Nothing Better to Do
This article, which was written maybe ten years ago, is not actually a photography related article, but it services to define why I spend as much time as I do outdoors pursuing those photographic moments. For various reasons, recent years have reduced the number of days afield to a mere trickle compared to earlier years. Maybe that is why I enjoy writing about those days so much as those memories and words serve as not only a reminder of things past, but as a reminder of a personal identity that is too often neglected. Photography has become an important substitute for those older days afield spent hunting and fishing. The two pastimes are connected for without the hunting and fishing days of my youth, the reason I pursue outdoor photography with such a passion would probably not exist. The descriptions written within these words also serve to reveal the types of things I search for when I seek out those photographic moments. I hope you enjoy this old story of adventure and renewal.
Nothing Better to Do
There resides in the heart of every hunter a natural wisdom to seek out those things that takes us back to our essentials. This wisdom awakens when the cool days of October arouse one from the slumber of a long summer’s sleep. Upon that awakening a hunter’s desires are aimed toward the fields and lairs of the backcountry where wild game roams. It is a calling developed over time, through trial and error and experience, that one day evolves into a conscious state becoming less of a desire, and more of a need as an intimate part of our being.
When October finally arrives and the cross timbers of Oklahoma change from their adornment of forest green to the browns, reds and yellows of fall, I am called to the hills of Southeastern Oklahoma less to pursue the elusive White Tailed Deer, but more to purge the influence of modern society by stepping back in time. The muzzleloader season provides a good throw back to a simpler day and serves to blend our connection with the past to the reality of today. Within the Sooner State, there are few places better suited for this purpose than these ancient, pine covered hills.
To rise early before daylight invades the darkness finds one clearing the fog from the eyes. In the stillness of the morning I stand outside loading the last of my gear before the noise of the city gains momentum. In the pre-dawn quiet, I hear a flight of ducks wing overhead unseen, bidding me a fair journey. There is a change in the air, and the musty, humid stirrings of summer are replaced with the aroma of fall. After months of hunting inactivity and in need of a lifestyle modification, I finally begin the healing process within the first few miles of the long awaited drive.
To leave the city and all its forest of houses and trails of concrete streets, the eventual transformation of terrain brings the delicate scent of fresh earth and pine to trigger images from the days of bygone years. Within those images are faces and moments frozen in memory: The crackle of a campfire and the sound of the wind filtering through pine covered hills. The melody of a creek and the cry of the coyote at dusk, the sight of a magnificent buck locked with keen eyes onto your every movement, then his bolt and snort through a tangle of woods. Remembering moments such as these is like savoring each as a delicacy fit for royalty. Here, you enter a new kingdom away from that other world, a kingdom seemingly made for you. Even so, you are not its master, nor its ruler, only its servant, for in order to take from it, you must give of yourself to its heritage.
I continue to drive hypnotized by the hum of tires, wind against the canvas top of my Jeep, and the rhythmic undulations of wiper blades clearing the rain off the windshield. In time I enter the land of my ancestors where I grew and lived and learned to love the outdoors. It feels good to return to the home of my youth. I climb higher into the realm where the clouds hover on the tops of the rugged pine covered Kiamichi Mountains. The muting effect of the mist and haze brighten the red sumac leaves and the kaleidoscope of colors that have already invaded these heights. The road begins a series of curves and drops, climbing ever higher, curves and rolls again and again over countless rises until finally I reach the crest and began to descend out of the mist until the form of Clancy’s Country Store filters through the rain.
Its rock façade darkened and streaked by the moisture that drips from the tin roof stand as a sentinel in the heart of these hills. I stop on the edge of town, a mere wide spot in the road, listening to the smooth rumble of my engine as it breathes the cool mountain air, and view this unencumbered corner of the world with a certain degree of envy. Hugging low to the ground a blanket of smoke from various chimneys settles and blends with the mist. An old country dog raises his head for a look while sitting under the protection of a sagging porch, wags his tail, unchained, unfenced, then lays his head down again, more concerned with resting than who belongs to this intrusion. All these things are common sights for this old Kiamichi community, for the local people, and though much of my own history is anchored around and near these hills, I am but a returning visitor. Honobia is its name. No self respecting resident would ever pronounce it like it’s spelled…locals pronounce it using ‘Oklahomeeze’ as Ho-Nubby. Even so, however you pronounce it, the image becomes a vision taken from the very soul of the American experience and the heritage of Oklahoma’s backcountry.
