The Outdoorsman’s Inheritance
“River Stroll” by Allie Thomas See more of Allie’s work and purchase prints here
When the wind blew through the trees it reminded me of sailing; the water would form thousands of small creases before a strong gust, leaving temporary scars on the water. We would hunt these scars using our tiller and sails. Even while grounded the feeling of movement gently rocked my perception. The breeze was strong enough any scent we emitted was quickly dispersed in all directions. The elk below didn’t notice us as they left their wooded retreat and came into the cut. We were three hundred yards up a ridge of clear-cut, belly down – snaking our way closer. Our eyes were locked on an outcropping of deciduous trees coursing in the wind.
* * *
The day prior I had received a call from my closest friend, Garrett. His father, Ron, had secured an elk tag in Oregon’s coastal mountain range and they wanted me to join the hunt.
Garrett and I, friends since childhood, co-developed our appreciation of nature and our sense of wonder through play. Reenacting the battle of Endor or tromping through Middle Earth, we sought out the wild because it was the only appropriate backdrop to our adventures. Eventually, it evolved from an imagined rifle fashioned out of a hockey stick to the real thing, and the orcs were ultimately replaced by a furred or feathered quarry.
Ron had always been an active hunter and fisherman and was the only man I knew at the time who threaded the line between rugged outdoorsman and polished professional. He would often take his business clients on fishing trips and duck hunts, selling himself, as much, if not more than his product. Growing up, Garrett would regale me with their stories of adventure: salmon fishing in Alaska, hunting deer and elk in California, and wing-shooting migratory birds throughout the Pacific Northwest… and now, I was finally invited to tag along.
It took no convincing before I loaded up my gear and enthusiastically drove to the Oregon coast; pondering the grand adventure I knew I was embarking on.
* * *
Our tag was limited to a bull elk with a three-point minimum; thus far we had only spotted cows. They found comfort in skirting the forest and occupying the area between tree cover and the artificial meadow. Garrett was lying forward, and to my right, with the wooden stock of his Browning A-Bolt resting on top of his pack; I was busy glassing the tree line looking for tines. Shifting in and out of sight the cows slowly grazed; I spotted the ghost of a bull set back in the shadows. His antlers came in and out of focus, like a phantasm in the void. My fatigued eyes were straining to see him, or was it a cow with a halo of branches?
The elk had reentered their sanctuary and hadn’t been visible for half an hour. Ron was several paces behind, watching us assess the situation. He crept closer until we were within earshot, “Why don’t you boys follow them into the woods? I’ll hike back to the truck and meet you on the logging road below.”
Like an episode of Scooby-Doo, we split up. We watched Ron hike back toward the truck, slowly blending in with the wilderness. He was an older man, yet he had no difficulty traversing the rough stuff and keeping up with those forty years younger. Without his watchful eye, it felt like we were kids again, preparing for our trek into Mordor.
We passed the threshold and entered the thick deciduous woodland the Pacific Northwest is known for. Fallen timber punctuated the floor with lush neon moss, ever aiding in its decay. I could smell the musk of elk before I saw them. Eventually, we were close enough to see movement, the herd of cows was silently drifting through the verdant landscape. While we struggled to silence our footfalls, they moved like zephyrs through the wood. As we edged closer, we realized luck wasn’t on our side. There were no bulls to be found.
We approached the logging road and spotted the old Chevy S10 we fondly referred to as Cricket. Ron was sitting on the tailgate with a cold beer in his hand smiling at us as we approached. I could tell he was proud we had navigated back to the rendezvous point unscathed, but there was more than just pride in his face, he seemed content.
“When you hunt along a road, you see a road,” Ron said as we bounced along the furrowed forest route in Cricket. Our elevation declined in both miles and outlook as a halo of light enveloped the horizon. Dusk was well on its way.
We spent the next several days in the area switching between glassing clearcut and stalking through the dense timber searching for the tawny ghosts inhabiting this graveyard of trees. We saw many elk, but none that could fill our tag. However, like most times spent hunting with family and friends, it was a wildly successful, unsuccessful hunt… with plenty of bottles killed along the way.
* * *
I didn’t realize it at the time, but this would be both the first and the last time I hunted with Ron; he is still alive and well with great stories to tell (making the best stew you’ve ever tasted), but he no longer hunts big game. In a lot of ways, I feel like this hunt was a way for him to pass on his inheritance of experience, enthusiasm, and ultimately his hunting buddy to the next generation. Fathers and sons won’t always share the same passions, yet, through community, it’s possible to find mentors for just about any interest.
Garrett and I still hunt yearly, actively working with my own boys to fully appreciate the wild places and the thrill of hunting. I realize the love of the woods starts as play; the best way to connect kids with nature is to make it fun, to make it into something greater than the sum of its components. Children experience nature through their kid goggles. As adults, if we allow it, some of that wonder can wear off on us. Maybe the next time I head up into the mountains I'll bring a pith helmet and a hockey stick blaster rifle.
