The Man in the Tree
How much does it cost to keep a man in a tree? You may think that I am speaking metaphorically, where a man is mankind, and tree stands for wood, which stands for lumber, which stands for housing, and this man and this tree have an initial no-interest, adjustable rate mortgage which he will all too soon not be able to pay, but no. I mean, how much does it cost to actually keep a man sitting in a tree for hours at a time?
This is not a man who is building a tree house for your children. That would be marvelous and endearing. Also, it would keep both the husband and your children out of your hair for a while.
Nor is this man a tree-hugging environmentalist in the spirit of Julia Butterfly Hill, then 23 years old when she sat in a 600-year-old California Redwood for over two years to save it from being logged in the late nineties. That would be a noble effort, but I’m sure it would put quite the damper on your social life. Did you realize that she had suffered a severe brain injury a year before she parked herself up in that 180-foot tree? As with all amazing feats, I wonder when bravery is sheer bravery, and when it crosses the threshold to carry stupidity as its bride. Either one, however, is preferable to our normal mode of living, which often tends to be stupidity doing a solo gig.
Back to our tree: This is a grown man sitting in a tree, waiting and watching. This man is a type of stalker, but not of the dreaded Internet variety that we warn our friends, daughters, and friends’ daughters against. This man is a hunter. And it is expensive to keep him in that tree, because you see, he cannot scrabble into that tree looking or smelling any old way – which is his usual, spiffied-for-work, and cologned-to-death self. The hunt requires preparations in dressing and libations that are as meticulous as for the young debutante going to her first ball. And thanks to me, you can have a sidelines look at the hunt.
Without naming names, and because I would like to protect my husband’s privacy, we will just call this man “Joe the Hunter.” By the way, my Joe the Hunter has a birthday tomorrow, and since it would be tacky for me to use this newspaper’s precious space without paying for it to wish him a Happy 51st Birthday, naturally I won’t do it. At any rate, it would be easier and cheaper to push this paper into his face than to actually go out shopping for him, because these shopping trips, in this season of the year, require a trip to Clark Brothers, Dick’s Sporting Goods, or the Wal-Mart hunting aisle, where the biggest hunt is to try and flag down a red or blue-vested individual whom you are sure is dodging you, aisle by aisle, every time you catch a glimpse of the fleeting “How May I Help You?” logo on the back.
I’ll tell you how you may help. You may help me by ceasing to run from me. I am not an athletic person. I am not even a hunter, so chasing you is not a thrill for me. Please stop running away from me, and turn around; that will be the biggest help.
The hunting begins long before the wee hours of the frigid morning when the hunter climbs into that tree stand. There are the firearms to be purchased, caressed, cleaned, lubed, and otherwise maintained, even if primitive or souped-up, pseudo-primitive ones are used. This requires time in reading and preparation, honing of skills, and diligent effort to acquire the right tools, which, of course, requires money. These are the things that distinguish a hobby from a pastime, according to my Joe the Hunter-Hobbyist. Anyone can have a pastime, he says, which is something that you do to pass the time, but it requires a real effort to have a hobby.
Then there is the attire. It amazes me how well our Maker has outfitted the creatures of the world with just the right clothing to suit them, and what a monumental effort it takes us to be comfortable or stand out in a crowd or, in the case of the camouflaged hunter, not stand out while in the woods. There is a whole industry devoted to the huntsman’s attire, most of which begins with two words, Mossy Oak. The hunter dresses in layer upon layer: thermals, wool, fleece, “camo,” although these layers never seem to me to be enough to withstand sitting shivering somewhere in the bitter morning cold. The layers seem to become even more insubstantial when the kids are going along. Whenever giving advice to my kids on how to dress for the “cold,” (below 70°F, provided there is no wind chill factor), over their protests, I have to remind them that the word “smother” has “mothers” in it.
It is not enough that the hunter be dressed to the hilt in camouflaged garb. His (or her) clothing has to be washed in a special perfume-ridding detergent to banish all traces of manufactured, deer-repelling, I-am-human odors. These detergents come in special bottles with tough names like “Scent Killer” and “Sport Wash – Scent Destroying Laundry Detergent,” although I know perfectly prolific hunters who use perfume-free Kirkland and All brands.
After dressing up like a tree, there is always that intuition-defying step, the safety issue, which requires an eye piercing, “blaze orange” safety vest or cap to go in search of the red-green color-blind deer. Each season requires research into the particular game being sought. One must dress and smell according to the creature one seeks. (Turkeys, on the other hand, since Thanksgiving is around the corner, have a very keen sense of vision.)
So the hunter, looking like an orange-capped tree, now has to deal with his smell. There is the morning ritual bathing with some sort of odor-destroying “Stealth” soap. After being completely outfitted, Joe the Hunter, sprays himself liberally with a “Scent-Away”spray to further deal with any odors he may produce in the excitement of the hunt and outcome of the physical exertions of walking, crouching, creeping, and hauling every gadget known to man on his back, in his camouflaged backpack. After all this spraying, comes further spraying with “Apple Hunting Scent” spray all over the clothes, head, and boots. Can you guess how this might be different from spraying yourself with diluted apple juice? Good, because neither can I, apart from it costing ten times as much. I am just relieved (not a pun, thank you!) that my husband has not found it necessary to delve into the “Doe Pee” (100% pure doe urine) products or other hormonal deer products that are sold off the counter but should probably not be mentioned in a family hometown newspaper. In all things, we can find room to give thanks.
On top of all these preparations, Joe the Hunter may have recently picked up a three-man blind which very conveniently pops up like a camouflaged tent with three lookout spots. Somewhat inconveniently, however, the darned thing refuses to smash back into any shape that can be crammed back in the packaging or any other transportable form. I am glad I was not asked to wash or spray this little temporary hideout.
My Joe the Hunter has asked me on a couple of occasions to accompany him. I have thought about it seriously, and wonder, does he really mean to ask me? This is an activity in which you haul yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour, while all the world (or at least our half of it) is dark and freezing, and bundle up to sit shivering somewhere. You can’t move around (sitting still and doing nothing for most moms requires a severe headache or general anesthesia) and you can’t talk – despite all those hunting videos in which the hunter is offering his nonstop running commentary in his breathy, hush-hush tones. You can’t read (no light) or sip something aromatic like coffee, because nothing says human like a cup of creamy coffee.
The things I associate with having a good time: people, talking, laughter, food, and coffee, would need to be absent while hunting, but my Joe the Hunter claims it’s just being in nature and hearing the sounds of the woods and fields coming to life as the dawn breaks. Just being there is worth it, whether you “get” anything or not. I think I missed the perfect chance since early November was unseasonably warm, and I hate being cold. I still might go, one of these days. In the meantime, I can work on my wardrobe so I can pass off for a tree and smell like an apple. I already have the apple juice.