Stop Sucking

Holding expertise does not always result in good teaching.  We've all had the express displeasure of being taught by less than stellar educators.  Not just in the classroom, but also in life, and for the purposes of this blog, in the field.

I've been told many times that I should've been or still should be a teacher.  The numbers are probably skewed simply because I know a lot of teachers and everything looks like a nail to a hammer, but it happens fairly often that somebody says, only half mockingly, "Dude, you shoulda been a teacher."  I disagree.

Even in the few areas in which I hold a modicum of expertise, my teaching style often leaves quite a bit to be desired.  Holding the knowledge is not the same as being able to express it in an articulate and useful manner.  I can easily recall more than one instance in which a session showing somebody how to tie a fly or make a roll cast devolved into near-silent charades, ever increasing in intensity until both of us were frustrated almost beyond caring.  Monkey see, monkey don't.  When I get flustered in a demo situation, my usually acceptable command of the language largely sublimates into the wind, and I'm reduced to mumbling idiocy.

Stop sucking, just do the shit like this! may have actually passed from internal mantra to verbal exhortation on occasion, though only with the buddies I know can take it while happily pointing out everything I stumble over.

Pro Tip: if you ever get the urge to teach your significant other to fly cast, just slam your head in the truck door a few times, and get it over with before you start.  The only time I've bickered more intensely was the time we tried to put plastic film up on the windows together in an old apartment.  That stuff that probably saves three nickles on the gas bill, but takes a year off your life due to the stress of putting it up together -- divorce lawyers should sell that stuff in bulk.

Zeke gives spinning a shot on my vice by lantern light

I will say that when it goes well, introducing somebody to a new skill can be very gratifying.  A while back I was in New York for a fishing vacation with some friends from an internet forum.  My buddy Zeke and I sat down at the vice for a lesson in spinning and stacking deer hair on the hook.  I managed to remain coherent and somewhat informative, he didn't get frustrated, and all went swimmingly.  As it ended up, a line of people formed at the table to take their turns at spinning hair, and I had to rush at the end to catch the evening bite out on the lake, grateful and humbled to have been looked to for a bit of instruction in something I am fairly practiced at.

It doesn't always go so smoothly.  I once found myself watching late night baseball with an inebriated Argentinian college student in a dorm room in Portland, Oregon.  You heard me.  We'd returned from a long night on the town with a group of students, and I was none too sober myself.  I don't recall now what happened to the rest of the group, but there we were, suddenly alone with the Mariners on the tube.  Saturday night rock stars.

While I'm no baseball expert, I am a patriot and fan with a comprehensive understanding of the rules.  Twenty-some years of fandom, however, did little in preparation to explain the simplest of baseball regulations to a wobbly South American struggling mightily to understand the game and remain upright on a bean bag chair.  Our little vignette here opens with a foul ball down the third base line.

"So, nothing happens if the man hits the ball outside those white lines?" slurred our foreign friend.

"Not exactly. It counts as a strike unless he already has two strikes.  If he has two strikes, then nothing happens.  Then it's basically out of bounds and a do-over."

The catcher then immediately fielded a foul pop to end the inning.  Slowly assuming the form and posture of a garden slug in the bean bag, "I thought you said nothing would happen?"

"Yeah... unless the defensive player catches it on the fly.  Then it's an out."

"What's 'on the fly'?"

"... so... you play soccer?"

Which goes to show there comes a point in our understanding of any subject or activity wherein we are able to pass over the details to take in the entire picture.  The little stuff becomes given that the big picture may play out.


Experts hold "conditionalized knowledge," meaning the knowledge they hold reflects context and situation, and they can retrieve it quickly without much additional effort in the corresponding instances.  Novices, by definition, cannot be so lucky.  They have to slog their way through seemingly important patterns and facets that may mean nothing in the big picture, but appear to hold the key to cracking the code at any moment.

