Almost Fall

That damn wheel keeps turning... I'm so glad it does

I've always thought of August as clean-out-the-freezer season. It's time to burn through what's left of last year's game meat to make room for what's hopefully coming in fresh in September.

There isn’t much left in there, partly because I’m burning through it in a space-clearing frenzy and partly because I only tagged a single deer last year. But I found a wayward package of hindquarter steaks that somehow slipped between the packs of speckled trout we caught this summer, which turned into a yummy stir-fry. I also rummaged deep enough to find a pack of slightly freezer-burned leg shanks from a 2022 doe that somehow survived last August’s clean-out. That will turn into bone broth.

Digging through the chest freezer got me thinking about how fast things change. It still doesn’t feel like it’s been that long since I packed away my turkey-hunting camo, and here I am, pulling it back out for archery season.

I got my copy of the National Wild Turkey Federation’s Turkey Call magazine this week. I have an article in this issue titled “Seasons Turn to Generations.” It’s an essay about my dad passing down his turkey-hunting obsession to my son, Silas. Silas has been turkey calling since he was a small child, and Daddy handed him his first mouth call - a double reed mouth call he cut down with scissors to fit in a mouth still full of baby teeth.

The article features side-by-side photos of Daddy with an impressive gobbler he shot back in 2014 and Silas with a bird he shot in 2021. That was also the year Silas made good on a promise to his grandfather that he made back when he first placed a mouth call behind his baby teeth. He told Daddy that if he ever got to where he couldn’t get into the woods to hunt, Silas would help him get there.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he solemnly swore.

He made good on that promise, the turkey season before we spread Daddy’s ashes. Silas tucked the box with his grandfather’s earthly remains in his turkey vest and carried him into the woods for one last hunt.

I’ve racked up a lot of bylines in some very reputable hunting publications over the past few years, but seeing Daddy’s name and photo in one felt bigger somehow. I miss him; that’s part of it. But he also deserves it so much more than I do.

That man was a hunting savant.

I mostly string together pretty words.

I’m happy that I somehow managed to string enough of them together that he gets a tiny bit of the recognition he deserves.

I’m getting ready to head into the woods for my eighth hunting season without him. It still doesn’t seem like the earth should keep turning with him gone, but here I am again, making space in the freezer, pulling out my camo, checking trail cameras, sighting in scopes.

That damn wheel just keeps rolling.

And I’m glad it does because the season that is looming on the horizon is my favorite.

There was a hint of autumn tang in the air last week when the temps decided to tease me, dipping into the 50s overnight. It made me itchy to hear pre-dawn birdsong and watch the sunrise from a treestand.

Funny that fall is when I miss him most, but it’s also when I feel closest to him.

That must be why being in the woods in September and October always, always feels like going home.