How?

Stupid. Idiotic. Dangerous. Illegal. Immoral. Take your pick. Hell, take all of them.  In a society that loves grandiose adjectives for the most mundane things, I don't think I can possibly come up with one to describe what is happening.

It started with George Floyd and Derek Chauvin. The world immediately condemned the excessive use of force that led to Floyd's death.  The entire world. (I'm sure Huffington Post or some other great journalistic outlet of the sort posted some story about a couple of backwoods, Trump-supporting degenerates that rejoiced in it, but you know, aside from that.) From this clear cut case of police brutality the cries of racism rose.  And rose, and rose.  This despite any true evidence of actual racism.  No where in the video does Chauvin use a racial slur. No where in his 19 year career is there a pattern or support for this claim.

So instead the narrative became the ideology of "systemic racism" and inherent bias in all police work. This became the rallying cry, despite not a single ounce of statistical evidence being put forth. What place do facts and statistics have in a fever-pitch of emotions?

And those emotions boiled over into the ugly riots.  Since the great media outlets seem to have collectively lost their dictionaries, there are other words than "protest." Those words are arson, burglary, vandalism, assault, and murder.  Through all this, politicians stoked the proverbial fires for public good will and the media encouraged the stoking of actual fires through their one-sided coverage. The "BLM" slogan was soon rivaled by "ACAB," or All Cops Are Bad. Many municipalities threatened to defund their police.

Then the Rayshard Brooks/Garrett Rolfe shooting happened.  Just how far the pendulum has swung became instantly clear. 

I watched the video. Now here it is important to note, if you don't know me well enough to know already, I am a white, Republican who works in law enforcement.  I am not a use of force expert.  I have however received the standard training all Colorado peace officers receive and do everything I can to educate myself on use of force scenarios.  

Simply put, I thought this was one of the most justifiable shootings I have ever seen.  What starts as a polite contact, with background conversation and general questioning suddenly turns violent. Not because the officers used excessive force or were making an illegal arrest. Brooks makes the choice to resist arrest. Brooks over-powers two officers. Brooks wrestles the CEW (Conducted Energy Weapon) away from the officer. Brooks, as he is fleeing, turns back towards the officers, points it at them and discharges the weapon.  In every previous case I have heard, and through all my training, deadly force is appropriate and necessary in this situation. I have not met, nor can I imagine finding an officer who doesn't see this as justified.

Rolfe was immediately fired. No hearing, no independent review, no investigation. His supervisor immediately resigned. And now the mob mentality has led to him facing murder charges along with 10 other charges.

This is where those adjectives from early come in.  How? How can an officer follow all of his training, be well within the guidelines of his agency, and still have his life ruined in this way?

How does any officer put on a uniform and go to work knowing you are danged if you do and dead if you don't?

How do the majority of Americans remain silent while those sworn to protect them are ripped to shreds?

The mayor of Atlanta, Keisha Bottoms, held a press conference a few days later. There she casually dropped the line that "Brooks was murdered."  Later, when talking about the new executive order she was implementing about use of force, she never states that Officer Rolfe acted outside of current guidelines. Instead  Bottoms spouted a line about "de-escalation" and not an immediate use of force "when there are other options available."  Watch the video. Tell me where the opportunity for de-escalation was.  Tell me what other options were available.  

As often happens in a tragic situation, the emotional card of "think of all the loved ones he left behind." Why is that card never played back though? If it was your husband, daughter, nephew, guy-on-your-softball-team, at what point can they defend their life? And if you don't think someone pointing a CEW at you, a person who has already shown a willingness to violently oppose police and disarm them, is a deadly situation, then I would recommend you watch a video on people being hit with a CEW.  The general charge cycle is 5 seconds.  Those five seconds could be your last if a violent criminal completely immobilizes you.

Lastly, the criminal charges themselves. How does a district attorney, someone versed in the law and knowledgeable of things like precedent (the idea that previous cases stand as authority for similar cases, all of which support the use of deadly force when faced with a CEW) bring these forward?  

