Published: Thursday, May 07, 2009

The Japanese maples out front are brilliant red, unintentionally hiding blissful cardinals singing their happy springtime tunes as moist saucer-magnolia petals fall softly to the lawn. Is there a better green than that of May? I think not, so vibrant and pure.

As I watch spring unfold from my peaceful study’s desk, perhaps I should rejoice. It’s a time when my column fills itself like a toilet, lots happening, news flying at me in many forms from all directions, turkeys gobbling within earshot. The stocking trucks are rolling as dam lifts and ladders transport anadromous fish up our Connecticut Valley to spawn. Soon our deer-harvest numbers will be out, another easy column delivered straight to my Inbox like Meals on Wheels. How convenient. But that’s not what satisfies me. I would much rather create than copy, find it far more challenging, fulfilling. But I guess that’s just me, certainly no mainstreamer in this or any game I’ve ever played, idiosyncratic to a fault, no fan of convention, the norm.

So here I sit, a week-and-a-half into the turkey season and I, a local outdoor columnist, haven’t once been out. It’s not that I don’t want to. I love turkey hunting. Find it invigorating, captivating. Never a bad day. But I’m no longer willing to make the physical sacrifice of waking early and dragging my butt to work at night. The fatigue piles up like 50-pound bags on a pallet, just isn’t worth it to me. And when you think of it, who else matters? The simple answer is no one. I have nothing to prove, am comfortable in my own skin, and view myself no less a man when failing to fill a hunting tag.

Yeah, I know the obvious question: Why must I wake before light to hunt turkeys? Can’t you go out later, hunt the last few instead of the first few hours? Well, it may be difficult to comprehend but that’s not turkey hunting to me. I have to be there before the birds sing. If not, it’s a waste. What else can I say? The woods at daybreak and 9 a.m. are radically different. If you’ve been there, you know what I mean. I want daybreak. Nothing else. It sets the tone.

Although I haven’t hunted, it’s not like I’ve been sitting idly. Quite the contrary. I’ve been keeping up with chores around home and doing what I usually do in my spare time: studying old roads and maps; researching genealogies, town histories, diaries; firing off e-mails; working the phones; riding the backwoods with a venerable, retired county engineer to pick his fertile brain and learn the fading county roads and paths, the town boundaries altered by annexation. Just Tuesday I had in my hand a church record book from 1771-1821, recorded in Rev. Rufus Wells’ handwriting. In a remarkable state of preservation, the hard covers wore a supple leather skin undoubtedly cured at my fifth great-grandfather’s 18th century Canterbury tannery. This priceless source is securely held in a private home, so it was quite a treat to view it; totally cool, fascinating in my little world.

It’s one thing to know the wildlife and fish in our woods and waters, another altogether to understand the human settlement and abandonment patterns of the landscapes these creatures today inhabit. My goal is to make connections, ones most hunters have no desire to learn. But that’s them. I’m me. I have no problem with their perspective and see no reason why they should question mine.

Maybe I traipse around to the beat of a different fiddler, one made of native wood by native hands; a yard-sale clunker to some, to me, a sweet Stradivarius.

The way I see it, it’s important to know who you are and where you’re from. Isn’t that where it all starts and ends?