Hunting

I may have grown up in a little redneck town, but somehow I never went hunting. My dad came from the big city, and while he did absorb some small town culture, driving a pickup truck, learning how to run a chainsaw, and getting a dog, he never owned a gun. I got a pellet gun for Christmas one year and it has claimed a couple crows and squirrels, but always only from the porch. I wasn't allowed to take it with me in the woods. I might've shot my eye out.

A few years ago, a friend and co-worker offered to take me along hunting. He was going for black bear and I was welcome to tag along. Of course I agreed, so that Saturday we headed out early. We drove around on backroads and overgrown paths in his 4X4 for most of the day, stopping a couple times to hike through promising country. I'm accustomed to hiking, but this was different. If things went according to plan, we didn't want to have to carry a carcass too far back to the truck. It was a sunny spring day, so there was only snow where the avalanches of winter had piled it up extra deep and packed it tight.

We had seen bear sign (poop) all day, and plenty of deer all day. It was getting into the afternoon and we had just decided to call it a day when Marc suddenly hit the brakes and killed the engine. Way up the open hillside on our left was a black bear foraging for dinner. If she knew we were there, she wasn't bothered by us. Marc grabbed his rifle from the back seat, slid in the bolt and a shell, and lay down on the side of the road. I stood there not quite sure what to do, but completely excited. I'm normally pretty level, but watching him aim a lethal weapon at this living creature overloaded my calm little brain completely. It was all I could do to keep from dancing from excitement.

Marc had been hunting since childhood. He saw every animal that day before I did, and tried pointing out some I never did find. His guns were a mix of quality inherited pieces and quality stuff he had bought for himself. He took better care of his hunting gear than he did of anything else he had. He was also a dead shot. So, in my mind, as he lay there lining up a difficult long shot up a steep hill, I had no doubt that he would make it. He didn't disappoint. The bear made one mad dash in a small circle and fell still before the echo of the shot was over. I found myself arguing internally about whether or not it was okay to be so excited about what we were doing.

The bear was kind of small, but that is the risk you take with hunting for black bear. They don't change proportion noticeably from young adult to senior, especially from a distance. We skinned and cleaned it and slid it into a special sleeve to keep it fresh until we could get to the butcher. Apparently bears are lousy eating as steaks or roasts, but they make a wicked sausage. The pepperoni was as good as any I've ever had.

I haven't hunted again since that day. I enjoyed myself and would go again, but I was also shocked and even a bit embarrassed at how exciting it was. There is a primal part of our brains that has learned over thousands of generations that killing an animal is a really good thing because it means survival of the self. My primal brain had been dormant until that day, but I'm glad to know it is still there. Spring is coming, maybe I'll get back out there this year.

Climbing high

I've always been a climber. Every kid learns to climb: furniture, stairs, Daddy's legs... Some take it further; I took it outside. There was a big tree next to the house we lived in until I was seven. I remember it being huge, and while it was taller than the house, probably not actually that big as fir trees go. I could see up the trunk it was like a ladder going all the way up. The problem for me was the lowest branch was too high for me to reach. Ever watch little kids try to jump? All spastic effort and no lift, especially for spindly white kids. Dad said I could climb it when I could get up it myself. He probably figured he was teaching me some life lesson about independence while saving my mother's nerves.

I was more obsessed with that tree than Dad realized. Thinking that as long as I didn't have parental aid to the first branch, I would be abiding by the terms of the climbing rules, I talked my sister into giving me a boost. It was as glorious as I had hoped until Dad figured out where I was. I remember getting in trouble at the time, but soon after there was a rope hanging there so I didn't have to stand on my sister anymore.

My friend and I would climb up and down that tree, popping sap blisters and getting properly sticky. Sticky wasn't so bad, but it picked up all manner of dirt and didn't wash off with soap. We'd have to rub butter on our hands to get rid of it. Mom nearly had to cut out clumps of sapped hair after a long summer day in the tree.

That tree had a natural limit for climbing. Just below the level of the roof peak, maybe about 20' up, there was a thick mat of sticks and debris that somehow collected there. We would sit up under that mat and spy out the neighbourhood. Eventually, I got bored of only going to the sticks and had a closer look. I decided I could get through, and I was right. I only stopped when the branches became what I felt was dangerously small for holding my little seven year old frame. There wasn't much between me and the very top. Being quite proud of myself and not being a really forward-thinking child, I decided to shout and wave to my mother when she came into the backyard. That was the second time I got in trouble for climbing that tree. If that tree hadn't been so close to the house, I think she might have cut it down before my dad came home that night.

We moved when I was seven and I searched in vain for a new fir tree to climb. I did find plenty of aspens, and I figured out that I could shimmy up even the skinny ones. I wasn't nearly so high as the old tree, but these ones were so bendy, I would hang on as high as I could reach, and jump out. The tree would bend me all the way to the ground and then whoosh back upright when I let go. I quit doing that when one of the trees broke off as I was still a couple feet from the ground. I was still hanging onto the top half of the tree as it cracked me on the top of my head.