Paul Howard, the DA, is being investigated by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and is in a tight run-off election. Hum...this couldn't be politically motivated could it? Would an attorney really play a popularity contest with a man's life in the balance? Tennessee v. Garner, a Supreme Court case from 1985 alone would seem to say so (Google it up, reading up on Supreme Court cases is always a good thing.)

So what is my point? Is this just a lengthy gripe? No. Its a call to action.  There can no longer be a "silent majority." If you value law enforcement, if you think America is a whole heck of a lot better off thanks to the sacrifice of the men and women in blue, then it's time to act. 

It's time for MADD and FADD to march in protest for the cops who were trying to take a drunk driver off the streets.  It is time for family, friends, and neighbors to stand in front of their various capitol buildings and town halls in unison saying we won't allow those we love, those who serve and protect us to be destroyed. It is time for every person who is of legal voting age to make sure that the politicians who have passed worthless, meaningless, and dangerous knee-jerk legislation to make their voices heard.  It is time to fill social media with support for those in blue, to share the stories of those who have protected and respected law enforcement.  The "mainstream media" must be drowned out, tuned out, and flushed down the ratings drain.  

"We the people" need to take back our country. Not in violence. Not in the "when they pry it out of my cold dead hands" mentality. But instead in a voice of unity, that voice rising above all the other noise, a voice that says "we support law enforcement."

And for those in law enforcement we must be better. We must continue to condemn the Derek Chauvins, to step in and stop an officer who is using excessive force. We must continue to call out corruption, racism, or immoral actions.  But we must also continue to support each other, now more than ever.  We must train harder, ask each other difficult questions, and constantly seek to improve.  We have chosen a dangerous and extremely difficult career. That doesn't excuse us, it should compel us. And with the backing of those who support us we can endure.

America, you must ask yourself one simple question. Do you believe you are safer with police than without?  I fear if something doesn't change drastically and change soon, we may not have a choice.  

End of Watch

What can be said at this point? Words won’t change what has already happened. Can they possibly change what will happen in the future?  I shared my thoughts after Deputy Parrish was killed in the line of duty just 5 short weeks ago. Since then 2 more deputies have been killed and several other officers wounded, and that’s just here in Colorado.  Each death has been felt heavily in the law enforcement community, each successive loss seeming to be cumulative, with no lessening of feeling due to familiarity.  

I didn’t know any of these men personally, only sharing the bond of wearing a badge for a living, the strength of which has surprised me.  I have found relatability to these brave officers, with them being close to my age (between 29 and 34), married, and two of them with young children.  I’ll be honest; these deaths have shaken me and scared me.  While I love my job and it provides me an opportunity to do amazing things, the fact that I could become a target because of a piece of metal that I pin to my shirt is a sobering thought.

Senseless tragedy.  You hear it often, but do we stop to think about it?  If an officer is killed while taking down a drug house, or in a shootout with a murder suspect it is as tragic as any death in the line of duty. But there is some sense to it, some reasonable seeming motive behind the aggressor’s actions.  Millions of dollars of drugs or a life sentence or even the death penalty could be construed as rational reasons for taking the life of another. Deputy Parrish was killed responding to a welfare check. Senseless. Deputy Gumm was killed responding to a disturbance call. Senseless. Deputy Flick was killed while investigating a stolen car. Senseless.  How can a 19-year-old kid decide that a stolen car is worth a man’s life? How can a couple months of jail time justify in anyone’s mind taking a father from his twin 7-year-old children? 

This senselessness stems from a society that has grown callous and subtly hostile towards law enforcement.  We vilify and crucify officers involved in shootings that are instantly labeled unjustified, without knowing all the facts first, without having been subjected to the split-second life or death decisions made in that moment.  Let me clarify that in no way am I suggesting police are above the law, or that thorough investigations should not take place. However, why do we not trust the men and women sworn to protect us as default?  Why do we not extend the basis for American law, innocent until proven guilty, to the officers who are putting their lives on the line?  Why do we let an embittered mob society and click-bait driven media allow us to question highly skilled and intensely trained professionals?  

