An outdoorsman matures into curmudgeonry while maintaining his zest for adventure

“Well, you know you have outlived your expiration date,” the fellow I had met all of maybe seven minutes earlier said to me.

A few years ago, I wrote of the impending disaster of entering my sixth decade of life. The column was written tongue-in-cheek. I had no intention of expiring or becoming significantly diminished in the outdoor activities that had been my blood of life.

I figured if I could follow Dad’s footsteps and continue to hunt, follow a gun dog afield or otherwise be outdoors every day, as he continues to do into his 80s, the atrocities of advancing years would be barely noticeable.

The people I admired the most were the old ranchers, farmers, woodsman, hunters and fishermen who just kept doing what they did. My thoughts have always been of being in that company.

While approaching the inevitable declining years, one envisions the horrors of it all without knowing how the world may change drastically for the better, particularly in the outdoors, and perhaps more notably for one’s partners.

During the summer of 2019, while the Swan Lake fire tormented outdoor enthusiasts on the Kenai Peninsula, Christine and I endeavored to climb up to a valley that held a secluded glacier. We had seen it from another angle years before and wanted to get a look from above it.

Starting the climb, we enjoyed a “hole” in the smoke that swirled through the mountain valleys around us. Unfortunately, we had no four-legged companions, electing to leave them home for fear of the smoke creating issues for them and because we would climb rather slowly compared to normal.

I had not yet figured out the problem that eventually turned out to be a blocked artery in my leg.

I could climb, but after a brief period the pain in my leg would worsen and demand I stop for a bit. Then it would get better and we would go again.

I spent the climb apologizing to Christine for being so slow and holding us up. After a fashion, we made it the 4,000 feet up and sat on the rim, peering at the glacier that had, over time, receded rather dramatically.

Christine broke the quiet of the moment when she said she enjoyed the climb more than the hundreds of others we had made together over the years.

Why, I wondered out loud. Christine said that in the past, when we were out hunting or just climbing around the mountains, there had always been a cloud of urgency around me. Like I couldn’t completely relax. She said that even in repose, I seemed coiled and ready to spring at any moment.

For the first time, that hadn’t been the case. We just plodded along, enjoying the country as we climbed.

It took some time before I realized what I had put Christine through over the years. Pushing and pressing, not just going over the next hill, but getting there as soon as possible. She has always been the perfect partner, never complaining about anything I did, even when it became clear she had plenty of reason.

She suggested I had been trying so hard to prove I wasn’t getting old that I had begun to miss the point, to be disrespectful of the land. Tromping across the flowers instead of stopping to smell them, it seems.

It’s funny what sometimes surfaces when you are forced to look at reality. I had always admired folks who, in advancing years, took on that measured quality that does not invite drama, fretting or urgency.

Taking things as they come, backed by a lifetime of experience that brings the confidence in doing so.

Reaching that point where the things that were stressful — mostly because of the ego driving them, like shooting well, getting game and covering ground — no longer matter because in the big scheme of things nobody really cares, and no matter what one does well, there’s always someone to come along and do it as well, or better.

I expect no one looks forward to getting old, but who among us doesn’t enjoy the curmudgeon? Those folks who have reached that point in life when they don’t much care what they say, or what others think of them.

I feel like maybe I am well on my way to curmudgeonry, at least if the number of times Christine runs for her notebook and pen to write down some outlandish thing I’ve said is an indication. Most, of course, aren’t suitable for publication in an award-winning newspaper.

I’ve been blessed with a sense of humor that allows me to see the comedy in almost everything, even when I’m the butt of the joke. So it came as a surprise when the doctor told me I had outlived my expiration date and I found no humor in the statement.

Maybe it is attributable to spending a year listening to the dangers faced by folks my age and older. Maybe it is struggling through nearly a year now of tobacco-free existence, and wondering why I bothered.

Expired. It means no longer useful, like the soured carton of milk that gets poured down the drain.

I may not be as useful as I once was, but I gotta tell you, I have a lot more roaming around the country, hunting, fishing, being a part of this land I love so much. I hope those of you who are expired will join me.

Steve Meyer is a longtime Alaskan and avid shooter who lives in Kenai.