The author’s late father poses with his young lab following a Christmas hunt. Simonson Photo.

By Nick Simonson

It’s been a strange year.  Much of the time after the middle of July was a blur in the wake of my mother’s unexpected death in August following a fall, with white and yellow lines on the interstate providing the limited bounds to the chaos of life and the required travel around the region in the aftermath of that event and the administrative duties of estate management that fell to me.  As the calendar closes, I find it odd that in my mid-forties, both of my parents are gone.  In a way it seems too young for that to be the case, as both of my parents had parents well into their late fifties and sixties. As I wake up this Christmas morning, and reflect on the year that was, I find myself drawn to a Christmas almost 20 years ago.

Following my mom’s early-morning wakeup call of rustling plastic bags filled with stocking stuffers, holiday-themed coffee going into the maker, and likely some intentional dish clanking as plates and bowls from the feast the night before left the washer and made their way to the cupboards, I staggered out of my old bedroom and into the glow of the Christmas lights strung around the living room and the gleam of the TV tuned to an early morning news program.  After a bit of conversation and a few cups of coffee, the rest of the house came to and we settled into the living room on the couches around the tree.

A couple weeks before, I had won a prize in the North Dakota Wildlife Federation raffle, and with the gift card, I purchased a brand new 870 Wingmaster for my dad with a bit of my own saved money.  It seemed a fitting Christmas gift, as it was the same model as the shotgun he had given me when I started hunting a few years prior, minus the dings and slight pocking on the blue of the barrel and an old scratch along the stock.  My version, after all, was more than 20 years old. Before wrapping it, I looked it over and admired the shine of the muzzle and the deep walnut of the checkered stock and smiled at the snap of the action as I pumped it open and closed before reboxing it and covering it in shiny red paper.  Tucked just out of sight behind the tree, I imagined the feeling of The Old Man from my favorite Christmas movie, “A Christmas Story,” as he waited for Ralphie to notice a similar present tucked away out of sight.

When my dad opened the package, he held it up and smiled, and after being out of the field for more than a decade, I welcomed him back to the fold as a full-time hunter.

“We’ll have to try it out this afternoon,” I said, suggesting the warm weather and fields full of birds, vast unposted lands, and welcoming walk-in parcels in the bygone era of plenty would be a perfect stage for a late season holiday hunt.

Joining up with a frequent hunting buddy, the three of us headed south of Valley City under sunny skies to a favorite rise of grass-covered hillside that led down into a small ring of cattails surrounding a dried pothole.  It was easy walking, and my lab ran in-and-out of the ten-foot-thick circle of reeds, which cracked and shook in his wake.  We bagged two birds early in the afternoon walk, and as we came to the end of the circle a large rooster pheasant rose in front of my dad.  I can still see the gleam of sunlight sliding down the barrel of the brand-new shotgun as it angled up and into his shoulder while the black belly of the large bird rose up with the gray blur of its beating wings.

With a bang and a puff of feathers, my dog was quickly on it and brought it to my hand.  I tucked it into the back of my dad’s orange vest and patted him on the back.
“Now that’s a Christmas gift,” I said with a laugh as he agreed.

We finished the walk, headed home, and cleaned up our take from the Christmas Day hunt.  After that, I don’t recall much.  We likely watched football, finished off some leftovers, and perhaps played some cards before bedtime.  But the moments in the field that day stand out, like all times spent with family when fishing and hunting, making memories impossible to wrap. And in times like these where wistfulness and wonder combine in the light of early morning Christmas lights and the glow of the computer screen, they once again remind me that the seasons of our giving to others – both in terms of the holidays and hunting – will always give back to us. Those memories in turn sustain us and spur new ones, whether that’s around the Christmas tree as in years past despite the noted absences, or in the late-season fields…of our outdoors