Near and far
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Taking a break from coordinating plans for the upcoming pheasant opener, which in itself will be a shift from previous starts to the season and a return to my hometown of Valley City, I greeted my wife's cousin and her husband at the door of our house. Not often fielding family from that far east, we were excited when they let us know they were on their way to western Montana, accompanying their son who had taken a residence with a hospital in Helena. The mere fact he was moving to that area of the country had me thinking of all the possible adventures that awaited him in the outdoors, and I couldn't help but start filling him in with what I knew about a place I had never fished.
I had angled frequently with Cullen and his twin brother, Billy, when they were younger many times throughout northeastern Minnesota, chasing summertime smallmouth bass on the rocky shield lakes, and freezing our fingers white in pursuit of springtime steelhead on the streams of Lake Superior's north shore. His striking out on this new adventure, however, got me thinking of all that awaited him: legends of 6,000-trout-per-river-mile, elk moving up and down the slopes of the mountains, and pristine wilderness on the edge of the continental divide. With those in mind, I offered him up an old fly rod and reel, and a pair of my wife's old waders we could spare and filled up the last remaining spaces in his and his parents' cars. I advised that likely all he'd need is a vest, some leader and tippet, and a fly box, and I'd do my best to get him a few dozen of my favorite patterns tied up before spring rolled around. A grand adventure awaited him, but in my mind it seemed as if I was the one headed out the door as the three of them pointed their wagons west.
I felt like Bilbo Baggins at the start of J.R.R. Tolkein's The Hobbit, stirred by the low music and lyrics of the 13 dwarves following the unexpected dinner party in his home: "to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick.'"
But my adventures in the near future with opening day lay closer to home with old friends, trusty dogs, and fields walked in seasons past - while more familiar, the returned-to planning was nonetheless exciting. They are the places I've always found those requisite smiles from buddies on a good point and retrieve, wild flushing birds, and the memories that get me through each day when I'm not in the field. And while I can't deny I've already begun making plans in my mind to visit Helena, this weekend's pheasant opener has returned to the forefront of my mind along with the preparations that go with the big day.
From contacting landowners, to checking ammo, to adjusting chokes, and making sure my old lab has just enough of his meds, food, and a spare water jug, the pieces are in place for what is sure to be a good weekend, even if just to catch up with my buddy and my brother while walking those grasslands and sloughs amidst the still unharvested corn. In those places, both far and near, adventure awaits. While the results are never known, the challenges of weather and wind not quite predictable, and the variable measures of success undefined truly until one's arrival and assessment of the situation, stream or surroundings, it is those adventures both in the near-term and in the far future that draw our thoughts, capture our minds, build our excitement and keep us driving forward into...our outdoors.