Not long ago, as I approached the age of which we will not speak, I took note of some things I might have to start leaving behind, or at the very least, modify. Let’s just say, I’m not getting any younger and as I consider this fact, it’s clear I’m beginning to face a few limitations.
Now, other than occasionally reviewing past failures, trying to remember which day the trash man comes, and noticing most of my stories begin with the words “Years ago…”, I don’t dwell on time all that much. But earlier this past year, I felt a tap on the back or my shoulder. Yesterday stood before me and dared to suggest that Tomorrow’s arrival is becoming a little more uncertain.
“Surely you jest,” I scoffed out loud, as I crawled around on my garage floor to lube my trailer hubs. And then the divination of Yesterday struck. As I tried to stand, my knees refused to work properly. A doctor verified Yesterday’s prophecy and we both agreed Zerk fittings on knees would be a nice addition. But instead, he gave me some pills and grease for the outside of my knees, and now I have an orthopedic doctor in my speed dial list. At least he’s a duck hunter, so he understands my references as I describe life wading in the marsh or hunkering in and out of duck boats.
Some of my hunting buddies are falling apart also. Two are getting knee bones replaced with titanium, plastic or some other unnatural materials. Another needs a new hip, although I’ve not heard if he’s made the commitment. Another wears a knee brace partially due to losing the battle with a muskrat hole a few years ago. Thumb joints don’t work well for shuffling cards or opening cheese sticks, or bottles of gin and bourbon. Fortunately beer cans are still easy; I’ll weep when the gods take that one away from me, unless I can coax my wife to transfer my preferred brew to a Yeti sippy cup. And for the first time ever I thought I heard the mutterings of acknowledgement from one friend that future duck hunts might soon be out of reach. Even my friend the Colonel, a singular force of nature and once referred to by his doctor as a high-performance fat boy, has slowed down enough where some of us can actually keep up. And the great unraveling is not limited only to me and my hunting buddies.
Two dogs didn’t make it to duck camp this year, one passed and another was in hospice care. Hell, even our tractor and UTV broke down.
Entering the year I had a few this and that’s but no major physical failures, and subsequently, most things on my annual to-do list were accomplished. Several days trout fishing in the Driftless Area, morning bird walks during migration, a trip to Alaska, a couple days walking through heavy cover listening to grouse flush, hours bow hunting, and many fulfilling days watching suspicious ducks wing over bobbing decoys. When I think back, it was probably the long flights and driving in Alaska that started my decline, too much sitting. I know the grouse hunt pushed the old knees to the limit. And sitting crossed legged on the garage floor was probably the final blow. Eventually, I cut duck season short by 10 days to rest and avoid a setback by slipping on ice, much to my chagrin.
Now, none of this slow decline is unexpected. I’ve been making a few adjustments here and there for a while because it’s just plain smart for a guy who often hunts and fishes solo. Walking trout streams can be tricky, so I approach my fishing a little more slowly and with greater caution. I’m considering abandoning tree stands altogether in favor of ground blinds. And carrying my cedar wading staff (aka Stucky stick) is now more important than carrying my duck call; wading and marsh muck can be pretty unforgiving to the knees.
Going forward, I think I can manage things okay. Trout fishing should be mostly unencumbered, but full-blown grouse hunting may have taken a major setback. Deer and turkey hunting should be secure for a while, but a few modifications at duck camp are probably going to be necessary for me and the others. So, being a natural born planner and expert procrastinator, I am bringing forward to the next annual business meeting of Boca Chobee Flats, the following proposals to help those aging waterfowl hunters in need of a little assistance.
First, I propose disabled user accessible parking be provided closer to the camp shacks. Secondly, a defibrillator unit shall be purchased for the camp UTV, although our resident McGyver thinks he can rig the rechargeable jump starter we use for the tractor to do double duty, so we might save a few bucks there. Thirdly, ramps should be constructed for all duck blinds, although the younger members may resist this idea as a means of excluding the camp elders so they don’t have to listen to the same damn old stories again. Fourth, club members shall submit medical directives along with their annual dues, including a DNR (do not resuscitate) order. The marsh is too far away for prompt EMT service, and helicopter access is too expensive; we gotta weigh the cost/benefits. And finally, all old wooden layout boat shall be minimally maintained and made available to serve as floating catafalques; there seems to be some appeal for Viking funeral pyres among club members.
“And time waits for no one, and it won't wait for me.” --M. Jagger / K. Richards
Dedicated to Old Rip, a damn good dog. We missed you.
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