When I was younger (and it grieves me deeply to have to use that phrase), most of my thinking was focused toward the future. Throughout my 20s and 30s as Dick Clark and New York’s falling ball welcomed a New Year, I was formulating plans about finances, family, and fun in the near future. Rash resolutions were never my style and work, while often rewarding, was more a means to an end, and that end more often than not involved the Great Outdoors.

A few years ago when an unexplained twist of fate spared my life on New Year’s Day and I became very aware of just how fragile and uncertain mortality is, my New Year’s celebrations changed. You see I was supposed to be enjoying an ice fishing outing that fateful January 2nd that had been planned since Christmas Day. A call during the Rose Bowl parade placed an old friend of my fishing partner on the lake that next day, and I was to join them the following morning, January 3rd.If not for that seemingly insignificant call my wife would have lost her husband and her father when the snowmobile broke through the ice.

My father-in-law was a special man, kind and generous to a fault, and his lifelong buddy who was also lost that morning was also a great companion to share any sporting adventure with. So rather than rack my mind and soul more than I did for several years, I spend the first few days of every New Year reliving the great outdoor events of the past seasons that I’m lucky enough to still be around to share with my special blast-and-cast companions. For a couple of hours each day in early January, I repack, check over, and store fishing and hunting equipment that was used and set aside as one outing melded into another since last spring.

It’s all relative

It was also during this early January cleanup period a handful of years ago that it dawned on me how truly important some aging pieces of gear become. You see, new sporting gear, be it rod, gun, hunting or fishing vest, fly box, or duck call, holds no special significance; only older, tried and true equipment can create and hold memories. And in the end, when the last cast is made and the final shot fired, all every sportsman ends up with over the years are special mental mementos. Unfortunately, for many outdoorsmen it’s often when there are far fewer seasons left ahead than ones past that this important fact is discovered. Perhaps the following remembrances will jog others into a change of outlook, celebrating a new year with old memories.

While methodically unpacking and storing a wide assortment of gear from my waterfowling blind bag, from an inside zippered pocket I removed a goose call well wrapped in a red bandana. With melancholy I unrolled the red handkerchief to expose a near pristine Ken Martin hand-carved call – to many a valuable collectors’ item. It was my dad’s. More than 25 years ago this call was a Father’s Day gift from me, and he carried it often but used it little on our many Canada goose hunts, a sport he dearly loved. For the last three falls, wrapped in one of his bandanas, the call has accompanied me on every honker hunt, and despite losing Dad, in a way we still share a favorite pastime in a small way.

Another New Year’s Day task was to reorganize my Atlantic salmon fishing tackle box and sort over a few fly boxes. One large aluminum container with its rows of gaudily dressed hooks needs no adjustment but still demands a bit of extra attention. Dad and his three brothers enjoyed casting over salmon pools for more than 50 years on renowned Maine and Canadian rivers when fishing was at its prime. Because of and thanks to them, I too am addicted to salmo salar.

A brass plaque says the fly box belongs to Bob Graves, and in it are a dozen or so of his favorite flies. I was bequeathed the box when he passed away only three months after my father. Every other clip grips a pattern owned by Uncle Lefty, Uncle Vince, and Dad, and many have never been cast. What makes these flies even more noteworthy and close to my heart is that many were constructed by famous tiers Clovis Arsenault, Wally Doak, and Annie Speakman. Some are half a century old and pristine, tied with feathers – rare in this day and age – and each and every one holds a story and memory that offers me some very special family ties.

Doors and windows

Picking through a large plastic container of spring trolling lures and plugs, after taking a break for lunch, I came across a painstakingly painted Rapala. Mike Wallace discovered about 15 years ago that Square Lake trout and salmon like red and white lures and figured a minnow-shaped plug would work even better. Since there was no such thing available, he took a new size 7 floating Rapala and hand painted it with his own red and white design, and it was a real fish taker right from the start. My scarred and tooth-marked specimen he gave me years ago is proof of its effectiveness.

After more than 30 years of fishing and hunting together all over Maine and throughout several states and provinces, Mike moved from five minutes away to five hours away in early December. It has been a difficult adjustment already and it’s not even rod and gun season. We’ll make the sacrifices in time and travel to keep our outdoor adventures intact, but as I checked out Mike’s special red and white Rapala a few days ago, I couldn’t help but daydream about our Aroostook River trolling trips, spring salmon fishing on the Matapedia, and pheasant gunning over Maddy, his German shorthair. The best friends leave the biggest empty spots in our lives when they’re gone.

In the vein of “God never closes a door unless he opens a window,” my cousin Steve Hitchcock moved home this summer after being gone for nearly 40 years. Steve and I grew up together and even went to high school and college together despite three years of age difference. Growing up we also spent a good deal of time afloat and afield, and even when our jobs kept us living six hours apart, we continued to hunt and fish as many times a year as possible.

Now we live only 15 minutes apart and our outdoor exploits are only going to get better. This past fall, in fact, I got to see Steve accomplish a Pine Tree triple play on big game as he tagged a black bear, a bull moose, and a whitetail buck. In my den are a set of carved wood ducks and a Canada goose that appear so real they might fly, Steve hand-carved and painted them for me. Longtime goose hunting partner Beaver Pierce happens to be Steve’s brother-in-law, so we enjoyed some great waterfowling this past autumn, and more memories are in the making for the new year.

Odds and ends

Continuing my reflections and reminisces the next day as I cleaned out pockets and hung up vests and jackets, I found a 3-inch shotgun hull I’d stowed away in October. I’d picked it up on a whim while stowing our goose-hunting rig in its trailer following an outing. After introducing bass fishing buddy Roger Shaw to goose hunting the previous fall, and getting him hooked pretty good on the sport, I’d been able to accomplish the same feat with his son.

Lee Shaw packed up and moved back to Mars Hill after a decade’s absence, a desire I’d sensed almost two years earlier when he fished with Roger and I during a vacation. Lee’s premier Canada goose hunt was one to remember on a warm breezy afternoon when I coaxed a half-dozen honkers over the decoys and father and son each took a double from the flock for their two-bird limits. When Lee opened his double barrel over/under to eject the shells, I surreptitiously slipped one in my pocket. When I got to my truck I used a marker to color the primer and inscribe a date, maybe I’d give it to Lee’s son when I take him goose hunting the first time years down the road.

A bedraggled white and silver fly in a small zip lock baggie brought a smile to my face as I traveled back to daybreak casting to schoolie-sized stripers on Casco Bay. Guide Tim Rafford, Buddy Horr, and I greeted sunrise sight fishing around the rocks and ledges of several islands one July morning, and that torn and tattered fly helped me catch and release more than two dozen fish from 14 to 26 inches long.

I have a turkey feather from a Texas Tom that was one of the 17 gobblers to saunter within arm’s reach of my ground blind one afternoon. I was hoping to spot an axis buck during an afternoon hunt after fishing for rainbow trout all morning at Joshua Creek Ranch, but no luck. What I did get was a few close-up photos of Rio Grande turkey and a feather dropped during their retreat. Working with wildlife offers some wild memories.

Over my two- or three-day New Year’s cleanup regime, much of the time was spent thinking about the old year. Some sadness, a lot of joy, a few regrets, and a whole lot of satisfaction and contentment were relived from last year’s outdoor adventures, and my companions near and dear to my heart. I’ve got all the rest of this month to look ahead and plan for 2007, but I won’t regret one minute of my time spent looking back. Here’s hoping this year is full of outdoor fun and fulfillment for all sportsmen so there will be plenty of memories for everyone to look back on next New Year.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com