I awake this morning, having no idea the events that are about to transpire. I suppose that, on some level, every morning is like this. I don’t live on any particular schedule. Moment to moment is my philosophy, with the occasional plan. It drives my wife crazy, but I‘m just not wired for planning things too far in advance. Maintaining a certain level of immaturity has always been one of my greatest gifts to society. As kids, we take things as they come. As adults, we tend to believe that that we are entitled to have complete control over the unfolding of events. When we find out that we don't, we start scheduling in a feeble attempt to manipulate the forces of nature. It’s all downhill from there; little black books, alarm clocks, electronic schedulers, play dates, time-lines for withdrawing troops from third world nations… “React” is my motto. Take the world as it comes and react to situations the best way that I know how. Now, some of you may say that this is a plan. Well, it’s not. Think of it more as a, moral guideline to living.

So I am waking up this morning. I scoot to the edge of the bed, scratch my ass, and do my dog stretches. As I walk down from the sleeping loft of my cabin, I look out the window and greet the day. It looks miserable out there. The lake is rippled from the howling wind and the trees are bent at angles that would make Jenna Jamieson jealous. Looks like sleet fell through the night. “Good day for a hike,” I think to myself as I throw a log on the glowing embers and ash.

The cabin is in complete disarray from the night before. Every inch of counter space is littered with beer bottles and caps. The table looks like the remnants of a barbarian feast. Three plates; my lovely wife’s, the Old Man of the Woods', and of course, yours truly‘s. My shot gun and the Old Man of the Woods’ are leaning against the casing of the front door. A fireworks display at midnight is always a good way to usher in the new year.

I read somewhere that twenty-five percent of new years resolutions were broken within the first twelve hours. If I can wait until noon to crack my first beer, I’ll fall within the other seventy-five percent; sorry sons of bitches that make new years resolutions. I pull my jeans over my long johns, button my shirt over my white T, and lace my boots. My hat is still on my head from the night before. “How the hell did that thing manage to stay on through the night,” I say in complete disbelief. That thing must morph into a creature as I toss and turn throughout the night; growing hands and fingers with every inch of movement. Maybe that’s why I’m going bald. It must pull my hair out as it is holding on for dear life. “Hmmm, will I need gloves.”

As I open the door, I am punched in the face by the bone chilling gust of wind. I step onto the porch and my legs immediately come out from under me. I scramble to my feet, grab the door knob, and stagger inside, slamming the door behind me. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I yell to myself. “That porch is slicker than two snails fucking in a bucket of snot.” I grab my gloves and my single shot .410 and gently step back out onto the porch.

As I make my way onto the grass, the slickness is deadened by the crunchy blades of fescue and weeds. I figure that if I jump a bunny, I can stew him tonight. Awww, stewed rabbit. My mouth begins to water. The Old Man likes to make hasenpfeffer. A recipe brought to this country by his mother. I prefer just to stew the little critters with what ever veggies I have at the time. I head directly for the conservation area. The thicket will provide me with a nice little break from the wind. Plus, there’s a clearing where I like to sit. That’s right. Just sit.

I make my way up the hill slowly, yet at a steady pace. All the while, thinking about how the days fly by and dreading the inevitable return to the city. Atop the hill lays a slight opening in the cedar thicket. I weasel my way in and down the corridor which exponentially widens. The Old Man cut several cedars down, to provide cover for game. There are also other natural brush piles. I kick one and another…I hear a scurry and turn to see the bobbing of a white tail bursting through the branches and dead leaves. She makes a sharp pivot and a mad dash to the safety of the woods. I am left with amazement and admiration.

There is a fallen tree beside a frozen pond. I take a seat and look at the thawed pockets of water. “I call this the bronc pond,” the Old Man told me one day. “I’ll eventually have a couple of horses living in this here conservation area. I dug the pond for ’em. I figure they can drink that water and venture out into the fields to graze as they please. They can just live in here on their own. In peace. Maybe they‘ll let me get close to them from time to time. If not, I suppose that’s their right. I would like their company when you kids run back off to the city. I want them to just carve out their own niche here in the woods, you know.” Air gurgles up and splashes the liquid onto the ice. Most of it, seemingly, dissipates and the other eventually trickles to the melted opening. I take a deep breath and exhale, with no particular thought in mind.

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