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. 

Ode to beauty

Where are you, o' beautiful? I cannot see you, yet I know you are there, always there.  Masked from my sight, wrapped in swirling swathes of muted gray.  With eyes open I peer longingly and see nothing; with eyes closed I can make out your silhouette, memory proving the strongest of my senses.   Knowing that you are there is enough, knowing what I will see when the billowing obscurity is blown away is tantalizing. You will be dressed in radiant white, the hem of your dress a frosted purple, and piled around you will be the snowy white folds of your train.  The sun that now struggles to shine through the storm overhead will illuminate you in purest light, marking you stronger for the storm you just weathered.
We have been tethered since birth, though each of us unaware of the other. I can't say when I first noticed you, but I will certainly never forget you.  While others hardly notice you, my heart and eyes are forever drawn to you. You stand there, outside their car windows in all your majestic stature and beauty and go unseen.  They look from the red light, to you, back down to their phones, and drive into the worries of the day without a second stolen glance or catch of breath. How can this be? I see you in the early dawn, each ray of light reaching out and gingerly touching your face, sharpening each line, bringing rich contrast to your already surpassing beauty.  Each evening the fading sun stretches your shadow out and as it sets for the night I am reassured you will be there when it comes back around.
You are more than a mere object to me, more than a beautiful sight for my soul. You are a portal to my life, an escape hatch I go to time and again.  For the stale recycled air I breath, you are a fresh mountain breeze. For the brown smog soaked atmosphere of vehicle exhaust, you are a powder blue sky with wispy thin clouds.  For the heat baking my feet and blistering my lips as it reflects back off the pavement, you are fluffy dry snow stinging my cheeks with shards of refreshing cold. For the cramped work-space and caged animal feeling that accompanies city life, you are a spacious meadow filled with every kind of wildflower. In you I find the identity of my soul and what it craves-life and death, harsh and mild, wild and tame, alone and companionship.  You are me, and I am you, our identities inseparable, our definitions the same. If you ever falter, stumble, or crumble my world would surely end. But when my time comes, as it certainly will before yours does, I know you will stand stoic and unyielding, but I believe the streams running down your cheeks will be tears of sadness. And maybe, just maybe one of those streams will run past my grave and we will be together for eternity. The moisture from your sadness will cause a single flower to grow, a symbol of the life you brought to me.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

What do you want to be when you grow up? Every grade school kid has been asked this question. Fireman, policeman, doctor, and football player are probably among the most common answers for boys. Teacher and mom were about as original as the girls ever seemed to get. An occasional astronaut was thrown in for the motivated kids. As your senior year of high school approaches the same question gets asked, normally phrased as "....so what are you gonna do when you graduate?".  By this time the majority of people have shifted their answer to something more realistic(since we can't all be fireman and even with the Broncos desperate need of talent none of us are quite good enough) and generally more vague.  "I'm going to such and such school and getting a bachelors in such and such." Even the ones who seemed to still like school at this point and were going to pursue a masters had a more generic idea such as business law or psychology without a specific career or company in mind. And for those like me the answer was a honest "I don't really know. I think I will work for a while and then maybe go back to school".

Then you work. You work some more. Maybe get promoted, get a pay raise. A little vacation here and there.  But you eventually wake up one day and realize you never decided what you wanted to be when you grew up and its 8 years after graduation. Going back to school seems impossible at this point because you are living on your own and your full time wages go to silly little necessities like rent and food and insurance. And when you get honest you still don't know what you want to do, you just know this isn't it.  There is a depression that can only come from feeling unfulfilled and it hits like a tidal wave.   Restlessness, anxiety, anger, all manifest themselves as symptoms of this depression as you grow less and less content with your life. Its hard, if not impossible to resist this either. There are few things as sapping to mans(and I would assume a woman's) self worth as working a dead end job. Even if it is a job that pays well, if the work is not satisfying and gratifying each hour feels like a wasted drudgery, every day off is reduced to a 24 hour countdown to when it ends and work begins again.

