Untold Stories
To someday be retitled "Chapter One"
Anything real I’ve ever done, I’ve written about. In one way or another I’ve penned a poem or a list or an anecdote about the current moment. Heartache, travel, sobriety, gratitude. All of it. I never paused to let it soak in. I sat down right then and there and put waterproof pen to paper and caffeinated fingers to keyboard. I’ve scratched out notes in a beat up gas station parking lot in Hite, Utah, on a tailgate in a Northern Minnesota log landing, at a trailhead in Dyea, Alaska, and in coffee shops, airports, and hotel rooms from Bangor, Maine to Valentine, Nebraska. Always in the moment. Always spilling out as much as I could while it was fresh in my heart and in my mind.
So what is it about my dog that’s been so hard to figure out? I call myself an outdoor writer for God’s sake. I’ve never immersed myself more in any one thing and yet I’ve waited well over a year to spit anything out onto the page about him. The day I shot my first deer I could hardly stand through the photos before I made my way back to camp to make my proud mark in the family log book. And when that seaplane left Skagway for Juneau I gave up views of passing glaciers just to scribble down my best description of the heart fluttering feeling I had in the midst of all that freedom and adventure. Writing in the raw.
But this bird dog thing, man. It’s had me by the throat for two Novembers now. A full training season. A full hunting season. The long wait for September and the October mist and all of it. His first points. His first birds. And still, nothing. I’ve tried. I’ve taken these fresh memories with me to quiet places in hopes of etching out a sentence or a paragraph. But nothing. It’s different. But I don’t know why.
I don’t know why I can’t seem to tell this story. Our story. The one I thought would pour out of me with little to no effort. I’ve spent months investing myself with the canon of upland literature, gleaning inspiration from the greats. I’ve had ideas. I’ve started new tabs and titles. I’ve set aside time. Hell, I’ve set aside full days. And still, nothing.
Even with our newfound success in the grouse woods, it hasn’t been as easy as I thought it would be to put into words. The way I see it, squeezing the marrow from that story should be simple. A full season in the cover. Day after day spent chasing birds from the North Country to those long forgotten farms of the storied landscapes to our south. Day after day of his ringing bell. Day after day of bumped birds, finally culminating in a hard point during a green Christmas vacation. A striking flush and a par-for-the-course miss on the first trigger. A quick breath and a second shot that found its way. A falling bird. A win. So sweet. So monumental. A reason to shed real, hard earned happy tears right there amidst the spruce.
I thought for sure that day we’d return home, clean our bird, dry our bones, and sit down to tell our triumph to the world. But still, putting it all on paper just hasn’t come naturally.
And so here I am asking myself, “why?” Why has a subject that’s been so deeply and so often written about been the toughest topic I’ve tried my hand at yet? And as I sit and type today I think it’s less about the question of whether or not I can or will write about this bird dog and I. Of course I can and of course I will.
I’m beginning to feel like this is just a touch more robust, and worthy of more chewing, more digestion, and more of my time before I sit down to spin it into a story.
Perhaps it’s a lesson. A reminder to make it my own. To allow myself these untold stories first, before I share them with the world. To work harder for the words I do decide to write one day. Maybe it’s that? Or maybe it’s just plain personal. Special. Not as readily available to toss into a template, add some wit and wisdom, and shoot off to an editor.
Is it because writing about it makes it real? That it somehow makes it permanent? That I’m subconsciously fighting the urge to let it out before I’ve given it the time it deserves, without ensuring that the writing is as good as it could be and should be after all the work we’ve put in?
Is it because it’s still dynamic and evolving, and that writing about it somehow cements it into the archives of life and puts a period on a story that’s not yet finished? It’s still a draft. He’s still a puppy. Will this story be easier to tell someday down the road? I truly don’t know.
What I do know is this. I’ll keep doing it. I’ll load him up tomorrow and truck our way toward some nearby cover. Gun and bell, we’ll work a familiar edge of beech and bramble, and my breath will pause with each moment of silence he creates. I’ll keep chasing those moments. The ones we’ve read about. The ones we’ve worked for.
I’ll keep writing, too. Like always. I’ll write about picking night-crawlers, catching walleyes, cast iron, campfires, snowshoes, and swamps. I’ll write poems for my wife and songs I’ll never sing. I’ll write journal entries and gear lists. I’ll write about yet another inspirational cup of hunting camp coffee. And I’ll keep trying to write about me and my bird dog.
After all, anything real I’ve ever done, I’ve written about.
Another great read bud! Proud Momma💞
You have such a gift, Nate! I truly loved this and will share it with my husband. Keep writing!🍂