or worse.

Guns are checked and re-checked. Cleaned and re-cleaned. Spit shined and polished. Preparations for a hunt, in my opinion, should be up to military specs. If not out of respect for the equipment, then for safety.

I have some harrowing stories to tell of my early duck hunting days. There were days when I had no mentor and little understanding of the dangers that lurked from Mother Nature’s wrath.

One of the first lessons I learned was to respect the earth and nature. She could embrace us in warmth and beauty or she could treat us with ruthless indifference to our desire to survive. A French philosopher once said “Nature cares not for the individual, but for the survival of a species.” I have learned this lesson first-hand and am lucky to be alive. Now, when the outdoors calls to me I listen but heed the lessons I’ve learned; don’t use climber tree stands in the rain on wet bark; don’t try to cross an open bay in a small low-profile boat when you haven’t heard the marine forecast; don’t leave camp without a compass or GPS; always check your drain plug before you load the boat into the water; always have a game plan if weather changes; and last but not least, the Boy Scout motto; Be Prepared!

Even with the level of respect I have learned, I truly do love August, because of the anticipation. There is so much to do.

I dream every night about Opening Days. Opening Day of Bear Season. Opening Day of

Squirrel Season, Opening Day of Resident Goose Season, Opening Day of Rabbit Season, the last Saturday of September and the Glorious Opening Day of Partridge (I like to call ‘em partridge instead of by their correct name – Ruffed Grouse – just to irritate the snobs). And sometimes just to pretend I’m fancy, I’ll call ‘em by their Latin name, Bonasa Umbellus. People who refer to them by this name usually carry shotguns far more expensive than anything I own. Then there is Opening Day of the First Half of Duck Season, which usually sends me into a conflict about the overlapping days with Opening Day of Archery Season, Opening Day of the Second Half of Duck Season, Opening Day of Migratory Goose Season, the hallowed Opening Day of Rifle Season for deer and one of these years, if the Great Spirit blesses me with the right lottery ticket number, Opening Day of Moose Season.

I may seem to be rambling, but forgive me, it’s August, and next month begins the most beloved and sacred time of the year.

From here on in, I will find myself waking up in the middle of the night when the curtains blow over the windowsill and that haunting ethereal sound of geese in the moonlight penetrates my semi-conscious soul.

Author’s Note: Next month on Saturday, September 28 at 5:00PM, Sacred Hunter will be hosting a Hunting Film Festival at the Film House in Burlington at 60 Lake Street. Tickets will be $15 and there will be a Game Chili Cook Off with prizes given at Intermission. There will be $100 First Prize.

To enter the Chili Cook Off or to purchase tickets please go to the website: www.sacredhunter.org. On the bottom of the page is a “Donate” button. Click this button to pay for your tickets. Any questions, please direct them to Bradley Carleton at 802-238-6176.

For a view of the film trailers or to buy tickets, please visit

www.huntingfilmtour.com.

Labour of Love

Recently the royal family garnered an extraordinary amount of attention concerning Princess Kate’s “labour.” I have no issues with pomp and circumstance, but I was shocked at how the media sensationalized every moment of this woman’s pain. It caused me to wonder about what labor meant to everyone else.

Commonly, labor describes the struggle to bring a living being into the world through excruciating pain. To others labor means simply the daily struggle to work enough hours to pay bills. Either way, it’s about struggle and goals. It got me to thinking “what do I labor to achieve?”

To many this question may be to simply survive, to others it is the pursuit of an ideal, and to still others it is the striving toward transcendence. Such is my direction.

If anyone ever asks me “How is that you can kill something that you claim to love? You mustn’t love it very much.”

If love can be measured by the depth and breadth of one’s effort, I submit to you the following: 

Shortly after the hunting season closes, I am subject to withdrawal – not unlike losing a love.

I immerse myself in pity, surrounding myself with the accoutrements of my passion. I tenderly put away decoys, winterize the boat, fog the engine, and almost shed a tear when I have to put the tarp over the hull. I clean my duck and goose calls with tender loving care, waxing the tone channel below each reed and gently placing their lanyard each on their own coat hooks. The pockets of the heavy camouflage clothing are emptied of shells, cotter pins and assorted edible nuts.

When everything is in its place, the melancholy sets in, like an unwanted guest promising to sit with you while you heal from the loss.

After a month of grieving, hope returns. It starts with a memory.

As a young man I recall the intense anticipation prior to that most sacred of days, The Opening Day. I would sit up all night in the basement, cleaning my gun over and over again, wistfully inhaling the smell of Hoppe’s #9 solvent, the combination of warm wood and cold blued steel in my hands, transporting me to the fields and swamps of my imagination. I would the colorful leaves float earthward in the outdoor spotlight and every hour I’d listen to the weather report to check the wind direction and speed. I was 14 years old and already the bug had found its way into the center of my soul. I am a hunter. 