That was me. Then I quit, walked out and never looked back. Life instantly began anew, as close to the moment I graduated high school in its liberation and seemingly boundless opportunities. I worked here and there, mostly relying on my talents as a meat cutter. In my free time I fixed a lot of things in my life. Most notably my walk with God, attending church regularly again, and seeking Him in prayer.  I met an amazing woman and was able to spend a great deal of time getting to know her and fell in love with her rather quickly.  Through all this I knew I needed a job, and still wasn't answering the real question: what do I want to be?
I got engaged the same day I went back to Sams. I guess in some small way I thought maybe I had answered the question: I wanted to be a husband and it didn't matter what else I did. I was wrong. It worked for a while to be sure. I got promoted right away, and overall it seemed a better place to work. The upcoming wedding and all the excitement probably played a part in distracting me too. But it didn't take long before the stress and frustration began to show through, the deep seeded realization that this is still not where I wanted to end up surfaced again.

And that leads to today.  I need out. I feel trapped, helplessly locked into a cycle that I see all too clearly laid out before me and around me.  Every single meat cutter I know has had to work two jobs, had a wife that worked full time or in a lot of cases, both.  They all miss Christmas's and Easters, birthdays and anniversaries, and all those silly little 3 day weekend holidays like Labor Day, Memorial Day and Forth of July. But it goes deeper than that, deeper than the lousy pay and erratic schedule. It goes to a lack of satisfaction in my work. I enjoy what I do, and I think that I am pretty darn good at what I do. But what I do does not bring satisfaction in what I accomplish.  I honestly feel more pride, joy and victory when I win a rec league low level hockey game then when I got promoted at work.

So now what? What do I want to be when I grow up now that I am grown up?  I still don't think I can give you a definitive "I want to work this specific job". I can however give you some generalizations that are all together more specific than I have ever been and following these ideas, I think, can lead me to a career that is rewarding and satisfying. First, in the family realm, I want to be a great husband. The kind of husband who you would never even suspect of cheating, the kind of husband you would want your daughter to be married to, the kind of husband you would raise your son to be.  I want to be a father, one who is there when I am needed, strong and supportive, stern and loving. On the relational side of things, I want to be a friend who is always there, dependable and caring, honest and open.  Financially I want to make enough to take care of my families needs and as many wants as I can.  I want to be generous, to my church, to those in need. I have never aspired to be rich as I know I probably can't be trusted with a lot of money and never saw the point in piling up a large number in a bank account I can't take with me when I die. Now however I look at a future with a family, dependent on my sole income, I want to be able to provide. I don't know exactly what that number is, and with the bargain hunting wife that I have I would probably be shocked at how little we could survive on, but I do honestly believe its higher than what I make now. Lastly, and of probably greater importance than all but the first, I want to make a difference in what I do. Clocking in and out, earning a meager wage and making someone else rich is not cutting it for me. I could work there for 40 more years until retirement and maybe get a nice picture frame for my entire working career and the next day they would replace me with an 18 year old kid for half my pay and life would go on as if I never sat foot in there before. I want to leave something behind, a lasting impact on the world, stamping my identity and proof of existence indelibly on the universe. Maybe I am a dreamer, or even vain, I don't know. I do know this life isn't about me, or what I can do here on earth; it is ultimately about bringing God glory. But in so many ways I think redeeming this time I have, finding joy and contentment and fulfillment in my career will bring Him far greater glory than "sucking it up and grinding out a living".

So, to summarize another rather lengthy post(thank you sincerely if you are still reading), what do you want to be when you grow up? The question is as pertinent and important now as when you were in forth grade.

Part 5: Me, Her, and The Light

I hadn't gone more than a step when I tripped, landing hard and smacking my face on the ground. I groaned in pain, as I slowly got to my knees. I looked ahead and noticed the woman hadn't stopped or slowed down, but was still walking calmly up the path.  I checked behind me to see what had tripped me up and found another rock. This one seemed rather small, hard to imagine it was even heavy enough to make me stumble.  When I reached for it though I found it immensely dense and I had to grunt just to heft it in the one hand.  Written in bright blue and all capital bold letters was "PRIDE".  Well surely I didn't want to leave this one behind. What would the woman think, and the man who had helped me if I caught up and didn't have any pride?  I slid it into my pocket and quickly got back to my feet, intent on trying to close the gap between me and the girl.   I found the heaviness of "PRIDE" kept trying to pull my pants down so I had to use one of my hands to hold them up, which only allowed me to do an awkward lopping motion.