We woodsmen look at the woods and see individual species.  How they might be useful to us or relate to the species we're chasing, be they feather, fur, or fungus.  We see systems and interconnectedness and where we'd build the lean-to if we had to spend an unplanned night.  The novice can't see that.

On the other hand, if I look at a spreadsheet full of numbers or a malfunctioning carburetor, my brains starts to go all soft and tallowy.  I hear the Benny Hill theme, and feel the need to go fishing.


No matter our level of teaching proficiency, it is our duty as outdoorsy folks of all stripes -- fishers and hunters, foragers and wanderers alike -- to teach.  To get outsiders involved in our favorite activities.  Not only to bring to them the same joy we feel out there, but to preserve our outdoor way of life.

I used to bristle at that thought.  My personal manner of getting outside involves a lot of getting away from, well... everybody.  That's not the right way or the wrong way, but often when I head out there, I'm hoping to pass my time without seeing another soul.

The thought of bringing others into it only to clutter up the joint once seemed so counter intuitive.  Why would anyone ever want to see more chuckleheads clogging up the trout stream?

The answer has become obvious with age and accumulated knowledge.  If we don't encourage others to partake, vast libraries of personal knowledge and experience will be lost forever.  Not only that, but when there's nobody left to practice our lifestyle it will be deemed outdated and inconsequential, ancillary at best.  It will wither on the vine.


The proliferation of technology as it pertains to our outdoor pursuits is a massive subject due an entire blog entry of its own here (and much more), but I will say that there are many examples of how it can be used for teaching and learning in the arena.  For me, YouTube plays a very large role.

I watch a lot of fly tying demos.  I have shelves full of fly tying books, and while they remain both useful and sometimes beautiful in their compositions, nothing beats seeing it happen right in front of your eyes, sometimes in high definition, with the ability to pause and rewind at will.

There are all sorts of fly tying teachers floating around out there in the YouTube ether.  They range in style, quality, and teaching ability across a wide spectrum -- from Brian Wise, whose videos of chunkalicious streamers are played back on fast forward to thumping music for those of us who have existing knowledge of the materials and techniques used, to Davie McPhail.  His very comfortable pace and euphonious brogue lend themselves to in-depth and relaxed, comprehensive instruction.  If you ever zoned out to Bob Ross and The Joy of Painting on PBS back in the day, that's the neighborhood Mr. McPhail inhabits to me in the fly tying world, and his videos are as mesmerizing as they are instructive.  A happy little pine tree lives right here...



This post is sort maundering out of control at this point, but I think what we're driving at here is that if you know how to do something, especially something outdoorsy where this blog lives, I think you should teach others how to do it.  Don't mind the fumblings and stumblings if your teaching style is as abrupt and stilted as mine sometimes is.  They'll be happy for the instruction.

Brian has been shooting woodcock since before I could dress myself.  When I think of proficiency in an outdoor activity, I often think of him.  The way he powders a bird, then thumbs another shell into that ultralight pump gun as an afterthought.  I'm grateful for his years of instruction, and happy to report that the young buck here can now often hit the bird before he does when we swing on the same one.  Sucks getting old, I'm told.

Of course, all the experience in the world, mountains of teaching and learning, can do little when the birds simply aren't there.  Sometimes you just have to follow the old guy's lead when he says...

... Piss on it, dude.  Let's go get a burger.

Thoreau's Rust

It wasn't that many years ago I attended eight or nine weddings in a single season.  I can't even remember how many there were or who they were all for.  Summer weddings all run together after a while -- hot church, pretty dresses, open bar, possible bourbon-fueled horrific dancing. Thankfully for my gift and travel budgets (and waning tolerance of  the Chicken Dance), that ridiculous rate has not continued.  I'm resting comfortably at four mandatory nuptial celebrations this year, leaving more summer weekends for whatever I wish to do with them.  But even with a relatively rare open weekend currently staring me in the face, there just isn't much for me to do outside at the moment.

