How do you say goodbye to something you love so much?
Something that has been such a big part of your life for as long as you can remember.
Hunting is a sensory feast, a celebration of nature, of warm sun and cold winds, the chuckle of mallards overhead, the raspy yelps of a wild turkey hen in the spring woods, the smell of rifle powder, the magical arc of an arrow.
Now the winds of time are stirring. Autumn is waiting in the wings.
But you want to go back, to youth and its exuberance. To strong legs, nimble fingers, a sharp mind and keen eyesight. A time when you could hunt all day on a few hour’s sleep, and stay up late around the campfire.
Hunting is in your DNA, a blood lust that can be traced back to your forefathers. You go back there each time you set the trigger on your flintlock longrifle. When the flint hits the steel there’s a shower of sparks that sets off the charge, invigorating you with each shot.
The American flintlock longrifle, a.k.a. Kentucky Rifle, has always been a symbol of Kentucky’s hunting heritage that dates back to the 18th century.
You look forward to the change of seasons and check the weather at all hours of the day and night. When scouting pre-season, you move through the woods with the sun at your back, and wind in your face, like an animal on the prowl.
Hunting is about stealth, patience and a sense of your surroundings. Perseverance is rewarded with a freezer full of venison for the summertime grill.
As the air begins to chill, you stand in the dark and gaze at the stars and crescent moon, like so many generations of hunters before. You will walk where so many have walked before, a long path through quiet, foggy woods, fields ablaze with goldenrod, icy streams and hidden valleys canopied with gnarled oaks. You marvel at the stubborn last leaves of fall, fluttering in the north winds of November, and stare in awe at pink sunsets on the western horizon.
Each day, each hunt is unique, and you are a part of God’s wonderful creation. Time is not measured, it is relished.
You are determined, like geese battling a gusting crosswind. The heart is willing, but now the body begins to fade.
Your step is slower, measured, and a lifetime of walking over uneven terrain has taken its toll on your knees and hips.
There was a time when you could walk 250 yards across a muddy field, carrying a shell box and shotgun, with a bag full of duck decoys slung across your back. Stand for hours in a treestand as it gently swayed in the breeze, and the sun glinted off colored leaves overhead.
Hunters have always been part of the struggle for survival, at the center of the circle of creation — one animal dies so that another may live.
It’s hard to admit that your time is drawing to a close. To grow old and gray and pass on, as all life must.
Loved ones worry that you will break a leg or bleed out, dying alone in the woods, like so many unlucky hunters through time. Lost and never returned to camp.
There are worse fates.
Art Lander Jr. is outdoors editor for KyForward. He is a native Kentuckian, a graduate of Western Kentucky University and a life-long hunter, angler, gardener and nature enthusiast. He has worked as a newspaper columnist, magazine journalist and author and is a former staff writer for Kentucky Afield Magazine, editor of the annual Kentucky Hunting & Trapping Guide and Kentucky Spring Hunting Guide, and co-writer of the Kentucky Afield Outdoors newspaper column.