One is Better than None

Second guessing waterfowl movement and migration is an exercise in futility, but it's just one of the reasons why I love duck hunting so much. Most of the times you guess wrong. Either your timing was off; you set up in the wrong spot; or a migration just didn't occur even though a blustery north wind had every hunter with a pulse out in a duck blind. However, there are times when almost every thing falls in to place, and it's those all too few hunts that hook the weak-minded and foolish into this dastardly sufferable past time. My last hunt, which took place on the 26th, was not one of those times.

The weather was right, the wind was right, and we set up in a very likely though unproven spot; however, the birds were simply a no show- yet the morning was far from a waste. The air was crisp and the sun shone brilliantly through the thin, wispy clouds that sailed smartly south on the northern wind. We bided our time by watching an adult bald eagle cruising up and down the river channel which displeased the murder of local crows who felt the need to cry out in protest of this intruder, albeit from a safe and distant perch of course. We marveled at the handy work of the invisible beavers who had fashioned the dam that made the pothole we were hunting possible. Other than that, my brother and I laughed about silly things and recalled past hunts all the while knowing we were well on our way to receiving our first official skunk on the year. Basically, neither of us felt like picking up the dekes and hiking back to the truck so we stalled, leaning against crooked willow trees and staring at empty skies.

A barely audible noise filtered down from some unknown height... it almost sounded like the guttural whistle of a drake mallard. I wondered, 'have a group of mallards somehow slipped through the radar and be quietly circling our spread?' With one peek from under the brim of my hat I realized what a foolish thought that had been. It was merely the sound of a lonely, single drake who appeared desperate yet cautious for a place to land. He circled once, I called out 3 or 4 quiet quacks. He circled again this time a bit lower. Again, I blew a few hushed quacks when he passed the hole while my brother used his drake whistle for a little extra enticement. The next we saw of him he was fluttering down with an outstretched neck looking for a place to nestle amongst the decoys, and a moment later in the mouth of my dog, Nellie.

Funny how sometimes an uneventful hunting outing can still be memorable. Sometimes one duck, especially when it's a handsome & fat greenhead, is enough.

Merry Christmas!

If any of you guys need a last minute gift idea for that special lady I recommend something you can make yourself. Nothing makes a woman feel closer to you than a gift that is a part of you:

Yankee in a Rut

Unfortunately, the pictures did not come out very good (I had to photoshop this one just so it would show up at all), but there were still 3 eye witnesses to the events that played out late in the afternoon on Friday December 15, 2006. The story isn't unlike thousands of others: Yankee gets his Ford (Powerstroke Diesel F-350 1 ton crew cab, mind you) stuck in some thick mud & mire; 2 southern country boys come along with a Chevy (Silverado 1500 extended cab, mind you) and a little common sense to pull him out. I believe when the above picture was taken the Yankee in question was lamenting the fact that a Chevy was about to get his ass out of a bind and going on about all the Dodge and Chevy trucks he has pulled out over the years and other fruitless commentary that is often made by a man when he is at the end of his rope, or in this case, tow strap.


Long story short, the little Chevy pried the mighty Ford from the cursed mud with a few well-timed and well-positioned lurches. Admittedly, the Yank's powerstroke was stuck and stuck deep, heck, I even had to put my Silverado in 4-wheel drive! Like I said, the before pictures didn't come out too well, but the pictures of the aftermath tell the story well enough. Below, you can see the conquering hero in the background and the muddy maiden in front.



Peace.

A Dog's Life

I realize that is possible to go duck hunting without a dog, I'm just not sure why anyone would? You miss out on so much, not the least of which is a large number of wounded ducks that prove to quick and cunning even when severely disabled to be caught by human hands. Yes, there are times when having a dog can frustrating like when the pee on your dry bag or when they break in excitement and spook a group of working mallards. However, they will always provide more enjoyment and helpfulness than they take, enriching the whole experience of waterfowl hunting even more.

During a recent hunt my dog, Nellie (pictured with my brother Tyler above), attempted and nearly succeeded in retrieving a very much alive and unshot gadwall drake that had fluttered into our decoy spread that we were busy constructing in the full moon light. I had heard a duck plop down on the surface of the water somewhere behind me. I turned around and could make out the silhouette of a duck swimming towards me in the bright full-moon light. I grabbed the spotlight and turned it on the duck that was now swimming abreast of a couple mallard decoys that were bobbing along with the current. For a split second I thought to myself, 'I wonder what Nellie thinks about all this.' In less than a millisecond that question was answered, as she tore through the water and out towards the drake gadwall.

I don't know if the gadwall was blinded by the spotlight or just stupid, but it seemed to be oblivious to the mound of hair & teeth was was barreling through the shallow water towards it. Nellie almost jumped on top of it for some reason which didn't allow her to get a very good initial bite on the duck, only getting a piece of the wing in her maw. The duck let out a terrifying series of quacks and flapped its wings in earnest. Nellie brought the duck back close to her body in an attempt to regrip the duck, but the gadwall must have sense the release in pressure and took advantage of the moment, the gadwall disappeared into the early morning darkness.

Never one for complacency, Nellie had one more trick for us on this day. Later in the morning, Tyler shot one more gadwall, which seemed to be everywhere that day, as it flew by us. It dropped down into a brush pile that had gathered along a bank next to a huge cottonwood tree whose infinite root system had become partly exposed due to some expansive bank erosion and the handy-work of beavers. We knew that the small gadwall was still very much alive and would probably hunker down into some clandestine corner of the immense brush pile never to be found. I sent Nellie out to investigate and she busily tested the brush pile with her nose at first but then began to dive into the pile of leaves and limbs in search for the elusive gadwall. We expected her to return with the duck at some point as she was obviously on its trail so I just let her fumble through the thick pile of brush as she wished- I didn't have clue where it was at anyway. We watched with curiosity then worry as she made her way to the bank and the large ball of roots from the cottonwood tree and then disappeared down a large beaver hole that was just above the water's edge about a foot or so. I immediately got up and made my way over to the tree, concerned that she might get stuck or come face to face with a mad beaver and those large teeth. However, by the time I got to the tree Nellie emerged from an unseen entrance on the other side of the root wad... duck firmly grasped in her mouth.

It's things like this you miss out on when you don't have a dog. My recommendation to any beginning duck hunter is, even before you buy a boat, do your homework and buy the best dog you can afford. Train it, love it, and train it some more. It will seem like a lot of work at first and there will be times when they try your patience to the max, but hopefully in the end you will have not only a great retriever but a beloved hunting partner as well.

Rain, Ice, Snow, Bitter Cold, and then, Ducks

I had almost forgotten how bitter and relentless a winter storm can be as we in the Southwestern portion of Missouri have had several mild winters in a row with barely a trace of winter precipitation since about '01 or '02 (How I enjoy pronouncing the early years of this century as ought-one, ought-two and so on though I do not know why). You have to take predictions that weathermen foretell with a grain of salt. I suspect most of them to be sadists and enjoy spouting prophecies of doom a little too much, perhaps even when meteorological evidence would suggest otherwise. They must enjoy sending the old & the anal among us scurrying like ants to the grocery and hardware supply stores for enough nonperishable items, candles, shovels, & chains for a hunting trip to the Yukon. However, every now and again, against all odds, they get one right.

First off, whenever you have an arctic cold front, and an influx of Gulf of Mexico moisture you might want to delay any travel arrangements or plans of any consequence for the foreseeable future; oh, and if there is lightning during an ice storm I would recommend enjoying your last few seconds of electricity while you can because you will be without its services for perhaps several days. Which brings me to what I was doing during the height of the ice storm as well as the following day that brought with it Currier & Ives type landscapes and pee-freezing temps (that's when it's so cold that when you take a piss it instantly turns to yellow ice). I spent all day Thursday, Thursday night, & a majority of Friday supervising a tree trimming crew whose job it is to free power lines & utility poles from downed limbs and trees so that linemen can repair the lines and get the power back on for the public. Usually, I am tucked away in an office busily working on drawings that are related to substation design & engineering, but during severe power outages I am often called out to supervise a tree trimming crew. It's a great way to make some overtime, but the conditions are usually miserable at best and life & limb threatening at worst. Anywho, during the maddening scurry of getting all Springfieldians back on the grid Thursday, I witnessed a major migration of waterfowl throughout the day which naturally dampened my mood and made me anxious to go duck hunting as soon as possible.

