Enjoy what passes for tradition before it’s too late
Each summer, my dad and I would clear another section of our property to allow for more yard. Each fall we would burn the remaining brush in piles. It was one of the few times that I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime because we couldn’t let the fires burn unattended.
I was 10 or 12 years old and I can remember doing this for as many years as I was able to hump the brush up onto the stacks. Obviously, it was work. But it was something more. It was “our” tradition. Just me and him. It was man’s work. It was one of the few occasions where Dad let his guard down and was more guy than father.
He passed away in the fall of 1978, before I really got to know him as a man. I think he sensed that he was dying, and in a last ditch effort to keep me and my brothers out of reform school (OK, possibly more so me) he planted the perimeter of our property with every thorny bush known to mankind so we would have something to keep us occupied during the long, hot summers. It also added to the brush piles, as well. Still, they are good memories.
I often find myself thinking about what passes for tradition in some families. Sure there are the yearly vacations, deer and bear season at hunting camp, our opening day of pheasant season family reunion, holidays with our clan, and others. Frankly, tradition is comforting. The unsettling part is that these events need to be accomplished at least yearly in most cases, if not more frequently. And that is where life gets kind of cumbersome. Health problems, deaths, busy calendars, kids, obligations of adult responsibility of which I shudder to think. As we grow older, traditions often fade. They become less important to others than they might be to us. At some point, we look around and there is nobody left at the campfire with whom to commiserate or celebrate or just be.
For the past 25 grouse seasons, sans last year lost to back surgery and kidney cancer, I have made it my personal tradition to escape to the Northwoods of Wisconsin each fall for at least a few days, if not a week or more. It is my happy place. I like everything about the area. Things move a little more slowly up north. It reminds me of my time as a kid in the 1970s.
I’ve been going there for so many years that it almost seems like going home, having gotten to know a few of the locals over the years. We hunt together when able and occasionally they will share a special spot because I can only invade for a short time each season. The land is not densely populated and one can travel some distance to the next house or farm with large patches of forest between. Logging is done on a grand scale, which is exactly what grouse and woodcock require to thrive, and thrive they most certainly do. Even the names are comforting; Neibauer’s Pond, Camp 5, Holy Cross, Mail Route amongst my favorites.
Each season I make it my tradition to explore a little deeper, to discover an area that hasn’t been hunted in longer than I care to imagine. I dedicate myself to learning a bit more about the birds that I love so much. This can only be accomplished over time, miles and boot leather.
More recently, a couple of buddies have rekindled their interest in chasing ruffed grouse. Part of my tradition is to share it with those who appreciate it as much as I do. This season, my buddy, Bob Greenlee, and I will point the truck north and head out for Wisconsin. My old Grove City Block & Brick fast-pitch softball teammate, Bob Wise, will fly up to Rhinelander Airport to meet us. This will be his first trip. I enjoy bringing the new guy to camp and introducing him to fellas who have been a part of things for years. Exposing them to the finer points of coffee drinking and tailgate sitting is one of life’s true pleasures. Sipping a beer at the end of a great hunt is much more rewarding than after mowing the lawn. And having a witness to that great shot of a lifetime, or that world class miss, is key.
I discovered, unfortunately, after his health began to decline, that my pal, Joe Palmer, had already located my Shangri-La years before I arrived. He shared some of his secret coverts and we spent some Sunday mornings pouring over maps and drinking coffee and sharing the good times we had enjoyed in parallel universes. I can’t help but think how much more fun it would have been to explore those coverts with Joe, rather than just to have talked about it. I guess that’s how this tradition stuff goes. You can never tell what cards you’re being dealt so you better get busy playing while you can.
Come to think of it, I better grab a nap and rest up. Grouse season is almost upon us.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com