Henry David Thoreau stated that he needed to walk in the woods every day lest he "acquire some rust."  I haven't walked in the woods or water for more than a half-hearted gambit in weeks.  I have become a soft and reluctant slave to the wonders of central air.  There are almost no hunting seasons open right now, and the drought and abominable temperatures have conspired to render my flowing home waters little more than somber rills of considerable thermogenic prowess.  Due to the drought, all the counties that entail my home fishing waters within a couple hours' drive have been declared a natural disaster area by the federal government.  Judging by the pitiful state of the streams, I would have to agree.  It's easy for me to get angry and flustered about the state of things, but then I remember to try to only worry about the stuff I can control.  And that even if all were refulgent tumbling stream and idyllic glade this year, summer weekends are often surrendered to other non-outdoorsy pursuits so I'm probably not missing that much in the end.

Were I a gardener, I'm sure I would have plenty to do. I am the oldest son of a Master Gardener who practiced his beloved hobby with a zeal generally reserved for those deemed headed for the nut house.  It is perhaps odd that I picked up most of his other outdoor loves, but somehow the green horticulture gene seems to remain recessive in me.  I suffered through my indentured servitude, kneeling on closed cell foam or cardboard, for many more hours of my upbringing than I care to recall.  I knew what raised lasagna beds were before they were even called that, and I swear that, for a while there as a dust-covered tike, I thought pvc pipe was made specifically for the purposes of building hoop houses.

While I treasure nearly every moment I spend outside, I have little wish to garden, especially considering that I live minutes from one of the most celebrated farmer's markets in the country.  I fish and hunt, pick the occasional sack o' shrooms or greenery, then happily hand cash over mountains of brilliant produce bordering the capitol square here in Madison, in order to enjoy the glorious peas or melons or whatever it may be, next to my fairly chased protein and fungi.

That attitude may be eroding slightly as I age, however.  In recent years I have begun to keep a battery of herbs standing sentry in hideously counterfeit terra cotta strawberry pots at the corners of the garage, something I swore I would never do until I considered my monthly expenditure on bubble packs of basil.  That was a big concession for me, but I still do not see the days of hauling loads of organic matter to recently constructed garden beds in my future.  I know which booths sell the best heirloom 'maters up on the square, know some of the proprietors by name even, and that is enough for me at the moment.

Foraging follows as the next step in progression of logic.  Were I a more adept, involved forager I would certainly have a lot more to do outside this summer.  But I pretty much stick to the so-called Foolproof Four when it comes to mushrooms (puffball, sulphur shelf, morel, chantarelle - as I learned them) with the occasional shaggy mane thrown in.  Anymore species than that, I start to worry about my internal organs turning to goo.  Berries I am comfortable identifying, and scarfing down like a bear when presented with the chance.  I can identify and collect probably a couple dozen of the various leafy green yummies found around, but I almost never think to until I see them, and start stuffing them in my fishing or hunting vest.  An opportunistic forager, at best.   

So, with "my" streams parched and hunting seasons closed, here I sit in a café because I often feel more relaxed, write more clearly, in new-to-me environs.  I ordered something more adventurous than my standard iced coffee, and have been presented with a libation resembling more a chilled flagon of diabetes than the dark and intense beverage I desired.  My mistake.  With the mercury rocketing toward the century mark again, while the dew point hovers somewhere between stifling and drywall mud, my current caffeinated hide is nestled in the corner of bigger building.  As I walked in, I could hear the rooftop air conditioners roaring away like locomotives in a desperate race to keep things livable here down below.

Perhaps an impromptu camp run is in order this weekend, to fish the slightly cooler northern waters, and daydream about all the pleasure fall will bring up there.

I am not the only outdoorsman growing sweaty and restless.  The "Campmeister," owner and perhaps figurehead of our camp, continues with his amusing emails that count down the days until the opening day of gun deer season, and record all the things we must do and buy before then.  I have been reminded numerous times by him that I'll need a new truck and deer rifle come November in order to maintain my membership, simply because he wants to use them.

