It has been a tough autumn. We’ve had some tragically bad luck around here: the inexplicable death of a three-year-old, pure-white gyrfalcon and an electrical fire that burned Jilian and Colton’s little house to the ground. I lost a beautiful bird that was an absolute joy to watch fly and Jilian and Colton lost everything, including their dogs. No one slept for weeks.
It was all serendipitous and I feel petty for whining. But my plans of elegant outings in a Great Plains autumn were buried beneath communication with insurance companies, fire clean-up work, worries about getting a roof over the kid’s heads, and the general malaise of loss. All summer I’d been anticipating a North Dakota road trip with good friends and fine bird dogs in search of partridge and sharptailed grouse but those plans were dashed by the onslaught of life. Losing a Great Plains autumn is a great shame because one never knows how many Great Plains autumns are left, or what great adventures are missed. Consider that my friends flushed two moose and a mountain lion while following their dogs around North Dakota. They are energetic, fine fellows – capable of grand, urbane conversations over brown liquor, and lasting insights. I had been looking forward to that trip and now I have missed it.
I had also been dreaming of honeyed evenings with the gyrfalcon, Oscar Wild, careening high above a field that we have been, for years, cultivating for grouse production. I imagined Jill and me walking silently through the amber grass, thinking ethereal thoughts and teetering on the edge of enlightenment. All of that evaporated too.
I had the time set aside to take as much from this Great Plains autumn as I could, but, as it turned out, by the first week in September, I was in a stationary funk, unforeseen duties and work pressures were suddenly the focus of my days. The sun came up as always, blasting its first golden light down the short hallway to our bedroom. But it didn’t rouse me the way I thought it would. Instead, I ignored it – and the subtle changing of the leaves, and the delicious dipping of temperature. I acted like a child who has grown too sophisticated and self-absorbed to notice his playmates waiting in the front yard. I had expected a high minded, storybook autumn, complete with privileged experience and dripping with meaning. The disappointment mixed with the overwhelming responsibilities had turned to resentment. I gave up the high flung dreams and, in the process; I rejected the one thing that might lift my spirits.
My brother came from Florida to help me bury what was left of the house and deal with the day to day, but it was not until after another old friend arrived that it dawned on me that the Autumn of 2011 need not be lost. He came to hunt antelope and the thought of it depressed me even more. I do not shoot big game, big rifles, and certainly not antelope. But he is a good friend; capable of the erudition I had been anticipating, but smarter than me. He had never hunted antelope either, but he was willing to try.
He brought a turkey pot pie, pheasant stuffed pasta shells, and a box of booze. The turkey and pheasant was “the frost burned junk at the bottom of the freezer”. Delicious, as Jill was away. The box of liquor had a couple very nice bottles of small-batch bourbon and some good bottles of wine but I was instructed to, “Leave those alone. They’re for Jill.” My brother and I had been working for days with shovels and heavy equipment. We intended to keep working and had no intention of helping my friend with his antelope hunt. We did help him with the lower quality alcohol on that first night and we planned to spend most of the week outdoors, but we intended to keep our heads bent to our task and not do much looking around.
It is a fact that my friend is a great charmer so, late that first night; we agreed to get up early with him. We’d at least show him the boundaries to the property before we went back to wrestling with life. My friend didn’t intend to hunt that first morning, he only wanted to look things over and get a feel for what the antelope might be doing. It was just before we crawled into the ATV, in the very early light, that he decided to bring his rifle.
To be honest, it was the earliest I had been out all autumn and the cold air felt good against my face. A grouse lifted off in front of the ATV and although it reminded me of that moose and lion filled North Dakota trip I had lost, there was still a tiny rush in my chest to see it beat, beat, beat and hear it chortle to the far horizon. My god it was a lovely morning and, though we saw antelope standing here and there, my friend seemed more interested in the birds and grass. We stopped at an overlook above the misty, Cheyenne River and for the first time in a month, everything felt calm. “Damn,” he said, “that’s a pretty sight.”
