Thanks to circumstances outside of my control, I wasn’t able to hunt the spot that fueled my off-season rut dreams. I took one buck there last year, but it was the other two that had me itching. The buck that never cleared the brush while I was at full draw. The buck that raked a pine tree, but never gave me more than a tail and tight quartering-away window. I wanted another shot, but didn’t get it.
I’ve been on Plan C and D before. But last weekend seemed much further down the alphabet, probably because I put so much hope into the spot I coveted, that is now forever changed. Before I could be rewarded for figuring something out, I had to find a new spot and do it all again.
They say it takes a good five years until you become a good teacher and I agree. You have tried enough to know what is likely to work and you can adjust to the dynamics of the students. You can create and connect and hone your craft when, at the start, you were just trying to survive. Survive now has a different meaning in year 17. I’ve never felt that I have ascended to the realm of expert teacher because that seems incredibly arrogant given the sheer number of variables that comes with teaching. It’s educating people, not tying flies.