Howl

Not long after graduating from college, I invited a few high school chums to Evins Mill for a "men's retreat." More than a caddish gathering of twenty-somethings, it was conceived with an elevated purpose in mind - to share with each other our respective life missions and the perennial goals that would naturally flow there from. There would also be a heavy dose of critique and accountability. Heady stuff for sure. And in just a few days, I ship off for the 14th such retreat in as many years.
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The idea for this outing sprouted during one of life's more earnest moments - when horizons were seemingly limitless, and before we made those decisions that would inevitably impose the boundaries born of career, marriage, child-rearing, financial planning and so on. If I wax nostalgically, I do not do so regretfully, as for most of us this is life’s unavoidable trajectory, and I am thankful for my own.
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I'm also appreciative of the confreres with whom I annually discuss life's plans and passages. And if this rarefied notion of goal sharing was born in earnest, these conclaves have been anything but innocent, and remain punctuated by bouts of sophomoric debauchery and witless irresponsibility. None will forget the time we nearly burnt down the vacation home graciously lent to us by a family friend - indeed, it is seared in our memory. But we can laugh about it now - right George?
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In spite of ourselves, we dutifully reserve time for a modicum, if not a muddle, of personal transparency, though I’ve witnessed that such openness increasingly dwells as much on our past as on our future - and is now as reflective as it is ambitious. With more miles behind us, this shift in gears makes sense, as does another shift - our visions for the future are now marked as much by aspirations as they are by metrics. Perhaps some of us, humbled or tempered by time, are hedging our bets.
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That such testimony is routinely shared with and by alcohol-impaired minds undoubtedly renders the exchange less crisp, but openness, such as it is, might not percolate at all without bourbon’s succor - for alas, the shadow of the strong and reticent man looms large even for the most self-possessed among us. Sober or otherwise, in these late night communions we break bread and new ground, even if the following day we couldn't always describe in detail the mountains we just scaled.

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And if these wayward retreats do not exactly measure up to my original vision, it's all for the better, for the vision was as pompous as it was well meaning - and would surely render such weekends a grinding slog. As it is, they have evolved into a rich tradition that I think all of us to varying degrees anticipate and relish. Even if I don't frequently see most of these jackasses, I take comfort in their ritualized company.
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And to the loved ones whom we leave behind this weekend, should you witness a faint red glow on the horizon, you'll know we burnt the house down this year - and not just figuratively. If on the other hand you are awakened late one evening by haunting bellows from distant woods, do not be alarmed for your safety or our own - as wolves are not the only creatures who would howl at the moon.