A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

    So I hid.  I roamed.  I flocked to the wild because safety, or so I thought, lay in the areas and people who knew me least.  There would be no reason to pry, get to know me, or get comfortable enough to ever realize that I was in fact, alone. 

                I donned the wolf’s clothing so I would fit in with the pack.  The environment was so foreign to me but it did not take long to form alliances.  To gravitate towards and cling to the people who were most like me.  Flawed.  Damaged.  Spiteful.  Searching.  Many became one and the pack was deadly.  We searched, roamed, scavenged, killed and rejoiced all in the name of ourselves.  Unabashed, unrelenting, unforgiving primitive vengeance.

                It was college and there were six of us.  Each bringing to the table out strengths and weaknesses (which we did our best to hide).  The pack leader who could organize the group flawlessly.  Damaged from parents divorce and lashing out in fits of rage at his now prey.  Another who was the life of the group.  All because his father had lost his when he was merely sixteen.  In the aftermath, he spent six years of his life wasted.  Only becoming a father himself saved him.  Then there was me.  I had always felt out of place.  Like a stranger in their midst who would one day be figured out.  The could even sense it at times but it never happened.  They never turned on me.  It made it increasingly easier to trust these individuals like equals.  Share drinks, stories, life, knowing one day fangs could be clamped at your throat.  But, it beat the alternative.  The fear of leaving and loneliness that crept deep inside of me.  My own weakness since my loss.

                I began to not just wear the wolf’s clothing, but to become one.  The pack progressively rubbed off on one another.  As we each unknowingly started to bear the burdens of the others weaknesses, we also began to learn and use their preferred methods of coping.  I became the worst kind of person.  Soaking up and spewing out all the negative I could handle.  Nights of rage only to wake up and find broken glass and fist holes punched through the wall.  Excessive intakes of alcohol; till the running joke became where would we wake up and what would be lost or broken?  Never did it register that the obvious answer was us.

                The girls who had the nerve to approach the  pack became victims of excuses and intertwined lies so seamlessly constructed we would have forgot its purpose if it wasn’t for the animal inside us all.  The packs success was based on its survival instincts, one another, and our ability to conceal our weakness.

                The day arrived when the pack was physically separated and we had to remember how to survive on our own again.  We clung to each other and fought to wrestle our demons but for me, it was ultimately a failure.  Some found new outlets for the same pain and weakness while others tried to geographically run away from what haunted them.  I suffered a fate far more searingly painful…realization.

                After three years of trying to do it all on my own, I finally realized that I could not.  For those three solitary years, my punishment was repeated and led me on unfruitful journeys into the same dark places where I had experienced the euphoric life with the pack.

                The day I sat in a misty morning reeling from the oncoming headache and dehydration at my grandfather’s grave, I knew something had to change.  I had to get in touch with my roots.  The lessons he taught me.  The man he knew I was capable of becoming.  I didn’t know exactly what it would mean for me or my lifestyle or the extenuating difficulties I would have, but I knew it had to happen.  Not just for him, but for those around me who cared and for myself.  So that the day I look at the lid, I do not look back in regret of a wasted life.  It was time to stop pulling the wool over my own eyes, to shed the wolf’s clothing and to openly come to terms with what I had been from the beginning…a sheep.

Communication Breakdown

For days I drove.  All roads of the neighboring communities all hours of the night.  Hundreds if not thousands of miles were logged in an attempt to distance myself yet stay close.  To escape yet be there if needed.  Most drives were taken alone.  I would stop and get the biggest coffee I could at Sheetz at 1 am.  I would go to Wal-Mart and play video games at midnight. (I hate video games)  I would sit on my girlfriends couch and stare, cry, or talk incessantly as a result of the nights coffee intake.  I was the scared and frantic prisoner of my own mind and circumstances.

