I Just Gave Up

Or was what I’d been pursuing for the last ten years found somewhere else?

This short essay is dedicated to my paternal Grandfather, who passed away this week a few days after this essay was completed. He was a man who planted the seeds of these lessons by the way he lived, worked, and loved fiercely, day in and day out.

He and my Dad taught me to hunt. Even after his time of going out into the field with us had passed, he still continued to wake early each morning during the season to ensure the coffee was ready and we were well fed before we ventured off to the woods. Each time we were successful in our harvest, he sat in the cold garage with us, taking lead on the process of breaking down the deer and reminiscing about hunts from years past.

More important than any of that was the time he sat with me during one of the darkest moments in my battle with alcoholism. He simply told me that he loved me.

He provided love, laughs, guidance, and gave all of us in his life an example of how to live well and love God.

Now, to the original story…

---

A black speck appeared on the hillside over a mile off. The sun was sinking, elongating shadows that highlighted the undulations in the vast terrain. The speck’s blocky shape indicated it was most likely a cow and not a moose. Neither animal was the reason I found myself alone on this mountainside, many miles off the last named road, but curiosity brought the binoculars to my eyes.

My magnified gaze settled on a beef cow lollygagging across the hillside and lazily munching on grass. I watched as the cow paused, raised its head, and emitted a long, deep moo that reached my ears a second later. I pulled back from looking through the binoculars and let out an audible sigh as a lump formed in my throat.

Over the last ten years, I had placed harvesting a bull elk with my bow, while hunting alone, at the pinnacle of achievement as a lifelong hunter.

My very first solo hunt back in 2017 had connected me with something that felt both foreign and familiar to me. I sensed more than ever in those mountains alone that there was something larger, something grander at play than I could ever fathom.

While I didn’t harvest an elk that year, I had experiences that intoxicated me. Locking eyes with a jet-black wolf at less than one hundred yards as he patiently waited for me to emerge into a meadow. A bull elk sending a guttural bugle in my direction from twenty yards that sent shockwaves into my bones. Finding myself speaking encouraging and loving words to myself for the first time in years as I struggled up a mountainside back to camp in the pitch black of night.

For years I pursued the achievement of bringing down a bull with my bow. I said it was for the adventure. I claimed it was for the meat. But really, there was something deeper. Something unspoken and unrealized until I stared at a regular old beef cow from a mile away through my binoculars.

Four days prior, I was driving these backcountry Forest Service roads with my oldest son. He and I had planned this special scouting trip to find campsites and hike a few miles together to get a feel for the terrain. As we rounded a blind corner, a small herd of cattle suddenly appeared before us, standing in the road and giving no indication of their willingness to move so we could proceed.

“Dad, roll down my window, please,” my son requested from the backseat.

Glancing up, I could see excitement in his eyes and a sheepish grin on his face. Not knowing what to expect, I hit the button and he strained himself against his seatbelt to get his head out the window as quickly as possible. Stretching as far out the window as he could, he took a deep breath and emitted a long, deep, drawn-out, “MOOOOOOOOOOOOVE” at the cows.

I burst out laughing. I heard a cackle of delight from behind me and turned around to see my son’s eyes sparkling with joy. I rolled down my window to join him, and we inched the truck forward bellowing our commands to the cows in their native tongue to politely get off the road.

Back on the mountain alone, the lump tightened in my throat further. I took my eyes off the cow and began looking around. Behind me lay a small hillside that we had aptly named “Grant’s Mountain” due to my son’s insistence on climbing to the top to look for elk our first morning together in the mountains. Settling in, we quickly found four bull elk and watched them lock antlers and battle each other over the next hour.

Farther beyond Grant’s Mountain, at the top of the ridgeline, I spotted “Poop Tree,” named so because part of convincing a five-year-old to enjoy a camping and hiking trip is to provide all the snacks and treats one little heart could ever desire. The christening of that tree is a story I’ll let you, wise reader, infer yourself.

Exploring. Together.

My mind shifted back to the present where I had subconsciously begun packing up my binoculars.

Why am I here?

I suddenly realized how much my answer to that question had changed without me noticing.

Nearly ten years ago, when this pursuit all began, I was searching. I chased and discovered glimpses of connection, awe, presence, spirituality, and a more complete version of myself. I thought that killing a bull elk with my bow would be the ultimate mark of achievement, proof that I had accomplished what I had been pursuing alone in the mountains.

Life has changed dramatically over the last few years. Some of that change happened quickly. Some took much more time to recognize. It took me over three years to realize my why had shifted enough for me to end my current hunt, provoked by the simple sound of a cow, a full two days early.

I didn’t have it in me. I didn’t have a reason. No, that’s not right. My reason had shifted.

Those things I used to glimpse while adventuring alone deep in the backcountry were now gifts given to me every day through the relationships and connections in my life. It’s laughing uncontrollably as we move one mile an hour mooing out our windows and nudging cows off the road with the truck. It’s encouraging each other on a climb towards a small hilltop that is a five-year-old’s Everest. It’s the shared experience that transforms a small, lonely, windswept pine into “Poop Tree.”

There will be a day that I hunt alone again. I know there is something special there, an experience that can bring the fullest of yourself forward. I’m grateful for all the solo pursuits. They connected me with something deeper, something more real, than I was able to experience day in and day out at the time. They drove me to keep pursuing, to never settle or relent in the face of the battles that were raging within me. They taught me to keep climbing.

Those times alone in the mountains over the past ten years helped deliver me from those struggles. They served their purpose.

Two hours later I was back in cell service, topping the truck off with gas. I texted a close friend that I was extracting because I had the realization I didn’t want to hunt alone anymore.

I received a reply as I hopped into my truck to prepare for the remaining few hours alone on the road.

“Good for you. Great, actually. Let’s start hunting together then because I’m sitting here eating dinner off of my tailgate with the same realization.”