What I wouldn’t give by John C. Street

I wouldn’t ever want to give the impression I’ve lived such a goody-two-shoe life that I have no regrets. On the contrary, there are a whole slew of things in my past that I’m not particularly proud of, albeit nothing – I think - that would land me in the hooskow if they appeared on the public record. 

And someday, when I’m sure the statute of limitations has fully expired, I may confess a few of these colorful transgressions.  Although I’m pretty sure they’re nothing more than the type of things that most of you got into at one time or another, it’s like I said, I’ve done some things I’d just as soon not discuss.   

There are other things, however, I wish I could do over, not because I’d do anything different, it’s just that I’d try harder to appreciate them.  For instance, I’d give a lot to have one more good fall in the grouse cover with my  dog, Misty, or to have my first Fenwick fiberglass fly rod back for a day. 

I wish that I had some of those – endless, or so they seemed at the time - summer days back when I was an indentured slave to my high school biology teacher who was tutoring me so that I could pass the course and move on with my classmates.  When it came to the workings – from the stem of a flower to the procreation of mammals - of all things wild, Dr. Carson was one of the most knowledgeable people I’ve ever known.  There are a thousand questions, many I haven’t even thought of yet, I’d still like to ask him. 

Although this might not sound like a big deal, I’d enjoy spending time with an old Herters catalog, not the new ones that have been coming out for the past couple years, but the old ones that were as big as anything Cabelas is mailing out today. From wooden rifle stock blanks to trapping supplies and from serious survival equipment to all the pieces and parts needed to make fishing lures, Herters was a dreamer’s book in every way. I wish I hadn’t thrown them all away. 

I’d like to go back and relive the days when I first began to understand the impact of weather conditions on my hunting and fishing success.  Outings in the rain and snow have become so much a part of my pattern as an adult that they’ve lost some of their magic.  But in my younger days, the appearance of storm clouds could raise my pulse.  I wish I could get that feeling back. 

I’d also like to relive – or just rekindle – the excitement I used to experience on the eve of season openers.  The night before trout season or the Sunday before buck season were like Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiving all rolled into one.  It’s not the same anymore. 

There are many things I’d like to experience again, pleasurable events in the field and on the water, but nothing even comes close to the time I spent with my father.  What I wouldn’t give to have him back on the stream with me, to see him grinning from ear to ear with a fish on or even just turning over stream side rocks for bait.  What I wouldn’t give to have just one more of those early childhood mornings when we were out before the crack of dawn so we could fish a few hours before rushing home to get cleaned up and into our Sunday-go-to meetin’ clothes. 

What I wouldn’t give to run a trap line with him again, a full season beginning with scouting for sign and creating sets all the way up to skinning our catch – mostly mink and muskrats - on the home-made mandrel that hung in our basement.  I’ll skip the day I accidentally cut into the musk gland of the first mink we caught.  It took a long time for the smell to leave our house.   

What I wouldn’t give to relive that one week we spent in Canada, our only long trip together, when we got caught a dozen miles from camp in a small boat with a tremendous storm blowing up on the shallow lake.  I was fresh back from a strange foreign country where I’d used my navigation skills in earnest but it was Dad who had enough faith in his compass to steer us around a small island that was blocking our passage back to the river so we could spend the night in a dry cabin rather than under an overturned boat on a rocky beach. 

As long as I’m doing some wishing here, let me have one more full day with Dad on the big water of lake Erie and let it begin with the sun just coming up like a flame red beach ball on the horizon.  And let it be a day like so many we had when the walleye were nearly falling into the boat and there were enough steelhead hitting the spoons on the downriggers to keep the day at a fever pitch. 

What I wouldn’t give to take a good long walk on the first day of deer season and come back to see Dad sitting in his stand again, hands extended to the heat of the wood burning stove – a small concession to his age - we put in to keep him warm.  And what I wouldn’t give to be there with him when the deer come through and Dad, who has been an excellent shot his entire life, taking his time and making his winter meat.   

There are many things from my long and colorful life in the great out of doors that I’ve wished a thousand times I could live over.  My wife’s first spring turkey would be on that list as would her first bass fishing trip up to Buzzard Swamp.  I’d like to relive my own first deer and my own first truly big trout and the day I shot a legitimate double of grouse.   

But, I would trade them all and, oh, what I wouldn’t give, to spend another day – any day – hunting or fishing with Dad.