Other negative sentiments seem more innocuous, but nonetheless have the same detrimental effect.  “How comes whenever I see a police care I feel paranoid rather than protected?” It’s a popular caption I’ve seen bandied around on Facebook.  “Speed traps are just revenue generators.” “They are just trying to get their ticket quota for the month.” When even simple speed limit enforcement is viewed as an unjust oppression it becomes the root for the tree of disrespect that casts a long shadow over the work law enforcement is trying to do.  What seems a harmless infraction to many, and an annoyance to those caught must be viewed through the eyes of those enforcing it.  While you were just trying to make up time because you were late to wherever, that officer was making sure he didn’t have to see it again. “It” is the limp body of a child he pulled from a car that rolled. “It” is being first on scene to a car crumpled against the guard rail with unmoving passengers inside. “It” is a car on fire while the officer desperately, helplessly calls for an engine.  “It” is the uniform he has to throw away because it’s stained with blood from the first aid he rendered.  All because the driver was going “just 5 over.”  

So what do we, as a society, do? Crime won’t stop, that is as guaranteed as death and taxes. What we can do, what we must do, is begin to treat our law enforcement with not only the respect they deserve, but also with the gratitude they have earned. Instead of awkwardly avoiding eye contact with them, give them a smile. Get out of your comfort zone, walk up to them, shake their hand, and thank them for their service. Let them know they are making a positive difference. For one, you may be the encouragement they need.  I know in light of these recent losses many officers are asking themselves if they can do this another day, another year, can they hang in there till retirement, can they stand the risk of leaving their family in the morning with no guarantee they will be home that night.  Without exception I bet every officer would answer the question “Why are you a police officer?” with the standard, yet honest, “Because I want to help people.” Your simple interaction will go further to convincing them that they are doing just that than you can possibly know. Secondly, if you reach out to those people with badges on their official looking uniforms and their Batman-utility-belts, you might just be surprised to realize that under it all is a mom, a dad, brother, sister, son, daughter, husband, wife. A person, just like you or me, who answered an inner calling to serve others.  They laugh, they love, they hurt, they cry.  They are imperfect people doing an incredibly difficult job, sacrificing their health, time, and personal ambition in the desire to aid the greater good. 

To my brothers and sisters in blue; stay safe, thank you for all you do, and go home each night.  Reach out to those around you, we are family and family are made for difficult times.  We can get through this, together, stronger.

To those outside law enforcement; you play a vital role in preventing tragedies like this from happening again.  Let us rise above the status quo of recent years and return to a country that cherishes law and order, that respects those who protect us.  Let us remember Deputy Zackari Parrish, Deputy Heath Gumm, and Deputy Micah Flick.  Let us vow that the lessons learned from their deaths will not be forgotten, and we will remember and honor them by lifting up our law enforcement personal in our daily prayers, thoughts, and most importantly, respecting them in our actions. 

To Deputy Micah Flick; the night you were killed I tucked my son into bed. He asked me to cuddle and I certainly wasn’t going to refuse him on a day like this.  As I lay down beside him, his small arm draped across my neck, his warm breath spreading across my face as I stared into his eyes, my own clouded with tears, all I could think was “Thank you.”  Because of your incredible sacrifice I went home safe.  Because of your years of service my family was safer.  “Thank you” are simple words, and they are much too little for what you have given us, but they are all I have.  Rest in peace Deputy Micah Flick, we have the watch from here.

Inner Beauty

“The day-to-day stress and busyness have me running over the sacred ground in my life, thoughtlessly trampling those delicate places. I become worn and hardened as I focus on efficiency rather than beauty, on productivity rather than meaning.  Our modern life is one of incessant activity, which leaves us breathless and harried. We live by the old idiom, ‘Don’t let the grass grow under your feet’ without realizing we are killing any green and hopeful thing in our life.”

