A Fowl Season Pt.1

(Part 1)
A single, bright light illuminates the room, exposing the silent night lamp, and the long arm that has awoken the phone. "One o'clock," I think to myself as I release the device that has most likely stirred the dog and my sleeping girlfriend, "only three more hours." It had been the third time that I had awoken in fear that my four a.m. alarm had been "snoozed," anticipation for the early morning had stirred inside myself since I had gone to bed at ten. It was the eve of another season, one that would bring coffee filled cold mornings, stories to pass quiet times, and hopefully, with some success, a freezer filled with the cornish game hens of the migrating sky. With shotgun in hand, steel shot within my pack and old patched up waders to hopefully keep me dry, I walked out of my house to welcome in duck season.
An hour had passed since leaving the warm sanction of my house as my fellow hunter and friend, David, flew his pickup down the lonely countryside highway while our canine companion for the day, Deac, slumbered in the back. Hunting hour started at 6:30 that morning, so there was no doubt we could get in and set up under the cover of night without compromising our position to the early birds, however, if you've ever hunted opening day before, you know there is the rat race of other hunters to get into everyones favorite spots. As we rolled into the parking lot, there was no doubt in our minds that we were the first ones up, and hopefully it would stay that way. With the engine silenced, guns and packs wrapped around ourselves, we made our way by foot down the trail, one that David knew too well and myself stumbling over every rock we came across. From behind, we suddenly were lit up by a single headlamp. "Hurry," David said as he picked up the speed.
Through the woods and across a low river we went as the light continued to get closer and closer. "Alright, we're hear," David said with a sign of relief. Somewhere in the towering reeds was his honey hole, a hidden man-made blind. With eyes adjusting to the dark, I could finally make out the beaver dam that had caused the perfectly placed pond. "We'll wait here and see where this guy goes," he said, pointing the attention to our stalker who had stopped at the location where we forged the river, not even 50 yards from behind our blind. We waited and watched, David's headlamp pointed towards him and his pointed at us as he wrestled with his equipment. Out from the trees three more headlamps emerged. "They brought the fricken brigade," I thought to myself. Concerned about crossfire, David handed Deac's leash to me, dropped the decoys, and made his way to discuss hunter etiquette with our neighbors. The swish of the water crashing into David slowly fainted as he made his way across, and with back and lamp turned away me, I lost sight of his tall figure.
It took a few minutes before David returned to our little island. "They set up decoys last night," David said, "And they're not budging on their spot.""But isn't that illegal?" I asked, thinking about the 30 minutes before hunting law. "Yeah, well I'd rather not get shot in the back on a low flyin' duck, I got another spot." Outgunned and frustrated with our eviction, we continued back across the river, passed our "friendly neighbors" and through the woods once again where we came across another opening to the river. "This looks good, let's set up," David pronounced as he opened the decoy bag. Growing up with a father who loved to hunt ducks, it was always his job to lay blinds and decoys (when we used them) and mine to hold onto the dog, so I did just that.
Few birds were flying by the time of sunrise, and those who did aimed their bills straight towards the beaver pond followed by the explosion of four guns. Feathers had begun to fly. Two stray, low flying Teal, those of which we presumed escaped from the group of 8 we saw head for the pond, zipped passed our decoys not even a foot above the water. "Damnit," I let out, as I hadn't even raised my gun. More booms erupted from behind us. "I'd love to tell a couple of Wardens about our little incident," David chuckled. Almost simultaneously, two floating Game Wardens rounded the bend in the river and landed upon sight of us. "Shit," I heard David say.

