Calif. Hunter
Active member
The first cold nights at hunting camp are always welcome because they
mean we can finally have a roaring oak fire in an attempt to keep the
uninsulated old cabin warm until we finally retire to sleeping bags. The
generator is turned off after we're done with dinner and don't need bright
lights to make sure the dishes are clean. The coffee pot has been properly
primed so all we have to do is put a match to the burner on the propane
stove by flashlight in the morning. So with the generator off, we huddle
into the part of the cabin bathed in the warmth and flickering light pumped
out by the burning oak logs.
Some of us stay up late.
If my two boys are along, they are asleep before 9 p.m., even with the
talk and laughter going on around them. The men with young children are next
to retire. In fact, you can mark the age of those of us in camp by the hour
we finally go to bed, with the oldest going to bed last.
I turned 50 nearly a year ago, and I've become painfully aware that I'm
now the last one to finally head for a bunk. I'm the one who builds up the
fire. The last one asleep. Up as soon as the alarm goes off, frequently
awake or even up before that happens, getting the fire going again from the
coals left from my last tending, and sending the smell of coffee through the
cabin to inspire the others.
Laying awake while others are snoring, I realize that it was not getting
older than I didn't like so much as not having those who were older than me
around any longer. When my last, most-distant, elder male mentor died last
year, I realized that the blood in my veins and my memories of him and the
others now gone were all that was left of their generation of hunters and
fishermen. Their dilution to my sons, to the younger members of the hunting
camp, didn't include the warm memories of times in past hunting camps, of
falling asleep to the old timer's laughter, of waking up to their voices.
Hell, I'm the old timer now. You are never ready for that role, I
suspect. Never ready to be the next in line for life's major changes without
the advice of your closest family elders. Although I don't mind being in
charge of the hunting camp, I find that I'm running things like they did. I
might even be a better cribbage and pinochle player, and since they aren't
here to dispute that, I'll stick with that story.
Even when I am feeling cheated that my boys don't have my father to fill
them up with the sound advice on work, fishing, and women that he tried to
share with me; when I wish Uncle Spike were still around to offer tutoring
on all things mechanical, hunting tips, and tactical maneuvering around
women to my boys; when I remember Uncle Bob and his bawdy, tough take on
women, life, and the outdoors and how that may or may not benefit my sons,
all I see in the mirror is me. And those snoring hunting buddies.
It's a little scary, but when my boys wake up and the oak fire is taking
the chill off the air in the cabin, I'm glad its fall and know why my
mentors relished this time of year, this time of their lives so much.
mean we can finally have a roaring oak fire in an attempt to keep the
uninsulated old cabin warm until we finally retire to sleeping bags. The
generator is turned off after we're done with dinner and don't need bright
lights to make sure the dishes are clean. The coffee pot has been properly
primed so all we have to do is put a match to the burner on the propane
stove by flashlight in the morning. So with the generator off, we huddle
into the part of the cabin bathed in the warmth and flickering light pumped
out by the burning oak logs.
Some of us stay up late.
If my two boys are along, they are asleep before 9 p.m., even with the
talk and laughter going on around them. The men with young children are next
to retire. In fact, you can mark the age of those of us in camp by the hour
we finally go to bed, with the oldest going to bed last.
I turned 50 nearly a year ago, and I've become painfully aware that I'm
now the last one to finally head for a bunk. I'm the one who builds up the
fire. The last one asleep. Up as soon as the alarm goes off, frequently
awake or even up before that happens, getting the fire going again from the
coals left from my last tending, and sending the smell of coffee through the
cabin to inspire the others.
Laying awake while others are snoring, I realize that it was not getting
older than I didn't like so much as not having those who were older than me
around any longer. When my last, most-distant, elder male mentor died last
year, I realized that the blood in my veins and my memories of him and the
others now gone were all that was left of their generation of hunters and
fishermen. Their dilution to my sons, to the younger members of the hunting
camp, didn't include the warm memories of times in past hunting camps, of
falling asleep to the old timer's laughter, of waking up to their voices.
Hell, I'm the old timer now. You are never ready for that role, I
suspect. Never ready to be the next in line for life's major changes without
the advice of your closest family elders. Although I don't mind being in
charge of the hunting camp, I find that I'm running things like they did. I
might even be a better cribbage and pinochle player, and since they aren't
here to dispute that, I'll stick with that story.
Even when I am feeling cheated that my boys don't have my father to fill
them up with the sound advice on work, fishing, and women that he tried to
share with me; when I wish Uncle Spike were still around to offer tutoring
on all things mechanical, hunting tips, and tactical maneuvering around
women to my boys; when I remember Uncle Bob and his bawdy, tough take on
women, life, and the outdoors and how that may or may not benefit my sons,
all I see in the mirror is me. And those snoring hunting buddies.
It's a little scary, but when my boys wake up and the oak fire is taking
the chill off the air in the cabin, I'm glad its fall and know why my
mentors relished this time of year, this time of their lives so much.
