I Wish

I wish I were in the African darkness just after sunset and by the fire with my second gin and tonic, not giving a damn about politics or the evil and greed that typifies humanity. But here I sit in an Appalachian rain, new life budding with intermittent sunlight and growing from the mud, while my faith in my fellow man continues to evaporate like the thick fog of a springtime morning.

So far, I’m not all that enthralled with 2026. It’s been cold, and it has delivered a series of small but unfortunate events, punctuated by cracks in the character of some people I know. It has all compounded into what I would best describe as an already long, dark and dirty road. Bitching doesn’t help but it does make the whiskey taste better.

Worst of it all, a friend passed late Friday. He was a good man, a veteran—honest in a way that has become rare. He was a man who makes you question most others who could not aspire to rival his character before they’ll finally knock on Heaven’s door. I’ll miss him. Not just a friend, he was a good father, and his boys and grandkids will miss him more. His wife maybe most. Losses like this take the color out of our picture of life, leaving us with a monochrome black and grey, soft edged and shapeless moaning brokenness.

We had hunted together. Unfortunately—shamefully—I’m not sure when our last hunt was. He once shared the fire ring at my camp. Well before daylight, orange-clad and with the anticipation of kids on Halloween, we headed out. It was still way too dark to see your boots but there was a rifle shot from the ridge where I’d sent him. It was so dark I could not have seen a deer had it kissed me.

But it wasn’t an accident. He’d killed a deer. Of course none of us were about to admit his eyes were better than ours, so we gave the credit to that big Nikon scope on his rifle.

You never know which hunt will be someone’s last. You never know which hunt will be your last. It could be the whitetails you and friends chased last fall, a deer stand you shared with your daughter during a cold November morning, or the turkey you watched your son sneak up on and shoot in the face while surrounded by the vibrant neon-like green of spring. Hunt often, hunt hard, and do it for the best reason—the fun reason—because it has not really been about meat for a hell of a long time. Approach every hunt as though it will be your last, and remember the little things.

Remember the anticipation, the musty smell of the forest floor, the soft moss under your boots, the trickle of a creek down a mountain hollow, the whisper of the wind in the oaks, and the lonesome howl of a coyote on the last evening. Remember the faces of friends and family through the firelight and smoke, as they boasted and told truths and harmless but believable lies. Remember all the laughs, all the smiles, the adventure, and the excitement.

Last hunts don’t tell you when they’re coming, so remember it all to share with others around another campfire after the ones you made those memories with are gone.

I wish I were in the African darkness, many hours after sunset by a warm acacia fire with my third or fourth gin and tonic. Alone and under an implausible blanket of stars as crisp in their brilliance as the breeze is cool on my backside. Jackals, serenading. And me, remembering—in full color—the good times, the cherished times, with family and friends who I can no longer see on the other side of the campfire, while at the same time not giving a damn about politics, or the evil and greed that typifies the human condition.

I’d stay there until sunrise, when a blanket of orange glowing warmth would flood the landscape with the promise of a new day, and the hope that the road ahead wouldn’t be quite so damned long, dark and dirty.

In memory of Rick Dobbins