You only get one season

You only get one season

The creek came nearly to her knees as she worked her way upstream through a tunnel of tag alders. Her middle brother led the way, ducking beneath branches as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has. The oldest walked beside her, never pulling her along, just close enough to help if she needed it.

Walking in the creek was easier than fighting the brush along the bank. The tag alders had grown so thick that staying dry would’ve taken twice the effort, so the four of us followed the current toward a little lake tucked back in the woods.

It didn’t take long before all three of them were catching bass. Every fish was celebrated and every very cast carried the promise of one more.

I caught a few but found myself sitting on an old log more than I found myself fishing. Just watching.

Watching the oldest quietly keep an eye on his little sister without making a big deal about it. Watching my middle son disappear around the next bend, convinced the next cast would catch the biggest bass in the lake. Watching my little girl grin every time her bobber disappeared beneath the surface.

As I sat there, I caught myself wondering where the years had gone and I realized something I hadn’t expected.

I knew exactly where they’d gone.

They’d gone into babies riding in backpacks down forgotten trails. Into trout streams, muddy boots, campfires and one more cast before dark. Into weekends where we disappeared for a few days, not because we had somewhere better to be, but because we were exactly where we wanted to be.

The years weren’t lost,  they were invested. Invested in memories. Invested in slowing life down long enough to actually experience it together.

As outdoorsmen, we’re used to seasons. Trout season. Turkey season. Deer season. They come and go. Miss one, and another eventually rolls around.

Childhood isn’t like that. Childhood is one season. You only get one chance to experience it together.

Years ago I read that by the time your children become teenagers, the majority of the time you’ll ever spend with them has already passed. And watching the three of them catch bass in that little lake, now ages 8, 7, and 5, I didn’t need a statistic to tell me it was true anymore.

Maybe that’s why we’ve chosen the slower road.

Almost everything we love doing as a family takes longer. Camping. Carrying little boats into forgotten lakes. Food plots where everyone wants a turn driving the tractor. Even walking to the mailbox. It’s slower.

And I think that’s exactly the point. There will always be another trout season. There will always be another turkey season. There will never be another childhood.

You only get one season.

I’m just glad we realized that before it was too late.

Realizing that, of course, didn’t suddenly give us more time. It simply changed how we chose to spend the time we had.

Somewhere along the way, my wife and I made a decision. We realized the best part of our week wasn’t the time we carved out for ourselves. It was the time we spent as a family. We don’t have date nights. We have family nights. We’d rather build a campfire than make a dinner reservation. We’d rather disappear for an entire weekend together than spend an afternoon wondering what the kids are doing.

That choice comes with tradeoffs, and we’re okay with that. The grass gets a little longer than I’d like. Projects wait another weekend. Someday there will be time for spotless floors, finished projects and perfectly trimmed edges. I’m sure that season of life will come.

But this one won’t.

By the time we started walking back through the creek, the conversation had changed. Nobody cared where we were headed anymore. It was all about who caught the biggest bass, whose fish jumped the highest and who almost caught “the really big one.” The bucket still held a few worms. Three pairs of boots were soaked. Every fish was swimming again.

Nobody was ready to leave.

Neither was I.

One day I won’t be waking them before daylight to chase a turkey or head to a little lake. Hopefully we’ll still have mornings together. They’ll just look different. Maybe it’ll be meeting them at the landing before sunrise. Maybe it’ll be at the tailgate before walking to a deer stand. Maybe one day they’ll be the ones calling me, asking what time we’re leaving.

I hope they do.

That’s really what we’ve been building all along. Not just childhood memories, but a relationship that lasts long after childhood is over. One where they still want to spend time with us.

When I look back on these years, I won’t remember whether the lawn needed mowing or another project sat unfinished. I’ll remember a little girl making her way upstream through a tunnel of tag alders. Her middle brother leading the way. Hank walking beside her, just close enough to help if she needed it. I’ll remember sitting on that old log, listening to three kids argue over whose bass was the biggest.

I’ll remember realizing none of it was time lost. It was moments invested. Invested in memories.

Invested in slowing life down long enough to experience it together.

There was never enough time to do everything. So we chose each other.

That’s where our time went.