I’ve been drawn to the outdoors all my life, and I have to thank my grandfathers for fostering my love of the natural world. They didn’t have very much in common, but they shared one thing: each was an outdoorsman. My city-reared grandfather (I knew him as Gramps) moved to the country as soon as he retired. It was the realization of a lifelong dream, made possible by a long lifetime’s hard work. He’d had a small garden in his suburban home, and he brought his skill and enthusiasm with him to his new old house in dairy country, losing no time in transforming 24 acres of overgrazed pasture into a lush haven for wildlife. He was understandably proud of what he’d done. Almost from the day I learned to walk, he took me with him for ever longer rambles around “the property,” teaching me the names of the trees and flowers we saw along the way and opening my eyes to the cycle of the seasons.

These walks were accompanied by a certain degree of ceremony. In fact, they were quasi-formal occasions, and Gramps was a gentleman of the old school. So he always made sure he was properly attired. In particular, this meant wearing a hat. His favorite was one he’d purchased from a New York City haberdasher. It had been a rich, deep chestnut brown when it was new, but years of sun, rain, and sweat had faded the felt to a mottled and disreputable khaki. It also smelled of citronella and hard toil, and my grandmother often banished it to a dark corner of the garage, right next to the kerosene can and the grease gun. But Gramps always hunted it down. He had lots of hats—he’d been a sales clerk in a men’s store at one point in his life, and he’d made good use of his employee discount—but the worn, old chestnut felt was his favorite. No, it was more than that. Much more. It had become a part of him, in the same way that a leather bicycle saddle becomes part of the rider. Gramps felt incomplete, almost unfinished, without the old hat fixed firmly on his head.

My other grandfather was a very different sort of man. He was a part-time Adirondack guide who’d lived far from the big city all his working life. He taught me to fish for brookies in remote beaver ponds and introduced me to the arts of canoeing in a battered old Grumman. Grandad knew all the boreal birds by sight and sound, and he passed this knowledge on to me. But our excursions together were very different from my leisurely strolls with my other grandfather. Unlike Gramps, who was happy to move at a speed that a five-year-old could easily match, Grandad set a fast pace, even on trails that were little more than deer tracks. And he didn’t make concessions for the short legs of young girls. I either kept up or I got left behind to find my way back to his cabin as best I could. There was no question of stopping to swat any of the legions of blackflies that swarmed over my exposed flesh, nor was there time (or breath) for idle chatter. Which was just as well, I suppose, because my enforced silence meant that when Grandad spoke, I had little choice but to listen—and Grandad never spoke unless he had something important to communicate. There wasn’t much about the backcountry that he didn’t know.

Like I said, Gramps and Grandad had little in common. Still, Grandad also wore a hat. Always. But—unlike Gramps—he didn’t particularly care which hat he picked off the rack by the door when he went out. None had a special place in his affections. The same thing couldn’t be said about his shirt, however. Make that Shirt with a capital “S.” Grandad had lots of shirts, but he only had one Shirt. It was a much-patched old US Army utility blouse with deep chest pockets. No two buttons matched, and the collar and cuffs were frayed and threadbare. The shirt stank, too—a legacy of years of applications of fly dope compounded from a recipe that probably predated Nessmuk‘s celebrated castor oil, pine tar, and pennyroyal “varnish.” Whatever it was, it worked, and the stink was a small price to pay for freedom from blackfly bites. Of course, Grandad could have soaked another shirt in fly dope and retired the old Army relic. But he didn’t. That smelly, tattered shirt was Grandad’s constant companion in the woods. He wouldn’t set off on a fishing trip without it.

Clearly, Gramps’ hat and Grandad’s shirt were more than articles of clothing, and their value transcended the merely utilitarian functions of protection from sun and rain. They were outdoorsman’s talismans. And like all talismans, they brought good luck to the possessor. Most backcountry travelers cherish something of the sort. It may be a commonplace item—like an old felt hat or a threadbare shirt—but it has a special meaning for its owner. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much to say that such talismans are imbued with a kind of magic. And make no mistake. Outdoorswomen have talismans, too. I’m no exception.… Read more…

 

 
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