By Nick Muckerman
“Got a question,” my hunting partner said, sitting in the red dirt next to me, our rifles by our sides and our backpacks open in front of us.
It was about a million degrees with thousand percent humidity and we’d stopped for water, a frequent necessity on the tiny Pacific island we were hunting. No matter how much we drank, it seemed we were always dehydrated, but pissing motor oil for a week was worth it to be able to chase wily game in a wild place.
I was mid-swig, so I gulped a mouthful down, twisted the cap back on the bottle and looked at Jared.
“Shoot,” I said.
“Remember that guy in town yesterday? The one riding his bike with the boombox on his shoulder?”
We’d been eating lunch at a little restaurant in the town’s square after a morning hunt that yielded a dead axis buck and mouflon ewe. The island’s only town was tiny and basically two streets monopolized the social and economic activity for the entire island.
We were eating at a little table outside in front of the establishment when a skinny, middle-aged guy pedaled by us on a rusted bike. He was impossible to miss, as we’d heard him before we’d seen him. He’d had his hat on backwards and sported a bright muscle shirt. On his shoulder was an old school, battery-powered boombox, blaring music. Instinctively, I’d felt my head moving rhythmically back and forth with the groove, and the groove was good.
He just rolled by, looking forward, pedaling with the beat, one hand on his handlebars and one holding his radio. Despite not cracking even the slightest grin, he had a content look on his face. Not a care in the world. He cruised past us, then out of sight without ever making eye contact. Soon the music faded away and we continued our conversation without mentioning him.
“Yeah,” I said. Jared was wrangling his water bottle back into his pack.
He stopped and looked at me.
“I guess this isn’t really a question for you,” he said, “but I’ve been wondering if I’d be happier if I was him.”
This was a little deeper than I’d thought the conversation was going, but I’ve found that there is something about hunting and wild places that makes us think about our existence.
“Happiness is a tough thing to define,” I said. I wiped the sweat off of my face. “But that dude looked pretty damn happy.”
“I guess I don’t mean it like that. Not so much if he is happier than me. But I’ve been thinking: would I be happier if I was him?” Jared said. “Like, if my life was simpler.”
I looked down at the red dirt I was sitting on. I grabbed a little handful of it and let it slide out of my hand back to Earth, deep in thought.
“Ever since that guy pedaled past us, I’ve been thinking about him,” Jared said. “I’ve worked for the same company for a decade, grinding it out day after day. I helped build the business from nothing to what it is today. I’ve got a wife and kids, a house, a steady paycheck. I’ve got a good life.”
I said nothing and nodded.
He continued, “but I wonder if I’d be happier if I was just riding an old rusted out bike through a little town square on a tiny Pacific island with a boombox on my shoulder playing music.”
I said nothing and looked out at the ocean.
I’d spent a good portion of my younger days country-hopping all over the world on a shoestring budget with a small backpack with a few belongings, half of it fishing gear. Life was uncluttered. With age and kids and a marriage and a house life became more complicated. When life is complicated, simplicity is craved.
Wild places are often simple places.
We sat there, not speaking, two hunters with a pocket full of big game tags, sweaty, dirty and tired, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It seemed the question was rhetorical to begin with. Sometimes you just have to say what you’re thinking, but there was an uneasiness questioning the deeper subjects of life, things like simplicity and happiness.
The Pacific Ocean laid sprawled before us, stretching to the horizon, the sun’s reflection dancing on the surface. We’d come here in search of adventure in the form of towering antlers and full-curl horns. We’d also come to unwind from the rat race—to trade the complicated for the simple.
Without saying anything more, we both stood up, and began hiking over the dusty ground to the next valley, eyes peeled for movement and our hands ready to make a cross-canyon shot if what we sought appeared before us.
We didn’t talk about it again.
I still think about that guy on his bike sometimes, and I can feel the slight bobbing of my head to the beat. I don’t remember the music, but I know the groove was good.
