Hunting season. A time I used to live for. From the first day of school until that crisp October morning when I finally arrived at the Ranch--full of optimism that this would be the year I'd finally harvest a buck. The seven or eight hour trip from the coast was like an eternity. I relished in the anticipation of opening day. I couldn't sleep. In the morning, I'd be one of the first up, at the fire, waiting for enough light to get out in the woods and test my luck, which has never been good. But I didn't care. I loved the moments I had here, which were few and far between. (At most I spent four days in October on the ranch and maybe a week in the summer.) By the second day of hunting season, I was already dreading the end of my stay. I walked around the woods with heavier steps. I could hear the deer running away before I ever saw them. I'd head back to camp and sit by the fire and stare at the curls of smoke rising through the knot holes in the bark, impregnating my clothes with its odor--so, later, back in Seattle, when I'd unpack my bag and take my flannel shirt and insulated camouflage pants to the laundry room, I could take one last lingering whiff and toss it into the hamper, resigned to another 360+ days until I could return once more to the ranch.
Since my eighteenth birthday, I have harvested three bucks. I am in my 38th year. That's like one every seven years. And you know what? I don't really care. This year I refurbished a compound bow, outfitted myself with a release and a few arrows, thinking I'd be a bowhunter. (I've always envied the bowhunters because of the length of their season--almost 60 days between the early and late seasons). So I practiced and found I could shoot straight and on target and even sat out one evening before the second cutting and watched three whitetail bucks browse on alfalfa just out of my range. It was exciting, but something was missing. Probably my confidence. Though I'd practiced, I knew I still needed more. Today is the last day of the early season and I haven't tried again since. I have been way too busy with school and farming and installing a hearth for our new wood stove (that will be installed on the 28th of this month). My second season will begin in November. Maybe I'll get some time to do what I used to love to do, then.
On Thursday Uncle Dennis's friend from Tacoma showed up to bowhunt for a day or two. Yesterday cousin Doug arrived to prepare for the muzzleloader season which begins Saturday morning. Their presence and purpose caused me to reflect on the way it was and the way it is now for me. Hunting season isn't the same, anymore. You'd think it would be better now (as I once thought it would be when I dreamed of living here for all those years). But now...
From here until the end of October, I'll be watching as people converge on this place that I feel so connected to, in hopes of killing a deer. They'll don their hunter orange and drive the roads with their jeeps and four-wheelers in search of game--as is their right! And this year, I'll just watch--the guy who lives here and works the land and calls it home. I will be melancholy, as I am now because I know they are not necessarily here to see us. I don't know how to reconcile this fact with my hopes for the ranch. I want our ranch to be a place where people come to be together. But most people want to come here to get away from it all, to get back to nature. To impregnate their clothes with the smell of woodsmoke and their hands with pitch and their minds with a renewed vision of the hills. And to dip their hands, once again, in Toroda Creek.
I guess this is turning into an invitation. To come up and share with us your, and our, love for this place. And not only at hunting season. Anytime. Don't be afraid. Don't feel like we need our space. I understand if you are here to find peace of mind in your own sacred space, but please don't hesitate to consider our new home a welcoming part of it. Plan to share a meal with us on your visit. Keep in touch. Let us know when you're coming so we can look forward to it. We love you, our family and friends. Travel safe. We'll see you when you get here.
As for me, I'm afraid hunting season will never again have that same beckoning feel as it once did. And I'm going to learn to be okay with that.
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