As I drove home from work yesterday, the last day of September and first cool day we’ve had, I looked at the way the late afternoon sun illuminated the colors in the cattails, grasses and trees.
It just felt like September.
It felt good, warm and familiar.
In addition to the month marking my birthday and wedding anniversary, it’s just always been a season of change and the start of another hunting season.
A difficult thing to explain but in the words of millennials, if you know, you know.
It feels so good to be back in the pursuit and reconnected to the land in a way only hunting can elicit.
But I reflected on how different that connection has looked over the years.
As a teenager, it was the smell of oak and cottonwood leaves that filled my nostrils from the moment I dressed in camo, stored in scent-free totes in the truck.
Sweat beads would begin to form beneath my hat as I walked to my tree stand, sun still high and bright.
Once seated, the wait began.
With so many leaves left on the trees, there was no spotting anything unless it was within bow range.
It’s funny how this same stand would open to dozens of windows into the woods in October and November as the many shades of greens gave way to browns and eventually grays.
I wasted away the afternoon trying to make sense of each sound with the hope of one in particular.
The warm September air would only lift right at sunset just in time to hail the few lingering mosquitos.
The final minutes always proved to be the most exciting, as the woods grew darker with each blink and the sound of a twig snapping provided promise.
Was it a deer or dad coming to get me?
As a young adult, the focus would shift.
Nearing closer to North Dakota, the camo tote often remained in the car but alongside it were waders and a shotgun.
September kind of stunk, the smell of sulfide filled my nostrils instead.
In contrast to the stealthy walk to the stand, the walk in felt clunky and far from graceful, decoys banging behind me and water splashing with the first step into the cattails.
My heart raced as I looked down at my watch over and over and the silhouettes swiftly flew in and out of sight.
I squinted to make out what they might be.
Everything was faster-paced and action-packed, but full of camaraderie.
In hindsight, it sort of makes sense for that phase of life and my hunting journey.
Everything was wet and smelly, but I didn’t mind.
Those early mornings always gave way to the best naps, followed by what I may have loved the most – the anticipation of the evening scouting drives through the country, with eyes to the skies.
As any good budding bird hunter would do, I eventually got a dog.
He loved the stinky mornings too, but the driving around part, not so much.
We longed to stretch our legs and we learned we both loved the way the bluestem easily swept against us.
Most September days, he let the excitement get to him far too quickly and would end up panting in the shade, so we’d lounge in the hot afternoons.
The days were long, the sun was intense, but we were happy to have boots to the ground and feathers to tongue once again.
The flexibility proved to be the most compatible with our newest addition, so we let the prairie have our Septembers.
And this September was the most different of all.
No tree stand, no stinky slough, no dog, no child carrier.
Just wide-open tundra, squishy beneath these unfamiliar wader boots.
None of the cozy, nostalgic feels.
I was a stranger to this ground in southwestern Alaska.
The hues of reds and golds almost a month ahead here, stood out if the sky was blue, which it wasn’t most days.
I woke each morning hesitant to leave the comforts of my sleeping bag, for cold, seemingly damp clothes, a bulky pack and rifle.
The water roared as it boiled on the little gas stove as I waited patiently for the warmth of instant coffee.
Sight was the sense we needed most here in this place so unfamiliar, so we glassed, looking for the obvious giant, standing tall and dark against the endless backdrop.
The travel here, the landscape, the bull moose and the work of quartering and hauling these animals made me feel small.
I’ll always cherish this September, but it made me homesick, for my son, dog, prairie, cattails and oaks.
Truth be told, maybe one day, my September days would be filled with all of them.
No matter, I’ll look to the sky in anticipation of what October will bring.