At the viewing I shook countless hands as I stood in awe of the thousands of people who showed up to pay their respects.  People my Pap had installed carpet for, built shelves, lended a helping hand, or even simply showed respect.  They came to repay the favor as best they now could.  Family, friends, my friends parents all tied their ties, waited their turn, bowed their head, shook my hand, said a few words, and went on.  My dad sat in a wheelchair at the end of the line reeling in pain from his own injury.  My mom and her sisters split duty standing in line, getting glasses of water, consoling their mother, and tending to the handshakes of the crowd.  I was on my own.

The entire scene seemed ridiculous to me.  A dead body in a box.  A thousand people crammed in a room.  None of which want to actually be there.  My blood pressure would peak and valley.  I would scan the room looking for an escape other than the single door entrance and exit.  I sweat and angered at the thought of shaking one more damn hand and faking a smile when all I wanted to do was scream “get the fuck out of here, you don’t even know!”  I thought no one was suffering like I was.  That no one in the room lost what I did.  These feelings were obviously extreme and based directly to my emotional involvement and perspective but none the less I could not shake them.  I never swayed but this was the moment I snapped.

The night was filled with driving, coffee, and the looming thought of an unwritten eulogy that I was to deliver the following day.  I pulled my car along a crick side got out and stood and cried.  I stood there till my hands went numb from the winter cold.  I contemplated not moving but eventually found myself back in the car driving home and brainstorming.  I sat at my computer desk and scrawled out a sloppy, caffeine laced two page “letter” to my Pap which would serve as my final words to him in church the next morning.

I hated the church.  I hated carrying the casket.  I hated the car ride.  I hated the looks people gave.  I hated the letter I wrote.  Most of all I hated the fact that I knew before I even stood up to read, that I wouldn’t even shed a tear.  The letter, the day, the burial meant nothing but brokenness to me.  As we walked to the cemetery all I can remember thinking was “damn are my ears cold.”  In the stinging January wind the pain in my ears was all I had to remind me that I was still alive.  I could feel.  But all I could feel was pain. 

The green Astroturf that lay around the hole in the ground made me want to throw up as I thought about the irony of trying to use fake grass to dress up a January burial.  At this point someone probably prayed.  I think my grandma was holding my hand but honestly I have no idea.  I watched snow blow across a distant hillside, wished there were deer out, thought about how much my ears hurt, got angry that there was no grave marker, and fantasized of getting as far away as I could.

Let me tell you…I did.

My Pap's Gift

Every year at Christmas the big story was always when Santa came to visit.  My mom’s side of the family always held Christmas in their basement.  Each year before any gifts were open the family would get a surprise visit from Santa just before all the festivities started.  Santa would come down the basement stairs decked in full attire slinging presents and sack for all to see.  The event was always recorded and typically resulted in my younger cousins screaming with joy and laughter.  I on the other hand, became the scapegoat for Santa’s torture.  Santa would pass out gifts and pose for pictures before saying goodbye to the girls and boys.  When posing for pictures I would get pinched, poked, and prodded by the so called “Santa.”  The same rib jabs, shoulder squeezes, and sucker punches were common place of my Pap.  The kids might have been fooled, but I sure wasn’t.  My Pap’s gift was not what he carried in his Santa sack but his ability to make everyone in the room light up the way he did.

In 2004 eight days after Christmas, my grandfather died.  In November my Dad suffered a horrible accident when he fell off our roof while prepping the chimney for our newly installed fireplace.  This was the product of the interior carpentry work of my grandfather.  As I stood in the kitchen talking with my mom about going back to college, all I heard was a scream and the clank of an aluminum ladder.  I threw open the back door and must have jumped off the porch because I had no idea how I got to my dad as fast as I did.  He was lying on the cold snowy ground eyes wide open, unresponsive and unmoving with the exception of a few twitches.  I thought he was dead.  Seconds went by and he was back.  He groaned and wrenched in agony as the shock from the fall began to set in.  I knew not to move him but did not know what to do.  The local ambulance arrived immediately and before I knew it, he was gone.  My memory from there is probably about as foggy as his.  Next I remember the hospital, my mom, my grandpa, and then my college dorm.

