BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
With age, the outlook changes
by Bob Kornegay

Regardless of how one feels about evolution, there's no denying its reality when it comes to certain stages of a man's existence. Outdoorsmen, for instance, are constantly evolving. The changes are physical, mental, and, to the greatest degree, emotional. We change over time, eventually reaching a point where attitude and outlook are far, far removed from our beginnings.

I am no exception. Consider my current thoughts on the sporting life as I inevitably age.

The gray squirrel is no cape buffalo, no lion, no elegant kudu or impala. Yet, to my present way of thinking, the woods in which he resides are far more beautiful than the storied big-game grandeur of the African Bush or the Serengeti Plain. And the squirrel, at this point in time, seems much more noble.

Yes, the squirrel will suffice. No Robert Ruark or Peter Capstick am I. I'm just a boy in man's clothing, happily toting a .22 rifle, squirrel dog trotting at my heels.

A fat young doe is no Boone&Crockett trophy, but she certainly cooks up nice and tender. I've never harvested a trophy buck, by the way. Nor for that matter, a trophy anything. The bluegill is no black marlin, the creek no Gulf Stream, and I no Hemingway. But the creek doesn't make me seasick, and the bream, bass, and catfish provide quite ample angling excitement.

You see where this is going, I reckon. I've reached that stage, haven't I? It is no longer my quest to become the worldclass globe-trotting sportsman I long ago yearned to be.

The great outdoor writer Havilah Babcock once penned a story entitled "I Don't Want to Shoot an Elephant." In it he sang the praises of the bobwhite, the pointing dog, the bird hunt, and the pleasures of upland "safaris" through Carolina quail country. At age ten, I failed to understand it. Now, at 55, I know exactly what Mr. Babcock meant.

Videographer Bob Thompson, a friend and contemporary, clarified it further when he recently said to me, "You know, Bob, it doesn't take nearly as much to satisfy me as it once did."

Don't get me wrong. Lord knows I still love the thrill of the hunt and the taking of game. He also knows my great affection for a worthy gamefish at the end of my line. Heck, sniffing spent shotshell fumes or the pungent aroma of a working shellcracker bed beat cocaine all to pieces.

Now, however, I regard my outdoor pursuits from a totally different perspective; from the viewpoint of one who doesn't really care that much anymore that he hasn't "been there" or "done that." It's been quite a while since I caught a feisty bluegill and wished it was a tarpon. It's been even longer since I sat in a tree stand in a hardwood swamp bottom and dreamed myself north to Saskatchewan. I now love the times and the places for what they are, not for what they might have been.

I regret that's a lesson I've had to learn over time. Much better had I felt this way from the beginning. But, hindsight is indeed 20/20, I suppose. Perhaps the man upstairs will see fit to allow me a reasonably hefty chunk of "new appreciation" time before my field-and-stream days are at last behind me.

Meanwhile, I'll watch my more youthful acquaintances with wry amusement as they make the same foolish mistake. I'll hear them grumble that the redbreasts aren't big enough and listen to their complaints about the bass not biting. I'll see the disappointment on their faces after hunting all morning and seeing nothing but a few wandering does or a flock of hen turkeys.

Afterward, I'll toss my own too-small redbreasts into the ice chest, take them home, and fry them golden brown. I'll take pleasure from just watching the does and maybe even harvest one if the law allows. I'll gaze in wonder at the mama turkeys, not to mention the cardinals and the herons and the warblers. In fact, I'll look at all wild critters just a little bit differently from now on.

For you see, Mr. Babcock, I don't want to shoot an elephant either.

No, sir. Not anymore. "Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream.net"