This topic contains 3 replies, has 2 voices, and was last updated by Anonymous 8 months, 3 weeks ago.
October 29, 2017 at 7:19 pm #346552
The repeating noise of the punching the jackhammer offers to the face of the concrete is becoming a distraction to what I really enjoy about working at the sewage treatmant plant. The plant, hundreds of acres in size, is surrounded by thousands of acres of agricultural fields. With a large river near by, waterfowl fly overhead from the time the day wakes until it goes to sleep, and probably even after that but by then I am asleep.
Wandering thoughts are in the forefront of my mind. Each time I hear them yelling at one another, I stare with a gaped mouth at the beauty they offer to us all. As they leave sight, a humbling thought is stamped into my brain. I peer around at all those who construct the structure we are building and realize this may have once been where those geese slept. Replaced foe with heavy large equipment and humans that outnumber them two to one. Perhaps it was a meeting area for the monogamous gees to have a dinner date to find their lifelong mate. Is it so important to have as many structures as trees, to this point, the structures possibly outweigh the trees that remain. For few I imagine are left meant to grow as our society expands its reach among the wild.
An in depth struggle develops from within, as to what I should do. This new plant being built is the first of its kind. Using no chemicals, it will put the purest water possible after being contaminated by human feces back into the large river once spoke of. Ultimately, the betterment of the fish, foliage along the bank, insect, animals, and trees just beyond that drink from this river will benefit. Is that worth the price of the fowl losing their restaurant where two may fall in love?
Furthermore, if I can not fully comprehend the magnitude of this dilemma. Or if I can not support the taking of the fowl’s meet and greet. Should I quit, and let my own family go hungry? Or perhaps in a different light I am contributing to the wildlife benefiting opposite the fowl’s suffering. Most would say that is a good thing, but most I think do not take pleasure so deep in hearing a honk of an overhead goose, or the thunderous fluttering of the wings by a flock of 40. If I should stay, I am likely to see the angry fowl overhead for 4 more seasons, that’s when the construct should be complete. Supposedly, I have plenty of time to decide in what I should do.
October 30, 2017 at 1:17 pm #654863
Meaning is important to me when I read something, and this had me struggling to retain the meaning.
For example, the repeating noise. Of what? A jackhammer? I don’t get what “offers to the face of the concrete” means. I mean, I know you’re referring to the action of the jackhammer, but the phrase does nothing for me in getting the image. In fact, it confused me.
I couldn’t find the “flow” of this. I am constantly looking for something deeper, but never just enjoying the writing. An “in depth struggle from within”? This kind of phrasing isn’t so far outside the norm this I don’t see the basic image (I think) you’re presenting. But I can’t see the full think. For me, it’s like an image that double-exposed just a couple of millimeters apart. There’s a fuzziness that distracts me.
October 30, 2017 at 4:35 pm #654864
Thanks a lot for your response RobTheThird. I will adjust in hopes that it satisfies.
October 30, 2017 at 4:36 pm #654865
The anticipation of the season to come starts when the season ends. For me, the anticipation of the season never seizes, for I long to observe the fowl each day. The tranquility and serene silence they offer to my soul is only disrupted by the welcoming quack of the hen Mallard. Whilst in the marsh, I am completely at peace aside from some momentary frets of sporadic anxiety when it may be my turn to put cheek to stock.
Last three season were spent hunting in Tennessee. Where the access to hunting seemed limited but abundant. If one were to put the effort to adventure to the hard to reach places, they might find a good display of natural fowl behavior. This season will be spent in California. Hunting the grasslands is appealing but foreign to me. The system they have in place seems efficient as well as fair, but offers limited access on the opener. Tennessee’s large body of water in the land locked state I was near, offered public access North and South for thousands of hunters if willing. California’s bordering ocean holds no bounty for me, as it is far away.
I entertain a price to pay, on top of the expensive license, stamps, and passes already bought. They are no expense I wouldnt gladly offer, this cost of participating in the outdoors is warranted. I partake in reservation purchases for passes in hopes that my name will be given a number in which would be used to wade in the water prematurely. Over ten management areas were put in for, and the results were zero for ten. Luckily, resorting to what is referred to by the state as a lottery draw was an option. This I did among 92 others, again the results were bleak but wading seemed attainable. The number issued was 80, 80 out of 92 behind 75 others with reservations.
Sleeping in the truck over night to wake early and stand in line in hopes that enough room will be spared for number 80. It is not. 72 behind 75 was the last of the tail lights I watched drive through that cattle gate that lead to a spider web of gravel laced dirt roads to the peace and tranquility I cherish. Crushed, but more so confused. What happens now? Will there be a solace for me on this day? An older man with experience hunting this managed area explains to me something I wish not heard. Put your name on the list yet again, hope that those gone before shoot where they’re going and not where they’ve been, and you may be hunting by 10:00 a.m.
So as told, I did. Back to the truck I went and waited. No issue staying awake and watching the fowl fly overhead at daybreak. Listening for the alarm to blare on my watch indicating legal shooting time. Then overcome by sleep, woken by the loudspeaker blasting a name throughout the lot filled with scattered trucks and campers. Reaizing it was reality and not the nightmare I had thought, I wander to the window as vehicles begin to exit the cattle fenced starting line to the freedom beyond. Greeted by smiling faces and lanyard of ducks, a spot is open. One down and many to go.
15 people exit before my name is offered, I accept and move to the spot previously scouted on the map. I am thrilled to see the beauty hopes for. Not disappointing was the calm water with the slight breeze that rocked my decoys in the wind. The tule that we’re home seemed at peace, with little disturbance from hunters who stamped unconsciously that morning to be comfortable in their concealment. Set up now, decoys spread in front, swamp stool beneath and the round in gun, I smile at the warmth of the sun. Mallards, teal, and sprig hover all around. The only nuisance heard is the sound of multiple blasts from all around, likely offered at ducks of too great a distance to reach. I smile at that thought for my friends with orange feet.
I sat all afternoon and gazed at the beauty of the wild. Although none were harvested that day, I would not have changed this experience for Tennessee. The wild eye see here is robust and appears in thriving condition. Well managed by those who partake in the dividend we pay to hunt in the paradise of these WMA’s.
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