I was back to school after Thanksgiving break to finish the semester and finals.  My Dad was in the ICU in Pittsburgh a mere one hundred mile one way drive and my mom was at home trying to hold it all together.  My grandfather became my chaffer between school and the hospital as I made plans to skip classes, attend finals, and reschedule anything I could.  We put on quite a few miles together.  Until his heart attack a few days later.  I don’t recall the time, day, or place, when this happened but I think I was involved.  My lack of emotional stability for years to come would definitely say that yes I was. 

My grandfather recovered from the heart attack with the help of an Indian doctor and an artificial stent.  My Dad slowly recovered from weeks of a drug induced coma, minor closed head trauma, compressed spinal vertebrae, and a shattered leg.  By Christmas of 2003 we were all at home together.  My friends and their families provided us with food, decorations, and a Christmas tree.  I wrapped presents, shopped for the entire family, and cooked by myself.  I did this for my family, not for me. 

As it looked like all was well with the world, God threw a curveball.  On January 3, 2004 we got a 3am call from my frantic grandma.  My Mom and I drove as fast as we could to their house.  I know I was wearing a brown leather jacket that hit the couch as soon as I crossed the doorway.  I ran to their bedroom while my mom stood screaming in the living room.  My grandfather was awkwardly strewn about the bed while my grandmother gave him CPR.  I remember trying to help but feeling like I was having an out of body experience.  My grandma afterwards said I coached her and that she needed it.  I don’t know how I coached a trained nurse to do something that I vaguely remembered from an eighth grade class that I didn’t pay attention in.  Let’s chalk that up to divine intervention. 

We followed the ambulance to the hospital in my gold Pontiac Grand Am.  I think it was the only time my mother was ever in the car with me when she didn’t yell at me for speeding.  An hour later we were standing around a hospital bed looking at my pap’s body.  Still and lifeless.  The artificial stent meant to sustain his life had slid out of place.  My dad was at home oblivious to what was happening.  The back brace, wheelchair, and overall immobility stopped him from being there.  I was the only male who now had to console three of my pap’s daughters and his lifelong wife.  I stood strong.

                I collapsed later.

Like Father Like Son

Last night after meeting my family at the mall to run errands and help one another with some last minute gifts for the extended family, we parted ways to finish the days shopping and again meet at home.  My Dad went home with me for the reason of dumping a pick-up truck full of garbage at his office and the fact that he is the key master.  As we hopped in the truck and forced my super excited black lab into the extended cab, my mind went into flash back mode.

                The normal chit-chat ensued as we talked about the weather, how the truck was running, deer hunting, Riley Cash (the dog), and my new relationship with Brittany.  The time my father and I share, just he and I is so scattered and limited that when we have the opportunity to spend time together we resort to the old faithful topics of conversation reveling in the fact that the time together is what is truly more important.

                As we drove my initial feeling was that of role reversal.  Not the type like I was in diapers and now he is the way every child/parent relationship eventually ends up.  But as the driver of the vehicle chauffeuring my Dad around I sensed that we were experiencing one another in a different way.  I am twenty five years old this is not the first time my father has been a passenger in my truck but memory or one of my senses evoked a heightened emotional connection with the twenty minute drive home. 

                When I was little and riding around with my Dad, especially at Christmas time, it always felt like it was an adventure.  Whether it was because we were looking for gifts for Mom, doing guy things, tooling around in his pick-up, or setting out to run simple errands that would somehow result in a candy bar for me, it was always exciting and meaningful.  One of my first memories of riding with Dad was a trip to Natrona Heights to go to G.C. Murphy’s.  I think it is safe to say that I am in the minority of twenty five year olds and definitely a member of the last generation to remember a five and dime store.  This one was complete with soup counter and all.  Now as a teacher of social studies and the civil rights movement, I can see the people lined up eating, protesting, sitting-in and making history when I think back to this store.  It was before Christmas and I couldn’t have been older than seven.  I know it was before Christmas because I would have been with Mom but she was shopping for presents.  I have no idea what my dad bought that day and I’m pretty sure we stopped in to see my grandma for a bit afterwards as she lived nearby, but I remember him buying me a Milkshake candy bar.  Now, non-existent, this was the most delicious of the candy bar family.  I’m sure it was gone within three minutes of being back in the truck.  Why did I remember this?  I don’t know.  Maybe I was just hungry for a candy bar.