Those words were written, not by a world renown philosopher or poet, but by a photographer. Erik Stensland is probably the premiere photographer in Rocky Mountain National Park, and one who’s work I admire greatly.  His latest book, Whispers in the Wilderness, is a collection of his reflections paired with his photography.  This post isn’t meant to be a plug for his book (but you really should pick up a copy, it is fantastic), but several of his thoughts have spurred my own thoughts on what the outdoors and nature mean to me.

While this last year was busy and filled with changes and challenges, both large and small, I had ample opportunity to step out into the wild parts of Colorado. Whether it was exploring new forests through the window of a patrol truck, backpacking deep into the wilderness in search of mountain goats, fishing new streams and lakes, or taking the camera out for a stroll through RMNP, I didn’t realize how much these moments in the cathedral of nature meant at the time.

Life has thrown its punches, tried to pull me back from wilderness nirvana, and drizzled frustration on a sour serving of disappointment. Add to this the hectic holiday season, a temporary move, and an uncertain future, and suddenly the lush green memories of the previous year’s outdoors memories were looking dry, brown, and trampled.

How do we avoid this? We all face setbacks and heartbreaks, sometimes at a daunting pace, sometimes dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the trials.  The solution is different in practice for everyone, but the answer remains the same: beauty.  For some it may be creating beauty, through photography, painting, sculpting, writing, sewing, gardening, or drawing.  For others it may be simply enjoying beauty; going to a stage production, sitting and watching the sunset, visiting an art gallery, or reading a novel.  When confronted with this beauty we must respond by looking inside ourselves and finding the inner beauty. I don’t mean that in some “you’re beautiful on the inside” pep-talk way. Rather, I mean we must find the beauty that exists in inspiration, hope, love, and goodwill.  These desires, beliefs, and feelings we carry inside us must be acknowledged and pursued.  The beauty of the external world needs to drive us to nurture the beautiful things inside us. 

For me, that catalyst is the outdoors. Surrounded by towering peaks, stout pine trees, and the particular smell of an aspen grove, the weight of tomorrows worries can drift away, as if they were waiting for the thin, crisp, mountain air to give them space to float off. In the subtle mountain silence, the nagging voice of concern and self-doubt are muted. Here, enveloped in nature, while my visual gaze is distracted by the rapturous beauty bombarding it, my souls gaze can turn towards those places of inner beauty.  Here, I can give those neglected, malnourished, and parched desires of my heart the attention and restoration they need without anything else trampling them to dust.

Where is it you find beauty?  Search for it, desperately. Don’t let your dreams and hopes wilt under the scorching skies of “tomorrow” or “someday.” Refuse to let the tender petals of the blossoming flower of desire be squashed by the boots of “being reasonable," “unobtainable,” or even "forbidden." The beauty inside yourself, those withering places of longing and yearning in your soul, depend on it.

Dawn and Dusk

   There are two magical times in nature that any hunter, photographer, or simple admirer will point to; dawn and dusk.  While the majority of the world may revel in the bright warm sunlight for their outdoor activities, those truly intimate with nature seek these daily fringes.  What is it about these times that hold us so magically captivated? Certainly the beauty of sunsets and sunrises have unfathomable attraction. The various hues of orange, gold, purple, and fire red can render the otherwise blue-and-black canvas a whirlpool of chaotic wonder. I sometimes fancy that these displays are a special reward for those who leave the warmth of their comfortable beds to awake with the frosty dawn and delay returning to them until the yawning expanse of evening has grudgingly given way to night.

   

