One of the many things that I appreciate about my career is that I have such convenient exposure to a multitude of outdoorsmen and women. I used to think that I knew a lot about hunting, but now that I have had the privilege to hunt alongside older, diversely knowledgeable, and vastly more experienced hunters I have realized that I knew much less than I thought. Rabbit hunting is a great example of sportsmanship that I knew little about before my career in the outdoors took shape. I knew there were beagles and shotguns involved, but that was about it. I didn’t understand the process. I hadn’t lived it.
How do you know where to send the dogs? Where does the rabbit go once they jump him? How do I know where to go and what is the meaning of all this new terminology? Every type of hunting has its own language and I have learned that not knowing the proper terminology can be one of the biggest barriers to entry for new hunters, more so than finding access or overcoming financial limitations. No one wants to look like a fool, but it's hard not to when you have no idea what's going on.
For those not afraid to be a fool, learning a new language can lead to new and greater loves. I have learned to really love rabbit hunting, so this morning I decided to rest the anxious waterfowler within me and give some momentum to the small game hunter.
Today’s hunt was slow, one of those where you spend more time listening for a holler than listening to one. The ground was crunchy with week-old snow, which made for hard walking and few races for the hounds. Tracks in the snow indicated there were plenty of rabbits around, but they were most likely hunkered down in some hole avoiding the hawk, fox, and the other likes of us.
Between the occasional beagle yelp and waiting for an ensuing race to begin, I spent a lot of time just looking around, as one does during any slow hunt. Far off ridges were covered white, making it easy to see through the leafless canopies to the bare floor below. You could have seen a squirrel digging for acorns from a mile off it seemed. The field edges around me were laced with the same white and every shrub looked heavy from bearing the weight of winter's clingy rain. The nearby pond was froze over and the ice echoed the knocking of a pileated woodpecker on some sleeping tree. Flocks of tweety birds fluttered about the tall grass trying to shake the frozen dew from their bellies. It was a cold, quiet, and still morning.
I looked down at my shadow and examined it for a moment. He looked back with similar curiosity. Maybe it’s because we don’t get much snow here in Tennessee, but there seems to be something special about seeing your shadow in the snow. It’s not like seeing it on a sidewalk or even in summer’s green grass. Perhaps it's just the high contrast between black and white, but it seems special nonetheless. A shadow in the snow just seems to carry more life in it, like it could step away from you and walk off into the thicket on its own accord. It's more vibrant than a mirror and its animation exceeds that of any picture or video.
A man can learn a lot about himself by examining his snowy shadow. He can learn how he carries himself. He can see things he couldn’t see otherwise. For example, he can see how his pack makes his shoulders sag or how uneven ground makes his legs lean to one side or the other. He can see how his head and neck are yoked together in unity. He can observe how his hands tote his 12 gauge and how his boots plant him to the Earth. He can see himself as he is without judgmental eyes looking back at him or cursing lips belittling him. In some ways, his shadow in the snow reveals more than any mirror ever could.
I was thankful for time spent with my shadow this morning. His shoulders did look a little heavy at times and his head hung low for a moment, but he still looked capable. He carried his load with patience and straightened his legs with a stretch. His head raised up again with bits of faith and his neck stiffened with confidence. I followed his feet back to mine, just to make sure this was indeed my shadow and our conjoined boot soles confirmed it.
The warm sun on the back of my neck reminded me that I might not see this shadow much longer. Alas, the brevity of southern snow and its wonder is fading again. I took another long look at my shadow in the snow. I approved of what I saw and accepted his finality. I gave him a nod, and went on after the beagles, appreciative of our silent conversation.
Psalm 144:4
“Man is like a breath; his days are like a passing shadow.”
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