One Foot in Front of the Other
David and I went out coyote hunting late one night last week. The moon was nowhere to be seen and the stars were tiny pinpricks, seeming higher and smaller than usual in an inky sky. We sat and called for a long time with no luck. Quietly, we picked up and moved farther down the ridge line, feeling more than seeing our way. We picked our way down a sharp slope and up again, making our way to a position that would put our backs to the gentle breeze that was coming in from the South. We set up again on the edge of a bluff, David placing the call below us along the creek and me scanning the area around us with a thermal scope. The thermal is amazing. I could see the familiar country all around us, the grass and rocks and dirt a bright white, the cedar trees black and the cattle red hot. They were laying together, a mile away, chewing their cuds contentedly and gazing curiously in the direction of the call. A rabbit darted across the clearing below us, but nothing else was moving. We sat and called for a long time and finally decided to pack it in. After a brief scan of our surroundings with the flashlight, we set out in the general direction of the pickup, the flash of light disorienting and making the dark even darker when it clicked off. We walked slowly, picking our way through brush and tall, dry grass and over gritty gyp rocks. It was too dark to see my own feet, or what I where I was placing them but I walked on, following David, the stars offering no help from above. As I walked, I thought about the faith it takes to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Trusting that the ground will be there to meet my boots, trusting that the pickup will be at the end of the path, trusting my feet to find purchase on whatever they land on. Without trust, without faith, I would have to just stop. And while it’s an option, it’s also NOT an option, because there would be no one to walk for me, no one else could bring me up that ridge and deliver me to the truck but me. Faith is a choice, but it’s also sometimes the only choice. You have to just keep walking, keep trusting, and know that you will get there eventually. My thoughts turned to my art career. The one foot after another I’d been placing carefully, but placing, nonetheless. The inability to see where I was stepping or where, exactly, I was going to end up, just knowing that I want to make my way there, one way or another, and knowing that no one can do it for me and stopping is simply not an option. I thought about David, walking sometimes in front, sometimes beside me, both of us breathing hard in the chilly air, laboring our way up the slope. We have that same faith and trust in each other; that same faith and trust in our life together and the goals and future we are building together. We take a lot of calculated steps in business, but there’s also a lot of putting our feet down and carrying on when we can’t see the ground in front of us. I’m glad I don’t have to do it alone and I know he feels the same way. The pickup appeared suddenly ahead, starlight glinting subtly off the chrome grill, it sat like a stoic sentinel on the crest of the hill. I breathed a sigh of relief and we trudged the last few steps a little faster, knowing where we were, our feet remembering the smooth nature of the ground where we'd parked. The noise of the engine and the tires in the grass were impossibly loud after our hours of quiet in the dark. I love that we go call together, even if we don't see a single coyote. Just sitting quietly, not talking, no screens, no telephones, just one another, experiencing an evening sitting and walking together, quietly trusting together. I hope we go again soon.