Flock after flock of snow geese, Canadian geese, and mallards passed overhead all day long while the incessant rain/sleet/snow mixture pelted down from the ominous grey sky. They teased me with their clucks and fluttering wings as they hurriedly retreated towards the south and more weather-friendly environs. Surely, I thought, we would have most people turned back on by tomorrow morning, but that was before the ice and snow really picked up.

By mid-morning on Friday I was chomping at the bit to go hunting. There wasn't a cloud in the sky but snow geese were still riding the piercing north wind, only a lot higher up. By 1:00 in the afternoon I was told I could leave if I wanted to. I can't remember if I said bye or anything at all, but I do recall speed skating over the parking lot to my truck and heading home. After running a few errands, my brother and I were headed to the river by 3:00. The ice and snow covered roads hindered our drive and I knew that we would have only about an hours worth of huntable daylight by the time we got the decoys thrown out and setup.

We threw the bare minimum of hunting paraphernalia into the boat: a few dekes, a few shotgun shells, and our dog, Nellie. The 55 lbs. thrust trolling motor blades whirred to life and sent us and our layout boat down the river to a secluded eddy that is favored by groups of waterfowl looking for a place to rest and dine on acorns, vegetation, and invertebrates. A cathartic giddiness took over our anxious dispositions as all manner of puddle ducks began leaping off of the water and flying down the river channel in front of us. Might the duck gods smile down on upon us and grant us a memorable hunt in the remaining minutes of daylight on this most frigid of days? What would have been far fetched only moments before now seemed plausible.

We haphazardly threw out 6 to 8 decoys in the current that was a little stronger than I had realized as we ended up losing two dekes in the quickening pace that the storm precipitation had set in motion. We took cover in a blind I had, earlier in the week, fashioned primarily utilizing a large uprooted tree that had firmly entrenched itself along a shallow sandbar. We watched and waited for the ducks to return.

We began seeing large groups of flight ducks, 100 to 200 birds strong flying southward in misshapen V's and M's. The flights of ducks (that seemed to be primarily mallards) were so plentiful that we quickly lost track of the number of groups and estimated duck count, but if I had to guess I'd say we saw somewhere around 1500 to 2000 ducks high-tailing it to a warmer climate. The sun had all to quickly began to disappear behind a distant hill leaving an orange streaked sky in its path. Even in the waning light the ice covered tree limbs sparkled as if they had been encrusted with a thick dusting of crushed diamonds which with the heavy snow had transformed the countryside into some fantastic, but cold, dreamland.

The sound of wings came from out of nowhere, but that particular sound was unmistakable; it was the hurried fluttering of wings that mallards make just before they sit down on the water. It sounded like a large group of ducks just downstream, but the massive root wad of the upturned tree we were using for a blind was blocking our view. I gave only a couple of contented quacks and then the group finally showed itself, appearing suddenly before us from behind the twisted roots & limbs like so many winged phantoms- all I could hear or see was whistling wings and orange feet. The 15 to 20 mallards hung in midair, searching for a safe spot to land but unfortunately for them, there were no safe spots.

"Let's takem'!"

A thunderous volley of cannonade echoed up and down the river valley. Ducks plummeted back toward earth with a pleasing splash on the river's surface and then almost immediately began floating downstream. When hunting rivers always send your retriever ASAP, or the downed ducks will quickly be lost to the current. If you do not have a dog then don't bother attempting to hunt the rivers. We only shot greenheads, 3 in all. Yes, we likely should have done better but under the circumstances we were pleased. We had come only to get out into the elements and give it a try and we had been blessed by a close encounter with a decent sized group of mallards and three bulky greenheads to add to the "popper pile." There were still a handful of huntable daylight minutes left, but we sensed that those minutes would be better utilized by picking up the decoys, heading upriver, and loading the boat.

I hunted the next two mornings in the ice & snow after that and was rewarded with 2 more good hunts. If memory serves we took 13 birds in all on the weekend, 8 of which were mallards and all of those were drakes. It was the start of a memorable week of duck hunting in Missouri.

Happy Thanksgiving

Hope everyone has a great Thanksgiving holiday. Whenever I think about Thanksgiving I can't help but also think about Air Supply...

I Didn't Die

Forgive me father, it has been over a month since my last blog. A lot has happened over the last month, and I can't believe I haven't taken the time to write about any of it. Firstly, my Cardinals finally won another World Series, their 10th one to be exact, breaking a championship drought of 24 years. It was an incredible and unlikely post season run, which brings to mind once again the dichotomy of media coverage and hype when it comes to professional sports and especially Major League Baseball. As per usual, the Cardinals were given little chance in competing in the post season, but there was even more skepticism than normal (even within the ranks of the Cardinal faithful) as this team had backed into the playoffs with admittedly one of the worst regular season records. However, the Cardinals soon raised the eyebrows of the legions of naysayers and the hopes of their fans as they dispatched the lowly San Diego Padres who are owned by St. Louis in the post season; 1-12 or 1-15 or something like that.

Ok, that was cute, but now the mighty Mets were ready to bring the redbirds back down to earth, and thus the baseball gods, the Fox network, and the biased portion of the media could yet still be appeased even though the Yankees had already been eliminated by Detroit. However, what resulted was the 3rd riveting NLCS in as many years involving the Cardinals- not that anyone has noticed. Game 3 notwithstanding, every inning seemed to carry immense weight in the final outcome of each game. Pitch selections were agonized over and managerial decisions were examined ad nausem, which naturally resulted in a memorable series that was pushed to an excrutiatingly nerve-racking game 7 at Shea.

After the elimination of the Mets and, ultimately, the Detroit Tigers, the Cardinals were less a team who finally played to their potential on the sport's greatest stage and more lucky overachievers who surely must have made a deal with the devil himself to earn the franchise's 10th World Championship. Hell, if it had been the Yankees or Red Sox in the same position then all we would have heard how it was one of the greatest comebacks of all time; I can just hear the lame, over-produced lead-in to Baseball Tonight that would have surely happened if the roles could have been reversed. Cue cornball gladiator music, misty edged video featuring humiliating defeats leading up to a championship crescendo, and the narration of Harold Reynolds Karl Ravech:

"Against all odds, great teams find the courage to compete when it counts the most no matter what obstacles litter their path. There are few teams that could muster the wherewithal to finish the regular season like a lamb but come out of the post season like a lion. However, not all teams can look to their past for inspiration and call upon the ghosts of DiMaggio, Gehrig, and the Babe for guidance. Only the men who wear pinstripes are capable of writing this unlikely story, only the Yankees can pull off this sort of miracle."

...And fade to black.

You laugh, but even honest Yankee fans would acknowledge that if a similar situation would befall them as fate had in store for the Cardinals this year then the story would sound completely different. I don't know, I guess I really don't give a shit what the rest of the world thinks, it's just that I don't want to hear how the 2006 World Champion St. Louis Cardinals are the luckiest team in the history of the universe for the rest of my life.

Oh well, as always, go Cards!

Stay tuned for tales from South Dakota and highlights of the 2006 pheasant hunting trip.

Beer Flavored Chips

There are times when I think that perhaps I was born a couple of centuries too late. I contemplate the romantic idea of being a frontier trapper & fur trader; bartering slick deals with the local Native American tribe with my only company being the pristine virgin fields & forests of 18th century America and her unlimited bounty. Then there are days when I realize that these modern times truly are an age of reason & enlightenment. This is one of those days.

Today I learned that the UK chip company (they call 'em crisps over there), Kettle Chips, have recently introduced an aged cheddar & beer flavored chip. That's right sports fans... beer flavored.

Alternating current, the automobile, the telephone. All were great discoveries, inventions, and innovations, but really, a beer flavored potato chip? My life is complete.

The Fall Time is the Right Time.

I don't know what it was about this time of year that first endeared itself so deeply into my psyche, but it was profound and unyielding. From a very early age, autumn has always been my favorite season. Was it the color? The yellows, reds, and tawny browns of the harvest season measure the end of the fruitful summer and opulent sunshine moods, but my countenance is only brightened by the fall. The colors are beautiful in any setting, shining like gilded treasures in the full light of day and towering above the gloom and gray on those first cloudy and cold days of autumn.

Then there is the crisp air that filters down surreptitiously, only in the night at first, riding quietly on a northern wind. The air conditioning is turned off and we dive into the backs of our closets digging out long sleeved garments and fleece-lined pants that hopefully still fit. Before long, the aroma of the first pot of chili makes its annual arrival followed closely by grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken soup. The cold air might vanish for a day or two, giving way to short doses of Indian summer weather but such days are normally more than pleasant without the closeness of summer humidity.

