I'm Goin' Through Changes

My philosophy professor said that Plato said that Socrates said that Heraclitus said, “Everything changes and nothing remains still; and you cannot step twice into the same stream.” That quote is low-hanging fruit for an outdoor writer, but it’s hard to climb ladders while nursing a vasectomy.

I’ve been thinking a lot about change lately. It’s hard not to when you’ve just had your first child. Things change when your wife walks out of the bathroom and says, “You’re not going to believe this.” I imagine I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make sense of what I’ve witnessed in the last two years. Somehow, against dizzying odds, there is a third consciousness in my little house on the river. From the point of view of a thirty-year-old, it seems like only yesterday that my daughter was largely theoretical in nature. Then she was tangible, then conscious, then intelligent, and now (and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this) she’s personable. Somehow, a few diploid cells complicated themselves into having a preference for peaches and a dislike for chocolate.

These changes make other changes in my life, which would be momentous otherwise, seem positively inconsequential by comparison. Not long ago, I was unloading trucks and delivering food to piece together an income. Now, I’m literally living a childhood dream. I get paid to write, and I’m sitting at a wooden desk, with a dog at my feet and a drink at my side, looking out at ninety thousand acres of wilderness. I’m an editor, a father, and a board member. I have a mortgage to pay and jury duty next month for the second time in two years. These are privileged responsibilities.

It’s not all sunshine and dewberries, though. Next to me sits a pair of readers. I bought them to help tie size 30 midges, but quickly realized they made many other tasks easier—tasks I didn’t realize I was struggling with. I’ve “gained a little weight,” which is a civil way to say I’d be fat if obesity weren’t a national crisis. There’s a little less hair on my forehead and quite a bit more creeping out of my ears and nostrils. Nothing really hurts yet, and I haven’t had “the injury,” but I’m regularly assured by friends, most of whom have a decade on me, that I have that to look forward to.

“How do you spell ‘eunuch?’” one of those friends recently asked.

“E-U-N-I-C-H?” I guessed. (It’s humbling to admit that.)

“No ‘I,’” he responded gleefully. “U. As in you…are a eunuch.”

Talk about a change. My wife and I spent years trying very diligently not to have a kid, then some time trying to. After getting the whole kid thing right the first time—despite it nearly killing us—we decided we would definitely not attempt to replicate that success. It’s a weird feeling to permanently take that system offline, but so far the predominant emotion is relief.

The changes I’ve gone through have been, on the whole, good ones. My daughter’s youth more than offsets the slight aging I’m experiencing. My wife and I are on a nine-year streak of coming out of everything better off than we were before. Given the keys to a time machine, it’d stay parked in the garage. I have no interest in going backward and no desire to spoil tomorrow’s surprises. I’m keenly aware that could all change. Life doesn’t have to be kind. But so far, change has been for the better.

Another big change has been how I relate to the outdoors. As a boy, hunting and fishing trips gave me a chance to play in the world of men. It was exhilarating to get out of the house and have what seemed like unlimited freedom. As I got older, hunting became a way to prove myself. I take consolation in the fact that most things young men do to prove themselves to themselves and others are asinine. At some point, hunting became a form of escapism. The more time I spent looking at maps, packing gear, and watching the weather, the less time I had to spend with the things that ate at me. In retrospect, the near-constant exhaustion from early alarms and long walks was self-medication. I’ll always be grateful for the grace my wife gave me while I figured this out.

“I don’t expect you’ll be hunting in five years,” I was told recently. “You just keep giving all your stuff away.” It’s true that I’ve slowed down a lot. But it’s also true that, even if I never kill another deer, I’ve killed more than many men who make hunting their whole personality. As for giving stuff away? Well, after a long time getting all the toys for free or at a discount, the novelty wears off, and it’s just more stuff to organize in a small house. I’m not completely immune to the millions of dollars the outdoor industry spends on advertising, but I’ve got antibodies. I talk myself out of more purchases than I talk myself into lately, and I’ve gone so far as to turn down freebies because I just don’t need them.

But he may be onto something. I’ve mostly lost my bloodlust. I think most hunters do. I know many old men who have retired from hunting, and those who stick around, I’ve noticed, start doing little things to reduce the amount of killing they have to do. For some, trophy hunting is a good excuse to cut back on lives taken. For others, picking up a bow or settling into the “mentor” role keeps their hands a little cleaner.

I can’t speak for those men, but for me, a taste of fear of death for a loved one took a lot of the wind out of my sails, and increasingly I can’t put my finger on the difference between my consciousness and animal consciousness. The only thing that lets me pull the trigger is a certainty that life and death are nondual. The West has the Crucifix to illustrate this, and the East has the Nataraja. I reserve the right to change my mind, but currently, it seems to me that too much concern with avoiding death and cruelty is just as big a character flaw as too little.

That said, I’ve shifted my own needle some. After giving serious thought to my individual diet and the impact it has on the world, shooting a doe or hog in my home county seems pretty “green,” and less cruel than most ways of procuring sustenance. That said, I see less and less sport in killing. It’s probably different for everyone, but the part of me that enjoys the act probably doesn’t need any encouragement.

What I think does need feeding is the ability to be still, to experience reality directly instead of symbolically. I’ve thought about switching from carrying a rod and gun to carrying a camera, but I think that would just be another busybody activity in the end. I wonder, sometimes, if the need I and others feel to do something in the woods isn’t rooted in the good old Protestant work ethic. A gun in his hand while he sits alone keeps a man safe from accusations of lazing about and possibly fermenting divisive concepts. A man who dawdles in the woods is quite possibly up to the devil’s work.

Two strange words have crept into my brain: “Bear witness.” Not in the sense of testifying to some truth, but in the sense of assuring that a story is being heard. I spend a lot of my time trying to tell a story or to make the case for something. Sometimes I go to the woods for new stories to tell, but increasingly, the goal to just hear the story is more concrete in my mind. It seems dreadfully important for somebody to see what’s going on out there, to see the gnatcatchers hunt and the butterflies dry their wings.

I’d like to think this increased emphasis on seeing and knowing a particular wild place is due to some sort of personal growth. But I suspect a likelier factor is at play.

I’m tired.

After a long week of planning, conceptualizing, proofreading, and trying to take one last pull off the keg of creativity, my mind needs a rest. Add a toddler to the mix, and my needs have just changed. Once, I had excess energy that needed to be burned via death marches into duck holes. Now, an hour or two spent quietly watching waving tree limbs reflected in the tannic waters of a creek is what my body needs. Paddling, hiking, fly fishing, or maybe a casual jump shoot along a creek bank gives me just enough exercise to offset sedentary office work without pushing me too hard. The fact that I’m already worn out enough to embrace silent contemplation in my thirties, while most of my peers are still “giving her hell,” may bode ill for my future.

I’m sure my relationship with the outdoors will continue to change. A desire to spend time outside with my wife has slowly morphed me into a man who would rather car camp and fish for bluegill than sleep in the front seat of a truck to kill a deer. Now that my daughter is walking, I’m making a list of trails that will be suitable for short legs come fall. I’m looking forward to these changes. The alternative to change, after all, is death.