   For me there is more though, a more primordial love for dawn and dusk.  Both my love for photography and hunting are unified in an excitement piqued before the sun begins its daily trek and after it descends to make the journey around again.  For it is during these times nature seems most real, most alive.  Birds sing in the morning, a song to reassure each other that they are still there after the long night, and again in the evening as if to wish each other a good night.  Squirrels scurry busily about with renewed fervor in the morning and with increased purpose as dusk falls.  Elk and deer retreat from their feeding in the open meadows to the safety of the woods as the cover of night retreats from the sun, and venture out to fill their empty stomachs after the fiery orb has nourished the grass they rely on.  To all of this I am but a witness, an observer locked out of the true cycle of nature.  For soon after night fall I will return home, to comforts necessary for my species survival. In the morning I will awake and venture forth to nature again, having missed the regenerative time that exists in the duality of activity and slumber.  As I watched the sunset recently in Rocky Mountain National Park, listening to turkeys calling as they strutted off to their roosts, watched the elk feeding contentedly in the meadow, followed the different birds as they streaked to their nests, I was reminded of this separation.  While we may love nature, enjoy it, revel in it, and try to capture it in a myriad of ways, we are unequivocally divided from it.  And it is this division from it, this “otherness” that gives nature its beauty. Just as dawn and dusk dividing the day from the night give each circadian sect its beauty.

What do you see?

What do you see?

When you walk into my house, or my parent’s house, what do you see when confronted with the dead animal heads?  If you are family and friends, most likely you aren’t shocked, and unless you are a hunter, you probably don’t give them a second glance.  There is of course the potential that you are offended.  How macabre, how barbaric, how antiquated, how blood-hungry you might ask.  Let me tell you what I see.

First, I see a myriad of stories.  Each head holds a memory shared, for not only the person who harvested it, but the entire camp. One of the greatest parts of hunting camp is the comradery, the swapping of tales at the end of the day. Not of only successes, but near misses and the beauty encountered.  For each animal harvested the story was recounted as others filtered into camp that evening, breathing the joy of success throughout each person.  In this way the animal doesn’t belong to just the man who pulled the trigger, but to all who were there to hear the story, who walked those same hills, through those same trees, and bent under the weight of a pack filled with meat. 

While you may see a tame, frozen, inanimate rendering of some creature, I see wildness.  Those lifeless glass eyes hold a million mysteries to me. What experiences did that animal have? Living in the wild every day that we spend a short week in, how many amazing sunrises and sunsets did that animal witness? I don’t merely see a rigid, artistic recreation of the animals head, but rather a vision of the entire animal, surrounded by its natural home. Trees, grass, and mountains the background rather than warm earth-tone paint.  To me this is the greatest reason to hang a head on the wall: it is not to intimate a taming of wildness, but to bring that wildness into the tameness of our households.

 

Lastly I see the trophy.  But it’s not as simplistic as you might believe.  This isn’t some point-counting, scorekeeping, record-book-entry-seeking ideology.   Rather it is respect and celebration of the animals’ uniqueness and greatness.  The number of tines and Boone & Crocket score is not a reverence paid to the hunter, but rather to the animal.  The hunter didn’t survive for years in the wild, escaping other hunters, enduring bitter winters, and eluding natural predators.  The animal is its own trophy, a celebration of its own remarkable life and legacy, not the hunters.

When you next see an animal head mounted (it is worth clarifying they aren’t stuffed—that would be a teddy bear!) try to view it from my perspective.  It is not some gruesome braggadocios claim of the hunter’s prowess, but a tribute to an amazing animal’s life. It is a preservation of that animal’s greatness, its story intertwined with those who chased it, and a life ended not in dismay, but in celebration and respect.  And most importantly, at least to me, it is a conduit to the wild places that animal inhabited, a reminder of their mastery of places we only visit for short times.  Next time you see a head on someone’s wall, ask them the story.  If they are a true hunter, their eyes will light up as they recount the tale. And if you listen closely you will hear something special; it’s not the hunter’s story, but the animals’ story, a story preserved forever in the icon silently adorning the wall.  

Dad's Bull

 I stood in the dark timber, my first elk in more years than I can remember lay dead at my feet. I radio back to camp to let them know to bring the packs my way and check in on how everyone else has done. “Dad got a bull this morning” says my brother.

“Is it a nice one?”

“Yeah” he answers.

“A wall hanger?”

“Definitely.”

Suddenly I forget my own joy and revel in something deeper.  To understand what I was feeling at that moment I need to take you back to the beginning. The very beginning.