I also recall the orange harvest moons of my childhood on the farm, giant pumpkin-colored orbs that were bigger than any I have seen since. There is a fullness to the earth in autumn as the final produces of mother nature ripen in chorus and are harvested by both people and critters alike. The final hay crops are cut and baled and the endless fields of corn, soybeans, and milo are brought in as well. There is a peaceful feeling in the work and preparation of winter that cannot be replaced by anything synthetic that I know of.

Then of course there is the start of all the hunting seasons that I look forward to all year with such longing that when they finally arrive I find myself in a hopeless euphoria; the only cure of which is one more hunt, then another, and another still. It's not just the event of hunting the various creatures that I enjoy but the preparation of it all; the camaraderie of fellow hunters; and the idea of being part of another kind of autumn harvest and a steward for this wonderful tradition. The days I spend on this Earth walking out shelterbelts for ring-necked pheasants with my friends and dogs (who I also consider among my best friends) or wading in knee deep water in hopes that a flock of mallards might grace me with a shot are among my most happiest and carefree moments.

One night soon a large flock of snow geese will pass raucously overhead in the darkness while I finish some mundane task in the half-light of dusk. I will look up at only stars that shine bright enough as to not be washed out by the amber glow of the city, but I will imagine seeing the flock riding a cold north wind south as the same gust rattles dead leaves across my yard. This will be a sign. I will retire inside to make a pot of chili and to finish untying the knots in the decoy chords that were made in haste during the previous season or begin packing for a pheasant hunting trip to the bountiful promised land that is South Dakota.

Damn, I love the FALL!

Dove Hunt '06

remember remember the first of September

Soon, a North Wind Will Blow

A river bottom wakes slowly in chorus with the dawning sun. Crows call out as their brethren arrive from their nighttime roosts and a sundry mix of winter songbirds flit about the lonesome bare branches that protect the river's edge. Feathered pink clouds stain the perfectly white backdrop, a rich aroma of coffee jumps out of my thermos and elicits a deep, invigorating breath. Then, only as hushed as dandelion down on the wind at first, from somewhere behind me, the unmistakable sound of wings slicing through the morning sky. The mallards, about 10 in all, fly in low overhead and then bank sharply up river, falling below the tree line they are soon out of sight. I blow through my duck call a short but eager greeting series of quacks, but I do not see them rise up above the sycamore and elm trees. I look out on the river and the small pool of water that has been slow to freeze from the gentle though constant current. Perhaps they didn't see the 6 decoys bouncing lightly in the river's eddy as the sun has not as yet vanquished the long morning shadows.

I take a sip of coffee from the stainless steel lid of my thermos as tendrils of steam encircle my head and then vanish. Something catches Nellie's eye and she whines in response- I am sure the ducks are close; though they have eluded my own senses my dog misses very little. I keep my head down while I watch the chocolate eyes of Nellie shift down slowly. I peer out from under the bill of my hat to see wings fluttering and mallards looking for room to land among the dekes without hesitation...

Man, this cool weather we've had lately has got me geared up for hunting season. Ghost-like memories of past hunts and day dreams of future ones only serve to fuel my anxiousness for autumn. Yes dove season is here, but that is just a tease, a dry run for the real thing. Well, at least teal season begins next weekend. I know I shouldn't wish my life away, but I love hunting. Here's hoping a north wind will blow, sooner rather than later.

On Notice

Just so you know, if you read your name on the following list consider yourself permanently "ON NOTICE."

Reap the whirlwind, Murphy. Reap it.



Make your own 'on notice' list here.

Space: the Infinite Frontier

As an organization, the only thing of note that the Chicago Cubs have ever spawned is one Mr. Harry Caray. Of course he first announced Cardinal games along side Jack Buck, but I'll not split hairs. I actually prefer Harry's short-lived science themed talk show, Space: The Infinite Frontier, to his broadcasting days with the Cubs.



I just had a minor epiphany- I thought of 2 more people to come out of Chicago that were great, too bad they had to leave that city in order to become Hall of Famers. Of course I am thinking of Lou Brock & Bruce Sutter! Thanks, Chicago, for all that you do.

OK, Summer, We Get It

Are you like me? Are you pretty much done with summer? Sure the BBQ's have been great, fishing has been fun, and who doesn't enjoy baseball, but enough already with the oppressive heat. Walking across my front yard sounds like 10 bowls of Rice Krispies crackling in chorus. The elaborate wallows in the backyard next to the house foundation that the dogs have established would make even the most fastidious of pigs jealous. Any chore performed outside has become an experiment in hydration, and let me just say this, those Gatorade folks are full of shit man. Yes, I have lost track of how many triple digit days (the above forecast is for today) we have endured so far this summer here in SW Missouri, and quite frankly I do not want to know, I just want summer to go away... NOW!

I flushed about 2 dozen doves on my way to work this morning that were picking in the dry grass in front of my office building. Two of them nearly got splattered across my windshield, but of course they were able to make evasive maneuvers, as doves are renowned for, and escape death. All in due my time my pretties. It's officially 29 days until the dove opener and with it, the start of the fall hunting season.

It can't get here soon enough for me.

Hammerhead vs. Tarpon

Nothing like fighting a fish for 15-30 minutes only to have a shark come up and take it.

Duck Numbers Up in '06

After a dry and less than stellar year for both duck numbers, reproduction, & duck hunting, I was glad to see a 14% jump overall in duck breeding numbers from 2005 to 2006 in the annual May pond counts conducted by the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. All species saw an increase in breeding numbers except wigeons & scaup, which saw a 2% & 4% drop in numbers respectively. Fortunately, some of the biggest gainers in population were pintails, redheads, & canvasbacks which need all the help they can get. Redheads realized the biggest gain with a 55% increase in breeding number; followed by canvasbacks with a 33% increase, and pintails with a 32% gain in overall breeding numbers. Mallards only went up 8% after a slightly "un-mallard-like" off year in 2005, but breeding numbers are still well over 7 million strong.

Hopefully, the marshes in the north will stay wet this summer and perhaps the predators will have a hard time locating nests in the lush vegetation of the prairies which will propagate a strong hatch and brood survival rate; and in turn, result in a memorable 2006 waterfowl season. And what with temperatures currently above the century mark here in Missouri, duck season can't get here quick enough for yours truly.

Stay cool.

Hunting Catalog Day

A robin is hurriedly gathering dried grass clippings just outside my office window to further soften its unseen nest in order, I suppose, to make the next generation of red-breasted robins as comfortable as possible until at some point they take wing, never to be seen by this hard working parent again. I find myself wondering if its small bird brain is possibly bracing for the warm afternoon ahead; is this instinctual labor merely that or can this curious bird be completing its tedious chores before the summer sun begins to bake what ever beast is not protected by a merciful shade tree. Such behavior would suggest a comprehension of time, which in turn might hint at the concept of a higher order of sentient intelligence than perhaps we give this little robin and all birds for that matter. I have more in common with that robin who flits around all morning long, but is as elusive as a shadow when the sun is high in the sky than I realized. As my office job has admittedly made me soft, the oppressive Missouri heat keeps me from my outside endeavors until the early evening or, if the issue is particularly pressing, the precious morning hours that are certainly far too peaceful to waste while distracted by laborious efforts of sweat & brawn. Yes, summer has only just officially begun and here I am already eyeballing the calendar and counting the days until fall; by the way, if you are wondering yourself, there is exactly 100 days between now and the first day of October!

Ironically, not only has this week brought the beginning of summer, but the two major players in outdoor retail (Bass Pro & Cabela’s) have commenced the annual mailing of their respective fall/hunting catalogs. Though this cynical world has nearly stripped me of any child-like wonder that might occasionally twinkle in my eye, I still cherish a fresh and thick catalog, pungent with the toxic aroma of freshly dried ink. It rekindles a childhood memory of a cool, autumn day and the arrival of the always gargantuan Sears annual Christmas wish book. These catalogs were legendary; any and everything could be found and purchased with relative ease. The latest and greatest action figures were not unimaginatively displayed and labeled with a quick description and price, but assembled in elaborate settings and poses. Tie-fighters chased X-wings across a starry backdrop; a myriad of Hotwheels™ cars filled up at a gas station or grabbed a quick wash at the all new Hotwheels™ service station (which also doubled as a carrying case); GI Joe™ and his contemporaries held their ground high upon a canyon wall while various members of C.O.B.R.A. walked right into an ambush among the miniature cacti, while intricate Lego™ worlds inhabited the opposite side of the page. The Sears Christmas wish books were filled with plenty of things my parents could have never afforded to give me on Christmas, but that was not what the catalog was all about. It was the official anthology of stuff, a manifestation of the current popular culture. I wasn’t envious or ashamed of the fact that my parents couldn’t afford a $500 air hockey table; rather I was awestruck that some little kid might receive such a wonderful surprise on Christmas morning. Sure the catalog represented all that is materialistic, but for the modest child the wish book was merely a collection of cool, and if you were good enough and lucky enough, maybe your parents or the omnipotent Santa would bring you one, just one even, of your most favorite things that could be found on a page in that catalog. Each year the catalog still spoke to me though my pastimes changed as I became older. Now that I think of it, the Sears wish book is where I first learned that the female figure was and is quite breathtaking. I probably didn’t understand at first why I was drawn to those too few pages filled with models in lingerie, but I knew that I liked it very much.

