Sixteen Feet

FIELD NOTE No. 023.

People like getting above things.

Mountains. Fire towers. Bridges. Overlooks. Rooftops.

Apparently sixteen feet up an oak tree counts.

The woods look different from there. Trails appear. Brush has hallways through it. Birds fly below your feet.

But the height isn’t really the strange part.

Stay there over four hours.

Quiet.

Now you’re seeing something different.

A deer walks through dry leaves without making a sound.

Raccoons growl at each other.

A squirrel discovers you and decides this cannot stand.

At first, the barking is impressive. Full lungs. Full commitment. An alarm system with a tail.

Have you ever worn out a squirrel?

Two thumbs.

This guy has.

Poor feller.

After a while those robust barks start getting shorter. He stops to catch his breath. Readjusts. Jumps to another branch, apparently convinced a better firing position will restore the trumpet.

It does not.

A few more increasingly pathetic attempts.

Then silence.

Where did he go?

You won.

Against a squirrel.

Four hours in a tree changes a man.

A turkey fifty yards away catches the slightest turn of your head.

An owl swoops past your face because the whites of your eyes looked like dinner.

They see everything.

And eventually you realize you’re the one who doesn’t.

That’s humbling.

We spend most of our lives walking into places, making noise, doing something, fixing something, checking something, going somewhere.

A hunter climbs a tree and tries very hard to become irrelevant.

Stay still.

Shut up.

Watch.

Eventually the woods decide you’re not worth worrying about anymore.

What a gift.

Man, it’s great to be a hunter.

Sixteen feet gives you a different view of the woods.

Four quiet hours gives you a different view of yourself.

I’m fairly certain both are good for you.

— Esker