Considering the benefits of the natural measure of time

“What time are we leaving in the morning?” Christine asked me regarding a ptarmigan hunt the next day.

“Early,” I said.

The familiar look of exasperation clouded her face as she replied, “Early is not a time; it’s a thought, an idea, speculation, and evidently only you know what it means. I need a number.”

One must take entertainment where one can find it, and these conversations always make me chuckle. I came to my style of time accounting early in life, being the alarm clock for my Dad and me on hunting days. In truth, with few exceptions, he didn’t need an alarm clock any more than I did. But he knew the weight of the job meant more to me than the sum of its parts.

I performed the task with pride. As I evolved, numbers fled the scene, replaced with terms or phrases like “with the chickens,” “when the geese come off the lake,” “first light,” and “after sunrise.” None of it depended on numbers in a circle hanging on the wall. Time was related to weather, migration patterns, and moonlight, or lack thereof. Basically, the rhythms of the prey species we were after.

I don’t remember Dad mentioning circadian rhythms or the so called “body clock,” but it is the natural rhythm driven by instinct in most animals. He did tell me to pay attention to everything when trying to learn about the fauna that inhabited our territory.

I remember him telling me that the pleasure of watching animals grows when you begin to understand their behavior and eventually be able to predict it.

One spring, after I had turned 10, I spent most evenings tucked into a small patch of chokecherry bushes on a slight rise that overlooked a deer trail that led to the creek below. The afterlight of dusk would settle around me like a cloak, and the deer would start making their way down to drink.

There were a couple of bucks, their antlers short and covered in velvet that I could see growing from day to day. Two of the does that came to water appeared small and still in their first year of life. A third doe displayed half again the weight of the other two and had some scars that suggested some life experience.

I wondered if the two smaller does were the offspring of the larger one. I wasn’t sure, as they would come to water separately and didn’t seem to have interest in each other. That was early in my outdoor education, before I understood the dynamics of animals and their largely indifferent regard for each other except when very young or during the breeding season.

One night the larger doe didn’t appear. When I told my Dad and asked him if he had seen or heard of a deer being killed in the area, he told me no. He advised that I might want to get to my hideout earlier and stay later for a bit.

A couple of days later, the bucks and small does returned at dusk, drank and left the waterhole. Stars were appearing in the early night sky when the big doe showed up with a fawn in tow. I must have breathed while they came and went, but not much.

The twice-yearly ritual of manipulating our clocks, and our sensibilities, by the silliness of daylight savings always gets me to thinking about animals and the time game that I try to avoid when it comes to hunting, fishing, or any other enjoyable outdoor pursuit.

Winchester and I were out looking around, just to be out there, on the day of the blessed event. We came across a ruffed grouse hen, which is a real treat on the Kenai Peninsula, given their scarcity. The bird seemed amenable to conversation despite Winchester’s trembling frame and cold stare.

“What do you think about getting up this morning and finding you missed the allotted time for breakfast?” I asked. No reply. “How about having to go to bed while it is still light. What about that?” A puff of the feathers on the grouse’s neck suggested boredom.

“Did the goshawk trying to make a meal out of you sleep in this morning?” With that, the beautiful bird jumped off the low branch and walked off into an alder patch, tired of my gibberish.

I wonder what percentage of the population has grown up never being out of touch with civilization and the time clock it represents. What with satellite phones and the internet, one can stay in touch almost anywhere.

In the days before technology invaded the outdoor world, we could go on a hunting trip and forget about everything until our return. Now hunters can call, text or video chat all over the world, from the slopes of the world’s most magnificent mountains. Don’t worry, if you forget about daylight saving time, it’ll be set automatically on your cellphone.

No doubt, the conveniences afforded by technology have been intoxicating. Maybe for some of us, too much so, and now the hangover has us in its grip. It’s a bit embarrassing when you think about it.

I don’t remember who said, “You cannot be lost if it doesn’t matter where you are.” It doesn’t really matter, but it sort of goes hand in hand with the sentiment that I’m sure someone has said before, “True freedom is not needing to know what time it is.”

In the end, isn’t that what our outdoor pursuits and adventures are about? Freedom to disengage from the demands of technology, and soak up the healing the outdoors has to offer. It seems a worthy course to pursue.

Next time Christine asks what time we are going hunting, I’m just going to say, “Just stay up and follow Winchester and me when we walk out the door.”