Bear Hunt

My son and I share a ritual. It begins when one of us, he as often as I, asks the other to go on a bear hunt. The ritual demands an invitation to bear hunt can not be declined, regardless of weather, or time left in a tied football game. If you are asked to bear hunt you are required to respond, "Let's go."

A half mile trail winds through a few acres of cedars on the far side of the lake behind our house. We walk the path with our eyes peeled, carrying sticks. We haven't seen a bear yet.

The name stands.

A November morning with frost on the ground and a stream of division on the news feed makes a bear hunt appealing. At four he is becoming bold enough to run ahead, leading me to a bench at the crest of the hill where I sit and consider the reasons I want to retreat from and engage in society. Along the trail we bust cottontails in the woods and ducks along the shoreline. We examine the workings of beavers and tracks in the frost left by the survivors of last week's deer season. All of it encourages: the cardinals, the cold air, the light reflecting off the cottonwoods.

He's four so he is beginning to run ahead and lead the hunts. But he's four and the hunts still end the same as they always have. His legs get tired and asks to "ride up top," on my shoulders back to the house.

"That sure was a good bear hunt, huh Dad?"

"Yep. It sure was."