In my youth, and honestly until just a few years ago, it would have taken an act of God to get me out of a tree during hunting season. Few things mattered more to me than hunting. I thought that was the pinnacle of what a mature hunter was supposed to be. Single-minded, undeterred by work, family, friends, weather, equipment, or health. If I could hunt, I did hunt, and not once did I ever regret it.
This past Saturday, I had the entire day to myself, my tree stand, and the 18 acres I call home. My wife, Wendy, was working as an election officer all day for Virginia’s early voting, and I had an honest-to-goodness clean slate ahead of me. No chores. No deadlines. No distractions. So, I climbed into my tree stand, laid my bow across my lap, and prepared to watch the sun rise and set from the very spot I had clamored to occupy for decades.
God blessed my early morning dedication with an autumn sunrise for the ages. Our land consists of old-growth hardwoods that, from spring through fall, shield us from our neighbors, road noise, and, honestly, the rest of the world. In spring, that blanket of leaves is a bright, crisp green, but on this particular morning, the woods wore oranges, reds, browns, yellows, and a few stubborn green leaves that reminded me Mother Nature, not Monet, is the finest impressionist.
The sun rose higher, and the day moved along. I sat motionless. The squirrels didn’t. They scampered, jumped, ran, and climbed all around me. I’d like to think they didn’t know I was there, but I think they did. I think they always do. They just didn’t care. And on that day, without my squirrel-hunting handguns, neither did I.
I have three bucks on camera and routinely see a solid six-pointer from our back porch. During those first few hours, I hoped he’d come by. A few years ago, that thought would have never waned. I would have spent every waking moment imagining where he’d appear, how he’d approach, and whether I’d have a clear shot when he finally stepped into range.
That was then. My, how things have changed.
By midmorning, my mind had shifted from visualizing that buck, or his big brother, beneath my stand to wondering whether I had enough ingredients to make Wendy the dinner she deserved after a long day of working. I wondered whether the kitchen sink was empty, or the dishwasher. I wondered if she’d remembered to take her lunch, or whether I should text and check. And if she hadn’t, I wondered if I should bring her something to eat. She had her lunch, and they were quite busy, so a visit wouldn’t have been helpful.
I then thought about my daughter, Brenn. Now a senior at William & Mary, I wondered whether she had enough money for food, gas, and her next room-and-board payment. She earned a full-tuition scholarship, so most of her education was paid for, but there’s always something. There always seems to be something when you’re a parent, and I suppose that’s part of the job. You never really stop wondering whether your children have everything they need, even when they’re doing just fine without you.
Then my thoughts drifted to a good friend, Lee, in Montana who, as far as I can tell, has mastered life. All his children are wildly successful, either serving in the military, having graduated from college, or soon to graduate. He takes care of everyone else first, his friends included, and somehow manages to make it all look effortless. So, sitting there in my tree stand, I checked in on him and told him how grateful I was to be his friend. There wasn’t any particular reason for it. I just thought he ought to know.
My tree stand is high enough that I can see my dogs when they’re in the backyard. Occasionally, they’d venture outside, sniff around, investigate whatever mysterious things dogs find endlessly fascinating, and then wander toward the gate. Mostly, though, they’d look toward that gate and wait, perhaps hoping Wendy, Brenn, or I would come home.
Anyone who has dogs will tell you they love us far more than we ever truly deserve. Watching them, knowing they missed us and had absolutely no idea if or when we’d be back, both broke my heart and touched it. They don’t understand schedules, work obligations, or why the people they love sometimes disappear for hours. They just know we’re gone, and they wait for us to return. I don’t know that I deserve to matter that much to them, and yet I do.
I sat until around 1 p.m., then climbed down and walked back to the house. I grabbed a quick snack but spent the next few hours showering my dogs with the love and attention they deserved. We played, danced, and shared a PB&J sandwich. I did an inventory of what I needed to make dinner for Wendy, and then, as both dogs curled up around the fireplace, I rubbed their heads, told them I loved them, and climbed back into my tree stand.
I have no idea if that buck, or any deer for that matter, came by while I was gone. And I don’t know that I cared.
There was a time when leaving my stand during daylight hours would have felt like an unforgivable hunting sin. I would have spent the rest of the season wondering whether the biggest buck of my life had wandered past while I was inside making a sandwich. Worse, I probably would have convinced myself that he had. But that afternoon, I climbed back into my stand without the slightest concern about what I might have missed.
I sat motionless for the rest of the afternoon, watching the woods slowly surrender their colors to the fading light. The squirrels continued their business, the breeze moved through the hardwoods, and eventually God shut off the lights. I climbed down, walked back to the house, put my bow away, and went inside.
I never saw a deer that day. I didn’t draw my bow, didn’t release an arrow, and didn’t have a single hunting story worth telling if the only measure of a successful hunt was whether something ended up in the freezer.
And yet, I can’t remember many days in a tree stand that meant more to me.
For years, hunting was almost all I thought about, and I think that’s largely because hunting was the best part of my life at the time. It was where I wanted to be, what I looked forward to, and what I organized so much of my life around. I measured good days by the hours I spent in the woods and great days by what I brought home.
Now, even when I’m hunting, it’s hardly the only thing on my mind. I think about my wife, my children, my friends, and two dogs who apparently believe I’m the greatest human being ever to walk the earth. I think about the home we’ve built, the people I love, and how fortunate I am that so much of what matters to me is waiting just a short walk from my tree stand.
I still love bowhunting. I still love the anticipation of a buck stepping out of the hardwoods, the challenge of getting close enough to draw, and the satisfaction that comes from doing everything right. I suspect I always will.
But somewhere along the way, hunting stopped being the best part of my life and became one of the many wonderful parts of it.
I think that’s because I’ve finally built a life I don’t want to escape from.
And I don’t know if that makes me a better hunter, a better man, or both.
– Jay Pinsky