Being a Naturalist
Robert Ruark once said, “The Old Man used to say that the best part of hunting and fishing was the thinking about going and the talking about it after you got back.” My Dad and I were talking about hunting and trapping, about the old days and how we hope the next trip will be as good as those we remember. It never seems that way at the time, but every new day has the potential to become a “good ole day” when we look back.
I’ve been feeling drained for a while now—not the kind of tired that comes from hard work, but the sort that comes from being disconnected from yourself. I realized I haven’t spent time in the woods and fields, hunting and trapping just for fun rather than for pay. While nuisance work can be rewarding and profitable, it’s not the same as being out there simply because it feeds your soul.
Dad and I discussed it, and I told him, “I feel disconnected from nature.” He understood perfectly. We both knew that no one who hasn’t spent long days in the woods could fully grasp it. Hunters, fishermen, trappers, outdoors-men—we are not visitors when we’re out there. We are part of nature. We see it, hear it, smell it, sometimes almost taste it. We feel it as palpably as walking into your grandmother’s kitchen—safe, warm, loved, hungry for the intangible comforts it offers.
I realized how much I missed the acidy smell of ferns and fallen leaves underfoot, the salty sweetness of tidewater at low tide, the sharp tang of red fox urine and skunk musk, and the dark richness of black mud. I missed the beauty of hoar-frosted fields and trees, looking as if carved from Venetian crystal; mink tracks on the crick’s shelf ice after the first snowfall; a dark circle in the frost across a distant field. I missed hearing hawks and eagles cry overhead, coyotes barking in the predawn darkness, and the soft sizzle of snow falling past my ears.
I even missed the bite of cold air in my lungs on a frozen morning, cleaning out the stagnancy of being indoors, and the way the world feels spotless on a bitter, icy day. I missed trudging through cut cornfields or knee-deep snow to check sets, even knowing I’d cuss the whole way.
This year, I hope to run a line purely for fun, to find myself again, and shake off the tiredness and sloth I’ve carried since I last ran a trap-line. I’ll get wet feet, cold fingers, mud-covered boots, snapped trap sets, good days, and even better days—but I don’t foresee any truly “bad” ones. As Kipling once said, “The Red Gods call me out and I must go!”