I turn off the first exit and head down the rain soaked, washboard dirt road. There will be no dust today. I slow down as I cross the first low-water bridge. Honobia Creek is lower than expected in spite of the much needed rain. The summer was dry. There are two more crossings to negotiate. Boulders protrude above the now slackened pools rippled by individual drops of rain, with red and yellow leaves adrift on the surface, a sure sign of the first vestiges of fall. It is a difficult creek to wade and fish as the large rocks are slippery and cumbersome to navigate. It can be worth the effort though. My mind is elsewhere on this trip, filled with images of trophy deer that stalk these hills.
Finally, there is the last turn off, and I climb even higher into the hills, my tires slipping on the loose dirt, and ascend one final time past clear cuts, new growth, and standing timber to the top of the ridge, exit at a long forgotten logging road, and catch the first sight of where deer camp will once again be set. The pungent odor of weeds is heavy and they are thicker now having grown since my last intrusion, but the old circle of rocks that is the campfire is still there. The rain continues to drip and the mist floats easily amongst the backdrop of tall pines and rolling hills. A muffled thunder rumbles from the dark low clouds and reverberates across the ravines and a haze floats softly against the upper reaches of the slopes like soft spider webs drifting on the wind.
On days like these, the woods take on a magical look, and with the breeze, a torrent of liquid jewels tumble through the trees adding their song to nature’s symphony. I set camp with the refined choreography of past experience waiting now for tomorrow’s arrival of my good friend and hunting partner. By the end of our hunt, the neatly arranged camp will most assuredly take on that cluttered look. A few ducks wing low overhead their wings whistling, greeting me a Kiamichi Mountain welcome. I raise my arms as though taking aim, then, watch them circle and disappear over the far ridge.
It is near midday now and time for scouting. The rain still falls sporadically, but I don’t mind. Tomorrows opening day…maybe this evening I can get in one hunt using my bow if the rain slows down. It feels good to stretch stiff legs. Finding and examining the first rub in the familiar draw where ‘Mr. Big’ was shot a few years before, raises my expectations and senses to a higher level. It is an average size rub where the bark on a young sapling was rubbed jaggedly clean, but there are several scattered in a pattern running parallel with the lay of the land near the top of the ravine indicating a nice buck frequents this draw. There’s a scrape not far from the top just inside the tree line, where the first pre-rut activity indicates the bucks are becoming restless. This is a good location, familiar I am with its character…deep woods with a run off creek at the bottom and converging draws splattered with acorns across the hump near the breastwork of rocks on the east side. Both opposing ridges are studded with tall pines and accented with hardwoods and boulders. I will begin my hunt once again here and stake out a good place for a stand not far from where I last hunted.
My lungs and legs burn as I climb out of the draw…residue from too easy living…it feels good and does one a favor to burn those extra calories. After returning to camp, I sit under a makeshift canopy in mid-afternoon and listen to the rain tap against it as the material undulate with each rising breeze. The fresh scent of rain helps to clear my head and soothe a tired mind. For the first time in many months I begin to truly unwind and relax. I wonder, will the rain will hold or clear? It doesn’t matter. I…am finally here and have re-discovered the wealth earned from time spent outdoors.
With only five days to recover from what is lost through the year this allotment of time is not nearly enough, but I dare not go without, for it brings into focus the most important things in life. Time away from the pressures of making a living is too precious a reward to waste. As I stand isolated again in these hills a sensory wealthy man, it is a comfort to see the full spectrum of time allocated to this endeavor spread out unmapped, uncharted, waiting for the choreograph of events to decide the outcome. Quickly, my allotted time will vanish like the whiffs of campfire smoke and misty fog that filters across these green hills, and I must return to that other impoverished world… longing to remain. Until then, I will savor each moment, the fireside stories of past exploits and the dreams of future ones to come. I look upon this time with reverent favor and from it I return with more than tangible trophies, but trophies garnered by favorite memories, which after all are the most important. You see, the making of a memory such as this is, well…I can think of nothing better I’d rather do.
I really enjoyed this.