If you don’t know my dad, your life is dull and dreary. O.k., maybe it’s not that drastic, but you are missing out on one of the most amazing men who deserve the title “man”.  My father hasn’t cured cancer or thrown a Super Bowl winning touchdown. What he has done is everything he can with what he has.  He doesn’t have a college education, but he has the most amazing work ethic and drive of anyone I have ever met. That isn’t just a fluff statement that everyone says about their dads. My dad has worked 60+ hours nearly every week of his life, and back when he did game season it was probably closer to 80-90 hours a week for 3 months straight. Forget days off. Forget weekends. He worked.  Even now at the age of 60 he is putting in over 60 hours a week. And through this he wasn’t an absentee father. He was there for us anytime we needed him, he was involved, and he cared.  His reward for all this hard work was one week a year. That week was hunting week.  I remember watching every year as the group loaded up the Jeep with the old canvas tent and kerosene stove and headed out in the dark the day before the season. Six days later they would come back, tired and dirty, but always happy. And the stories.  It was like they stepped into an alternate universe detached from the one I lived in, and I couldn’t wait to hear their fantastical stories. I was in love with hunting before I ever went hunting.

And then I went hunting. It was here I learned the most amazing life lesson: who you are in your daily life is who you are in the woods, just more raw, more honest.  My dad’s work ethic didn’t go away at hunting camp, it showed through as the natural part of him it is.  He is the first one up, cooking breakfast. As soon as an elk is down he is the first one to get there to start quartering it, tying it on packs, and shouldering one of the heaviest packs back to camp.  In hunting camp his love for me and others showed through in all these selfless acts. Whenever we hunted together he always let me shoot first when we came across elk. He would come back to camp early, losing those last couple hours of hunting to put dinner in the oven. 

Year after year he hunted hard, made sure everyone else enjoyed hunting camp, and waited. He will be the first to tell you that hunting is not about killing a certain species or shooting a trophy animal.  However, every hunter has that hope, that unspoken goal. For my dad I believe it was a trophy bull elk. The area we used to hunt is certainly not known for producing giant bulls, and so my dad waited 8 years to draw in Unit 61, an area that gives out limited bull tags to increase the size of the bulls in the area. True to his form he hunted hard for 5 days, leaving camp in the dark, hunting all day, and coming back in the dark.  Even truer to form he gave up a couple hours of the last day of his hunt to help my cousin find his missing GPS. And then he was rewarded with a broad-side shot at a giant bull on the opposite ridge. A single shot and the bull dropped, and rolled down the hill and out of sight. They weren’t able to find it that night, and the entire camp went over the next morning, the last morning to help find it. We didn’t. I remember being angry at God. I am not proud of this moment, as I admit it was insanely immature of me. But it just didn’t seem fair. No one “deserves” to kill an elk, much less a trophy elk, but I felt my dad deserved it.  He never once complained. Not once did he mention feeling sorry for himself, mad, frustrated. Instead he started applying again. He waited another 7 years.  This time was different. He never even got a shot, never saw a trophy bull. Again, not a single complaint.  This looked like it was his last good opportunity as waiting another 7-8 years maybe wouldn't be feasible, although I would never doubt his ability.

And so here we are this year, in a new unit that certainly isn’t known for its trophy elk. Saturday my cousin got a bull and my dad was there to help pack it out. Sunday morning my brother shot his first bull (another sweet memory), and my dad was there to pack it out. And then Monday morning, 15 minutes into the hunt, less than a quarter mile from camp, the moment my dad had worked for in 42 years of hard hunting finally paid out.  I wish I could have been there to enjoy the moment in person, to help him pack that elk out too. Instead I was over a mile from camp, earning my own elk. And it was the work ethic he taught me that drove me there. 

So congrats Dad, you deserve it. Not just the elk, but whatever “it” is, you deserve it, you deserve it all.  You have given so much to so many, especially me and Kyle. We can never repay you, but I am unspeakably grateful to get to enjoy moments like this with you.