                As we turned down a side street of Butler last night on the way to dump the garbage, I caught the now closed and abandoned Butler Hot Dog Shop out of the corner of my eye.  When I was in high school my parents decided that to pull in some extra cash for the family and to give me the opportunity to work and save for a car, that we would clean banks afterhours in Butler.  Don’t get me wrong, this was not the worst gig in the world, but on a nightly basis Monday-Friday, this was not what a teenager had in mind as engaging after school activity.  Washing dishes, dusting desks, emptying garbage cans, and scrubbing toilets was no fun.  Period.   But, it put money in the bank and eventually a 1996 gold Pontiac Grand Am on the road.  The car, although a memory creator itself, is not what I remember most about the bank cleaning job.  Instead, it was the morning we would clean the day after Christmas.  Dad and I would get up early and run to Butler to get it done quick and out of the way for the day.  Also, this gave my mom a break who had been staying up tending to family, food, or baking.  As my Dad and I worked we were usually all business and knew that any down time or interaction would just prolong our time in the building.  But, when we were done, on this day only, we would go out to lunch at the Butler Hot Dog Shop.  Not that it was expensive or beyond our budget, it just became a tradition for us.  Two hots with everything (chili, onion, and pickle) share a plate of fries and gravy, and a chocolate milkshake for me and a Coke for my Dad.  I don’t remember a single conversation we ever had in the four or five years that we had the hot dog shop tradition but it meant more to me at that age than anything we did together.  One day riding in his truck together, working together, and eating hot dogs together.  With the exception of the opening day of trout season, this was the day I looked forward to most all year.  The day after Christmas.

                As my Dad and I drove home last night and continued to exchange banter, another childhood memory was dusted from the back corners of my memory bank.  This one also occurred during the winter time and during my youth regularly between ages seven and ten.  One year for Christmas, Santa was very generous and I received a Fisher-Price 3-1 Tournament Table.  I can vaguely remember the commercial advertising pool, air hockey, and ping pong all in one!  But, it must have been some good advertising because I was hooked.  The table got set up in the spare bedroom and ended up seeing hours of father son action.  I can’t say I recall my Mom ever playing but I bet at some point she did. 

Dad and I had guy’s night on a regular basis when my Mom was out.  The stereo in the living room would get cranked up louder than usual since “Mom wasn’t home” and we would play pool, air hockey, or ping pong for hours.  The table couldn’t have been more than four feet long and I can remember being done for the night and literally dripping with sweat…it got intense.  Why this memory flooded my mind last night is a bit less of a mystery.  As I left my own house bound for the hour drive home I turned on the radio, a little louder than usual and soaked up some good old country music.  The song that immediately came on was On The Other Hand by Randy Travis. Now days, I cannot do anything without thinking about Brittany.  The focus on our future life together consumes me and drives everything I do.  Upon hearing the song my mind went immediately to her.  But hours later riding home with my Dad, the song made me think of the nights we use to play together.  The cranked up radio almost ALWAYS made the house walls reverberate with Randy Travis tunes.  As a little boy I was exposed to great music, with a great message at a young age.  I would now rank Randy Travis in my top favorite country artists because I recognize his talents and my emotional connection to his music.

So what then did some time in a pick-up truck with my Dad mean to me last night?  The world.  He is a simple man.  No flash.  No frills.  No fancy clothes, haircuts, cars, or possessions.  And I love that about him.  At twenty five, my Dad taught me a lesson last night without saying a word that he had been teaching me my whole life.  “It’s not what you take, when you leave this world behind you, it’s what you leave behind you when you go.”  Through all the times when he tried, and even when he didn’t have to try, my Dad was spending his time making his son into a man.  One that would be kind-hearted, mild mannered, tough, and prepared for the world.  I often wonder how my Dad practically gave up the things he loved; hunting, fishing, camping, and traveling west practically cold turkey but now I get it.  He didn’t give any of it up, he passed it on.  He might not physically take to the stream or the field but there is a lot of him that still does.   The time he invested with his son in his truck, running errands, eating lunch, and playing games are the testament to what he will one day leave behind. 

