12/04/2024
The woods are quiet this morning, save for the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind threads its way through the trees. I stand on the edge of a clearing, rifle in hand, but my thoughts are far from the quarry I came to seek. Instead, they are drawn to memories as vivid as the sun cresting the ridge—a mosaic of hunts shared with my children, days that now feel like treasures laid gently in the vault of my heart.
I can still see them as they were, their faces bright with the thrill of a morning that felt like an adventure. They walked just behind me, their steps too quick at times, eager to keep pace with my stride. The woods were a wonderland to them then, every sound and shadow a source of curiosity. I can hear their whispers—questions tumbling out faster than I could answer them. “What made that track? Why does the buck scrape the bark? Will we see one today?”
I answered with the patience of the trees around us, knowing these moments were as much about teaching as they were about the hunt itself. I showed them the signs—the broken twigs, the faint prints in the damp earth, the glint of sunlight on antlers through the thicket. Together we waited, hushed and still, learning the language of the woods in a communion as ancient as time itself.
It was never about the shot. It was about the waiting, the watching, the silence shared so deeply it felt as though the woods themselves had paused to listen. It was about their wide eyes when they first spotted a deer stepping cautiously into a clearing, or their laughter at a squirrel chattering indignantly from a branch above us.
I wonder now if those days mean as much to them as they do to me. Do they recall the scent of the earth after a night’s rain, the golden light filtering through the trees, the weight of the lessons I tried to pass on—not just about hunting, but about life? I hope they carry those memories close, that they feel the same reverence for the woods and the life within them that I sought to instill.
For me, those hunts were never just hunts. They were threads in a tapestry of connection, binding us to each other and to something far greater than ourselves. I hoped they would learn patience, respect, and humility in the face of a world so much older and wiser than we are. I hoped they would see the woods not as a place to conquer, but as a sanctuary where we find our truest selves.
As the years have passed, their lives have grown fuller—filled with responsibilities and distances that keep us from the woods we once walked together. I hunt alone more often now, but I am never without their echoes. I hear their laughter in the rustle of leaves, see their eager faces in the shifting shadows, and feel their presence in the quiet moments when the forest holds its breath.
I hope that one day, they will return to these woods, perhaps with children of their own, and remember. I hope they will feel the same pull of memory, the same deep sense of belonging that these hunts gave me. And I hope they will know, as I do, that the truest trophies we take from the woods are not the ones that hang on walls, but the ones that live in our hearts—a legacy of shared mornings, whispered lessons, and the enduring bond of those who walk these sacred paths together.
