The last words my Dad whispered to me just before he disappeared into the darkness were “If you freeze out, go sit in the truck.” I watched the beam of his flashlight fade and thought to myself that Hell itself would freeze over before I froze out. I wasn’t about to cut my first deer hunt short just because I got a little chilly.
I had been preparing for this moment for the whole of my young life. The hunting seasons of my childhood were spent standing in our driveway, waiting to see what my dad brought in from the deer woods. Either that or stretched out on the living room floor with one of his hunting magazines and a sharpie, marking the spot where I’d shoot bucks quartering to or away, hoping that he’d catch me at it so that I could prove to my dad when he did come in that I was ready to be a deer hunter. The year I turned twelve, he finally agreed to find out.
But half an hour into my very first deer hunt, I wasn’t so sure. My toes had been tingling since we stepped out of the truck, and my teeth started chattering the minute Dad disappeared. Not having a clue which direction was east, I swiveled in my seat, searching for the sunrise and hoping to share its warmth, but when it finally broke, it was a weak and watery sun that greeted me. I was huddled against the base of a pin oak and holding on for dear life when the wind picked up. That wind cut through me like a sharp knife through a gut bag, and I experienced for the first time in my short life the kind of bone-chilling cold that makes a man question whether or not he’ll ever be warm again. And then, to make a bad situation worse, I squinted through watering eyes at a block of empty woods. Nothing was moving.
I held out as long as I could, but between the cold and the wind and that block of empty woods, I eventually had to admit I was done for. As desperate as I was to prove to my dad that I could hang as a deer hunter, I finally gave up and headed for the truck.
The truck that was my shelter and my salvation was Dad’s 1968 GMC. Three on a tree. Bright white headache rack against a faded red paint job. I crawled into the cab of that truck and reached over to turn the key in the ignition but stopped short. More than anything in the world, I wanted to start that truck and crank up the floor heater, but I was afraid that if I did, the truck would run out of gas by the time we were ready to leave, or worse, that the engine sputtering to life would spook a buck that had just stepped into dad’s crosshairs. So, I settled in and waited to defrost.
There is no sweeter relief when the wind is up and the mercury is down than to take shelter in the cab of a pickup. When exposed to the wind and the cold for any length of time, your skin goes numb, but the instant you crawl into the cab of a pickup and pull the door shut behind you, your skin starts to tingle and burn. There is a moment when the two phenomena overlap, a moment when you wonder how an extremity can be so completely numb and yet so agonizingly painful at the same time, but then the moment passes and the defrosting begins. The cab wasn’t exactly cozy, not when I climbed into it, but it wasn’t long before I felt the rays of the rising sun begin to radiate through the windshield. I positioned myself so that I could soak up as much of the sun’s focused heat as possible and gradually thawed out and got comfortable. When Dad froze out an hour later and made his own way back to the truck, he had to shake me awake.
That was November of 1987, and I only thought the world was cold then. Thirty-five years later, I’m learning just how hard the wind can really blow. I’ve faced the challenges that life throws at all of us, everyday things like taxes and tuition. But I’ve also had some curveballs thrown my way. A doctor’s diagnosis changed dramatically the way that my wife and I will grow old together. And then I’ve taken on my fair share of the world’s troubles, too. I fell into not one, but two career paths that require broad shoulders and a sympathetic ear. For one reason or another, I have regularly and repeatedly found myself at the base of that pin oak subjected to the world’s wind and cold.
The older I get, the more life throws at me, the more I catch myself wishing that I could crawl into the cab of my dad’s pickup truck and take shelter from the elements. Just close the door against the wind and wait for the sun to do its work. Not that the old GMC could protect me from the kind of cold I’ve come to feel in adulthood. No, that kind of cold blows right through the bones and straight into the soul. It necessitates another kind of shelter entirely, and I’ve had to look elsewhere to find it.
In an ironic twist of fate, I now find my shelter in the same outdoors that once sent me running for cover. These days, it’s actually a prolonged exposure to the elements that provides me with the emotional comfort Dad’s old pickup previously provided for me physically. When I feel like life is freezing me out, I string a bow or shoulder a rifle and walk the woods in search of shelter. I climb into a tree stand or crawl into a ground blind, settle in, and wait to defrost.
A few mornings like that and it doesn’t matter how cold the world’s winds blow. I find my shelter.
About the Author
Kyle Wright pastors a church and counsels addicts and alcoholics at an inpatient rehabilitation treatment center. It’s heavy work. The time he spends in deer stands and turkey blinds lightens that load. Writing does too.