This morning I woke up and from two thousand miles away, and she was with me.  I dreamed about her all night.  I hugged the dog because she was the closest thing.  And I thought of the foundation we are building and the life we will one day share.  I considered several ups and downs that the future may hold.  With her, nothing scares me because I know as a team; we will be able to overcome anything in our path.  I thought about a wedding, dogs, a house, and…kids.  Now that, is a little scary.  But between the woman that I know she is and the background training I received from my Dad, I hope that like myself, the age old statement will again ring true, like father like son.

The Pilgrim

“Make sure you jump far enough so that you don’t land on those rocks”

“Oh yeah…Ok”

SMACK!

That was the sound my body made as it hit the water from forty feet up.  Subsequently, that was the same sound I expected to hear if I had hit the rocks.  The immediate thought in my head, “did I make it?”  That day I did.

It was 105 degrees out in the desert of Arizona on a party boat in Lake Havasu.  I had left the boat with four friends and a fun noodle and headed for the cliff that currently loomed overhead.  The idea: climb the cliff, jump off, laugh like hyenas, and swim back to the boat.

Flaw #1: A fun noodle is not a flotation device

Flaw #2:  We took advice from the stoner who said we could make it

Flaw #3:  I am deathly afraid of snakes and the hike up this cliff seems like the perfect place to be ambushed by a poisonous hell serpent

Flaw #4:  Being eighteen (challenge level + friends) / age = Level of Peer Pressure

My memory is hazy as to how many of my friends went before me as we all jumped from the cliff.  I know I was not the first, but as not to be shown up, I was not the last.  We all climbed the cliff, made it to the water, laughed like hyenas, and swam back to the boat. Success.  Today I claim this as a milestone in my life.  A landmark event that I could cross of a non-existent bucket list.  I have always taken pride in the fact that I overcame my fear of snakes, heights, and trust in a fun noodle that day.

So why now, eight years after the fact, do I have the nagging thought in my head; “you could have died, why the hell did you trust that stoner?”

A new exploration of trust has manifested itself not in the form of rock mountain, water, stoner, or lousy pool floatation device, but as a five foot five brunette mountain of which I so desperately want to reach the summit and stay forever.  To me, it’s the only and tallest mountain in the world.  And it’s not the challenge that draws me in, it’s the journey.

Mentally I am at the best place I have been in years, yet random stoner A popped into my mind last night as I welcomed sleep.  I was thinking about the brunette mountain and BAM!  Lake Havasu Stoner.  I thought, “What the hell?”  Thirty seconds later I was sleeping.  Cruel trick.

Here is my interpretation:

Why are we so app to trust often times untrustworthy people, things, and places we know so little about?  Yet, when we are presented with people, things, and places that are genuinely trustworthy, we question it.  We guard our hearts.  We get defensive.  It’s because we have trusted those untrustworthy people, things, and places that we get burned, therefore leading us to then question the next person’s intentions, be cautious of the next thing, and second guess being in a new place.

When it comes to second guessing, I am king.  The self-defeating analytical super freak who can’t often times trust himself let alone others.  I want to do the right thing, I make the rash decision.  I think decisions through to the end result so much that my minds’ slogan should be “got any dead horses, we can beat them for you!”  And then in the moment of uber-analysis, I make the wrong, or seemingly wrong choice.  I trust stoners, and fun noodles, and lots of times luck.  It seems that I am, as Kris Kristofferson original said of Johnny Cash in his song The Pilgrim, “A walking contradiction, partly truth, partly fiction.” 

How can I question some things so much, yet put so much blind faith in the people, things, and places that are so obviously wrong and risky in every sense? 

Trust.

How simple of a word to define and understand.  To an infant, it is that Mom and Dad will feed them.  To a dog it is that their master will be home to pet them at the end of the work day.  To a friend it is the unspoken bond that your buddy has your back or will bail you out of a tough situation.  To your spouse it is the mutual trust that can only be shared and experienced in that relationship.  To God, it’s everything you can give him.