As I followed the woman up the path I began to notice that it got narrower and steeper the further we went, the rock walls dropped away revealing a deep dark cavern underneath that stretched further than the light could penetrate.  The path itself felt no longer like stone but a rough, splinter-prone wood.  I was having trouble keeping up as the path got ever steeper and "PRIDE" seemed to weigh heavier with each step. I no longer seemed to be getting closer to the girl, who seemed to not notice the increased difficulty or dangerous drop to either side, she just kept staring straight ahead at the light and placed each step confidently. As for me, each step became tentative, wrought with worry as I would glance at the girl, then try to peer ahead to the light and then down at my feet, all the while tugging at my pants to keep "PRIDE" from pulling me down. Then a new problem added to the difficulty as I felt the wood getting slick beneath my feet. It wasn't water as it felt slightly sticky and thicker, but the further up the path I went it ran heavier, saturating the wood, running up and oozing over my shoes until the warm liquid had soaked into my socks.  Finally I could take it no more, curiosity and caution drew my eyes off the light ahead and down to the path to figure out what this confounded new problem was. That's when I slipped. I landed on my hands and knees, thankfully not flat on my face again.  The liquid was now flowing pretty good, rushing over my hands and swirling around my knees.  I brought my hand to my face for a closer inspection and gasped. The liquid shone a bright red; blood red.  Violently I shook my hand trying to fling the blood from it and wiped what remained on my ragged shirt.  Now for another surprise(I should have been getting used to these by now); my hand was no longer covered in the black tar, even the gunk that seemed to have seeped into my skin was gone. Clean, unblemished skin showed where ever the blood had touched and when I looked at my shirt, where I had wiped my hand off there was pure white cloth without a single rip.  Quickly I dipped my hand into the blood and splashed a handful onto one of the festering wounds on my side. Instant soothing rushed into the wound and as the blood dripped down it revealed a tiny little scar, completely healed and free from any of the discoloration of infection.  With elation I lay down in the stream, letting it rush over me, using my hands to cover me in the blood entirely.

"Travis" It was the woman's and the mans voice this time, and I slowly got back to my feet, checking myself to make sure the impromptu washing was thorough. Every trace of the black grime that had covered me was gone, my shirt was a brilliant white and my jeans where whole again.  The aches of wounds and injuries, including the ones I had taken while on the path were gone, and I felt energized and complete.  As I looked up the path it made a sharp incline, almost vertical, and then it reached a platform of sorts, where another wooden beam came and crossed this path, making a spot wide enough for two people to stand side by side. And there they were. The woman had already climbed the vertical section and was kneeling, possibly in exhaustion.  The man was facing me but it was hard to see his features as the light seemed almost to be radiating from him. I quickly headed for the vertical part and and began to climb.  It wasn't overly high, maybe twice my height but the blood ran thicker and faster here, and as soon as I tried to use both hands to climb the rush of the stream and "PRIDE" would begin to pull my pants down.  I reached into my pocked and removed "PRIDE", not wanting to lose it in process of the climb and clutched it tightly in my hand.  Slowly I began up the wall, awkwardly wrapping my arms and legs around the wood and shimming my way upwards. The higher I went the heavier "PRIDE" got and my arm began to ache. Then almost at the top I lost all strength and the arm holding onto "PRIDE" swung down limply at my side. I cried out, envisioning me falling, crashing off the path below and careening down into the dark abyss.  My other arm and legs were clenched in a death grip around the wood, and my face was pressed tight against, blood flowing and cascading over me.

"Let go and give me your hand" I looked up to see the mans face peering over the edge at me.  The light still seemed to radiate from him so his exact features were still hard to make out, but I could see compassion and love in his eyes.

I can't, I will fall if I let go.


"Not of the path, let go of "PRIDE", its the only way to reach me."

I shook, knowing I couldn't hold on much longer.  What good was holding onto "PRIDE" if it only brought me to my death?  If I never reached the top and met this woman, or got to know this man, what was the point of keeping it? Slowly I forced each stubborn finger open until "PRIDE" slipped from my grasp and tumbled off into darkness.  I reached for the mans hand and he pulled me up easily and I collapsed on my trembling knees, thankful to be alive, thankful to the man for rescuing me.  I became conscious of the woman kneeling next to me and finally got to see her face.  She was looking at me, her smile mimicking the one in my heart.  She was simply put the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.  Had I seen her back in the dark pathway or heading down the red-lit, crowded path I don't know if I would have noticed her, but here, in this radiant white light her beauty shone through, unrivaled.  Our eyes met and my heart jumped somersaults while threatening to beat right out of my chest.

