Matt Liere: Which way is which?

This past Christmas season, during my 11th-hour shopping expedition at the mall, I was reminded of how bad my sense of direction is. I was trying to find Barnes and Nobles from JCPenney’s and got all turned around. I stopped to ask a young woman laden with department store bags if she might know the way, and she did, telling me to head west, then north at the end of the hall. She may as well have told me to get lost, because I already was.

Certain things are expected of those that spend considerable time outdoors. Any fisherman worth the bait in his box knows a variety of knots that can be used to tie a fly or lure. Most hunters have a basic understanding of shotgun mechanics and are able to take them apart to clear a jam, remove debris from the breech, or give the entire assembly a thorough cleaning with minimal effort.

I’m am able to perform these and other tasks satisfactorily enough, and believe I’m of, at least, average intelligence on all things outdoorsy. But don’t expect me to know which direction I’m headed, or understand anything more than “turn right” or “go left,” because then I’m at a total loss.

Given the tendency of most to direct blame somewhere else for their inadequacies, I could easily target technology, such as Garmin and Google Maps, for making me lazy, hindering the development of my internal compass. However, I come from a generation that used rotary phones and read actual paper books, long before such handy alternatives were available, and have been slow to adapt to anything after Y2K. That was scary enough.

Even elementary Cub Scouts skills, like knowing on which side of a tree moss grows, or how to use a shadow-stick to tell direction – remembering these basic tasks escape me. The names of actors starring in obscure commercials, or the number of albums Def Leppard released between 1980 and 1990? These are the things my mind chooses to catalog.

While helpful at times, such as when playing Trivial Pursuit, or wagering for beer at a bar, they have very little value to an outdoorsman hunting hogs in the tangled woods of a southern Louisiana bayou, with no potable water or inkling of how to get back to the truck. Unless the day is clear and the sun is shining in a familiar hemisphere, I’m the last one anyone should ask where we might be, or in which direction we should go.

And while I may not have a clue which direction north is, I’m not ashamed to admit it. In fact, this flawed gene has found considerable positive traction over the years, and acknowledgment has been key to my continued existence.

By being honest and upfront with my partners, whether of the hunting or casual variety, I’ve successfully avoided embarrassment and conflict, and lived to tell about it. The humiliation that would normally come from being rescued by the Coast Guard as part of a lost duck hunting party might have been mortifying for some, but not for me. Didn’t bother me a bit.

A number of dates and couple of wives have benefitted, too, given the authority to navigate from the passenger seat of the car without fear of a scolding should we happen to get turned around. Most men might recoil at the thought of giving up control at the wheel, but truth be told, I don’t have clue which way we’re going the minute we leave the driveway and feel nothing but relief.

Speaking of feel – did you know that butterflies can taste with their feet?