Now it is mountains, an occasional rock face, and my roof to clean the gutters, but I still love to climb. In a couple months I'll be out pruning my plum trees, climbing around hacking off branches, feeling like a little kid again (except now I'm allowed to play with axes and saws all I want). I should have bought a ladder years ago, but this gives me an excuse to swing around the branches and get in touch with my inner child/primate.

New shoes

I bought my first pair of running shoes this weekend. That's not quite right. These are the first running shoes I've paid for myself. I've bought dress shoes, casual shoes, hiking shoes, and climbing shoes for myself, but never running shoes. My last pair was the last pair of shoes my parents bought for me. I was in my first year at college and running like a madman, but giving myself tendonitis by doing so in shoes I'd had since junior high. It was Spring of 2000 when Mom and Dad took me to the mall and bought me proper running shoes. I put hundreds of miles and several races on those shoes in the intervening 13 years. A seam in the instep burst almost immediately, making them much more comfortable, but last week they finally broke beyond repair.

People had been giving me a hard time about my shoes for a while already. Apparently you are supposed to replace running shoes every couple of months or after every third run or some such nonsense. I figure as long as there is still rubber on the bottom and the laces still hold, they are probably fine. The tendonitis didn't come back, so why spend money on shoes I only wear in the dark to run through mud? Rosie doesn't care what's on my feet as long as I take her out every morning.

Minimalist running shoes are the "next big thing," but I think it makes sense. Our bodies are built to run, so why strap pillows to our feet to do it? It just leaves the foot weakened and more susceptible to injury. What doesn't make sense is how much a "minimal" shoe costs. By definition, I bought less shoe, but because it is toxic green and trendy, I still paid the same as a cushy shoe with super duper nano air spring technology. We'll see. I wasn't about to buy those ones with the individual toes. That's just gross. Still, I don't have high hopes of them lasting 13 years, though that did seem a bit much. Five miles in, so far, so good. They were my first pair of shoes to come with a warning that they may cause injury if used too much to start. We'll see.

Carving

They had a small table set up at the big show. No fancy computer aided laser guided state of the art machines programmed offsite to be set loose on unmanned warehouses of lumber. Just a club of craftsmen each with one small knife and a piece of wood. They weren't carving figurines or making signs, they were making cuts in geometric patterns on wooden surfaces. It was delicate work, time-consuming, and fussy. There appeared to be no function, only form. I was smitten.

That Christmas my in-laws, who had been at the wood show with me, gave me a good geometry kit and my very own chip carving knife. I took out a book from the library, scrounged an old scrap piece of wood and started in. I quickly ended up with a dull knife and a frustratingly poor result. I put my kit aside, returned the book, and left it for what turned into years. I never did check out the club's meetings.

Years after putting it aside, I must have found my knife again and commented on it, because my lovely wife went out a bought me a new book on learning to carve. Either that first book from the library was written by someone who had never actually carved a thing in their life, or I had been misinterpreting the directions badly. I choose to believe it was the author's fault, never mind what they say about lousy carpenters. Anyway, with the new book, a new sharpening stone, and a block of proper wood, I was off to the races. Turns out it wasn't nearly so hard as I thought. Partly because of the book, partly because of the wood, partly because I could keep my knife sharp, I was quickly carving consistent lines of practice shapes.

For what came next, I blame my mother. When she starts a new thing, she doesn't start small and work her way up. She's barely grasped the basics and she's off tackling as big a project as she can think of. Her first quilt was made of denim and big enough to cover a queen-sized bed. I don't sew, but when I mention it, quilters say both the material and the size are quite difficult. I guess her idea is to make the learning curve as steep as possible, and by the end of the project, she's really good. It seems to work, because she's amazing. So, as I was getting bored of repeating lines of practice and starting to look for a project, it was ingrained in me to look for something big. The ideas in the book were unappealing, like scroll-saw patterns from the 90's. Flowers, horses, and family names on tissue boxes was not going to cut it. Sorry, that was lame. Anyway, I decided I would build a humidor for my father. While I was at it, I would build one for my father-in-law. That bit of sound reasoning comes from my father: Making two is barely harder than making one. Right.

I had practiced enough to produce a few good, consistent shapes. I had not practiced box-building at all. Ever. I have a bit of wood-working experience, but it was still the weak point in my plan. Hobbies are like renovations that way. You start one thing and it snowballs. But, I had my idea, so I ordered wood online, basswood for the carving and Spanish cedar for the lining. Another thing I had never practiced was creating and laying out a custom design. As it turns out, this is even more time-consuming than box building. At least the way I build boxes. I figure those cigar boxes together took between 150 and 200 hours to complete between building, designing, drawing, and carving.