Brian texted me last night without forewarning.  Five simple words: Is it hunting season yet?  We joked about yearning for the bloodied backs of hands often earned in the woodcock thickets, and hassled each other over missed birds of the future and past.

Ruffed grouse are the undisputed king of upland game birds in northern Wisconsin, and north-central Wisconsin is considered ruffed grouse Mecca to many uplanders from all over the world, but we don't have the birds here in the southern reaches much at all.  We used to when I was a kid, along with wild pheasants, but we don't anymore.  Now we have subdivisions and Pier One Imports, which if you are reading this, I think you'll agree, is not the loveliest of trades.  I have to drive about three hours north from where I sit right now to even have a chance at a grouse when I step into the thick stuff.

So we are specialized and fairly rare dedicated woodcock hunters, Brian and I.  The vast majority of upland hunters chase grouse, quail, pheasant, and a handful other species with unfailing determination and contentment while the diminutive timberdoodle gets relegated to second class status.  The woodcock gets little respect.  Grouse might be tougher to hit in cover, but I adore the twittering flush and challenging corkscrew flight path the camouflaged woodcock brings to the fight.  They can be found with relative ease around here, and found with relative ease almost everywhere when the migratory flights are passing through, so the bulbous-headed bog sucker has become our primary quarry.  I cannot get enough of chasing them through the mushy bottoms, prickly thickets, and up on top of the coulees in the western part of our state.

 If you're willing to hump it all the way up, they might be in the sumacs on top.  Or they might not.

And the faintly liver-like flavor of the red breast found under those feathers?  Tell you what, you hang on to your braunschwieger and sandwich spread.  I'll be perfectly content with my woodcock "pâté" on some crusty grilled bread with a good dark porter.  

I remember my first woodcock fondly and clearly.  Those images we share of upland hunting in the fall: the shimmering popples, the balsam-laden meandering creek bottom, the lone hawthorn hidden back from the trail that always seems to shelter a bird or two.  None of those were there for my first woodcock.  The bird flushed wild to my left and behind as we were trudging back to the vehicles, in an ugly little vine-choked slough along the gravel road that lead to the parking lot.  There was no arcing flight of bird or puff of feathers settling gently in the sun.  Honestly, I don't even remember seeing the bird, that ditch being so thick and tough to see through.  Still, I spun, I shot, and I was pierced by Cupid's arrow for chasing that silly looking little bird.
 

   Make no mistake.  We'll hit the road, and chase down some partridge this fall as well.

Which all calls into question something I've stated numerous times, both here and in everyday life before.  I have asserted that I don't need a rod or gun in my hands to enjoy my time outside.  I still believe that, but this summer has challenged my stance.  Frankly, it is easier and a lot more comfortable to plop down in the AC, and drink this melted candy bar.

Any hunter or fisherman who has been at this as long as my friends and I have know that we practice our chosen pastime not for the game itself, but because of the places it takes us.  I'm thinking of a place right now, almost unbearably green and full of life, that I never would have known had I not had a fly rod in my hand at the time.  I savor dozens of those places in my mind.  There are hundreds of thousands more that I will never know in my home state alone.

We fish against the odds, trying to fool the minute brains of fish into thinking bits of fur and feather are real insects or baitfish.  We push through the cover, fighting a certain losing battle with caloric net loss against the birds we will bag for the dinner table.  Living strictly on wild game in the modern world is a near impossibility with all the driving and expensive shells required.  I don't think it can be done.  Either you or your truck will starve.  Aside from that, who would want to?  I'm proud to say I do a lot of my own killing for the dinner table, but sometimes you simply need a succulent slab of pork or beef to throw on the grill, and I'm not allowed to shoot those.  So we don't do it solely for the food, though there is most assuredly a component of that.  We paddle long and hard against the wind to reach the revered honey hole, not only for the sustenance or joy of fighting a big fish, but because it takes us to that place.