Though my tastes have changed considerably, although I will ashamedly admit that I would still make a quick pass through the female underwear section if given a wish book, I still get a little giddy when I receive my fall hunting catalogs in the mail. They remind me that fall is assuredly on the way and that it will be here before I am probably ready for it. My eyes are more focused on the prices now of course though I am still not envious of things I cannot afford, but rather hopeful that one day my career path & investments allow me to purchase a few of the luxuries that are currently beyond my means. Sure the waders and the upland boots I need to buy before the fall have gone up in price a little, but when you consider a tank of gas costs $60 these days their prices do not seem excessive at all, especially when the joy they will bring to me and my feet out in the field in the years to come is factored in as well. These catalogs awaken that little part of my adolescent mind that still remains and the sense of wonder in all things I consider to be neat-o, to borrow a childhood colloquial phrase. Call me materialistic if you must, but it’s hard to ever completely vanquish that kid who not so long ago salivated on the storefront window while gawking at some new bicycle on display or who spent a little too much time longingly perusing the Sears catalog come every November.

I wonder, does Sears still put out a Christmas wish book? I can only hope for the sake of the children that they do. Of course they probably call it a “Holiday wish book” now!

30

Thirty. It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue as nicely as say 20, does it? Oh well, it's here and to be honest, it's not that big of a deal. Sure there are things in life that I haven't accomplished yet that I would have liked to by now and there are a multitude of regrets, but then there is plenty that I have already achieved and those milestones overshadow the neurotic worries in the corner of my mind left by good intentions. All too often in life, and I am guilty of this on an almost daily basis, we wring our hands with envious worry over the things in life we do not possess, when we should be joyous and thankful for all that we have been blessed with.

There is still plenty I would like to do including finding a more fulfilling career and getting married; though I am certain one will be quite a bit more challenging than the other. Honestly, I have not yet come across even one woman I would consider marrying... Well, there was one but that is a long story.

Anywho, Happy Birthday to me. May the next 10 years go by very, very slow... there's no way I can handle 40!

Good night.

Muskies Inc. Provides Biodiversity on Pomme

While duck hunting last fall on Pomme de Terre Lake, just north of Bolivar, Missouri, we often happened upon wire cages anchored to fluorescent orange buoys that protected patches of what appeared to be lily pads. I assumed that the Conservation Department was conducting some sort of experiment or attempting to add terrestrial habitat for any number of reasons. At first I was a little miffed with their presence as they seemed to clutter a favorite duck hunting cove of mine, but surprisingly the ducks did not seem to mind the bulky and heavy gauged wire panels or the gaudy buoys, some mallards landed within a few feet of the contraptions.

Since that time I have learned, from a column in the News-Leader written by outdoor writer Steve Brigman, that the group behind the mass plantings of both spatterdock, basically a lily pad for the non-botanist, and smartweed is a small organization called Muskies Incorporated. The muskellunge population in Pomme de Terre is apparently evolving into a decent fishery, but the Pomme de Terre chapter spent the time and money in an attempt to further enhance the muskie's habitat. I can only assume that muskies will use the thatches of shallow vegetation as a clandestine cover from which to launch violent yet precise ambushes on bait fish who will undoubtedly be naturally drawn to the habitat that the growth of plants will offer. It is easy to foresee the benefits that will be reaped by the various piscine residents, Pomme will be a better fishery due to the efforts of Muskies Inc. However, I am more excited about the influence the smartweed & spatterdock patches will have on ducks and geese when they fly through the area during their annual fall pilgrimage south.

I have always proposed that if our lakes/reservoirs held more plant life they would in turn attract and hold more waterfowl in the fall. Essentially, a broader range of biodiversity could be found on our somewhat habitat-barren lakes with the introduction of beneficial plant species, like smartweed, that would not only serve as fuel for migrating birds in the form of ripened seeds themselves, but in turn establish their own micro-ecostystem for other species invaluable to waterfowl, such as mollusks & other invertebrates, and aquatic insects & larvae. If these plantings take off at Pomme I believe the waterfowling, especially for puddle ducks, will improve significantly; attracting & holding birds for an extended period of time is the key. Without timely & ample rains to flood ground cover and green timber around our reservoirs in western & southwestern Missouri, these bodies of water will often hold large numbers of resting waterfowl for only a day or two at a time. I have seen the morning sky filled with workable ducks one day and completely devoid of any waterfowl the next. When we are fortunate enough to receive a "10 year flood" the ducks can be found everywhere; in pockets of white oaks in the middle of a normally dry forest and in random fields buried under a foot of water, and of course the hunting ranges from good to excellent.

I know that the habitat provided in these small coves by introduced plantings of smartweed & spatterdock won't be as significant in attracting ducks as a blanketing flood, but even a skeptic would agree that it surely couldn't hurt. I suspect, since a cure for ignorance remains elusive in this era of medical marvels, that there will be those that will decry the efforts of Muskies Inc. and may even attempt to sabotage their hard work. I hope these groves of vegetation will remain unmolested however, if only in the name of experimentation. I would like to see, in the following years, a thriving growth of smartweed and spatterdock taking over the back end of an anonymous cove with a hundred or so ducks, with their tails & sprigs pointed skyward, feeding vigorously on the aquatic buffet laid out before them. Hopefully, the benefits of introduced biodiversity will be so obvious that such practices will spread to local chapters of Ducks Unlimited as well. It would be outstanding for chapters to keep some locally raised money exclusively earmarked for local habitat enrichment. I would like to see our reservoirs resemble more the lakes and potholes in the north and the maritime prairies of the south, that is, flats chocked full of lily pads, pondweed, smartweed, wild celery, and wild rice. I'm not talking about a total takeover, rather pockets of manageable areas of hardy, aquatic plant life, both terrestrial and submergent.

Think this is a good or bad idea? Please respond, I welcome all arguments or agreements.

Turkey Season '06

Tyler with "tag teamed" gobbler.

The bird gobbled from somewhere behind us, just as Tyler and I had given up on the creek bottom field as a viable spot to call in a tom. We looked at each other, and without saying a word, began walking back in the direction we had just come from and toward the single gobble that had pierced the persistent chatter of the rain-swelled creek that borders the entire length of the field. The shin-high grass was soaked with dew and the soil, made porous by a succession of welcome rains, clung to each step while cold water managed to seep through layers of worn Gore-Tex® to soak our pant legs and socks.

The tom gobbled once more, muffled by the lushness of the canopy and underbrush it was nearly impossible to ascertain how far into the woods the tom was or if he was still roosted. Choosing to err on the side of caution, we set up the decoys in the middle of the creek bottom field 30 yards from a wind-row of wild plum & buckbrush and a towering wild cherry tree that offered up a concealing vantage point to watch the field and an effective backdrop to break up our outlines. I chose to ease out a few hushed yelps from my glass call, just to let the gobbler know we were in his neighborhood, and he responded as I had hoped with a gobble or two.

The gobbler remained predominately hush-mouthed though he gobbled just enough to keep our hopes up. Naturally, another hen began calling from the adjacent wood lot, just up the hill from the tom, which seemed to please him greatly as he cut loose with a series of gobbles. I began calling a little more vigorously to insure that he knew right where we were at and then I put the glass call down. "Sounds like he's going to be busy for a while, Tyler," I said half-defeatedly. "He knows where we're at though. It might take him an hour or two, but eventually he'll come out into this field... probably. Keep your eyes peeled though, cause I guarantee he'll come in silently." Second guessing wild turkeys is a futile practice, but after hunting them for around 15 years I sometimes, despite all odds, manage to guess right and set up in the right spot; and although I had no reason to believe in imminent success this time, I liked our chances.

