I stand ankle-deep in the water, fervently arranging the gear in my boat. I had left home before my brother, yet there he stands, by the edge of the marsh waiting for me. No matter how early I leave, that is always the result. As I bend over to set my shotgun along the gunwale, he flips the hat off my head into the muddy bottom of my boat while impatiently asking, “Are you ready yet?”
With a huff, I throw my hat back on my head and walk the boat into deeper water. As I gingerly step in and grab my rice pole, I give my standard response: “You lead. I’ll follow.” Little sister follows big brother. That is the way it has always been and the way it will always be.
On this afternoon, we are hunting a large pothole accessible only by water. We each stand in our own pumpkinseed boats as we pole across the channel. Our respective Labradors sit up front, poised like frozen sentries. I start out right behind my brother, but he quickly broadens the lead. I watch as he effortlessly launches his boat forward with each hitch of the pole. I wonder to myself how many times we have done this, and how many more times we have left.
Our early hunts together did not involve poling a boat. Those endeavors were restricted to hip boots and a long walk. My brother, being bigger, older, and stronger, always led the way. I cannot count how many times I have followed behind his broad back and thick neck, stepping directly into his fresh tracks.
We have hunted together from central Minnesota to the plains of Saskatchewan. We have trained dogs, brushed blinds, and watched sunsets and sunrises come and go. Together, we hunted with our father every chance we had. And four days after Dad’s death, silent tears dropped from our cheeks on the first season opener without him.
Last November, we had gone out for an evening hunt but hunted separately. Despite the hope that came with a windy day, neither one of us pulled the trigger. By closing time, the wind had died, and I stood picking up decoys in a calm, pink dusk. The water was a magenta sheet of glowing glass as I poled back to the landing.
My brother stood waiting for me. After loading my boat and gear we cracked open a couple of beers and sat on the tailgate, staring out over the calm water and rising moon. Every single one of our hunts ended with us sitting on the tailgate together. On this evening, after a minute or two, my brother jumped down and walked to the edge of the placid water. He stopped and stared at the expanse of marsh, bathed in the gold and pink hues of a hunter’s twilight.
“This is my absolute favorite, poling back at dusk over a colorful sheet of slack water,” he said. “If there’s a heaven, that’s what it is for me. Others can have their streets of gold; I just want this: to pole across a river at sunset and disappear into the horizon.”
He said all of this to me with his back still turned, facing the calm channel. Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew it held the pensive look of an old lion nostalgically surveying his golden kingdom. I studied his hulking silhouette, outlined by nature’s canvas, and thought that if God painted a picture of a man in his perfect environment, this would be it. I then looked to the bright stars above and hoped that he would get his wish. If anyone deserved a heaven like that, it was my brother.
I again wondered how many more hunts we would have together before that wish came true. And then I thought of my own wish for heaven. It starts with me standing by my boat at the edge of that very same landing on a pink dusky night. I will look out at the channel and see my brother standing motionless in his boat, leaning on the rice pole, once again waiting for me. He will holler to me, “Are you ready yet?” And I will call back, “You lead. I’ll follow.” Then for one last time, I will trail in his swirling wake, leaving an empty tailgate behind.
