Eden Lost

I feel the creaking of my back as I shift my backpack from the truck’s tailgate to my shoulders. It’s been a long whitetail season of stagnating in a treestand, sipping coffee and noticing my muscles atrophy. I was due for a backcountry hunt in a bad way. I was also due to get out of the cold grasp of Colorado and find a place I can take my bow on a walk in short sleeves. 

As I grab my trekking poles and hear the beep of the truck locking, I mentally prepare myself for the six mile hike in. The elevation isn’t going to be the issue, but a loaded up pack with eight days of food and everything else I need (need is a funny word when it comes to the backcountry) to chase Coues deer and javelina with my bow might be.

I settle into a rhythm, falling into a trance from the consistency of my footfalls. I let the trees pass, welcoming the sight of each one and its difference from the last. The hours tick away and I’m content. The ache from my back reminds me how lucky I am. The pain is good, it keeps me in the present and helps me to enjoy being in the exact place I am.

As I pass by a bend in the path I walk into an old beat down corral. The fencing is sun worn with deep recesses like the skin of a Floridian that’s seen too much sun and years. It’s ramshackled appearance deceives the necessity for craftsmanship demanded of the day, yet no thing that man can create can outlast mother nature and her biggest advantage over us; time.

The sun is growing higher and I know I need to move on if I want to set up camp with the great glowing ball’s help.

Pushing through the sandy washes saps what little energy I have left. I’m ready for camp and I’m ready to canvas the nearby mountains, seeing what they offer up to chase.

I peek down at my phone’s map with increased rapidity the closer I get to my destination. This leads to the last mile feeling like the first five.

One final bend and my map indicates to me that I’m finally at the predetermined camping spot. Picking flat areas to camp often goes awry with e-scouting, but lucky for me this time it’s leveler than an RV campground.

The dull ache in my shoulders forces me to eject my backpack and I instantly feel gravity loosen its grip on me. As I unpack the discs in my spine decompress.

I stand up, a full inch taller, and look at the compound that will serve as basecamp for the next eight days. No Taj Mahal, but no slum either.

The week slides by like with me following my shadow from sunrise to sunset. The land seems oddly dead. There’s no companionship on the other side of my glass. The wind howling is my only reprieve from the silence and I turn to internal dialogue for entertainment.

I know I could move on, look for land that would produce, but I don’t. I stay in the stagnating desert mountains. The animals hold no sentiment to the land. They move where they will be most prosperous. I don’t. I’m locked in on the loneliness of the land and am absolutely content with it. 

Sometimes we need to sit. To breathe in what is offered to us. Continuously striving for success can be exhausting. Sometimes we just need to accept what is in front of us, good or bad.

My eight days are up. Time to go see what civilization has gotten itself into. I don’t see mushroom clouds so I figure there will still be a human race when I get out of here.

I numb my brain and set my feet into locomotion.

“Do you know yer trespassing?” I hear from behind me, pulling me out of my trance.

“I’ve been hiking through here for years. There’s always been an easement here, has that changed?” I ask.

I can see he has no ill will towards me. He looks like a decent enough guy so I decide not to add in that I just looked on Arizona’s Fish & Game website backing up what I had just claimed. No use throwing facts in a man’s face.

“Well there has been. We just bought the property this year. We decided we weren’t going to continue to allow public access. Just too much could go wrong allowing the public through the middle of our land”, he replies.

“I see.”

I can’t say as I blame him. A bummer yes, but I get it. By cutting out public access through his property he now has tens of thousands of acres behind him that essentially becomes his personal hunting grounds. 

“That’s a shame,” I continue, “I’ve been hunting back here for years. I’m going to miss the place.”

A look of understanding comes across his face. He takes a long pull of his black coffee and changes the subject.

“You see anything back there?” he asks.

“Well, yes and no. Not much for deer. Saw a little doe wandering about, but that’s about all. Saw some pretty land though. A little oasis back in there. I’ve never seen it as dry as it is though, kinda disturbing.”

“Yea, we’ve been saying the same thing here. We haven’t seen much at all, hell we couldn’t even find sheds laying about. They musta moved on to greener territory,” comes his answer.

Yea. Must have. 

“I reckon I should be doing the same,” I reply, “Enjoy that piece of earth behind you, that could be Eden back there.”

I move on, filled with nostalgia. Another place that I won’t ever set foot on again. The feeling is so permanent, like waking from a long sleep with a finger missing. You’ll long for it, but you’ll adapt. There’s really no other choice.

// Fred Bohm