Born 200 years late
“He was born 200 years too late.”
That is how our family describes my uncle. The undisturbed, pioneering, outdoor opportunities afforded by the West in the 1800’s aligned with his DNA more than today’s weekend warrior approach to the outdoors. The man craved to hunt and fish. Not in a “casual hobby” sense, in an “OCD keep a bookshelf full of 3 ring binders detailing every trip ever taken” sense. He was fueled by the challenge of finicky trout, the stalk of wild game, and the exposure felt only at tree-line. Those places.
And he brought me and my brother along.
The innate longing for adventure from the two of us wasn’t lost on him. He brought us into the places that brought him life, despite our terrible inefficiency. We lost fishing lures and cried when thunderstorms got too close. It must have grated on him. Years of concrete-sequential analysis and repeatable routine had oiled his process and performance smooth. Yet he put this aside and kept bringing us into spaces wild and sorely needed.
He took us snowmobiling seven miles onto a frigid lake to ice fish for six hours, as slow as they were cold. We’d hike with his four quirky llamas – curious creatures that at times were mellow and other times could make a nap deprived hungry two-year old child seem rational. On the way home we downed Mountain Dew and banana Power Bars and listened to Bruce Hornsby. What could be better?
Adventures with my Uncle are not just aging memories, but cairns that remind of testing and belief.
We felt risk’s edge as we crossed full rivers and sat on four-inch thick ice bending and popping beneath our weight. We were tested as we endured miserable weather and hiked farther than we wanted. And were lucky enough to have time slip away as we lost count of caught Brown Trout or Bluegill.
The times were not without challenge. My uncle’s colorful language easily surfaced when fishing line tangled in the trolling motor or faulty backing instructions caused the pickup to slide off the boat ramp and get stuck in two feet of mud.
Those times were a right mix of expectation and freedom. Expectation to do our best without complaint, and freedom to feast on Creation’s goodness. Playfulness and responsibility thrived together. We could act our age and be beckoned into the one to come.
“Like monks, the best anglers are humble petitioners: subtle, quiet, reverent, forbearing. Their sly, insouciant casts hardly make a dimple on the surface of the mystery, and their lines regularly come tight to fish and also the gentle things they are really fishing for.” -Charles Gaines
Our time together was never about the fish or the hiking, but the fathering my uncle offered. I can only hope his line also came tight to what he was after, for it has hooked something in my heart that I will never release.
This Father's Day, may you know that fathering does not require you to be perfect, nor does it even require you to have children. Fathering lives within the heart of every man, and has the power to transform the world, one hungry heart at a time.
Happy Father's Day. Let us be a generation of men who father.
Jesse French
Restoration Project Executive Director
