Listening To Old Men

Standing at Phoenix Metrocenter, children play games, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Our bus is nowhere to be seen. Then, he appears. Short white hair, a lovely smile, dark green polo shirt, and a pin on the collar professing his faith in a man on the cross.Apparently the shuttle service that Amtrak offers connecting Phoenix to Flagstaff is not a bus at all, but a white passenger van. Tonight, Mollena and I are two of the three riders, and after a quick stop at the QT, off we head down the road.I decide to sit in the first row of seats while Mo takes a lie-down in the far back. The two older gentlemen strike up conversation in the front. I could chime in, my brain thinks early on… but instead, I listen.The words are peppered with accents – one local, one a snowbird who splits his time between Arizona and Wisconsin I believe. Conversation is slow, measured, working at a pace. No one is fast to get information out. The trail of words twists from how many times a day the shuttle runs into favorite hiking areas in the area. The driver, in his genteel drawl, says that he used to hike as a younger man, but nowadays is very happy to be living somewhere flat.I sit and soak it in. Information on regulations concerning the use of copper and steel buckshot as compared to lead. The best places to hunt for ducks of five different species in the area. There is sadness combined with troubleshooting as they discuss the current standings of pheasant and antelope populations in the United States.Apparently in various places in the Midwest, the government has approved financial support for farmers who will let part of their property go fallow for pheasants to breed. Apparently the wild turkey population of Arizona is returning, something that is surprising everyone. Apparently there are wild camels in Arizona.Why are there wild camels in Arizona? Because after World War 2, the military believed that the next likely war was going to be in the middle east. Thus, they deployed camel-riding training centers to Arizona, where they were also breeding the pack-animals. That way, when the war came, both beasts and riders would be ready to ship overseas.When the warzone that sprung to attention was Korea, they let the camels loose.My brain swims with images of the nutria population in Oregon, brought in for the fur trade and left to go wild. Of the nutria population of Louisiana, who have laid waste to the land.The snowbird has a family member who works for FedEx. He explains how much better it is to fly airplanes for shipping companies. The passengers don’t complain, and both of them chuckle before a comfortable silence descends and the miles snake by.Controlled burns pop up along the way. The smell fills my heart with thoughts of my Primal Arts Tribe, of a certain fire magician flickering by red ember light.As a young man, I am grateful to sit and be quiet when old men speak. To feel the years of wisdom slowly tease out in simple statements and passing comments. Knowledge of Cabella’s operations overseas for hunting trips. The best places to go for target practice. The types of skeet and trap shooting available in the local area. The complaints that locals lodge against shooting ranges… that they moved in next to.I am reminded of Gasper, and how he and I had planned to do a handgun training intensive in Nevada. I am reminded of Scotty and Judge each sharing stories of helping skin and clean wild game. My mind flashes with the taste of my uncle Lee’s elk jerkey.Sometimes, becoming a man is the little things.Like sitting in silence as old men talk.