Mom's method works. Bite off more than it looks like you should be able to chew, and if you manage it, your skills are way better than they would have been if you tried to slowly build. Of course, it could backfire, and you give up before you level up, but this past year I made a far more complex project, carving-wise, in less than half the time of one box. I'm still a beginner, as a quick Google Images search for "chip carving" will show, but I'm getting better all the time. My idea of a big project is changing too. Good thing wood is cheap.

It's funny how you can stumble on something that becomes such a big deal in your life. I was going along just fine without even knowing what chip carving was, and now I spend several hours per week on it. Thousands of people walked by that booth without more than a glance. Even if they stopped to check it out, most didn't ever try it. I walked by hundreds of other booths that day that didn't grab me. I wonder how many of these chance moments come to define who we become in the end. Who we meet, where we go, how much of it was just an accident that almost didn't even happen?

Change is coming

My parents are moving at the end of this month. Their house is sold, half their stuff is already moved, the rest is packed. Dad is retiring after 32 years of public school teaching. They will be moving away from the town they never meant to move to, let alone stay in. As it turned out, they built a life and raised a family there.

In some ways it seems like someone is dying. They have been going around doing things "One last time." Skiing the local alpine mountain, driving by their first house, visiting people they may not see again, remembering. They are excited about the move, being closer to family, not having to shovel nearly so much snow, but when we talked this week I thought all three of us might cry.

We talked about that first house, the climbing tree (story in process), and the street out front where I learned to ride a bike. The neighbours still live there, their children also flown from the nest. Before I left home, I spent my winters cross-country skiing. We started out at a golf course, then at a provincial park, then finally our club was able to put in dedicated trails with a proper warming hut. We all helped, marking out trails, clearing brush, putting up the building. Our family was heavily involved and deeply connected with that club.

I've been away more or less since high school, and each year my connections to that little town have faded a little more. Friends have moved away or drifted into acquaintance-hood. I know maybe half a dozen people at the church I grew up in. With my folks living there, there has always been a reason to return and a place to stay when I did. I can't say when the next time I'll visit will be. Maybe one day I'll have kids of my own to take on a road trip and tell boring stories about what used to be in that old building. That house I helped build when I was 13. When that whole hillside was just trees and I would run around building forts and spears with my friends and my dog. The old sledding track has been gone for years already, but we spent hours hauling sleds up that hill and building jumps at the bottom.

I worry that my memories of childhood will fade and distort without occasionally visiting those old places. It's as though one of the last ties between who I was and whom I will be is being cut. "Where I'm from" will slip ever deeper into myth. I've never had any intention of moving back; it was a fine place to grow up and to visit, but I don't want to live there. I don't think I expected or even wanted things to stay the same as they have been. Nothing wrong with looking back now and then, even if the old things seem so far away as to have been perfect. The view forward is dim and hard to make out, but it is coming regardless. It should be an interesting year.

Presents

Presents are fun. I like both the giving and the getting, as long as the motivation is good. Christmas can be an awful time for obligatory gifts.

My sister's in-laws diligently make lists, set budgets, and share this information with each family member months ahead of Christmas. They even email each other once they've bought something from someone's list so there isn't duplication. Then, on Christmas morning, they give each other the things they specifically asked for. Of course it fits, the colour is right, the model is the exact one they wanted. From the outside, it appears to be an entirely joyless exercise. My own family was heading this direction the last few years, so I decided to do something about it.

Last year, we were all together in my parents' house for the holidays for the first time in years, maybe since my niece was brand new. It was the last time too, as the house is sold now. We put everyone's name in a hat, Mom and Dad included. No keeping your spouse's name, but otherwise, that's who you're responsible for next year. You have a whole year to make a gift specifically for that person. Spend what you need to for materials, no budget. I told them I didn't want their money, I don't need anything, each of them have skills, and I would be happy to have a handmade gift from any of them.

I drew my mother. I'm quite proud of how my gift turned out and the reaction I earned in the giving. It represents about 40 hours of work between design, layout, and execution. It cost me less than $10 and it was fun to make. The rest baked, sewed, stitched, and nailed gifts together. I haven't surveyed the crew to see if it was good enough to do again next year. I hope so.

My in-laws buy stuff for each other, but they go about it with good intentions. They think about a person, what they do, what they might need, things they like, then they go shopping. Inside jokes in place of exhaustive lists prioritized by level of desire. Both brothers bought toys for the other. Grown men giving BB guns and remote controlled helicopters. Usually Mom puts some sort of cheap toy in the stockings, something guaranteed to break within the hour, and we run around racing wind-up cars or shooting each other with Nerf arrows like we're eight years old. 

I hope your Christmas was a good one. Mine sure was. Now go make something.