The morning was pristine and calm after a windy and stormy night, which often makes for good turkey hunting weather. The sun peeked through thin, grey clouds leftover from huge columns of thunderheads that had swept through the area only hours before. The scent of fresh gooseberry blooms rode on the breeze lightly and were more pleasant than any potpourri or synthetic fragrance one can find on a store shelf. Grass, weeks ahead of schedule due in part to an early spring, swayed lazily in the wind that also rattled the tender leaves of the cherry tree, lulling us into a daze. A united, vibrant pulse surges through all living things in the spring; the world never feels more alive and you never feel more a part of it.

A short time had passed since we had last heard from our friend, maybe twenty minutes, but we still scanned the edges of the field in earnest, assuming the tom would finally emerge from is forested refuge. Then, a gobble. A loud gobble at that, in fact it sounded like he was in the field with us. I raised up from my seat against the cherry tree and stretched my neck out to examine the field more closely, carefully. There he was, a mere 150 yards away and gaining. He had entered the meadow shielded from our sight by a small rise in the field and grass that was even taller than I realized. I used my diaphram to call out a soft purr and cluck. He cut loose with a thunderous gobble, he was coming in.

"Tyler, get ready," I said. I looked over to my left at Tyler and realized that his sight line was slightly obstructed as he was sitting down a little lower than I was. "Do you see him?"

"No," Tyler replied. I began gradually moving my hand so slowly toward my gun that it was nearly imperceptible, the tom could see me clearly now and was less than 30 yards out. I had wanted Tyler to shoot the bird, but I began to wonder if he would ever be able to get a good, clean shot off. "I see it," Tyler said as he took a bead on the gobbler's head.

Tyler seemed to be searching for a shot as his gun barrel moved sporadically while he kept glancing up over the barrel; my left hand moved forward quickly for my gun. "BOOOOOM," Tyler's 12 gauge BPS rang out through the creek bottom. The tom fell backwards and though he was hurt, he began furiously flapping his wings and after a few awkward steps the bird was airborne. My worry of a bad shot was realized, but luckily I had half-expected it and was ready for the follow-up shot, jumping up from my seat the moment Tyler had shot. The injured tom offered a little bigger target than the ringnecks and mallards that I'm used to shooting on the wing so when I pulled the worn, gold trigger of my old Belgian made Browning A-5 I was fairly confident in the outcome.

The unfortunate tom fell back to earth and Tyler ran out to secure it- just in case, while I gathered my calls. It was our first "tag team" effort on a turkey, and thankfully it was a successful one. It was likely a two year-old bird what with its slightly thin 11" beard and roughly 1" spurs, but the reward I receive turkey hunting is the succulent breast meat and the time spent outdoors during this glorious time of year while in the pursuit of a beautiful bird that all to often proves to have a mind (even if it's only a bird brain) of its own.

There is not much else to convey regarding the 2006 turkey season for me. The season itself was a touch late and the birds were decidedly mute, demure, and cautious. Oh, there were a few missed opportunitiess, but what turkey season isn't rife with "shoulda, woulda, couldas?"

Peace.

The Trials of Tussin

Prologue:

The tradition of Tussin started several years back while fishing with my brother, Tyler, and my buddy Uder on Harry S. Truman (AKA just plain Truman) lake. It was during an exceptionally wet spring, in the first few weeks of June, and the lake was delightfully flooded. Schools of carp, white bass, and a few post-spawn largemouths cruised the shallows, in the back end of coves, hunting for baitfish hiding in the newly submerged brush and green flora. The crappie, our chosen quarry, were also active in and around dead cedars and willing to bite almost any offering below the surface. It was one of those easy fishing days where everything is right; the bite, the water, the weather. You find yourself in an euphoric state and you wish that the day would never end. While Uder and I hauled slab after slab over the gunnels, Tyler struggled with a lingering case of hay fever that had tormented him off and on since April, and the uncanny inability to catch a single fish during this apparent period of plenty. He was a sniffling, sneezing mess and his red-eyed mug matched his mood that grew more acerbic with every fish Uder and I caught. His Robitussin induced light-headedness resulted in strange stories and anecdotes along with a steady stream of bitching. As the day wore on and the livewell became well populated with 10"+ slabs, Tyler's situation became more and more comical- the kid couldn't do anything right. If his hook wasn't getting caught on a limb, the line on his reel was forming intricate knots and birdnesting. He once actually had a fish on at one point, a smallish white bass, but it was able to free itself before getting boated. "That doesn't count," I was quick to point out; a person's misery, especially when it's your brother's, can be highly satisfying. That seemed to be the breaking point as Tyler resorted to exclusively whining and asking 'when we were going to leave' instead of fishing. That's when Uder and I began to call him Tussin. Everytime Tyler would spout something derogatory or begin bitching about his cold, Uder and I would respond with something like, "Ahhh, now come on Tussin. Hang in there Tussin, it'll be OK" or "That's just the Tussin talkin'." We even made up a song, though the exact lyrics escape me now. Mainly due to Tyler's incessant griping, we finally were coerced to leave the lake late in the afternoon though the crappie were still biting. We caught somewhere around 20 to 25 keepers and God knows how many dinks and white bass- none of which Tyler was responsible for. From that day on, whenever someone has had a crappy day fishing despite the success of his boatmates, that person becomes Tussin for a day. It is an easily transferable title as it passes from person to person no matter how unlikely. Pretty much everyone I have fished with since has had their turn as Tussin at one time or another. However, I feel like I have been the victim of the definitive Tussin day that took place on April 15, 2006. A date that I have little doubt will live in infamy from here on out.

Todd's Turn at Tussin

Mid-April for the crappie fisherman is like Christmas for children. Hopes run high as the delicious panfish begin their annual pilgrimage in mass to the shallows in order to spawn. The spawn had not as yet reached its peak on the Pomme arm of Truman lake, but there was reason to believe that it was close to commencing as water temperatures increased sharply with the warmer than average days we had been experiencing. My companions, on this ill-fated day, were my younger brother, Tyler (the Original Tussin), and my dad. Our conversation on the way to the lake that morning consisted of talking about past fishing trips and how many slabs we were going to take back home with us that day, but after about an hour on the lake we realized that the crappie had other ideas.

We first went to a proven area that has produced spawning crappie in the past, but we did not pick up one bite. While passing an older gentleman and a young kid, that I presumed to be his grandson, I asked if they had 'caught anything this morning.' He replied that they had not, but had picked up several the evening before from the same spot. We then theorized that the crappie would come into the shallows later in the day as the sun heated the pea gravel to a more comfortable temperature for the fish. With that in mind we headed for deeper water, 10 to 15 feet, with promising standing timber and deadfalls that had fallen from the steep chunk rock banks years ago. A cast toward the bank and a slow retrieve back toward the boat, while systematically testing the different depths of the water column and attempting to avoid getting caught up in the timber that Truman lake is famous for, immediately resulted in a few decent crappie; well, not for me, but Tyler and dad were picking up a few. The fish seemed to be spread out and inconsistent, but if you didn't stay in any one spot too long and kept the pedal down on the trolling motor, you could pick up a fish or two every 15 minutes or so. Rather than catching fish, I busied myself with getting my jig hung up on unseen branches, then breaking off and retying; navigating the boat through the dead timber jungle; and trying different fishing methods and lure colors in order to entice one measly bite.

After catching his 6th crappie, I swallowed my pride and asked my brother, "What color you using?"

"Blue & white," he smugly said. My black & chartreuse tube, the traditional springtime choice, was quickly torn from the jig head and tossed into the olive green water and replaced by a blue and white one. Predictably, I instantly had a bite and I quickly set the hook and began reeling the crappie toward the boat. "Ahhhh, skunk avoided," I thought to myself. The fishing gods must have heard me because as soon as that thought crossed my mind the nice fat 11-incher shook his head violently and spat the hook out like an unwanted piece of gristle.

"Well, looks like I'll be playing the part of Tussin today," I said with some degree of foreboding. Though I was looking for reassurance, all my fishing partners gave me was a laugh and a nod of affirmation, only too happy to have dodged the Tussin moniker themselves... the bastards.

From there the day was tediously predictable. Dad & Tyler consistently caught fish while I bided my time fighting with the trolling motor and practicing my knot tying skills as I seemed to find every submerged log in the lake. As high noon approached I recommended that we relocate and try the Spring creek branch of the lake to take advantage of the warming water and pea gravel banks that surely must hold spawners, though all I really wanted was a change of venue and hopefully, a change in fortune.

