Members of outdoors family die, but they never really leave
So, another year outdoors comes to an end, and we're supposed to be wiser. What did I learn?
Well, there's the obvious. See: Deepwater Horizon.
But sitting in a duck marsh contemplating 2010, my biggest lesson might have been the enduring power of outdoors friendships, thanks to a guy named Joe Courcelle.
One of the qualities that makes outdoors pursuits different from the larger world of sport is that everyone is a teammate. These are not spectator sports. The fans are the players, and while the activities may be individual, they are almost never attempted alone. We are drawn like magnets to others who understand the unexplainable sense of freedom and peace experienced when we're loose in the natural world.
We may have little else in common; we may come from different social worlds and disagree on everything from politics to what's wrong (or right) with the Saints. But before we realize it, our mutual devotion to the outdoors means we end up spending a significant portion of our lives together, sharing unforgettable moments in the places we love most - in boats, blinds, on trails, around campfires.
We become a family, and going hunting or fishing without a member of that clan becomes as unimaginable as spending Christmas without our other families.
Joe became a member of my extended outdoors family more than 30 years ago in typical Joe Courcelle fashion: He was a volunteer at a civic event involving children and the outdoors.
In this case it was the City Park Big Bass Rodeo. At the time, bass weighed in at the event were summarily executed - they were nailed to a leaderboard for all to see. When the event was over, they often were thrown into the garbage bin. Well, Joe finally had enough of that. A member of the phone company volunteer group, The Telephone Pioneers, he volunteered to be weigh master and provide a fish tank that would allow live release. That tradition continues today.
Soon enough Joe and I were fishing and hunting together, and I discovered I'd met a man who seemed to have more than 24 hours in his days. He was a prize-winning decoy carver; an expert on antique lures; a licensed fishing guide; a hunter-education instructor; an officer in several outdoors-related and civic groups - and a citizen who simply couldn't refuse any call for help, whether from a group or an individual.
Joe had a restless mind, and a very sharp one. He knew how everything worked, and how to fix it. He was a carpenter, a plumber and electrician - heck, he built his own house. He wanted to know the background of every story I wrote, especially if it was something he hadn't done, or someplace he'd never been. And, of course, he wasn't shy about expressing his opinions - especially of my opinions.
We had good-natured arguments about everything. The right bait. The right duck call. The right shot load. The right tide, anchors, reels, rods, lines, guns, seasons. Friends joked we sounded like an old-married couple - we were The Bickersons. And Joe never gave in. If I looked up at the sky on a cloudless day and said the weather was fine - Joe might take a sip of his coffee, put it down, look around and then say, "Well, it is for now."
Of course, what seemed to make him happiest was catching more fish or shooting more ducks than me. He was a very happy man.
Joe's love for the outdoors was pure; he didn't have to catch or kill to enjoy a trip. Just being there was really enough for him. If I began moaning about the slow pace he would say, "Hey, just relax and enjoy this sunrise the Good Lord is giving us. You know how many people never get to see this? Besides, where would you rather be anyway?" He was always at peace in the outdoors, always excited just talking about the next trip.
In fact, when the sad news came in October that Joe had lost a 10-month battle to recover from a devastating stroke, the first memories that flashed back to me involved those kind of days - the times when we sat in a duck blind looking at empty skies, or were anchored over a reef during a slack tide, those times when nothing was going on.
Those quiet hours are when outdoors friends share their lives with each other, when we talk about events and challenges from home and work, reveal our regrets and our hopes. And it was in those settings that I really came to understand the man Joe Courcelle.
Joe was passionate about his country, and was dedicated to his Catholic faith. And, above all else, he loved his family. His wife Bernie, his children, his growing number of grandchildren were a source of tremendous pride and joy in his life.
I also came to understand that the scores of men and women he called friend were always close to his heart, could always count on him.
I still count on him today. Every time I take his wooden decoys out of the bag, unwrap their anchor lines and put them in the pond, a flood of good memories come rushing back.
And those memories provide the opening lines of the many "Joe stories" that every member of his outdoors family seems to have and enjoy retelling, especially during those quiet times when the ducks aren't flying or the fish aren't biting.
It seems members of this outdoors family may die, but they never really leave.
That's the lesson I learned in 2010, thanks to Joe Courcelle.
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