Inspiration in Desperation

Seventy four minutes.

Yep. It took me 74 minutes to write the words seventy four minutes. 

That's how long I have sat here fumbling....trying to get this blog outta my head. 

Writing usually comes easy for me when I'm inspired. And though I'm inspired to write a really kick-butt blog for what I am hoping becomes a long series of ramblings about all things good and wild, I can't help but feel uninspired by my surroundings.

Yes, here I sit, in the warm cozy comforts of my living room, well after midnight, draped in a fleece blanket, gas-fireplace masquerading as a long lost friend, and a trusty old Dell, ablaze on my lap bathing me in lukewarm artificial light. Don't get me wrong...'tis quite comfortable. Is it inspiring though? Not in the very least.

So what do I need for inspiration?

Simple...

I need my work.

I absolutely love my job. Hence, my job inspires me. 

You see...I'm one of those lucky few that wake up in the morning actually wanting to go to work. Not only that, I'm that sick individual that prefers to think about work even when its well past quittin' time. I despise days off (Ha!...okay I'm lying) but I really do look forward to Mondays.

Call me blessed... Call me lucky... Call me spoiled... Call me crazy...

Yes... I am all of those.

Photo courtesy of nsrl.ttu.edu

Here's the scoop. Every since I was a wee little boy I loved the outdoors. I had an overly extreme fascination with animals. Drawing them came first. Next came the realization that you can learn really cool stuff about them. I think it was the first time I saw a litter of 'possums posing for a picture in the convex depression of a spoon, I was hooked. Though when I think about it now...I really don't think those poor little guys had much of a choice in getting their picture taken.

Deciding what to do with my life was never in question. When my Dad, bless his stubborn and sometimes crotchety soul, fought for me to get an offer at a pretty darn good paying factory job...it was a simple response I made... "I love you Dad, but I'm NOT following in your footsteps."

You see Dad, you busted your butt your whole life to earn those few weeks vacation every year. You took me and the rest of your kids camping...and hunting...and hiking...and fishing. And you instilled my passions, my loves...my inspiration. 

You knew everything there was to know about those wonderful animals I so loved. And believe it or not, it wasn't until I got to college that I finally realized your animal "facts" were.... well, not really full of many facts.

But I didn't care. I loved being in the outdoors and I promised myself, if I could live your vacation...that's exactly what I was going to do. And here I am...

A career wildlife biologist...the greatest job in the world.

I live breathe, eat and sleep all things wild. I marvel at the fact that throughout my career I have been challenged with some amazing projects. A decade ago, I was on a team darting elk in preparation for a restocking effort, the best part of that study, playing decoy for the American bison that were way too inquisitive of the downed animals. A few years ago, I was trying to find out how many bears call the Cumberland Plateau home. While a few months ago,  I was discussing a behavioral study of mountain lions on the Valles caldera in the Southern Rockies. And just yesterday, wondering if we need to provide added protections for the Goat Peak Pika in that same region. In case you don't know, it's a rabbity looking animal that lives in the alpine-tunda regions of the high peaks. And tomorrow? Heck, who knows what tomorrow holds...but I promise you I will be there not believing I'm getting paid for what I'm doing.  

How cool is that?

Anyhow...I'm beginning to ramble...

Do I love my job?

Yes...Yes I do.

It inspires me.

Am I crazy?

Considering it is now 2:34 a.m.

...I'll leave that one alone.

Heroes

I deal with animals…it’s my job.

In my world, I don’t often get a chance to have an experience where lives are touched, human lives to be more specific. As I sit here reflecting on this past year’s hunting seasons I am often drawn to reminiscing about the “best” hunts. For a time in my life it was always focused on the animals I pursued and every once in a while it actually included an animal I killed.

Not anymore.