As I had hoped, we immediately got into the crappie that were soaking up the sunbathed water. They were all mid-sized (8-3/4") males but there were plenty of them, even I managed to boat two- one being a borderline keeper that I of course gladly tossed into the livewell. Conversely, Tyler and Dad managed to catch 8 to 10 a piece though most, if not all of them, were too small to keep. After an hour of trolling the graveled banks of the Spring creek flat, the crappie stopped biting for whatever reason, so we sped back up the lake to look for similar water in the back end of likely coves that were warmed by small feeder creeks.

Driving the boat down the ancient river channel that snakes its way around the weather worn snags of timber, that have managed to keep themselves erect through the years despite succumbing to their inevitable death 30 years ago when the river system was dammed, always awakes the desire in me to contemplate how the Pomme river must have looked like before Truman dam was built. It also reminds and saddens me to know that eventually the rest of the timber will fall to the bottom of the lake fairly soon just as most of the bigger trees have already. When I first started coming to Truman, the skeletal remains of gargantuan sycamores that surely stood 90, 100, or even 120 feet tall still hovered over the lake with menacing gnarled limbs, but nearly all of those leviathans have fallen into the lake, the victims of wind, ice, and water. Within the next 10 years I'd say all the timber in the entire lake that stands in 15 feet of water or deeper will be gone, which will greatly change how Truman is fished for bass & crappie... but I digress.

As the sun glinted off the wind swept waves, I felt myself being at piece with my Tussin day. I hadn't caught many fish, but what a beautiful day to be out on the lake. The dreary gray clouds that had choked out the sun all morning had finally given way to a high sky. If it was my turn at Tussin then I couldn't think of a better day to get it out of the way; besides, the fishing hadn't been lightning hot anyway. No harm, no foul I thought...

Before heading into another cove we decided to first try the steep embankment that had earlier netted us around 8 keepers. Naturally, Tyler hooked into a keeper on his very first cast while I chose to break off yet another jig. I had, over the course of the day, lost all but about 50 yards of fishing line that now pathetically clinged to my reel. I had prolonged its life over the past several hours with carefully placed casts and fishing with a float, so as to merely hover over any underwater cover as opposed to trusting fate. I had finally made a fatal mistake and got caught up on a deep limb that relinquished me of any usable amount of line. "Well, it looks like curtains for my fishing day," I proclaimed. "No, here take some of mine," my Dad said. "I've got plenty."

I hesitated at first, but then took him up on his offer. We were determined to not leave the lake with any less than 20 slabs in the livewell, and we were only 6 away from that milestone. I'm not quite sure why I thought I might be able to add to this amount, but ignorance is bliss as they say. It wasn't long before I had an ample amount of line back on my reel, along with a new resolve and the foolish notion that the new line might be just what I needed to turn things around.

Dad & Tyler simultaneously cast their lines on either side of a very "fishy looking" submerged forked stump, whose top did not quite reach the surface of the water. Within a second of each other, they had hooked into two healthy female crappie, both right around 12" long and potbellied with eggs. It was at this point that an unfortunate turn of events took place. We flinched with the out-of-place noise of my ringing cell phone that my brother had brought onboard with him for some reason though I had intended to leave it in the truck. "Why did you bring that," I asked. "You can't get any service here." He threw the phone to me, and to my surprise, I had 2 or 3 bars so I answered. It was my other brother, Travis, and we had a nice little talk while we continued down the bank, mainly discussing how we had faired and how much he wished he could have come with us. By the time he hung up, we were nearly at the end of the bank before it gave way to the mouth of a small cove. I then put the phone in my pocket and brought up the trolling motor.

"Tyler, how 'bout you start up the motor and take us across to the other bank. I'm tired of getting up and down," I would come to eat those words. Tyler, always a risk when behind a wheel, started up the motor and began to ease toward the other steep bank, a mere 70 yards away. It should be noted, for reference, that Tyler once managed to park a Ford Explorer up a tree... backwards. I was in my own world and fixated on the throbbing of a newly attained sunburn and tying yet another jig head to my line, as I had broken off for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was then that the boat unexpectedly listed toward the starboard side. Tyler had driven the boat onto the top of an unnoticed tree limb.

I had no time to assess the angle of our precarious position upon the curiously strong limb (that was multiplied greatly due to my position in the boat), but it was drastic to say the least; thoughts of cold, green water coming over the side of the gunwales and sinking the boat entered my mind. Had Tyler only gagged the throttle and gently guided the boat over the stick-up we would have been all right, but he panicked and released his grip, leaving the boat teetering like a basket ball on a dowel rod. I had fell backwards in my seat and I struggled to right myself to get my feet back on the deck and underneath me. My arms flailed in exaggerated circles with fishing rod still in hand; white knuckled, adrenaline pumping. For a moment, I believed that I might be able to regain balance, but I had forgotten one thing: On this day, I was TUSSIN!

I have always thought that seat pedestal extensions are solid pieces of aluminum, this is untrue, in fact I now know that they are completely hollow and extremely thin-walled. And as the extension in question was under considerable strain, it finally could not bear the stress of my weight nor the dynamics in which my weight was being awkwardly distributed any longer, and in turn broke off cleanly at the base. It was in this moment I could have thrown my fishing rod toward the boat and saved a $40 rod and a $60 reel, but I was unable to afford the time to collect my thoughts in that brief opportunity and instead headed for the water backwards, and head first. Later, my brother would comment that I'd resembled a soft-shell turtle as I entered the water with little more than a faint splash, a surprise I am sure to all those who know me. Upon entering the shockingly frigid water, my hand instinctively released the grip on the fishing rod to search for something to grab onto. Almost simultaneously, the practical part of my brain rescinded this over-reaction and sent my hand frantically searching for the rod. I was able to a get finger on the tip of the rod but the weight of the reel had resulted in a terminal velocity, and it slipped through my thumb & fingertips like a wet fish and headed for the dark depths of Truman. That was a disappointing loss, but hardly devastating, at least it received a proper burial in the waters it had caught so many fish and brought me so much joy- besides, I have since bought a St. Croix rod and a new Shimano Spirex, both of which are upgrades.

It should also be noted that my sudden absence from the boat resulted in a decidedly significant shift in equilibrium upon the fulcrum of the limb and nearly sent my dad ass-over-appetite into the drink as well. However, he hit the deck knees first and was able to catch his weight with his hands on the gunwale before taking a Nestea plunge into Truman lake; skinned up knees are a welcome alternative to being tossed into cold water.

The sudden loss of my most favored rod & reel had pissed me off, but now I had other fish to fry, namely getting my fat ass out of the cold water that had already sent my muscles into a shivering spasm. After several hopeless attempts in lifting my waterlogged ass into the boat, I grabbed a hold of the starboard gunwale and told Dad to head for shore. Dad, started the motor and made an effort to dismount the boat off the limb, easing the throttle forward, but that only turned the boat in circles upon the limb, which of course added to my increasing level of rage and decreasing vocabulary that had oddly become limited to George Carlin's "Seven words you can never say on television." The frustration of the moment led me to dunk my head back underwater to assess the situation for myself. To my surprise, the small limb had put quite a dent into the aluminum hull, but it didn't appear to be so bad as to encumber any attempt to free the boat off the bastard.

"Would you quit being a pussy and ****ing gag the throttle," I yelled out to my dad after resurfacing once again. Now motivated, or at least pissed off, dad hammered the throttle and finally surged the boat forward and off the cursed limb. I then hung on as dad made way for the shore, but he was unable to steer the boat through the maze of dead snags with me hanging off the side of the boat so I was forced to swim the rest of the way to shore.

I was finally on land and though I was still steaming about the loss of my rod & reel, I was relieved to be free of that vile limb and out of the water that still firmly held the prolonged chill of winter. It was at this time of relief that I remembered that I had placed my cell phone in my pocket only moments before going overboard- this, apparently, was my breaking point. I dashed the cell phone against the rocky bank, showering plastic bits hither and thither. I then unleashed a string of swear words along with a scathing soliloquy of how I believed all fault of the unfortunate turn of events should be placed souly on my brother, the outcome of an unbridled, maddening rage. Tyler's eyes were big and apologetic, as I think he was beginning to worry that I might grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him in the lake, but I was just blowing off steam and licking the gashes of my wounded pride. By the by, my temper wained and a cooler head prevailed, a part of me even began to see the humor in it all. On the way back to the boat launch Dad & Tyler were laughing uncontrollably as they reminisced over my misfortunes and reveled in my soggy-bottomed malaise. I remained stoic for all of about 5 seconds until my furrowed brow finally gave way to giddy laughter; finding the humor in all things trivial and laughing at yourself is the only way I know to keep from going nuts.

So ends this story of Tussin, but be beware of how much joy you take from this tale because sometime, when you least expect it, it will be your turn as Tussin and I promise you will get no sympathy from me.