We trust from infant to adult and we are still regressive in our ability to trust new people or new situations because we have been burned before.  A lot of times, this is probably a great defense mechanism, but it also requires the knowledge of when to let that guard down and to stop being defensive.  That alone takes A LOT of trust.  And an equal amount of proof.

To climb the brunette mountain, one would assume I would need to pack one hell of a lot of equipment.  At that point, will my baggage be too much for me to even have a shot at success?  At reaching the summit and staying forever?  Truth be told, I don’t know yet.

Here is what I do know.  The journey will be the best part.  To survive, I will have to prove that I am trustworthy.  I will have to recognize my flaws, my defensiveness, and my guard so that the opportunity for success if optimized.  The only equipment I will need is what I already have.  If I succeed, I succeed with what I got.  If I fail, same story.  I will not place blame on anyone.  I will I am thankful already.  It has taken years of fall down get up, get burned, make mistakes, fall down again, get back up agains to get here.  Every single example of good and bad has been a blessing although sometimes in disguise.  Every trusted person and stoner, everything and fun noodle, every cliff and every place all brought me to the base of this mountain.  I trust her.  I can already see every beautiful sunrise and sunset that the summit of this brunette mountain has to offer and I never want to miss one.

I am the Pilgrim on his sacred journey.

The Hunter

I set myself on fire
As the sun that starts the day
I shook the fog of slumber
As the rays that burn the haze

My first few steps were shaky
As a newly born fawn
I sensed my way through darkened halls
As the deer she creeps before dawn

I cleanse myself with water
As the duck cups his wings and gently lands
I dry and prepare to present myself
As the gobbler spreads his fan

I suit myself in nature's shades
As mother earth provides defenses
I mesh and blend and cover scent
As I hide body and intentions

I stride my feet that press a path
As the deer they scamper to feed
I trample tundra for a cause
As the land we live from we need

I climb the oak that gives its bounty
As squirrel and I hope to feed
Both our successes depend on structure
As we take haven in limbs and leaves

My nerves and patience they are steady
As the grouse perched on the limb
But they scatter and scurry with the crunch
As the rustling leaves flush him

I take in nature's beauty
As on a harvest it depends
Whether predator or prey, all the beasts
As for their life blood they learn to fend

The wind it whistles through the trees
As steam from breath does hang
I nestle in and soak it up
As from wilderness my senses pang

I breathe in deep and fill my lungs
As natures fragrances they singe
I indulge and gorge myself
As senses they do binge

I rough my hands on bark of tree
As midday sun melts frost away
The drops that caress the exposed skin
As Mother Nature's kiss of the day

I feast my eyes on working woods
As its inhabitants they rustle
I see necessity in effort for survival
As instinct makes them bustle

I clench down tight to fend off chill
As the sun she sets
I revel in the simple life
As life lived without regret

I decend from my oak home
As I fill my soul once more
I gather my belongings
As I bend, kiss my hand and touch natures floor

I trace my steps now in reverse
As careful not to disturb
I entered their home and watched them live
As I escape with most concern

I have burned out like the sun
As we rest for our next go round
One bringing and one ending life
On natures hallowed ground

"He said that sometimes hunting, ain't all about the kill"

Turkeys are one of the most plentiful game bird species native to PA.  In the past five years their numbers have skyrocketed as a result of successful species management.  Here is proof that some of the elected officials who have a say over laws that effect our environment and natural resources don't completely have their heads up their asses.

Anyway, that was just a remark if you feel that you will have some sort of mental problem killing a living thing.  I am not gonna lie, it does have an emotional impact.  On one hand you redevelop a connection to the primal roots of what is necessary to be a survivor but you also recognize on a higher level what it means to be human and capable of inflicting death.  For me, it establishes a sense of mortality and boundaries with the natural world. 

If you decide to go and you are successful you would most definitely get a high five from my direction but, don't think that the respect for the end of a life is not also present in my celebration.