Sometimes it is difficult to put your boots in the dirt and go when there is little impetus from the sporting side of things.  Now, for example.  The heat and humidity are convenient excuses that I've fallen prey to recently.  The lack of rain is a real problem to a small stream fisherman like me, but there are certainly more waters to fish.  It's time to get out the Gazetteer, and do a little exploring.   As soon as the weather settles into a slightly more humane pattern, I will force myself to get out there and work up a good lather, cover some ground and see what I see.  To shake off some of Thoreau's rust.



Note: If you are a local and you read this immediately upon posting, you may have noticed that the temperatures and humidity referenced herein do not coincide with those currently happening outside.  You're on to my secret.  I generally let these posts marinate for a couple days before I proofread, re-write, edit, and try to un-suck them as much as possible.  If I didn't do it this way, the shocking number of typos, non-sequiturs, and basic cretinism would render you unable to read this blog, or perhaps anything, ever again.  Thanks for checking in. 

A Beacon of Suck

Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you?  Have you been emotionally crushed by failing stupendously in an audition or interview?  Ever sit dumbstruck on the couch or in the stands as your team gives up the winning score with no time left on the clock?  I certainly have.  More often than I care to remember on all of the above.  If you have too, and you don't wish to relive those feelings, think seriously before becoming a hunter or fisher.

Sure, there are the halcyon days, fish and game around every corner and under every rock, the camaraderie and food and sleepy, hypnotizing camp fires.  But there are also the missed shots and lost fish.  The ones that stick with you forever, that pop into your half-awake mind, and keep you from falling asleep.  The ones that mark a geographical place indelibly in your mind, so that every time you pass it, you think, "there's the spot where I screwed the pooch on that one."

There is a short stretch of bank in Gibb's Chute, between the Mississippi River and Lake Onalaska, that haunted me for more than a decade.  I lost the biggest, baddest smallmouth I have ever seen at the end of my own line there.  I can see the red eye and tiger stripes now, glistening in the spray of his acrobatics, six pounds of pissed off riverine muscle and power.  He broke off at the boat, and before disappearing forever, leapt one more time behind me, my black Heddon Torpedo still dangling from his jaw.  The angling equivalent of flipping me the bird.  I'm secretly glad we got rid of the fishing trailer up there so I don't have to go back, and commit seppuku.

The bad ones feel like you've had the wind kicked out of you during an awful interview while watching your team fumble away a lead at the last possible minute.  Disappointment and self-loathing get together, and conceive a shame baby in your stomach.

Not all shots or lost fish.  Some shots happen so fast or were so ill-conceived to begin with, they don't have the investment to make you sick.  You learn this quickly as a grouse hunter.  Often as not, you're firing at where you think the bird might be through the spruces or balsalms, instead of actually seeing it.  Those misses are dismissed out of hand.  You're just happy when one magically tumbles to the forest floor.  Upland shotgunning is very often like that.  I'm still surprised all the time when a sharply swerving woodcock suddenly explodes in a puff of feathers, and falls through the willow thicket.

I can get excited over big bluegills and perch, but losing a few here and there doesn't really rate on the soul crushing disappointment scale.  That's probably part of the reason I don't fish for them much anymore.  There are no stakes involved, other than whether or not I have to clean the deep fryer.

  Look very, very closely at the other end.  You won't see the coyote because he kept right on running.

I was a great practitioner of missing from an early age.  A prodigy, even.  Pigeons, chipmunks, and squirrels often remained unscathed in our yard, snickering at the boy who couldn't shoot, safe on their perches thirty feet away.  Cans and baby pumpkins swiped from the garden sat unmoving and inert on the fence rail, unfazed by my attempts to murder them.  It taught me humility and the value of practice.  It also taught me not to shoot dime store pellet guns with any faith.  That thing was a pile of crap.  When I finally learned how to sight in a gun, I tried to get that one on paper.  It was given away or lost shortly after that.  No point in sighting in a gun that sprays pellets around like a drunken Mardi Gras reveler chucking beads all over the place.