Grandpa's Pond

It's hard to believe that I am almost 30 years old. My life has hurtled through space and time with increasing velocity with each passing year, so much so that sometimes I have difficulty remembering who I am. It's difficult to imagine that the boy who not so long ago bounced on his grandfather's knee to the tune of 'ol Dan Tucker is now so old. Time, it would seem, is the great equalizer and it spares no one. Even my Grampa, who in my little world was the epitome of strength, has now been gone for over 13 years. My Grampa was a great influence in my life and was the man who taught me how to fish, which is quite possibly the best gift a young boy can receive. I try to keep the memories of me and my grandpa sitting side by side on the pond bank while watching a red & white bobber sway with the wind and play on the water surface close to my heart and fresh in my mind.

Redneck Banjo Montage

Click here for a good time via Google Video. While I do take exception to the concept that anyone who has ever posed with a dead animal is a redneck, I can not deny the hilarity of this clip.

March Sadness

For anyone who cares, my brackets are kaput. Unpredictability is what makes March Madness so much fun too watch though. Even the 16 seeds have looked tough in this year's tournament, which has given me even more confidence in my prediction that a #1 seed will indeed fall to a #16 within the next 5 years (it nearly happened to UCONN this weekend). As more exceptional high school players have prematurely darted off to the NBA, the parity of college basketball teams has narrowed greatly. There are a few perennial powerhouses that remain, but they vary in strength from year to year. The purists may not like the watering down of college basketball talent, but to me that's just part of the American dream and capitalism. Besides, the NCAA tournament games are more entertaining now than they were 20 years ago; just look at he records of the lower seeds in the tournament over the past 15 years. Plus, opportunities may be awarded to players/students at Universities that may not have been possible a few years ago, and that certainly isn't a bad thing for those individuals.

Back to the games.

March? Already?

I can't decide if March has quietly crept up on me, or if our mild winter has lulled my inner clock to sleep. Either way, I couldn't be more happy that March is here. It's a transitional month first and foremost as the seasons change from winter to spring, and while that phenomenon is noteworthy enough to cement March in the top 5 list of months, the varied traditions that take place during March give it an arguable chance at breaking through the top 3. Think about it...

Yes, March can be bitterly cold, there's no question. However, there are always enough gorgeous days thrown in to counterbalance winter's waning grip. The warm days, like today, beg to be enjoyed; even old men & women leave their winter retreats and come out squinting like moles before finding some mundane task to pass the time or merely sit for a spell while gliding rhythmically on a porch swing. Everybody finds a way to frolic on these warm days, whether it be a brisk jog or a quiet walk with a dog; and everybody has their windows down, both at home and on the road. I think we tire of breathing stale air during winter and leap at the chance to have circulating air coursing through our hair and filling our lungs (note: allergy sufferers won't appreciate that analogy, I'm sure).

At some point, large numbers of pale-yellow daffodils will spring up from the cold ground as if to brilliantly announce the official start of spring. Then, brown grass will begin to turn green; redbud trees will explode in a cacophony of magenta, followed by the fragrant blooms of serviceberry, gooseberry, and eventually dogwoods.
There is more to March than just natural occurrences and the blessing of another spring season. There's St. Patrick's Day, which doesn't hold any meaning for me personally other than a good excuse to drink some green beer and a couple pints of Guinness. Baseball also gets under way with spring training games at the first of March and the inaugural opening day of the season, usually on or near the 31st. I think opening day is the greatest any one day in all of sports. It doesn't get any better for me than to spend a warm, spring afternoon in the bosom of downtown St. Louis on the opening day of the Major League Baseball season. Finally, there is March Madness, which is hands-down the greatest sports postseason tournament. Regardless of what the weather is doing outside, I can always be found glued to the TV at a bar or at home hoping that every low seed wins. Oh, and if you have the means I highly recommend trying your luck out in Vegas during March Madness at least once- it is just too much fun. What about drinking for free and legally betting on March Madness at Ceaser's sports book in Las Vegas doesn't sound awesome?

March is here and all that it brings with it. I just checked the weather and it is an unbelievable 81 degrees right now!!! Global warming rocks!

Throwing Good Money After Bad?

If a current $20 billion request is approved by congress, the running totals for hurricanes Katrina & Rita will be somewhere around $100 billion. I understand the federal government funding the rebuilding of infrastructure and debris cleanup in Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, Florida, & Alabama. While these costs should be offset with some state money as well, I have no problem earmarking money used for these applications. However, I hope the Bush administration & congress will think hard before throwing more money at a literal money pit. $4.2 billion of the current $20 billion that will be reviewed by Congress will be earmarked for compensation to residents whose homes were either damaged or destroyed. I wonder if we are not overcompensating here; and I wonder if some of this money is strictly a knee jerk reaction to racial guilt?

Are mid-western families federally compensated every time a F3, F4, or F5 tornado tears up dwellings by the hundreds? No. If the situation warrants it, money is spent on clean up & vital supplies that are initially needed, but there is no offering of money going towards property damage or long term financial burden. Isn’t that what insurance is for? Are the victims of an act of God in the gulf more deserving of compensation? Those who believe they are entitled to free money because they are American citizens are living in an alternate reality.

We also need to consider if it’s marketable to invest in the future of New Orleans. It had a good run, but I think that Katrina only hastened its slow and predictable demise. Countries & governments rise and fall, and so do cities. The novelty of New Orleans has been losing its charm for some time and must have certainly lost many tourists to more charming and intriguing locations both in the U.S. and abroad over the past 20 years. I visited New Orleans for the first time a few weeks after Mardi Gras in 2005. I was appalled by the condition and atmosphere of the much ballyhooed French Quarter section of town. While walking down Canal, Bourbon, Iberville and other recognizable thoroughfares, my senses were often overcome by the heavy stench of rotting garbage and urine. The palpable atmosphere of debauchery was more sleazy than charismatic. Hordes of emaciated panhandlers spinning intricate tales and unlikely stories through missing or rotting teeth left me feeling depressed and constantly securing my white-knuckled grip on my wallet like an OCD victim. After a quick tour of the tourist hot spots, I fled to the sanctuary of my hotel room and counted the hours left until daylight at which time I would gladly leave the "Big Easy" and hopefully never return.

I would only ask the powers that be to please reconsider before rebuilding New Orleans. When pride begins to cloud common sense, poor decisions are made. If we are to believe the ocean level forecasters and some climatologists, any sort of flood-plain land reclamation and protection in the gulf would be foolhardy as water levels are only expected to rise with the melting of arctic ice caps & glaciers. What happens when a category 4 or 5 runs aground then? Hell, what would be left if one goes through this summer or fall? Keep in mind that Katrina ended up losing a considerable amount of steam and was downgraded to a category 3 shortly before landfall.

For those who want to stay in New Orleans, I say go for it, it’s a free country but don’t cry when it gets completely wiped off the face off the map. Those who don’t realize that we live in an influx world do not grasp the concept of the nature of things and are unable to adapt. I appreciate any person’s heritage and way of life, but what good are submerged roots?

Whimsical Wednesday

Nothing inspiring to post about, and yet and I feel like writing all the same. How tedious have all media outlets become? The whole Cheney hunting accident was old approximately 15 minutes after I first heard about it. Sorry, the guy got shot, but hunting accidents happen all the time- let's move on. A buddy of mine who shall remain nameless (Jimmy Jones) once shot another buddy (Mark Dell) square in the eyelid with an errant 7-1/2 sized BB on the opening day of dove season in the bootheel about 5 or so years ago, and do you think that stopped us from having a good time or even stop hunting for a minute or two? Hell no! He went to urgent care and was good to go shortly afterward. I go upland bird hunting quite a bit and while I have never witnessed an accident or even had a close call, I can understand how accidents could happen. OK, I've already allowed too many words over this unnewsworthy subject. Post Script: Dems and anti-hunters must be having a ball.

The Winter Games

Are you like me, do you love the Winter Olympics? I pay little to no attention to winter sports, other than maybe catching a few snippets of the Winter X Games, during the 4 year stretch between games; but whenever they are being played I am captivated both by the novelty of the events and the athletes who must have certainly spent the majority of their lives training for these contests. I would go so far as to say the Winter Olympics have become more entertaining than their summer counterpart, the events are simply more intriguing.

