“Whose woods these
are I think I know.
His house is in the
village though;
He will not see me
stopping here
To watch his woods
fill up with snow”
Few people would fail to
recognize these words from Robert Frost’s wonderful, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” If you’re of or near my
vintage, you probably learned this in seventh or eighth grade English class and
had to recite at least a portion of it.
I was driving to my deer hunt
this past Tuesday and thought of the opening refrain. I had the day off, and having
still not taken a deer, (I’ve seen seven now, but refuse to take a bad shot) I
went back into the woods for another crack.
I was thinking about my first day
in these woods, back in September. I don’t own this land, it belongs to my
landlord. He is not a hunter and had no problem with letting me use it. It was
clear-cut about twenty years ago and it’s mostly tall cedars, pines and an occasional
hardwood, surrounded by the densest thicket and bramble I have ever
encountered. I had to chop my way in with a machete the first day I was there.
The deer trails are too numerous to count, the bear signs are unmistakable, and
I’ve even come upon some grouse and woodcock.
Tuesday, as I pulled up to the
path that had been cut in with a bush-hog, I thought about how familiar I am
with this land now, and how unfamiliar I was a mere four months ago. I didn’t grow
up where there were bears and the thought of stumbling upon one scared me more
than it should. I carried my sidearm just in case, hoping to both see a bear,
and not have to shoot one. I have no problem with bear hunters, I just don’t think
I could bring myself to shooting one, especially since I’ve yet to see one live
in nature. I guess I’ve seen too many Disney movies and seeing them in the wild
would still be a treat for me.
Those first few trips, when I was
cutting in some paths and scouting for a spot to set my stand, were a bit
scary. Always the feeling I was being watched or hearing a phantom rustle in
the thicket. The first pitch-black morning heading in to my stand, deep in the
woods, was nerve racking. I didn’t relax until I’d climbed up, and had at
least, the advantage of seeing something coming toward me.
I never did see any bears, nor
any other predators, but because I wasn’t familiar with the woods…they still
seemed to lurk around every corner and behind every tree. I was contrasting
this with how familiar I was with the woods and the farm I hunted as a boy. We’d
begun hunting that farm when I was twelve, and by the time I last hunted it, I
was twenty-years old and you could have blindfolded me and dropped me off deep
in the middle and I would have known exactly where I was, and how to get back
to camp.
I didn’t own that land either,
but I’d been there so many times that it had become mine.
Tuesday, as walked into the new
area I was hunting, (my stand was non-productive, and I found a new,
high-traffic area a few weeks ago) I was relatively at ease with my
surroundings. I had been there enough times by then that I’d begun to recognize
familiar trees and trails and where the briars were. It was then that I thought
of the opening line to Frost’s masterpiece; “Who’s woods are these…”
They are slowly becoming my woods
and with each visit, I am less edgy and more at ease and at home. There is a
calmness and a mild sense of accomplishment when a sportsman becomes familiar
enough with his hunt that he really knows
it. In recent trips, I’ve been able to pick out -over the squawk of the crows,
the honking of the Canada Geese and the chirping of the squirrels-- the gurgle
of the stream that cuts through the Northeast edge. I found where the woodcock
hole up…mostly because I stepped on a rush and they took flight. I’ve seen where
the sow and her cubs travel, looking for late season food. Lately I’ve (finally)
found where the deer are crossing, sadly, the season closes this Saturday and I
have only one more chance to position myself on the correct side of the
kudzu-covered oak and get a clean shot. (I refuse to take a shot that might
only wound).
These woods are becoming mine,
and I must admit to deeply enjoying the feeling. There is a part of a man -at
least an outdoorsman—that wants to explore. That needs to explore. This fall I have had thirty-five acres of
essentially unspoiled frontier at my disposal. My landlord has never developed
this land and has no intention to. He visits it maybe twice a year to target-shoot
with some friends. The rest of the year it sits idle, making for a very
non-pressured area for wildlife. I have probably walked this land more in the
last four months, than Darren has in the five years he’s owned it. And while
that doesn’t get my name on the deed, it makes it “mine” in many ways.