"I am so glad you found me" Her voice rang clear in my ears but her mouth never moved, the words spoken between us deeper than any sound could convey. Words escaped me, so I quietly reached for her hand, her fingers intertwined with mine and tears of joy ran down both our cheeks. I wanted to thank the man for bringing me to this woman, for helping me past those obstacles and we both turned back to him. He was smiling down at us, joy evident on his face.  I noticed with some shock that his hands were covered in blood, so much that it was running down in a steady flow, joining with a stream that seemed to be coming out of his feet. He must have noticed my shock and locked my gaze with his.

"Yes, this is my blood, the blood that washed you."

But why? Why are you bleeding for me? Why did you help me?


"Because I love you." This answer was so simple...yet so complete. I didn't need any other explanation.  His calling me to this path, the help he offered with out me asking him first, the blood he shed so freely for me all proved his love beyond question. "Now, come, I have plans for you two." He reached down, grabbing our joined hands and pulled us to our feet. "Follow me closely, keep your eyes on me. The path ahead will not be easy, but as long as you hold tight to each other and follow me, I will guide you together on your way."

With that he turned and started on down the path. I squeezed the woman's hand, she squeezed mine reassuringly in return, and we followed him.

Part 4: The Rock-Slide

The rock-slide rose abruptly, towering over and dwarfing me.  How could I ever get through this? The task seemed hopelessly large, impossibly daunting in its magnitude.  There is no way I could move all these rocks, certainly not the big ones, some taller than I was.  I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the rough cold rock. My breathing was heavy and I realized I was sobbing.  After all this, fighting my way to this point only to be stopped dead, my heart began to feel dead.

"I will give you strength" This voice startled me, and I involuntarily jumped, catching my breath and wiping at the tears running down my cheeks(this only served to smear the black gunk all over my face).  The voice had been a guys this time.  I felt inexplicably reassured though, buoyed with confidence. I took several calming breaths, inhaling deeply. A slight breeze whispered through the rocks, seemingly fresher and invigorating.  Reaching down I grabbed the first small rock and chucked it behind me. The next one was large enough to need both hands and as I bent to pick it up I stopped and stared, puzzled.  On the rock was written "Greed". A quick scan of all the other rocks revealed they too had various things written on them. It didn't matter how small or how large the stone was, every one was labeled.  "Greed" got thrown behind me, followed by "Anger", "Lying", "Cursing", "Prejudice", and "Self-love". These rocks all varied in size, but the weight of each felt identical, from small river stones to bigger blocks that required me to wrap my arms around them in a bear hug, the oddity and increased size being the bigger challenge to move rather than the weight.

Now I was confronted with my first real obstacle, a boulder taller than me, and probably three times wider. Written on this one in a glowing red paint was "Selfishness".

