(HOST) Commentator Willem Lange is back at hunting camp again this year, but he finds that some things about it are changing.
(LANGE) As I drive to hunting camp each year, I gradually slow down, until finally, at the foot of the climb to camp, I shift the truck into four-wheel low, take my foot off the gas, and let the truck just walk up the steep woods road on her own. There’s absolutely no rush.
Everybody was out hunting when I got here, and an irresistible haze was sliding down over my eyes. "I’ll just take a little nap," I thought, "and go out around two and sit till supper time."
None of us in camp ever lasts long after supper. Guys begin to disappear into the bunk rooms shortly past eight. The next day begins as soon as someone starts the cook stove, which used to be about four in the morning. But we’re getting older, so it wasn’t till a little before five this morning when I heard the rattle of a stove lid and the roar of burning kerosene
It’s not just our time of rising that’s changed over the years. My enthusiasm for the hunt has faded considerably. Often as not I drive down the mountain after the morning hunt and visit the village where Mother and I lived just after we were married. A hamburger and a newspaper at the diner, and then back up to camp for the afternoon watch.
So here I am. It’s a little past three, and I’m beginning to feel cold. I’m at a favorite watch spot called the big rock. The guys have put a green plastic lawn chair here beside the rock. Sitting in it, you can see a long way out into an oak grove that’s been scuffed up by deer feeding on acorns. With my rifle across my knees, I’m reading (with as few movements as possible) The Journal of the American Chestnut Foundation. It describes the effort to develop blight-resistant strains and restore the American chestnut to North American forests. If they ever get it right, I’d love to plant a few dozen in this part of the woods.
Now and then I look carefully around the 270-degree arc I command. In spite of the mist, I can tell the sun is above the mountains, because I still can see color. I’m looking for movement and the color gray, just the shade of the underbrush. A chipmunk rustles beside a downed birch.
What a triumph of science I am, here in my petroleum-derived chair! From the skin out, I’m Duofold, Pendleton, Polartec, Woolrich, and Filson. Vision corrected by an optometrist, with bifocals available for reading about chestnuts. Teeth corrected by three kinds of dentists. Joints replaced by a galaxy of orthopedic stars. Hearing enhanced by Phonak and an Energizer battery. Nourishment by Mr. Goodbar. Low-light vision enhanced by telescopic sight.
And transportation by nearby Toyota. I’m going to stay till I can’t see the cross hairs. There’s a horseradish dip calling to me from camp.
This is Willem Lange up in St. Huberts, New York, avoiding, for the moment, even the thought of getting back to work.