My hunts are measured by the people I take. Whether it be my son, my Dad, my closest friend or complete strangers, “my” best hunts are often “their” best hunts. As many hunters know, there is a standard progression that takes place throughout their hunting career that takes the focus off the animals we hunt and, deservedly so, places it on the entire hunting experience. That point in my career occurred earlier than for most and it was completely due to my job. It was an experience I gained on a Young Sportsman’s deer hunt that was put on by our agency but that story will be shared one day in another blog. This story, the one I write right now, need not take the focus off the true “heroes” of this past season. It is my duty to make sure their story is shared. Luckily for me, it is where my thoughts of this past hunting season not only begin, but it culminates, in a truly wonderful memory.

*  *  *  *  *

Some people believe heroes come in larger than life size or with Herculean strength. Some even believe they come with superpowers or originated from far off alien galaxies. A few even think heroes are cast with body parts made from titanium. I am here to tell you that the last statement is sometimes true.

When speaking of these mighty figures you will not find their names preceded by the likes of Mega, Ultra or Super, rather, they go by simple names like Bobby, Brandon, Wilson, R.J., Matthew, and many more. The one thing they ALL have in common is that their signatures are always preceded by their rank.

They are the men and women of our military forces… our real modern-day heroes.

This past season I had the privilege and honor of assisting some of our greatest heroes on a simple deer hunt. What made this excursion of a small group of men and women from Fort Campbell Army Base much different than previous outings is that this time, these brave soldiers were not in pursuit of your freedoms but rather a little well-deserved downtime. They were after all, participating in a Wounded Warriors Hunt at Fall Creek Falls State Park, a time meant to kick back and relax.

So as not to take away from the individual story of any one of these fine individuals for I am certain they each have stories that can bring you to your knees, I am going to focus on me and how blatantly insignificant and unimportant my life felt compared to theirs.

*  *  *  *  *

I arrived at Fall Creek Falls at the request of Bill Swan, Safari Club International (SCI) member, to serve as a hunting guide for one of the Wounded Warriors. (Without a doubt, the Chattanooga chapter of SCI, does more for our Wounded Warriors for this hunt than any other group I know, they truly are to be commended!) Upon speaking with Bill about his initial request, I made it abundantly clear that I was unfamiliar with Fall Creek Falls so I wasn’t sure how good of a guide I could possibly be. He assured me I had nothing to worry about. The soldiers did not require or need someone to “put them on an animal”, they simply needed a partner. The task requested of me seemed simple enough. How wrong I was.

As I sat in the Group Camp, the soldiers began to arrive. Seeing the anticipation in their eyes of tomorrow’s deer hunt was enough to tell me that their eyes had seen more than anyone could possibly imagine. The fact that “a day in the woods” was a long awaited and cherished moment, reminded me of how spoiled I truly am. It was because of their service that I am able to selfishly take for granted the things that I do every single day.

 

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for me to make friends.

As the pre-hunt social continued the last of the soldiers filtered in. Though most of the soldiers were in decent physical shape from appearance, a few were not. Some were missing limbs (yes, new ones made from titanium) while others had difficulty walking or even sitting still. One can only imagine the other wounds they shared, the wounds in which we cannot see.

I promise that is the last of my morose thoughts because this was a time to rejoice and have fun!

*  *  *  *  *

Needless to say I spent the next few days with some of the greatest guys I have ever met. Some deer “met their maker” that week. As luck would have it, my soldier (the one who was originally assigned to me) filled his tag, but only after he was paired with another guide on the last evening. I swear it speaks NOTHING of my guide services! At least I’m trying to convince myself of that.

I do know, without a a shadow of a doubt, that if my guide services for these fine gentleman are ever sought again, I will be there in a blink of an eye.

Reflecting upon this past year, that hunt was by far, one of the greatest memories I will always cherish. On that hunt, a life WAS touched, and it took me all of the rest of the season to realize that I was not the one who touched someone’s life, rather MY LIFE was the one that was touched.

To Bobby, Brandon, Wilson, R.J., Matthew, and the rest of the soldiers …

… I thank you, for you truly are my hero.

PS - I would be remiss not to mention all of the Agency folks who assist with Wounded Warrior Hunts across the state. I am certain all the officers, biologists, I&E personnel and all those who volunteer their time do so for the same reasons as I. You guys rock.

___________________________________________________________

This was obviously a recycled story from a few years ago but one of my favorites nonetheless.