Postcards lie so hard.
The ones that show a beautiful naturescape, maybe with a timed exposure of a running stream. What about the ones of a lake at sunset, pine trees silhouetted by a blazing horizon? Lies.
What you aren’t privy to are the less romantic things about the outdoors. The bushwhacking through hopelessly thick foliage. The swarming insects that intend to drink the blood right out from your skin. Blood that you were using at the moment!
Yesterday, as I sat in my treestand, the thought crossed my mind how the ambient temperature at the time (57 degrees) wouldn’t seem so bad if you saw that on your phone as you were heading out for the day. 57 degrees sounds brisk and refreshing. The perfect weather to put on an asexualizing sweater and look at Thomas Kinkade paintings while drinking something hot from an earth-tone mug. Cozy.
The problem yesterday was that it rained the entire time I was out, a solid eight hours of varying types of precipitation. I became a rain connoisseur. The huge blobby rains typically brought with them fog, inducing a cataract-like condition that made me keep rubbing my eyes to no avail. The finer misty rain made me think the rain had stopped so when I’d take off my hood, the cold water infiltrating my hair reminded it had indeed not stopped, and that I was a stupid man for remaining on stand.
Real woodsmen know that nature isn’t always a beautiful thing and that, just like with a friend or wife, you take the good with the bad. Until you are willing to accept her for what she is, you’ll never truly know her, only the postcard version. I could make myself look good for a postcard but stick around long enough, and you’ll notice things that may make you think twice about our affiliation.
Joints stiff, hands candle-wax white and extremities saturated with rain, I was both literally and figuratively soaking in nature. I didn’t feel comfortable, but I felt closer to the larger picture, though I don’t think it would have made a great postcard.
You must be logged in to post a comment.