As I grew older, under the guidance of Dad, I eventually became a fairly good rifle shot with my .22.  He paid me a bounty on woodchucks from the garden and Grackles from the bird feeders.  $1 for the woodchucks and $.25 for the Grackles.  On a good day, I was pulling down $2.25 after school.  Just enough for bait and a couple cold sodas for Josh and I.

I went on to win some Boy Scout and NSSF rifle shooting competitions with that little gun.  Not exactly Olympic gold, mind you, but you get the idea.  I was 14, seven feet tall and bullet proof with that rifle in my hands.  I can still look through that Lyman target peep sight, and be immediately calmed.  Like some people looking at a famous painting in a museum, I guess.  The squirrels no longer paused to mock and chatter.  Mostly, they ended up as pot pie, one of the first dishes I ever learned to cook on my own.  Or skinned and gutted on a stick over a campfire when we wanted to play Rambo.  Not delicious.   Even when Brian and I go after them to this day, the standing bet applies.  First guy to make anything but a head shot buys the beer.  I seldom have to buy.

Still, I miss.  Seemingly all the damn time.  We all do, at least those of us who get out there enough.  I can't think of anyone I've ever consistently fished or hunted with who hasn't missed a shot or pulled a bonehead move to lose a fish.  It happens.  The big fish comes unbuttoned or the deer doesn't tip over, and there is this pause.  Time freezes while your stomach balls up in a monkey knot, and then, if you're with friends, the jeering begins almost immediately.  Not that we want our buddies to fail.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  It's more a form of intimacy, for lack of a better term.  You wouldn't laugh at a stranger if he missed, or a client, but when one of the boys doinks an easy lay-up it off the rim, look out.  That's all part of the fun.

Of course, this is all leading up to the story of my miss yesterday.

I met up with my buddy Rick to do a little coyote calling, our first trip of the year together.  I like hunting with Rick because he brings great coffee.  I've successfully given up almost all coffee, but certain concessions to sanity have to be made in the shivering pre-dawn darkness.

We'd made two sets with no action by the time the sun was fully up, and were set up at our final calling station of the morning.  Rick was fifty yards downwind of me, I was manning the mouth calls.  Foregoing the howling we'd tried in our earlier spots, I set right in with the bunny distress.  After a few rounds of dying rabbit, a coyote appeared out of the blue.  I hadn't seen him come in, as so often happens, but there he was, popped out from the edge of the frozen cattails, just staring in our general direction.

We tried and tried to coax him across the little creek that separated us, but he was having none of it.  Cottontail distress, pup yelps, barking; he was a rock, firmly planted and unwavering.  I knew he wasn't going to hang out all day, so I decided to take the shot.  It was fairly long (187 yards on the range finder I won in our deer camp raffle), but certainly a make-able shot for the trendy Ruger .204.  I had a good rest, plenty of time to get comfortable and take a few cleansing breaths, no wind to speak of.  In through the nose, out through the mouth.  Don't strangle the gun.  Relax.   I held and felt my heartbeat and squeezed.

Nothing.  That gorgeous dark gray dog just turned and trotted back into the marsh.  That was it.  And there I was, a shining beacon of suck in the soft morning light.  I had no idea where or how I missed as that sinking feeling set it.

Of course, we walked down to check for hair and blood.  Nada.  Rick tore me a good-natured new one on the ride home, as is the right and duty of any hunting buddy.  I wouldn't have expected anything less, and I'm look forward to returning the favor the next time he shanks one into the rough.  

Camp Food

Deer camp is looming.  Of course, to my mind, that means thinking about the food.

There are a gajillion things to get in order during the next week.  I have to take care of everything from stopping my mail to getting an oil change.  I have to pay some bills and remember to set the thermostat down as a far as I dare.  Guns and blaze orange, boots and hats, it all has to make it in the truck.

