Different Similarities

We stood around the campfire getting reacquainted after a year of not seeing one another. Bill stood there in his faded wranglers, black suspenders, and tee shirt with a pocket on the left front containing a pack of camels, with his weight shifted onto one foot more than the other, you could see in his eyes he was deep in thought. Cigarette smoke circled his bald head like some pungent halo captured in the calm night air, wearing a beard kept so close to his face it was difficult at first to determine if it was intended to be there or not. Leaning in, rubbing his hands towards the fire as if he needed its warmth, he started talking.

Bill is as solid as a man comes, with experiences that most of us only read about in a novel, Bill has lived. As he talks, his deep voice gently fills the cool desert air with another story from his jaunts through life. Many of his stories revolve around a past hunting trip in Alaska. The place Bill has called home for the past 35 years. I guess that is where Bill belongs, when I think about Alaska, and the experiences there, I think of Bill; hard, yet beautiful, complex yet dynamic. He is breathtaking, yet refreshing, rugged yet polished, crude yet gentle. They say that once you go to Alaska, you never really leave it behind; it becomes a part of you. That is how it is with Bill, once you get to know this man, you never leave him behind, he is always a part of you. And I am better because of it.

As we stood around that fire in the middle of the Chihuahua desert of South Texas, with the reflection of the flames flickering across our faces, we reminisced about our experiences together, We remembered the day a little over a year earlier when Bill led me to my first Alaskan Moose in the Gakona river drainage just south of Paxon Alaska. We told our stories and shared laughs, swapped lies about other hunts long gone, and dreamed of others to come. We talked for hours about our individual triumphs and heartaches, about lost opportunities, and proud achievements, about lost loves and future possibilities. Wherever the conversation led, we were completely comfortable expressing what we felt, sharing our true feelings, and knowing without question that even when we disagreed there was a mutual respect there, but more importantly, there was a mutual love for one another.

As the night grew and the fire faded we made our way to our tent to get ready for another day, another day spent doing what we love to do, and doing it with people we love being with.

As we entered the tent, the snoring of Walter was easily recognizable, soft at first, then gaining volume as his lungs search for room to place the needed oxygen. Walter goes to bed early, as if more hours in the bag correlate to better opportunities in the field. But that is Walter, he does things his own way.

Walter, at first glance, resembles a French trapper from one of Louis L’Amour’s novels. With his white hair, and strong features, wearing a dark stocking cap, and blue plaid Filson jacket, all that is needed is a trusty Mule, an iron skillet, and a flintlock and Walter is a splitting image. One thing is for sure; Walter is certainly someone that you notice in a crowd. He demands that you do, with his Northwestern accent that echo’s a steady stream of one liners, you know Walter is around when you see people laughing or eating.

Because Walter is a gifted man when he gets in front of a stove, whether it is in the desert of Texas cooking Steaks, or the bush of Alaska where he turns Spam into a delicacy, and wild blueberries into food that transforms otherwise sane men into conniving packrats. With Willie Nelson as his back up, he starts cooking and telling stories. Some argue which is better, the stories as he cooks, or the cooking as he tells stories. Whichever side you take, there is one certainty, you are sure to be well fed and entertained.

A couple of days before Walter and I tired of chasing Mule Deer in the 100+ degree heat and headed for a bluff overlooking a dry creek to see if and pigs would emerge at dusk. As we sat there, the beauty of the place evoked us into a conversation of places we had been and things we had seen. “Remember last year when . . .” I started, and we instantly were drawn to the memories we created in the Gakona river valley the previous year.

As Walter and I sat on that bluff waiting on pigs, I learned a lot about this man, and myself. We sat there separated by over twenty years, yet in complete harmony. You see Walter is one of those men that get under your skin, not like a bur under a saddle, no, Walter is more like an age spot. To some it is a sign of age and wear, but to others, it is a mark of beauty, and wisdom. Walter is a mark of beauty and wisdom. He is a light of hope to many whom otherwise don’t have any. But just like age spots are not appreciated for what they are, neither is Walter. At least he doesn’t seem to think so. But we all know better, He is easy to love, but reluctant to let you love him. He is a man searching for faith, but scarred by years of being let down by people who say one thing, and do something else entirely. Regardless of how Walter may appear, he has touched a place in my heart, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of him and how he is and dream of when we will again sit around a fire and marvel at the church sculpted with divine hands.

Many people have asked how we became friends. How did we hook up when we seem so different in so many ways? My answer is simple. . . we love each other for who we are. There are no requirements, no excuses, just a certainty of respect between three men who have different similarities.