I know this land now. Or at least
I know it far better than I did in late September. I’ve explored it. I camped
overnight, the night before deer season opened. I ate lunch in the warming fall
sun and peed on a few trees. In the discovery and exploration, there has come a
growing familiarity and as a result, a calm confidence with each visit.
I find much of life like this. We
face things in our days that become new and scary territory for us. Becoming a
husband was scary. Sadly, I didn’t have much time to explore that landscape
before my marriage ended and I was a single dad. Fatherhood was like exploring
an ever-changing environment. It was easy at first, when I was only exploring
the edges, and the open, sun-filled meadows of my daughter’s early years. But
each passing year required me to venture deeper into the woods as she became a
teenager, and now, a grown woman of almost twenty-one.
The woods weren’t how I thought
they’d be. I didn’t think I’d traverse them alone, without her mom along as a
guide. And so, without the second set of eyes, I’ve had to feel my way along,
not able to relax and enjoy the beauty of the scenery as much as I’d have liked,
because I was too concerned with where the dangerous areas might be, and
worried that I might somehow damage the forest with my presence.
Thankfully, my daughter -like the
woods I hunt—is resilient and withstood my sometimes-clumsy traipsing. I picked
up after myself, listened and watched for signs, and somehow, navigated these
woods and became a decent father as my daughter transitioned from her teens to
adulthood.
I’m fifty-five. That happened
suddenly…like taking a turn down an unfamiliar path and in an instant wondering
where you are. I’m navigating what is the last half of my life now and while I
think about that truth, it still hasn’t hit me forcefully. I’m healthy, active,
and I finally got myself through the darkest places in this forest of life. It
seems strange to realize that I am more than halfway through these woods
already.
We sometimes take for granted our
own familiarity with the land we walk. We do this with friendships, with
neighbors, with opportunities and memories. We linger too long in some places
and rush through others far too quickly, missing something beautiful in sight
or sound. There are some forests that are so deep and so tricky that we never
really master them. We grow comfortable…but never complacent, because we never
really feel like we’ve explored it all, every inch, until we know it like the
proverbial back of our hand. Over there is the stump I sat down on and ate
lunch on my first hunt. There’s the oak where my first tree stand was. Over
there is the irrigation ditch that marks the edge of the property. This is the
house I grew up in, the hospital where my daughter was born, the Delaware River
where I loved to walk as a boy.
My journey as an American has
taken on a feeling similar to my explorations of woods. I was born here. I grew
up here. But it has taken these fifty-five years to only now begin to fully know
this land and appreciate her and love her as my own. My Faith is the same. I
became a believer at age nine, yet at age fifty-five, and with a bachelor’s
degree in religion, I still feel as if I am only now comfortable in the
terrain, and only now recognize the landmarks.
We explore life, each day, much
the same way we walk in our hunting grounds. We can either creep along,
unfamiliar with the lay of the land, or we can trek and traverse and document
our discoveries. I’ve done some of each, too much of the former, not enough of
the latter. That too is changing.
Hunting again, after a long time
away from the sport, has rekindled not only my desire to explore unknown
woodlands, but the unknown parts of my heart. Unknown adventures in my faith,
uncharted regions of my life as a dad, a son, a writer, and a friend.
Ironically, it is only with age that we grow familiar with this life of ours,
as it is with these lands we hunt or these rivers we fish. By the time we’ve
mapped them out and plumbed their depths, our time for exploration is almost
done.
But that is where the excitement lives;
in the uncharted areas. Behind the unfamiliar bends in the path, in the sounds
of rustling in the thicket, the sight of bear markings, or the sudden flight of
the woodcock.
“Whose woods are these? I think I know…”
I think I know too. And like
Frost, I have miles to go before I sleep.