And the cooler, of course.  There is no shortage of food at camp.  In years past I've brought everything from smoked grouse breasts to canned fish.

Northern Wisconsin being Scandinavian country, there is always a preponderance of pickled goods around the table at camp.  I've pickled pike myself.  Frisbee and I experimented for a few seasons, and finally settled on a pickled egg recipe fit for royalty.  If royalty like pickled eggs, I guess.  They are a bit of an acquired taste, but are also damn near the perfect food with a cold beer.  Frisbee has taken over the job of pickling the eggs in recent years, and continues to do a bang-up job.

There will be pickled herring, pickled wild onions, and a vast array of pickled vegetables to accompany the bloody mary fest on Tuesday morning of deer season.  As everyone knows, the guns get put away on that morning, as we rejoice in the world famous tradition of Bloody Mary Tuesday.  Alright, maybe it isn't world famous quite yet, but it is the day I look forward to the most of all.

If you've been reading this blog at all, you know I love to hunt and fish.  Deer season is no different.  It's a chance to escape into the woods, and be quiet for a while.  But after three days, most of us are ready for a respite from shivering in a tree or on the ground.  And the people come from miles around on Bloody Mary Tuesday, quite literally.

Yard full of trucks means it's Bloody Mary Tuesday

If memory serves, we had 22 guys mashed into a tiny camp last year on BMT.  I adore it.  We eat, and drink, and tell the stories all day.  There is something almost magical about sitting around that table on that day.  Not to oversell it, it is merely a bunch of dudes of varying levels of sobriety, talking trash and telling jokes, but I can never get enough of it.  There's a chance that I might miss it this year because of this pesky career thing ruining my life, and it's killing me already, but as Dad used to say, "You wanna eat, you gotta work."

I learned to love head cheese around the table on BMT.  A peasant food since the middle ages, head cheese is not actually cheese.  It's a terrine made from the head of a calf or pig.  In lay terms, you take a head, remove the brain and eyes, boil the rest down, and pack it into loaf form.  The natural gelatin rendered from the head congeals when cooled, surrounding the delicious meaty bits, and forming a solid mass.  Then you slice it up and fall to, bloody mary in your other hand.  It takes a bit of courage the first time, but once that sweet seasoned meat jelly melts in your mouth, you're sold for life.  Meat lover's pizza is a misnomer.  real meat lovers know that head cheese is where it's at.

We're short of woodcock breasts this year, or there would be woodcock pate' again.  Woodcock has that livery taste that lends itself extremely well to the making of this outstanding cracker topper.  And it's a snap to make.  Fry up some timberdoodle breasts with shallots and garlic, and toss them in the processor.  Bash that up with some capers and a few other key ingredients not to be divulges on the open interwebs, and there you are, smiling again.

Pasties are a favorite of the northwoods, of course.  This pastry case filled with meat and root vegetables made it's way to this country from Cornwall, England with the Cornish miners who immigrated here with their mining skills and their recipes.  They worked both in the copper mines of the U.P. and the lead mines around Mineral Point, WI, so the pasty is popular throughout the state.  While the pasty has Protected Geographical Indication in Europe, meaning that the recipe and even the shape of the pasty are protected, they can vary more here in Wisconsin.  It's the perfect camp food as it's easy to warm up, and very satisfying after a long day in the cold.  It's a pouch of meat and potatoes, after all.  Very nearly impossible to mess up.

In our deer camp the meals are delineated by tradition.  I already know what I'll be having for dinner all of next weekend.  It adds to the anticipation factor when you know whats coming.  I haven't had that lasagna or that stew since last year, and I'm looking forward to how the leftovers of each will taste.