40 years later, I sit in my den surrounded by duck prints, a significant library of all books waterfowl, a mounted double banded drake mallard and a glorious grained wooden gun cabinet.

I begin practicing my duck and goose calling daily, listening to CDs in my truck. I begin collecting all the pictures and short videos of the season and start crafting a 6 minute video to show at the Yankee Sportsman’s Classic. I send in my Harvest Report to the US Fish & Wildlife and make a long list of new equipment I’d like for next season, perusing Cabelas and Mack’s Prairie Wings.  I visit North Country Sportsman’s Club in Williston on Sundays to keep my shooting sharp.

Soon, spring creeps in and thoughts of a new hunting dog start playing in my head at night. 

Spring training consists of teaching straight line retrieves, “back” commands, “over” to the right and left, always with the scent of duck wings on the training dummies. The boat gets unwrapped and the repairs begin. The crack in the transom needs attention as does the hope of adding a new drain plug. The grass rails on the foredeck need to be re-built, and after ripping off the plywood floor, I want to add drain holes in the ribs so water flows freely to the back of the boat toward the new drain plug. The blind needs new zippers where the dog jumped through the side panel instead of exiting through the door like we’d trained. The motor needs a tune-up, new plugs, fresh oil and lube in the lower gearcase.

Next thing I know, its summer. I order a new drybox for shells (last year’s cardboard boxes didn’t hold up – even in the custom shellbox/gun carrier mounted on the starboard side of the cockpit - thank you Tim Hawley!) A new spotlight and headlamp are procured and anchor lines are tied to sparkling new greenwing teal decoys. Trailer wheels must be lubed, grease fittings on the boat and motor must be pumped full of the life-giving fluid. Bow and stern lights need to be re-wired for a better connection, PFDs and fire extinguisher must be checked, registration stickers must be purchased and a new steel keel guard must be installed.

July rolls in as the garden is recovering from the daily deluge and the annual visit to Dead Creek Refuge in Addison is upon us. A group of waterfowl lovers gather at the headquarters to strategize about how to round up 120 molting Canada geese into a pen, so that the biologists can sex and band them. The children carefully carry the newly banded birds to a holding pen where they regain their composure and are set free to return to their nesting sites. The sight of so many geese makes our collective hearts sing with joy.

It’s now August and the pace increases. Work days on various farms are in order, blind platforms must be constructed of heavy duty plywood and 4x4’s, 6am scouting missions are now de rigeur on days when the temperature dips below 50 degrees the night before. Decoy lines need to be checked for wear, anchor knots need to be checked and re-tied, and calling sessions take on a new intensity. 5-stand sporting clays are now being executed twice weekly. The 12 gauge is being cleaned and oiled three times a week. Many hours are spent watching the 12 different weather channels on the computer and NOAA weather blares non-stop in the truck like an underscore to the goose calling repertoire. I set out all my goose decoys and wash them with mild soapy water, rinsing them with the hose and letting them dry in the seething August sun.

The pup needs to swim in the pond every evening, and as we arrive to train in the water, a doe slips out of the cattails and bounds up the hill to the small wooded pinnacle. A pair of mallards, just gaining their fall plumage, explodes into the blue sky and beeline for the next pond downstream, quacking their displeasure as their pinioned wings grasp for altitude. The dog whines in excitement. In the sunlight, an aluminum band shines on the drake’s leg. My heart skips a beat. Waterfowl season is now just 30 days away.

One of the layout blinds needs to be sewn. A 36” long tear must be hand-sewn with a needle and 10 pound fishing line, penetrating 600 denier cordura cloth. After 2 ½ hours my fingers are bleeding and I am asking myself “Why do I do this?” I answer myself out loud “Ducks!” Winter wheat colored raffia is ordered along with 300 plastic snap swivels and 600 cable ties. Every weekend this month we will be tying the camouflage twine into hanks that will be attached to the stubble straps on our layout blinds. 

In August, Ducks Unlimited hosts their annual Pig Roast and Fun Shoot in Waterbury which provides all of us a chance to shoot clays out of a boat and a layout blind and support our favorite charity.

Finally, the closing bell of summer rings. The Public Waterfowl Meeting is held on the second Wednesday of the month. About 60 of the most rabid waterfowlers show up to heatedly debate their preferences for whether the Opening Day should be on a Wednesday versus a Saturday and how long the split should be between the first and second half. Voices are raised passionately. Then a round of applause is given for someone exhibiting a modicum of common sense. The room is full of fanatical personalities that all want a season that gives them the best chance at making memories that will last the rest of their lives.

