IDAHO | Paradise Found
We walk behind our dog as he works into the wind. I shift the shotgun to my other hand to rest my grip and relax my hinges, and I find myself wondering what it might be like to carry an old gun — a true heirloom broken open over my shoulder, nicked up and notched, splendiferously engraved, heavy with legends and legacy, punchy with recoil.
I wonder what it’s like to possess a wall tent that has dutifully kept the weather off generations of family. I wonder what it might be like to slip my arms into a heavy-weight, century-old wool coat laced with the dwindling scent of snow falling at first light. I wonder what it’s like to grow up with rites of passage that revolve around weapons and food. I reflect on what it might be like to be a young kid given a set of ground rules to accompany an Ithaca model 37 with which to studiously pepper the covey of quail on the gravel driveway that leads from the family ranch out into open space.
I’m growing maudlin, as I hike behind my dog, over all the antiquated hunting-related apparatus I don’t possess. Tools seem to be the face of tradition, the memories we can reach out and touch, the objects we press our faith into, the source of some superstition and luck. It’s by using a tool of the hunting trade that we imbue it with story, purpose, history and worth. There’s no mistaking it — I wear my lovely, covetous heart on my flannel sleeve. I wish we had old family hunting heirlooms, a sense of tradition that has been passed down to us. Alas, my husband and I have arrived in the world of hunting like squalling orphans left on a cold doorstep; we must find our own way.
We keep walking. The wind has picked up and the grass is groveling. The dog is working the
