Spirit is willing but the body has become weak
I took off for a month this fall to chase grouse around the northern tier of Wisconsin. After missing out on an entire hunting season last fall because of ill health, I was ready to make up for lost time. So ready that I forgot to account for the fact that I’m 60 years old.
I scheduled a month in a beautiful lake house, right on the water so that when I wasn’t chasing grouse and woodcock around timber country, I’d have my creative juices stirred by the inspiring beauty of the vistas before me. I even had the fortitude to invite several old friends whom I’d been out of touch with for some years. We split the cost of a most beautiful camp amongst the group. I had a built-in safety net to drag (or at least assist with dragging) me out of the woods when I had my heart attack, lumbego attack, wolf attack, etc. No, I am not kidding about the wolves.There were three wolves seen in the vicinity of our hunt the other morning not 100 yards from where we began our day.
The sunrise at the rear of the cabin rivals some of the prettiest I can recall anywhere along our nation’s landscape including ocean sunrises at either end, Rocky Mountain sunrises, western arid high desert sunrises. Sunsets fall directly in line with our front door patio and they are of equal beauty, tailor made for cocktail hour following a grueling day’s hunt. Camp fires would be the cement by which we would bond in the magic hour. At least that is the romantic intention of a bunch of old guys, probably too old to hack it in these most rugged of climes. When it shakes out in the wash, we proved too exhausted to even light a match to a fire and ended up slipping off to bed by 9:30 every evening.
The reality of all this is that we’re getting older. Seriously older. The cruel joke that God or time or Mother Nature plays on us is that when we have the health to enjoy doing battle with the elements we scarcely have the time or money as younger men. Later on in life, when we finally achieve the comfort of drawing a decent retirement pay and finally have enough time to line up these gargantuan dreams in our sights, we find that the body is willing but the flesh may, indeed, be too weak. This seems to be the case, at least in the land of the Aurora Borealis.
I had the foresight to schedule a buddy or two at a time, figuring they would arrive with fresh legs with each week’s passing, hunt for a few days, depart battered and bruised and I would pick up my new pigeons from the airport, fresh as the morning’s dew and be ready to march onward. Unfortunately, my vision did not allow for proper time to recover and recuperate on my behalf. As each pal drove off or flew off into the sunset, I found myself struggling to recover from yet another onslaught to my aging frame. Not only might I need saving from the wolves, I might actually need saving from a demise of my own invention if the old body doesn’t shape up and soon. Naively thinking, I had gotten into shape for the coming bird season, I discovered just how wrong I was as little pieces of my wagon began to fall to the road surface during this month-long odyssey. In the rear-view mirror, I discovered a neck crick here, shoulder pain there, the usual arthritis in the usual places and some newly discovered locales to go along with the new exertions, not to mention aching feet and back.
Yesterday, my pal Phil and I were finishing a late-morning spin through the poppels. Innocently enough we agreed upon one more lap around the thicket and we’d call it a day. No sooner than we entered into the final victory lap of a successful morning’s hunt, Phil’s pup pointed one last woodcock. Flushing the timberdoodle into the air Phil shot twice and missed, which I hadn’t seen much of the week of his visit. I appreciate the politeness of my guests in doing so and for once, my shooting was something less than putrid. With the second barrel of my little Ithaca Flues 20-gauge, I anchored the plump little mud bat and watched her tumble from the colorful canopy. Just about then I felt my body weight shift and all my weight came down on my right ankle, rolling beneath me as I slid from the side of the hummock and tumbled on the loose pine needles, performing a face plant at the base of the mound. I heard the familiar sound of tearing fascia that I have not experienced in a few years. Reacquainting with that feeling was far from my intent. My partner indicated that I made a sort of high-pitched scream akin to a little girl watching horror movies. I registered little protest. We located the downed bird and I limped a couple hundred yards back to the truck, calling it a day.
Advanced planning and preparation left a little to be desired, logistically, this trip. Meals were in order. Gas stops, check. Clothing and equipment stowed on board and awaiting our arrival. Our cabin was to die for. My only mishap was in failing to realize that Father Time had stowed away in the backseat of my Tacoma. I never knew he was a grouse hunter.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com