The day after the meeting the race to Opening Day is on. Final paint touches are put on the

old decoys and spots in the swamp are claimed. On the first Saturday of September, at

precisely midnight, some duck hunters are pounding in the first stake of the season for the blind they intend to occupy. There has been many a midnight that I have built blinds by the light of my headlamp, standing in 2 feet of water and mud.  Banging 15’ cedar posts into the muddy bottom with an 8 lb sledgehammer until they’ve sunk deep into the primordial ooze - in the dark - epitomizes the craziness to which a waterfowler will go to stake his claim.

As I pound in the heavy stakes, surrounded by my friends who are equally as obsessed, I laugh and ask “What in the world drives us to do this?” In between the thud-thud-thud of the hammer we hear a sound like someone tearing silk. We all look up at once, into the starlit heavens, and someone says “Did you hear that?” Whistling wings are slicing the night air above us. “Ducks!” I say. “Ducks!”

In my thesaurus, labor is defined as “toil, sweat, struggle, and endeavor” and for what you say? What captures our souls and drives us to subject ourselves to such struggle? Why the love of the sound of whistling wings against the dawn, my friend. Love, I say.

The Beginning of Traditions

About 9 years ago, a woman from the Shelburne Community School asked me if I would consider mentoring a young man who was challenged to adhere to some basic social tenets of the institution. I accepted the challenge and began meeting him once a week during school time. We got to know one another and realized that we shared a common passion, the outdoors.

We would talk at length about things that 14 year olds experience and soon formed a bond, where in the hour we would spend together, he taught me one of the most valuable lessons of my life; that my actions could have a significant impact on someone younger. What I said, what I thought about, how I handled my own life, even my deep passion for hunting and fishing, became the central driver of our connection.

Soon I was introduced to his caretakers and found that our relationship took on a new form; that of ice fishing partners. I would work him into my weekly rituals of jigging for panfish, sitting on a pickle bucket out in Shelburne Bay. Sometimes we caught yellow perch, sometimes the nearly translucent rainbow smelt, but every expedition we undertook, I learned more about my purpose in life. 

The Art of Patience

My strongest desire is to share the world of the hunter, fisher and gatherer with others who might not otherwise consider it. I mentored 7 more young men over the following 8 years and started writing about my outdoor exploits. Soon, I was offered a monthly column in a regional publication, then another. Before long, my passion was bringing me greater rewards than I could have imagined. I decided to start a mentoring program based on the belief that Nature can teach us so many valuable lessons, as well as comfort us in times of stress. I decided to call it “Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.”

Our mission would be to work with at-risk young men who may not have a male role model in their life and teach them outdoor pursuits focusing on respect, empathy and compassion. We took two young men at a time and constructed an outdoor curriculum that encompassed habitat management, species identification, firearms safety, hunter education, animal calling, camouflage, scouting, landowner relations, etc. For more of the lessons we offer, go to our website, Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org  and click on “Curriculum.” 

Seeking Oneness

This program often found that young men with ADD or ADHD, anti-social behaviors or anger issues slowly dissolved through the application of time spent outdoors and being mindful of the earth and all its manifestations.

We had one young man, who recently contacted me after 5 years of finishing the program and asked me to be his Best Man in his wedding next summer. He had come to us as a student who had been “rescued” from joining a metropolitan gang in Texas. During a particularly difficult time, his psychiatrist had told us that he was a sociopath and would inevitably wind up in jail. His school counselors, therapist and I refuted his opinion and we continued to work with him. He is now a mature and responsible young man who works several jobs in Rhode Island and cares for his fiancé and 1 year old child.

Another young man came to us wrestling with self-confidence issues and was just trying to find his way through adolescence. He mastered waterfowl hunting, scouting fields for geese, learning decoy sets and became truly an expert at the sport. One day he announced to us that he wanted to serve his country and joined the Marines. He is now serving in Afghanistan. Although I do not like to embrace war as a solution, we are very proud of his desire to serve his country.

Learning Joy and Responsibility

Currently, we have a young man in our program that has gone from boastful and angry to a maturing 15 year old that is learning the peaceful art of flyfishing. His casting abilities astound me. What took me 15 years to master; he imitated and reached in less than a month.

While mentoring these young men I recognized that there was a small but growing community of people here in Charlotte, that wanted to be able to connect to their environment on a meaningful level and perhaps even consider that they might want to be responsible for the meat and vegetables that they eat. We began teaching foraging, basic hunting ethics and fishing to those who were curious about where their food came from.

From this idea evolved Sacred Hunter.org, which now incorporates Traditions Outdoor Mentoring and writes several articles a month, sponsors Free Fishing Day, and gives speaking engagements for several outdoor venues like Dead Creek Day in October or the Yankee Sportsman’s Classic in January.

We are currently conducting an online campaign to raise funds for more equipment for our young men. If you have ever felt compelled to contribute to a cause that believes we can all benefit from direct contact with Nature, please visit our website, Facebookpage and make a donation to our campaign at Indiegogo.com.

Thank you for your consideration. Now get outside!