"Hey, hey! No need to move that one there champ! Its not really in the way! If you just knock out some of those rocks along the side of the wall you can just go right around it! Or better yet, come on back and we'll go snowboarding! No, wait, on a Heli-skiing trip!" It was the voice of the Odd Man echoing up to me.  I didn't bother turning around, not really wanting to see what incoherent outfit he had on now, but I did glance at the wall that was still standing, the part I would have to remove to go around. The wall that was hemming in this path and guiding me up this narrow way had words written on it too, but instead of scrawled in various colors like the loose rocks, these words were written in a clean, neatly scripted white.  The words closest to "Selfishness" that I would have to knock out were "Family", "Friends", "Church", "Responsibilities", "Self-Discipline" and "Self-Sacrifice", all linked together so that if I took one out the others would topple.  It did look like the wall would be easy to knock down but then I would be exposed to falling off the path. I found comfort in knowing those rocks were there to protect my way, all of them formed to help lead me to the voice(or now voices).  This left me with only one option; to remove "Selfishness". Upon looking closer at the boulder I now realized there were some cracks in the rock I hadn't noticed before(had the cracks been there before?) which made perfect hand-holds.  I grabbed hold as best I could, pulled in a deep breath and with a heave I pulled. The rock didn't budge an inch. Again and again I threw my weight back only to slump, exhausted and panting. My weight alone wouldn't move this rock, I needed some other way to dislodge it.  I studied the wall again, noticing that the seams between the rocks on the wall, notably "Self-Discipline" and "Self-Sacrifice" would make perfect footholds. Given the fragile look of the wall I was hesitant to use it, but realized I had no other choice. I tentatively wedged my feet on either side of the wall, grabbed hold of the rock and pushed gently back. In a rush the boulder gave way, and I had to quickly scramble back as "Selfishness" began rolling down the path.  Elation rapidly turned to fear as I realized the huge rock was now coming right for me, picking up speed and there was no way to get out of the way.  I back peddled as quickly as I could, but tripped over something, probably one of the other rocks I had thrown behind me, and fell with a thud, the air rushing from my lungs.  As I watched my impending doom bearing down on me I still felt comfort, knowing that I had at least moved that boulder, had gotten that much closer to the voices.  Then something miraculous happened. "Selfishness" began to break apart. First into two big pieces, then those began to crumble, breaking further and further down as it got closer until it was a small tide of pebbles and then as it reached my feet about to bury me it vaporized into a fine dust that settled over everything. Finally able to regain my breath I inhaled sharply only to lapse into a fit of coughing trying to clear my lungs of the thick chalky dust.  Shakily I clambered back to my feet, trying to shake as much of the dust off me and stumbled back up to what was left of the rock-slide blocking my path.

Now that "Selfishness" was gone I could see an archway with "True Love" etched in ornate lettering across the top. The pure white light radiated from all around it, blocked by one last hulking boulder.  Because of the bright light shining in my eyes I had to draw close to this last barrier to read its label. It was smeared and barely legible, pitch black scribbled on the dark rock. It read "Lust".  This one had no hand holds though, no way for me to get a grip on it.  I tried wedging my hand between the archway and "Lust" but as soon as my hand touched the rock images shot through my head and I staggered back, blinking to clear my vision.

"Oh yea suga', rememba' that?  Wasn't that just a hoot? Why my dear, ya' blushin'! You wasn't too ashamed of it back then. Come on back to me baby, we can make more memories."  The lady in red! How had she caught up to me?! I quickly glanced over my shoulder but couldn't see her anywhere.  I couldn't go back there, not again, not after coming this far.  Frantically I beat at "Lust", kicking it, punching it, throwing other rocks at it.  Every time I touched it a shock was sent through my system, sapping my energy to keep fighting and to my great shock each rock that struck it was absorbed into it.  Finally exhausted and ready to give up I feel against the archway of "True Love" and collapsed.  Strength seemed to flow back into me the second I touched the archway, not in the violent bursts of "Lust", but in a steady, constant stream of energy. Then from the other side came the mans voice again, still a quiet whisper, but yet it carried authority and reassurance indescribable.

"Allow me. Just ask and I will remove it."


Please, I can't move it and I want to go through "True Love" and see you and find her, the girl whose voice I heard.

"Stand close to "True Love" and you will be safe"

I scrambled to my feet and pressed in close to the archway.  With a sudden blast, "Lust" shot forward and almost instantly vaporized. I had to squeeze my eyes shut as that piercing white light flooded the hallway, temporarily blinding me.  A few minutes passed and I slowly opened my eyes, allowing them to adjust.  I quickly passed through the "True-Love" archway and then I saw her. More accurately I saw her figure, with the light shining directly from further down the path behind her I could only make out her silhouette.  My breath caught and my heart leaped in my chest.
"Follow me" her voice rang clear and melodious in my ears as she turned and continued up the path.  I quickly started after her, breaking into a quick jog.
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Sorry this took so long, I kind of hit a creativity wall and wanted to make sure I was ready to work on it, not try to force it or rush it. I believe I can wrap this up in one more part, which hopefully should come early next week but no promises. Thanks for reading and hanging in there, I do appreciate your time. Again, if you missed the other parts, just use the menus on the right to go to January's posts and you'll find parts 1-3 in there. Thank you again!