Both Olympic games, summer and winter, will always have their share of human interest stories filled with eleventy examples of courage, setbacks, defeats, and triumphs- which are an integral part of the games, and the reason why even your mom can name various Olympic athletes. However, it’s the Winter Olympics that showcase the small number of specialized athletes that often stare down severe injury or even death every time they compete. The intestinal fortitude exhibited by the downhill and freestyle skiers; snowboarders, ski jumpers; lugers and bobsledders is simply awe-inspiring. Name a summer Olympic sport where the athletes are competing at 80 miles per hour or performing 1260° rotations while hovering 30 feet over a nearly solid sheet of snow and ice. The Winter Olympics are purely more pleasing to the eye and unnerving. I find myself clenching my toes whenever a snowboarder reaches the top of a half-pipe and grimacing whenever a skier misjudges a turn or when a figure skater falls hard on the ice. Who among us would be willing to sit atop a nearly vertical 125-meter hill on skis designed for maximum velocity and catapult ourselves off of it? It’s insane.

I will admit that there are some events that aren’t quite as watchable, like curling and cross-country skiing, but even they hold a level of novelty and uniqueness that inspires one to watch if only every four years. Moreover, cross-country skiers are probably some of the most fit athletes on the face of the planet, especially when you consider the temperature at which their races are held (the biathlon cross-country skier must also shoot 4 targets accurately or face extra penalty laps!).

Over the next 2 weeks I am sure I will get my Winter Olympics fill and be ready for another 4 year hiatus, but for now I am enjoying the games and a break from stupid reality TV and sit-com reruns. Normally, February is a boring month with little to do, watch, or look forward too once the Super Bowl is over; what with all of the hunting seasons ended and too bitterly cold to go fishing. If nothing else, the Winter Olympics serve as a welcome respite from the tedium that is February every 4 years, plus there are some hot female athletes.

Valentine's, Shmalentine's

Ah yes, Saint Valentine’s Day is upon us. The origin of this holiday, which has become little more than a fiscal shot in the arm for those companies in the greeting card, candy, and flower business, are vague and convoluted at best. All I know is that it is a polarizing holiday and that it enables couples to spend excessive money on each other so that they may make up for their romantic shortcomings for the past year; a veritable relationship baptismal if you will. The male will spend $40 to $120 on flowers, another $50 on dinner and drinks, plus whatever sappy drivel he manages to concocts the day or night before. The female gushes with jubilant glee, she is both happy that she was given something and relieved that she is with somebody- anybody on this most trivial of holidays. She lords over the single women at her workplace, which nervously wait out each hour of the 14th of February in hopes that they too might receive flowers and candy.

Me, jaded, no not me. Heck, I’m glad I won’t have to spend any money on a woman this year. Yes, it will be a fairly standard V-day for yours truly; you know, a sleeve of Oreos, a bag of Rold Golds, and a nice cheap bourbon to wash it all down.

Internet Connectivity

Haven't posted too much lately, but it's because I was in the middle of writing two different posts when my puter had some glitch with its internet connection and I lost everything. So from now on, I'll be initially composing my drafts in Word and export them over to Blogger afterward. It wouldn't have been so bad, but they were quite large and nearly impossible to recreate. Writing for me occurs spontaneously; thoughts, phrases, and memories rush in and out of my subconscious so fast that I often have trouble keeping up. That's why half of what I write is pure jibberish. Even my research papers and essays in college were written this way, and yet I managed to graduate. Anywho, I really liked both posts; one was a philosophic dissertation on misanthropy, the other a description of a typical snow day when I was a kid- really good stuff. Don't know if I have enough energy to attempt a rewrite or not.

Technology sucks sometimes. I think I'll go home now and pop in this new workout video I just bought. Laters.

Snow?

It's a bad cell phone picture, but what is this strange white stuff falling outside of my office?

For Laughs

If you have not discovered the comedic genius of Dane Cook yet, what the hell is wrong with you? The guy is simply hysterical. For a good time just go to his website and click on any of the videos or tracks off of his Retaliation CD.

When you're done with that check out one of the last appearances Mitch Hedberg made before his untimely death. He was one of the most original comics ever. And Remember, if you think your life sucks, "dogs are forever in the push-up position."

Mmmm

Yellow-fin tuna steak grilled medium-rare and lightly sauteed asparagus... that's how I roll.

The Day is Mine, Trebek!

Eureka! I had a wonderful surprise today at lunch. After a much unnecessary absence the chili-cheese burrito, formerly known as a chilito, is back at Taco Bell! The queer thing was that you could still find certain Taco Bells that carried them, but they were too few and far between. In high school, back when they were still called chilitos, I would be starving after football practice so I would head over to Taco Hell and grab some $1.00 chili-cheese burritos. The damn of it was that I'd eat two at a time and get them lodged in this region here (do Tommy Boy quotes ever get old? Methinks not).

Anywho, it's about time the stuffed-shirts at Taco Bell corporate finally decided to get off their fandangos and bring back those breathtaking burritos and all of their chili-cheesy goodness.

Under the Sea

I can remember the instant I became enthralled by the ocean. As an inquisitive child, I rarely missed a nature television show that aired on any one of the 4 channels that sometimes came in on our TV. Programs like Nature, Nova, and National Geographic held my adolescent attention like nothing else, transfixing my senses and quieting my mouth for a solid hour, which if you asked my Mom, was nothing short of a miracle. Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, hosted by Marlin Perkins (a fellow Missourian), was probably my favorite among the nature show genre, though it was assuredly the cheesiest. Marlin would normally step out of harm’s way while biologist, Jim Fowler, and a team of locals would attempt to corral and catch some snarling beast, all in the name of "furthering research," while an over-produced but snazzy bass line pulsed, adding to the already palpable drama. They were always relocating ostriches, reestablishing a new herd of wildebeests, or trailering some damn animal that you would never dream could actually be caught. Marlin and Jim were the "Crocodile Hunters" of their time. They seemed to spend most of their time filming & grappling animals on the African savanna, but every now and then Marlin and Co. would embark on an ocean adventure.

While Jim was busy wrestling Bengal tigers, Mr. Marbles and I set up camp.

One such episode in particular stuck with me and forever instilled in me the desire to learn everything I could about the ocean. Once I saw the "Wild Kingdom" crew don chain mail suits and hand feed highly aggressive blue sharks I was hooked; the deep blue which surrounded them was simultaneously inviting and foreboding. From that point on when other kids were elbow-deep in Judy Blume and Dr. Suess books, I could be found searching Time Life or National Geographic reference books for my latest fix of oceanic knowledge. Strange how my fixation with all things aquatic never translated into a desire to become a marine biologist, oceanographer, or even a commercial fisherman; but with my sense of fascination also grew a fear of all that the ocean’s surface veiled. For a Missouri farm boy the endless ocean was as alien and distant as outer space.

As I matured I never lost my curiosity for the open ocean, The Old Man and the Sea was my favorite book and reading stories about nautical disasters became a macabre hobby for me. As mentioned in a previous post, I have been fortunate enough to go out to sea a couple of times now which has only left me wanting to do and see more. I do plan on getting SCUBA certified so I can ultimately dive at the second largest coral reef in the world off the East coast of Belize, but what I want to do more than anything is SHARK DIVE! For a nominal fee, there are charters that will stick you in a cage in the protected white shark waters of California and South Africa. Perching precariously over the dark abyss in a spindly-barred cage while 18-foot great whites emerge and disappear from cloudy blue-green water would be starring down one of my biggest fears in the face. To be honest, I don’t know if my heart would be strong enough to endure the prolonged adrenaline rush that I would surely experience. Then, to open the door for a moment and to quickly enjoy an unobstructed view of a white shark, a creature feared by all, would be the ultimate climax to my life. I would also like to boat out to the Farallon Islands, an archipelago 30 miles west of San Francisco. This area, also known as the "red triangle," is a breeding ground for elephant seals and other pinipeds, all of which white sharks love to munch on. It is in these rarified waters where white sharks can be seen in good numbers during the fall while feasting on the abundant seals and leaping haphazardly from the water’s surface. The successful sharks dive below the seals and remain unseen until at some point, known only to the sharks, they rush upwards with great speed and attempt to hit the seal head on. With a direct hit, the impact alone is usually enough to dispatch the seals, though miraculously they sometimes escape relatively unscathed with only a few bloody gashes to serve as souvenirs, or rather, battle scars. The real show is what occurs after the shark makes its initial run at the seal and the forward momentum sends the shark (some of them 20’+) airborne, usually completely out of the water! The awkward aerobatics of the white shark is quite possibly the most unique and awesome displays in all of nature.

The reason why so many people, like myself, are drawn to the mysteries and creatures of the ocean is that we are humbled by the sheer volume of it, both its physical mass and all that remains undiscovered.