SHEPHERDING OUTDOORS

COLD DAYS

BY WALT MERRELL

Cape and I walked down the wooded lane … two sandy ruts meandered in parallel through the pine trees and occasional hardwoods. The pine needles squeaked ever so slightly beneath our rubber-soled boots, and the wind whispered in the treetops.

“That sun feels good on the back of my neck,” I said softly. Cape rolled her eyes a little and shrugged her shoulders. Covered with her long brown hair, her shoulders lifted silently and then dropped again, reminding me that she couldn’t feel the sun on her neck because her hair had it covered. I chuckled and said, “I guess that was stupid.” She grinned and shrugged her shoulders again. I knew she agreed … she was a teenager – everything I said was stupid. She was simply courteous enough not to agree with me … this time.

We continued our gentle stroll through the wintered woods in silence for the next 75 yards or so. The frosty blue sky blanketed the pine boughs swaying gently overhead. “Dad?” She whispered now. We were too close to the field to talk out loud. I leaned in towards her, straining to hear over the whistle of the wind. “How many times did you go hunting with your dad?” I stammered in my response … “Wha-what?” My voice cracked into a talk instead of a whisper. Cape repeated herself, only, this time, whispering more deliberately.

I heard and understood what she had asked. But her question caught me off guard. I needed to process her words. “Not many,” I finally responded. I knew that would not be the end of the questioning.

“Why not?” The next question came as stunningly as the first.

“How did such a peaceful and serene walk to a green field turn into 20 questions with Dr. Phil?” I wondered silently in my head.

“I don’t know, Sugar. He never liked to deer hunt when I was a kid. He took me dove hunting a few times. I guess it just wasn’t his thing.” I slowed my pace slightly, catching sight of a doe and a yearling on the opposing hillside, and I pointed them out to Cape. Almost coming to a stop, she nodded her head and crouched a little. I waved her off, gesturing that we keep heading to the shooting house and not take this young doe. She nodded her head and walked in front of me.

Five steps beyond, she turned over her shoulder and whispered, “Did y’all ever go hunting as adults?”

“No. I invited him for years, but it was only after he retired that he became interested in deer hunting. By then, I had you girls, and I needed to be home with y’all.” She nodded her head.

“How did you learn to hunt?” The curiosity continued.

“Your Big Daddy and Uncle Dallas taught me most of what I know.” Big Daddy was George, Hannah’s daddy, and he never once invited me to hunt until after Hannah and I were married. From then on, though, he became the best hunting mentor anyone could have asked for. And he did teach me much about hunting… and on those days when we went hunting together, I learned a lot about life, and being a husband, and being a father too.

“My best friend, Danny, took me deer hunting for the first time when I was about 16.”

“Did you kill anything?” she asked expectantly.

I stopped walking, and she turned to give me a little more attention. “Well,” I more than whispered, “he told me that if I saw a doe to wait and see if there was a buck following her. So, when that sweet little doe came out, I waited just as he suggested. About ten seconds later, another deer came out … so I smoked it!”

“How big was it?” she asked with a hint of jubilation in her voice.

“Funny … Danny asked the same thing as he walked in from the road to get me.” I chuckled a bit in recollection. “We walked down the hill to where the deer lay, and when we saw it, Danny started laughing. Out loud. Like, uncontrollably. Offended, I reached down and picked up my trophy with one hand and toted it out like a purse.”

“Daaaad!”

Her gasp was not misplaced … and I still, to this day, am embarrassed that the first deer I ever killed had likely lost its spots in the woods somewhere the same day I shot it.

Cape and I started walking again… but as we drew nearer to the green field, I knew I would need to find a way to make all this conversation mean something. “It sure is a cold day, today … isn’t it?” I asked.

“Why are you changing the subject?” she asked. “Because you don’t want to talk about your dad, or the fact that you shot Bambi’s big brother?”

“Well, I am not trying to change the subject. In fact, I wanted to talk about it a bit more. You see, there are ‘cold days’ … like today. It’s 40 degrees out-

side. And then there are ‘cold days’ like ‘I never went deer hunting with my dad’ days. I wish we had gone deer hunting. I wish he had taught me to hunt. I wish a lot of things … but wishing doesn’t change anything. My dad tried the best he knew how. He didn’t mean anything by it, I don’t reckon. He worked a lot. I work a lot, too … but what I hope you know when you are old and hunting with your kids, is that you came first to me. And my dad taught me that, too.”

She nodded her head. I don’t know if her nod was in agreement with my statement or simply an acknowledgement that she heard me talking.

“You know, parenting is not that much different from hunting,” I added. She looked on with a puzzled gaze as we rounded the last bend in the road before we crossed out into the field and made our way to the shooting house. “You do some scouting and some prep work. That is, you talk to other folks and ask them about parenting. You read a book or two, and you lean on the way you were raised as a guide.” She nodded her head again. “Then, when the baby comes, you have to put in the work and just go with what you know.”

“How is that like hunting?” she asked.

“Well, like with that deer, all I knew was those were the only two real live deer I had ever seen. They might have been giants for all I knew. And when it comes to raising you girls, I have experienced a lot of firsts… even with your younger sister. I don’t always get it right. I know I am not the best dad. But I keep on coming back to the field and trying again.”

She nodded her head with understanding and veered off down the single-file trail to the green field. We never finished the conversation that I recall. We didn’t kill a deer that day, either. But it was a good day. A warm day, in fact. Because those ‘cold days’ from way back when taught me not to shoot a tiny deer … and they taught me a few other things not to do, too. I may not be a good hunter, but I sure do pray I am a good dad … and that there aren’t many cold days yet to come.

And I know this. We never would have had that conversation … unless we were shepherding outdoors.

Walt Merrell writes about life, family and faith.  An avid hunter and outdoorsman, he enjoys time “in the woods or on the water” with his wife Hannah, and their three girls, Bay, Cape and Banks. They also manage an outdoors-based ministry called Shepherding Outdoors.  Follow their adventures on Facebook, Instagram and YouTube at Shepherding Outdoors.  You can email him at shepherdingoutdoors@ gmail.com.