So turkey hunting requires a very early morning.  You would need to be in the woods around 5 am to ensure the best chance of going undetected.  Turkeys are generally the first animal to wake.  I say generally because with wildlife there are so many variables.  They roost in trees and sleep there all night.  When they enter and leave roost it sounds like God is dropping bowling balls through the limbs of the trees.  If they are close, you will go through two movements.  The bowel movement and then the physical movement.  It will probably scare the shit out of you.

Turkeys have fantastic eyesight.  They are one of few animals that are able to process light so that they see practically all colors...hence my favorite color, CAMO.  I always have enough to go around.  I suggest hunting as a group that way you experience success or lack thereof together.  Although turkeys have great eyesight, their sense of smell is nearly non-existent and they do not hear the best.  They cover up the lack of hearing by traveling in groups and often times in close proximity to deer.  (deer have a great sense of hearing, sight, and smell. They are pretty much the Oracle of the woods)  This all means you could end up seeing ANYTHING! 

Based on the lack of good hearing, in windy and rainy weather turkey enter fields so that they can use their strong sense of sight to their advantage.  As weather changes, so does the hunters approach.  Be game for anything.  Hunting in the rain is generally a pain in the ass but sometimes it offers an opportunity for improved success because targeting your species becomes easier.  So you have to decide how dedicated you are willing to be.

Now onto BOOMSTICKS!  Turkey's are like the drunken uncle of the woods.  When you see them they are usually trying to start a fight with the other birds in their "family" or they are scratching up leaves making a ton of noise and just acting like assholes.  Subsequently, your feelings of sympathy when gunning one down may be comparable to your drunken uncle choking on a bone at Thanksgiving, getting burnt by birthday candles, or even cutting himself with his own pocket knife when trying to open a Christmas gift; you will laugh at first but you always kinda feel bad. That being said they are some tough S.O.B.'s.  Their feathers and bone structure are like armor.  I have witnessed birds getting shot and walking away.  For this purpose you must pack a punch.  A twelve gauge shotgun is the weapon of choice.  My turkey gun is cocked, locked, and ready to rock!  It is just as possible to kill a turkey with a twenty gauge shotgun of which I have used.  It has less gunpowder per shell and less BB's, but it also kicks less.  This basically equates to needing to be a better shot which, women usually are.  I have killed turkey with a bow so any gun has the potential.  If you wanna shoot the 12, more power to you.  I have seen ten year olds shoot them.  I just always think it’s good to start with something that you know you will be comfortable with and that won't dislocate your shoulder.

The truth is, this is only one side of the story.  This is the practical information.  The skill based; learned knowledge.  Anyone can get this information from any source or enough time in pursuit.  Millions of magazine articles, books, websites, and TV shows all address the “How To.”  This is important and deserves the attention it gets because it leads to the “Why.”  The time when the hunter enters the other realm.  This happens for every hunter on the planet, for if it did not, we would not pursue our sport.  There are no road signs, signals, or overall indicators of when you will enter, but anticipate it when the smoke clears.  When the arrow passes through.  When you approach the harvest.  Even when you have to dispatch it by hand.  Maybe when the picture is snapped.  Possibly if you shed a tear and wonder “what have I done?”  Could even be when you are on your knees with nature’s gift and the grass looks greener than ever, the dew soaks through the knees of your pants, when the wind cuts at your already stinging ears, and your breath hangs…as you say a prayer.  When the hammer on the gun of reality pounds down and you are hit.  The emotional journey begins.  The philosophical questioning takes place.  The purpose of the day is retooled and rediscovered.  You are now a hunter.  You will be married to the sport for you cannot have only a piece of it, or get it when you want it, or not always work towards it; you must take it all.  The dedication, the disappointment, the small victories, the missed opportunities, the trophy performances, the rainy days, the new equipment, or old faithful, the stories to share, the conservation of nature, the awareness of our senses, the thankfulness for life, the bittersweet sting of death, and the change it will inspire.

My words should echo as I first heard them…“He said that sometimes hunting, ain’t all about the kill”