My brother agreed, “That’s for sure,” he said, and we stood for another full minute before we slid back into the ATV.
We drove a mile circle around a group of antelope because none of us knew what else to do. We stopped to study them with binoculars and my friend said, “It would take two days to crawl to them.”
“Think of the rattle snakes and cactus,” my brother said.
“It would never work,” I said. We were three quarters of a mile away and every time I raised me binoculars, the tiny movement drew six pairs of antelope eyes to my forehead.
We had stopped beside a dry, derelict, water tank and, in the same instant; all three of us looked into the muddy, tumbleweed choked tank and came to the same conclusion. “Why don’t you crawl in there?
“It’s the only place to hide.”
“Hell, one might stumble past.”
It wasn’t what my friend had in mind and it was certainly a long way from the elegant hunts I had imagined for this autumn. “It’ll never work,” my friend said as he did his best ninja crawl over the lip of the tank and my bother and I idled away.
Suddenly there was excitement in the air. We drove slowly away from the tank as if we were just two ranchers who had made an early morning stop to check the plumbing. We didn’t even look at the antelope until we were a half mile from the tank. On that great expanse of very flat prairie, my friend had disappeared and when we stopped we could see no sign of him or even the water tank. Suddenly, my brother and I were alone on a beautiful Great Plains morning. There was only the prairie, the sky, the coolness, and an exhilarating sense of anticipation. We watched the antelope with binoculars and – miracle of biblical proportion – they began to drift in the general direction of the invisible water tank.
It took forty-five minutes, but finally we figured they were getting close to the tank. Time slowed even more and that was the happiest I had been for a month. At last we saw the first antelope jump and crumple. The disconnected sound of the shot followed in short order and then the second antelope collapsed and that sound reached our ears. No one moved until the remainder of the herd moved away. They had no idea what had just happened and they moved only a quarter mile before their heads went back down to grazing. My brother and I crept toward a blank spot on the horizon. We knew we were heading in the right direction but there was no sign that anything unusual had just occurred. We were closer than we figured when my friend stood up from the tank like a Shakespearian ghost. He was smiling like a kid and I realized that, for the first time in weeks, I was smiling too.
Comments 23
After all these years, your writing brings me to the place so profoundly, that I miss it. It is lovely to see you all together and doing well. Condolences to the kids for the loss of their dogs.
Cheers-should the two of you find yourself in the Flathead, please come by for pie and scotch.
Sincerely,
Anna
Wishing you all better days now.
Yes, you are one fine writer. /bew
Hi Dan. How sad to hear of your misfortune. Was that the same wonderful bird we saw atop the room next to your helpers room? Your love for the prarie is rich with meaning, and you seem to drown your sadness in the beauty of your surroundings. My brother, the one who to whom I spoke as your buffalo came to make us comfortable, has passed, the funeral being Friday. You’ve only lost physical things, less important than the beings we all love
Sorry for your losses this year. Cwm Ceffyl Ranch is having similar troubles. Hang in there and things will get better. Keep takin’ care of those magnificent bison. All the best to you and yours!
We are filled with sorrow over the loss of your beautiful gyrfalcon and the kids’ dogs.
Thank God Jilian and Colton were not harmed and are safe now.
When two of my dearly loved cats disappeared within 3 weeks of moving in to my home here in the coyote-mountain lion country of rural Santa Fe, at first, I too,felt petty about the level of grief, tears wept, and aching heart. But, I then realized: life shared & loved, – whatever form it takes – becomes an integral part of what makes us feel whole, and when it is lost, the grief is real, and deep. Never apologize because cultural norms say the life of non-humans is not sacred and deserving of deep love in our loves. So, in that spirit, I am so sorry for your loss of your companion gyrfalcon. Namaste.
Our visit at the Cheyenne River Ranch highlighted our trip around Labor Day — followed by a high blue windless day at Wounded Knee. I shudder at the quick turns awaiting us around the next corner of living. We send spirit to you all.
Thank you again for sharing your story Dan.
I was heartbroken to hear of the
fire and losses for you all.
