Still waiting for one of these days
One of these days, I’m going to follow the rainwater that falls on the hill and crawls to the stream below.
I will follow this water through the tall grass and puddles of mud. The stream will become wider, I suppose, and tickle its way into a river. I’ll marvel at the scenery nearby. There will be birds in trees and game upon the banks.
One of these days, I’m going to string the old fly rod and learn to tie a delicately translucent knot. A fly fisherman, I am not, but I am an angler. A nearly ripple-free pond entices me to load a rod and lay tippet, string and a popper across.
There is craft, I suppose and brush strokes, too. Any fish on a fly is a fish to treasure. The old fly rod, its cobwebs and aging bamboo are too dry, too forgotten and need to feel the tussle again.
One of these days, I am going to replace this old hat. It was 1980-something, and I know the store it came from. It has shaded my face many times, though the plastic snap on the back is long ago dry and brittle and a the safety pin now holds it tight. The brim is soft and frail, but it still shields my face and cools my nose.
When I wear this hat, I think of the 1980s and my grandfather, and I feel it tight on my head again.
One of these days, I am going to camp beneath the stars on the beach and hold a fishing pole in my hands like the soothing instrument it is. The water will be black and empty, and the anticipation of a bite will be enough to keep my grip tight and sure. Oh, to be cleansed by a night on the surf, the stars above and the emptiness of the ocean.
One of these days, I am going to wake while the game I seek feeds far from where they hide. I will creep and sneak in the darkness. Perhaps my steps will have gone unnoticed.
One of these days, I am going to find what always seems to be on the other side of the hill. I always wonder, but I rarely wander.
One of these days, the stars will align, the moon will serve justice and the fish will be hungrier than all of the other days.
One of these days,the air will be cool, the leaves and ground will be soft, there will be a gentle breeze and all the senses of a hunt will be worth all of the days that heat, dry ground and cloud-littered skies skewed the senses.
One of these days, my hooks will be sharp enough and my arrows will fly straight and true.
One of these days, that box of stuff I have contributed to for so long will be lighter.
One of these days, I’ll fix the scratch in the stock that reminds me of a day when the sky was blue and game did show.
One of these days, I will sit when I think I should walk. I’ll listen and not just hear. I will absorb and not just dismiss. I will know the sound of the bird on the hill and why it sings as it does.
One of these days, I will find something I have lost. It might be the knife that is buried by 20 years of leaves and weather, or maybe I will stumble across the hatchet I had when younger.
Somewhere between the seasons, the sunrise and the moment in darkness when the moon appears to smile, I have realized a need for one of these days. On this journey in life, where the road sometimes blends to ditches and a hill seems to go on forever, we all have tasks to do.
In this place where we blend into the environment or cast with anticipation and hope, their always will be a need to follow, find or reclaim.
The fish do not always bite. Game does not always show. Yet I know that there is a place in the sand for my head to become still. Eventually, my steps will be quiet and into the early darkness I will creep.
One of these days, the rain will come, the ground will soften, the streams will flow and I will go to the east.
Enjoy your time outdoors.
You may contact Jason Hawkins at firstname.lastname@example.org.