Turns out you learn a thing or two from bumming around this planet for 60-some years (unless, perhaps, you're a Democrat.) One of the greatest things in life is to look back at yourself when you were 18, wishing you'd known then what you know now. Oh, you'll also find yourself wishing you now had the speed, strength, and endurance you had then, but what we lack in physical abilities as we get older, we make up for with ruthlessness and guile.
But one of the best things about getting older is the chance to pass one's knowledge on to younger generations. Those of you who read my Alaska Man Monday posts will know that I recently spent some time in Colorado, hunting mountain grouse with loyal sidekick Rat. What I may not have mentioned was that Rat brought his 14-year-old son along for the outing, this being the boy's first time in hunting camp with the big boys. He did pretty well; listened to his father, did as he was told (mostly), and was respectfully quiet when the occasion called for it. Now this is a young fellow to whom I've been "Grandpa Ward" since he was a toddler, so he knows me pretty well. Although perhaps not as well as he'd thought.
The kid still has a lot to learn. Remember what I said about guile?
On Friday, we drove from the Denver area up to Grand County, stopping in Kremmling for lunch and to meet the fourth member of the party, who had driven up independently. We were seated at a table, and Rat's son - I'll call him Chappie - was talking about what all he'd like to do in the outdoors. He was mentioning the Colorado mule deer when I stopped him.
"Wait," I said. "Hold up. There's no such thing as a mule deer."
"What?" he replied, a look of disbelief on his young face.
"Nope. No such thing. What happened was that a guy got home from hunting, oh, back in the 1800s, and had to explain to his wife how he'd accidentally shot a beast of burden. 'I shot a mule, dear,' he said, and in excusing it to the neighbors, she made it out to be a fanciful critter, a 'mule deer.' Things just went downhill from there, and now all these people think that a mule deer is a real thing. Even the fish & game people have fallen for it."
Chappie looked at his father. Loyal sidekick Rat, knowing my sense of humor all too well, just shrugged.
I come by this honestly. My grandfathers, both of them, were possessed of a certain wry wit. Both of them loved to spin yarns, and some of them were even true. Grandpa Baty had a wild imagination that produced flying snakes and talking fish, and claimed to be on a first-name basis with every squirrel on his farm. I'm not too sure about that last one, but I do know that my cousins and I, who were welcome to shoot pheasants and rabbits on the place, were forbidden to shoot squirrels. Grandpa Clark was full of stories, including about his WW1 Army service, and some of them were even true.
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And Dad - oh, could Dad spin a tale. If a grandchild or, later, a great-grandchild, asked him a question like, "Grandpa, why is the sky blue?" He'd have an answer ready, whether he knew the actual answer or not. He'd talk for five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes, his explanation growing more detailed, more laden with made-up jargon, and more outrageous until finally the most credible 10-year-old realized his grandfather was pulling his leg.
Living a long, adventurous life fills one with experiences. And the best part of all this is the chance to pass those experiences on. One of the very best things a young man can have in his life, after all, is an old man to pass on decades upon decades of wisdom and experience.
Back to Colorado.
Finally, we got to our campsite, delighted to find our favorite camping spot unoccupied - there are no reservations out in this stretch of woods, you camp where you can find a spot. We started setting up our big wall tent, and Chappie's job was hammering in tent stakes. He was about halfway around when I stopped him.
"Wait," I said. "Hold up. You're on the left side of the tent."
"So?" he replied.
"You're using a right-handed tent stake. You're on the left side of the tent. You need a left-handed tent stake."
"What? What's the difference?" he asked.
"Hold up the stake at arm's length. If the hook for the tent ropes is on the left, it's a left-handed tent stake. If it's on the right, it's a right-handed tent stake. Make sure you're using the right one."
"That can't be right,' he began, before I cut him off.
"I've been setting up tents for over half a century, Chappie, since well before your Dad was born. Don't you presume to tell me about setting up tents. Just you make sure you're using the right tent stakes."
Chappie looked at his father. Loyal sidekick Rat, knowing my sense of humor all too well, just shrugged.
I think my own father and grandfathers would be proud of me.