Life’s dark storms are a bitch. Then mother nature shines, warm & beautiful…the smells & sounds of our beautiful life on this earth renews our
spirit and we move on. In my case, a sunny smile & a squeeze from my tiny granddaughter after her frightening hospital stay renews me again. She’s feisty too. It’s all good. I’m grateful for every moment! We miss you and hope to see you soon. Take care
So sorry to read of the loss of your gyrfalcon and the dogs. The loss hits the heart of all of us who have come to know the connection you have for falcons, dogs and buffalo. My wishes for you and Jill are to enjoy what remains of the fall. I look forward to reading your monthly musings.
Dan, Sorry to hear of your misfortunes. I went to our Faith, SD clinic today. What a beautiful day! Saw many bison north of highway 212, saw a couple golden eagles, and there was a prairie fire that had started this evening near Mud Butte. Couldn’t help but think of you! Hope you can enjoy the remainder of this beautiful autumn and hope you winter well. Regards. Dave
Sometimes we forget how tenuous life can be. Glad you and two-legged family survived.Take your comfort in the prairie you love and each other. Sorry for your losses.
“The onslaught of life”
well said and well lived!
Blessings to you and your family this season of harvest, abundace and hope.
Jan Buhrman Martha’s Vineyard
Dan and Jill,
Tough news, friends. Gravity keeps pulling our chins (and a few other parts) down. But it’s all about keeping the eyes up, looking ahead. Seems you know that part so well. And such keen eyes. We think of you often, always with great fondness, admiration and gratitude. Heal fast. Come stay with us if you have to haul yourselves to this part of the planet. We’ve got room and supplies. Tom, Sam and Henry.
Sorry to hear of all of the loses…Hope all goes better thru the winter, and next years to come. Your writing makes me want to live in those plains as my ancestors did!!
Thanks for sharing this. I admire your writing. Somewhat magically a huge amount of emotion and spirit is transmitted through some fairly spare prose. Your perserverence is encouraging.
Hi Dan, So sorry to hear about your loses. I have an idea of what you are going through as my son and his family recently had a big fire in their home in California. Fortunately for them and for your family, no one was hurt. I had lunch with your antelope shooting friend a few days before he went to see you. He was so excited, and he must be even more so now. I hope together we can come to see you next summer or fall.
Dear Dan, sharing in the confoundedness of lifes ups n downs, whirl n swirls w/you and your family. Having similar “down in crap” time here so commiserations! This too shall pass, my friend and your elegance with words is as always, profound! To your kids and readers! Adopt and rescue any and all animals you can it makes a difference one creature at a time, and you will realize to a feeling of having done the right thing when that unconditional love looks back into your heart! CE
Ain’t it amazing what happens while you are making other plans. I wish you many better Great Plains Falls!! Ken
Dan, First ice on my birdbath and dog’s water bowl this morning. Your cold, clean Dakota air brings low humidity and achingly beautiful blue skies to Omaha. I know what you mean about the scarcity of spectacular fall days when circumstances align to provide memorable sweetness. Maybe our enhanced appreciation has to do with the passage of years. Here is a great John Burroughs quote for you…’Time does not become sacred to us until we have lived it, until it has passed over us and taken with it a part of ourselves.” Thanks for sharing your sacred time with us.
Our sincere thanks for all the words of support. We continue to be knocked out by our great customers and friends.
Warmest Regards – Dan, Jill, Jilian & Colton
Amidst all of this accidental loss of life and property, the saddest thing to me is the willful (and unsporting) destruction of those two antelope. We always encounter antelope on our place in NW Nebraska and we always feel highly privileged for the experience. Better to celebrate the life of wild things, not take it away. When you’re hungry for meat, eat Wild Idea. If you need to kill something, ask Dan to let you shoot one of his buffalo.
Hi Dan
Sorry to hear about you loss. My fall did not go as planned either. I had a heart attack on October 29th. I’m in the process of recovering from bypass surgery. My wife & I love the black hills and plan to visit again soon. Take care and may 2012 be the best year ever for you.