The Harvest

The nights of the 18th or 19th (depending on where you are in the world) this month have a very mystical and special meaning that few care to look into. It is within these nights that the moon is full before the autumnal equinox on the 20th; the day that marks equality in the length of day and night. From here on out, our days will shorten and nighttime will grow longer, transitioning into winter. These last two full moons have given farmers throughout the years a greater light so that they can work on harvesting the fruits of their labor, therefore, it is called the Harvest Moon.
As a child, I remember feeling so small when I stepped foot into my grandfathers garden. The rows of stalks that produced some of the juiciest corn towered above me as I walked through it. The pumpkins that would be as round as my chubby-self seemed like boulders, hidden away in the Rocky Mountains that had been tossed down from peaks by giants. Not only did he have a garden that would produce vegetables for grandma and him, but his small orchard gave sweet fruits of apples and pears that would become pies and cobblers. And like every good farmer does, he composted all that he could to bring back rich nutrients to his clean soil. He didn't have any cattle or animals, for all I knew he didn't have the time or patience for them, but what meat he could bring in by his two hands he did through hunting big game. For the most part, he was a sustainable man, and I wanted to be like him.
Now that I am an independent adult, I have come to realize the importance of the foods we eat. Largely produced documentaries like Food Inc. and small productions like La Surconsommation on Vimeo have all casted a shadow on the horrors of our current food productions. Big names like Tyson are being held accountable for their treatment of animals and others like Monsanto for their roll into the chemically produced preservatives and fillers that nearly all our foods contain. It is not the FDA or federally funded organizations that are calling bullshit, however, but individuals who have realized that through our current eating habits and ignorance to see the flaw in this system, we are malnourished. Malnourished of heirloom nutrients. Malnourished of virgin flavor. Malnourished of basic human rights. Malnourished of the truth.
The question now is not how we can tear down the establishment through our "rights as citizens," because in reality, the FDA has been buried underneath the corporate corruption that haunts our society. No matter how much we scream and yell, there will always be a suppressant on our voices. Then how are we supposed to show we care and that we won't stand for it? With the use of something that speaks more in our world now, and has ran it for a while; cold hard cash. We can show our numbers with the decrease in theirs. It's hard, especially as a college student trying to live upon a strict budget, to pass up that bag of chicken that is almost half as much as the free-ranged meats, but in the end, isn't our health worth it? Isn't our happiness in knowing that what we consume is of better quality, better nutrients, and better treatment, worth the extra dollar? Boycott the big names, buy local, buy better, and in the end, feel better. And if you are blessed with land that mother nature has given you, grow your own, be sustainable, live as if the supermarket didn't exist.

It Won't Be Long

The Greeks once had an ancient profession, men who would travel the country to entertain those who took the time to listen to their tales of distant lands. The players in the stories were of ordinary men doing courageous things. Now these stories were not to boast about oneself, although at times the entertainer was included, but to spread word of such adventures as inspiration to those who may never have such experiences in their lifetime. Stores, like most, could play out with comic relief, romantic affairs, and more than often, tragic events. This ancient art, one that has been cast aside in our modern world, was that of the storyteller.

In my life, as far as I could remember, I've been known to tell a few far fetched stories. I discovered a passion for writing with the patience of extraordinary teachers and with the help of my deep love for a girl. I found that vocal communication isn't sufficient enough at times, and that a man can learn a lot about himself through the arts. My writings have ranged from short stories, proverbs, and poetry, but never have I kept a record of events and adventures. Since moving from Washington to Montana, I've gone out of my way to try and find out who I am, through the outdoors, school, and occasional silence. On these adventures I've learned a lot and find there may be somethings to learn from them, or if nothing else, to be of entertainment to those back at home. So why is the storyteller talking about himself, you ask? Because every good play has to have a scene set. 

So as I sit here, on the Bridger ski lift at the presently barren hill of Bridger Bowl, enjoying the cool breeze, a well earned brew, and the company of my dog, Bear, I only think of what this blog will become and what adventures life has to offer. Already there is a nip in the night that chills the souls of men; the sun drops before the sparrow has time to tuck in her young; and skiers and boarders around the globe count down the days till the first fall of snow. Summer will transform into fall, and fall will slip into winter, each season holding their own opportunities to get out and explore this wonderful world we live in. "It won't be long," I think to myself. "It won't be long."