D
Deleted member 16014
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This leans heavily sentimental, so if you're a cold-hearted SOB feel free move on by...or maybe you'd better read it. This seems like a reasonable time for reflection about the meaning of time spent in the mountains. I've been sitting on this for a long time.
The Last Hunt
As much as I hear that things have drastically changed in the 21st century, I’m firm in my belief that what people need and want hasn’t changed much at all. As hunters we want to be respected for our effort and prove to ourselves (and probably others if we’re honest) that we’ve gained a special skill set that is useful. This is often accomplished through a version of apprenticeship to family or trusted friends. Maybe your outdoor mentor comes easily to mind, or maybe you’ve yet to find one. Mine was granddad.
I looked up to him with superhero awe because he seemed to have a connection with the mountains that couldn’t be matched. He was always strong for his old age, never overly concerned with bad weather, good weather, or any other vagary of mountain pursuits. He walked with the humility and confidence that come from equal parts character and hard knock skill. With nothing to prove there was no need for bravado, real or false. Granddad was like the mountain was, and that’s something a boy looks up to.
I grew up hunting in a style where if you had a pocket of shells and a candy bar in your pack there wasn’t much else to want. We always saw a few deer, and occasionally killed a good one. Evening meals at camp were time for old stories. Loggers by trade, my family patriarchs had spent countless days in the type of country I dreamt about all day at school. At trip’s end we would gather in the garage with the whole family to cut, grind, and package meat. Those memories were larger than life until the next fall came around.
As granddad passed his 81st birthday and approached the fall of 2010, he was still planning to come along on our annual mule deer hunt. He and I would move up to a point that he liked to glass from on the day before the season and camp out overnight. It wasn’t a long walk, maybe 2.5 miles, but that was a tough hike at his age and if we camped out he’d be fresh in the morning.
As far as I know he hadn’t slept out on a “backpacking” trip since he was young, and even then probably not on purpose. I doubled up on sleeping gear and he took a daypack with some snacks, a bottle of water, and his tang safety Ruger. The weather was great, and we figured to make good time to our destination.
Granddad didn’t walk as fast as I did anymore. Half way up I remember him saying something like, “Why don’t you just go on ahead, I can’t go like I used to”. I told him I was in no hurry, I just wanted to enjoy the trip and have a good hunt. We kept along at a slow but consistent pace until we reached a little flat below our vantage.
I’d come a long way in my path as an outdoorsman, merging fresh climbing and mountaineering experience with fall hunting. In my spare time at college I ate up every bit of mountain literature that I could. I relished stories of alpinism from American and European climbers. These were real mountain hard men with the mental game to beat the odds. Granted, alpinists on average seemed like a self-conscious lot. Amazing adventurers yes, but never quite comfortable or happy. Not like granddad, who always seemed to be both.
TBC...
The Last Hunt
As much as I hear that things have drastically changed in the 21st century, I’m firm in my belief that what people need and want hasn’t changed much at all. As hunters we want to be respected for our effort and prove to ourselves (and probably others if we’re honest) that we’ve gained a special skill set that is useful. This is often accomplished through a version of apprenticeship to family or trusted friends. Maybe your outdoor mentor comes easily to mind, or maybe you’ve yet to find one. Mine was granddad.
I looked up to him with superhero awe because he seemed to have a connection with the mountains that couldn’t be matched. He was always strong for his old age, never overly concerned with bad weather, good weather, or any other vagary of mountain pursuits. He walked with the humility and confidence that come from equal parts character and hard knock skill. With nothing to prove there was no need for bravado, real or false. Granddad was like the mountain was, and that’s something a boy looks up to.
I grew up hunting in a style where if you had a pocket of shells and a candy bar in your pack there wasn’t much else to want. We always saw a few deer, and occasionally killed a good one. Evening meals at camp were time for old stories. Loggers by trade, my family patriarchs had spent countless days in the type of country I dreamt about all day at school. At trip’s end we would gather in the garage with the whole family to cut, grind, and package meat. Those memories were larger than life until the next fall came around.
As granddad passed his 81st birthday and approached the fall of 2010, he was still planning to come along on our annual mule deer hunt. He and I would move up to a point that he liked to glass from on the day before the season and camp out overnight. It wasn’t a long walk, maybe 2.5 miles, but that was a tough hike at his age and if we camped out he’d be fresh in the morning.
As far as I know he hadn’t slept out on a “backpacking” trip since he was young, and even then probably not on purpose. I doubled up on sleeping gear and he took a daypack with some snacks, a bottle of water, and his tang safety Ruger. The weather was great, and we figured to make good time to our destination.
Granddad didn’t walk as fast as I did anymore. Half way up I remember him saying something like, “Why don’t you just go on ahead, I can’t go like I used to”. I told him I was in no hurry, I just wanted to enjoy the trip and have a good hunt. We kept along at a slow but consistent pace until we reached a little flat below our vantage.
I’d come a long way in my path as an outdoorsman, merging fresh climbing and mountaineering experience with fall hunting. In my spare time at college I ate up every bit of mountain literature that I could. I relished stories of alpinism from American and European climbers. These were real mountain hard men with the mental game to beat the odds. Granted, alpinists on average seemed like a self-conscious lot. Amazing adventurers yes, but never quite comfortable or happy. Not like granddad, who always seemed to be both.
TBC...
