September 11 was Chip’s birthday, and it is always a little odd, both remembering and celebrating. Still, one thing I choose to hold onto about the terrorist attacks twenty years ago, is that everyone who was trapped in the towers or the Pentagon or on the plane that went down in Pennsylvania — everyone who was able to– called someone to say I love you. The air that day was full of I love yous. Strangers held hands.
The library hosted a talk with two young veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq too, right in the middle of all of the news from Kabul. Kyle and Brandon spoke frankly about their service. Brandon said the uniforms were full of Velcro, and as any hunter hoping to be quiet knows, that’s a mistake. Kyle called out the big money in the politics of the media coverage (and lack of it). Both were critical of the missions, but both said returning home after the intensity of the conflicts was difficult, and that they still missed the closeness they felt with their fellow soldiers. Brandon said he prayed every night that if someone had to die, please make it be him. That’s how much he cared for his buddies– of all different backgrounds and beliefs– and they for him. They were their brothers and sisters keepers.I have had a lot of time to think about all of this during those pre-dawn headlamp walks in the woods to the tree stand (trying not to be afraid of the dark), waiting for the sun to come up,
and hours of sitting so still in the woods listening and looking for a legal bull moose. (And also at birds and squirrels and those suddenly bright green ferns.) The way the light and shadow play in the trees. The wind in the spruce and hemlock boughs. A small plane, a fishing boat down in the inlet. It’s peaceful.
I am lucky, I know. I also keep thinking about this German monk I heard speaking recently on the radio- he said we only have this one moment (and the next moment, and the next–) and isn’t it wonderful to be gifted with it? Yes. Yes it is. Dark mornings and rainy fog and the end of the summer emphasize how nothing lasts forever. Even the greenhouse tomatoes and basil. September has so much gratitude mixed with handfuls of loss and a pinch of loneliness. (I know, and hunting is a big thing too. Literally life and death. Which makes a woman that likes moose stew soul search.) Chip and I hardly talk except in brief whispers while we wait for the right bull moose to show up (the antler rules are complicated- more on that another time).
Yesterday, during a break we went to the cabin and lit a fire to warm up. We heard this loud buzzing– could it be a weed whacker? Where? A little motor bike on the trail? Was that possible? Turns out it was a fly caught in a spider web on the windowsill, fighting for its life. That’s how quiet hunting is.
Haines, like all of Alaska right now, is exploding with Covid. Many of us wear masks, are vaccinated and pay attention to a stuffy nose, but others don’t and Alaska hospitals are full. If we fall out of the tree stand or my Dad has a stroke, we may not be able to get medevaced. We have about 40 active Covid cases in Haines, officially, but we know there are more. Vaccinated volunteer EMTs are even getting it. Wouldn’t it be great, if after 9/11, after Afghanistan and Iraq, we cared for each other — and the common good– the way Brandon and Kyle’s troops did? That would be a kind of victory.
But humans are full of contradictions aren’t we?
On our way home from a long morning of hunting (the moose are still loose), we saw two squirrels on the side of the road doing the wait-go-wait-go little breakdance they do. I said, “Oh no” and Chip slowed (no one was near, the speed limit is 25 out there) but the squirrels dashed under the truck anyway.
Can I tell you how relieved I was that they were not dead on the road? That they had lived to see another day?