How I became who I am

            It is my father’s fault I am a cold blooded killer. Then again, I am sure he never envisioned me turning out this way.  He would say he was simply passing on a family tradition, showing me the way he had been taught by his father.  Yes, I certainly have my own share of blame in the process. Now I look back with fond memories of the first time my father handed me a gun and took me hunting.  What started as father/son bonding time has grown and taken on a life of its own. I could never have anticipated how the passion of hunting would shape me like it has though.  

            The lessons I learned the first couple of years are many, and they have stuck with and impacted me deeply.  The knowledge my father imparted to his young wide-eyed son were not deep scientific theories, or even lofty theological ideas. Instead, he guided me through several moral philosophies that apply just as profoundly to everyday life as they do to hunting.  Even though we are the hunter, killing isn’t the point. Even when it’s wet, windy, and cold, we are here to hunt, so hunting we will go. Even though we find great satisfaction in success, we rejoice all the more with others accomplishments.  Most importantly, we are successful regardless of filling our tags.  These ideas were hard to absorb as a kid, and still hard to practice as an adult, but I have felt the joy in watching a hunters eyes light up as they describe their triumph.  I have trodden back into camp soaked, and shivering, crumpling into a folding chair pulled close to the wood fireplace. I have learned the real definition of success. 

            As I grew up I found those six days immersed in the wilderness inadequate. Each moment in the woods became a treasure, allowing me to glimpse into the world where the wild animals I pursued spent their entire lives.  Hunting began to morph slowly, changing from a chance for an adrenaline rush and quality family time, into something more intricate. I began reading, and there is no shortage of hunting resources. Magazines, online articles, and books all contained vast amounts of information to improve my success.  I started as a young kid trying not to snap every twig underfoot, to pouring over topographical maps, studying migration corridors, saddles, benches, and a myriad of other geographic clues as to where the elk should be.  Instead of sullenly tramping along, wondering if my dad had anymore candy bars in his pack, I became attentive to wind direction, anticipating its thermal shifts to always keep it in my face.  Subtly I was learning and growing, my path to wildlife literacy gaining momentum.  Then came archery hunting, and learning began anew. Draw weight, length, brace height, and many other factors determine the right bow for each person. I scoured website after website, searching for information on what size and type of bow I would need for my specific build.  Shooting a bow is so different from a rifle there should be a different word for it.  There are muscles used in archery I didn’t know existed, and correct form is essential for accuracy. I worked and worked on it, establishing a solid anchor spot, and went to a local archery shop for tuning help and questions.  Hunting with a bow has provided a plethora of learning opportunities, as I now have to get closer to the animals than ever before. There is an intimacy of being so close to a wild animal, noticing things not seen before. All this led me deeper into the world of hunting literacy, morphing from days in the field to now a hunger for more scientific knowledge. 

            In high school I was a bright but un-motivated student. I got decent grades without having to apply much energy, which was fine with me as I had no intention of going to college. I entered the work force but quickly became disillusioned with the life of a retail worker. The nagging question that kept me stuck there had haunted me my entire life: what do I want to be when I grow up? Finally, that answer came to me, as I realized my passion and knowledge of hunting could be used as a career springboard.  Working for the US Forest Service, or the state division of wildlife would allow me to pair my passion for the outdoors with the principles of management, ecology, and biology.  This would require more than a high school diploma though, so I made the step back into formal education. It was different this time though, because each class had meaning. Instead of useless facts, or boring memorization, I could see each lesson applying and grafting itself to a future career. Experience from the woods melded with lectures, and professors’ wisdom echoed when I went hunting.  I noticed a drive to succeed that I never had before, not simply for good grades, but rather to fully understand the wild world that has always fascinated me.  Who I am as a hunter – passionate, driven, curious – became who I am as a student.

            Five more semesters separate me from graduation, and beyond that I doubt my formal education will stop. Years of experience in the woods are hopefully the beginning of the knowledge I will continue to gain firsthand.  Wildlife literacy is not some obtainable benchmark, rather a lifelong lesson, an idea as fluid as evolution itself.  When I go hunting, I am not simply a predator anymore, but a student also. To me the two worlds have become inseparable; the hunter and the student have become one. Maybe they were the same all along.