Of course deer, camp isn't the only camp of the year.  There are fishing camps and bird hunting camps as well.  While some of these do take place in remote cabins, they've also taken place in campgrounds, decrepit seedy motels, and illegal campsites on public land.  Those signs that say "No Camping" are merely a suggestion most of the time, as long as you don't get caught.  The tastes and foods of these camps vary as much as the hunters and fisherman who populate them, but I've come to discover there is often a discernible pattern.  That being, the stronger the taste or smell, the more popular it is.  Think about an annoyed wife or girlfriend, face scrunched up in utter disgust, stating emphatically, "You are never eating that again in this house!"  You're on the right track.

Kipper snacks stink up the joint nicely, but taste like heaven.  People will fawn and tumble over smoked salmon.  Others sing the praises of smoked Cheddar and Gouda.  Finding a guy who won't devour an entire chicken form my smoker can be a challenge.  Yet, suddenly and without explanation, these same, seemingly sane people, will consistently turn their noses up at smoked herring packed in oil.  They might even be repelled on horror.  I don't get it.  Kippers are another perfect food for the field.  They pack well in the vest when you're on the move.  All smoke and salt and oil, there is hardly a better snack on the tailgate with a beer after a long day of walking.

Stinky cheeses are another favorite.  In this part of Wisconsin, that means Limburger. There's no getting around it, a three month old Linburger smells like farts and feet.  The bacterium used to ferment Limburger is the one of the same bugs that compels us to shower regularly and wear deodorant.  But it is so creamy and delicious.  At our old fishing trailer on the Mississippi River, Limburger was a staple.  Spread on a chunk of pumpernickel, and downed with a slice of sharp radish, we could barely keep it in stock.  You didn't want to be within three counties of that trailer the following morning, but that is just part of the fun for most of us adult boys.

I'll admit, there is one camp food I cannot do.  My nemesis is the antiquated and venerable Blind Robin.  I don't know the origin of the recipe or the colorful name, but I do know that salt in those quantities is unnatural no matter how much cold beer you have on hand.  Extremely heavily salted herring fillets, Blind Robins have fallen out of favor in recent years, and for good reasons, I say.  Good riddance, with apologies to my friends Brian and Dick.

I'm on my way up to camp today to get ready for the upcoming deer season.  I'm looking forward to seeing the fellas, I can't wait to check my deer stand and possibly hunt up a few grouse, and I can't wait for all the yummy smoked, pickled, and salted snacky food.

And maybe one or two of these...

Duck Noob

I can string a few sentences together, but I'm probably never going to be on any Pulitzer watch list.  I know my way around a kitchen, but I'll never earn a Michelin star in Paris.  I'm an upland hunter of some ease now, after years of flailing and stumbling.  My fly casting no longer resembles spastic flailing either, but Flip Pallot and I won't be rubbing elbows anytime soon.  I do love to tie flies, but don't see them being featured in any of the trendy mags on the shelves these days.  I earned a badge and won a handful of ribbons and trophies for my marksmanship shooting open sight .22's as a kid.  Then I missed an entire deer with my rifle... more than once.

Jack of all trades, master of none.

I'd say that phrase fits me fairly well.  If I look inside honestly, I can say I'm pretty comfortable with it too.  Maybe "Jack of many trades" would be more fitting.  The minutia of the internal combustion engine remain a complete and utter mystery to me, and always will.

There are a multitude of outdoor pursuits I've yet to learn.  I've never hunted bear or elk.  I've never called in a bobcat, but I have been putting in for a permit, and am very much looking forward to trying.  I've never fished the salt or grabbed a catfish.  For everything I have tried, there is plenty yet to do. So it is was with some lighthearted, almost child-like glee and an open mind that I sidled up to duck hunting a few years ago.

As with many of these things, it's all Brian's fault.  He's an upland guy, through and through, who hunts ducks only casually when the doodles have headed south for the year.  He and I were called out as "dyed-in-the-wool woodcock men" by other pheasant hunters while stowing our gear and sharing war stories in a gravel turnout a couple weekends ago.  It felt good.  From our guns and dress to the muddy boots and bloody hands, we'd earned our title and position in the eyes of men who know.  Not that it put any more birds in our vests that day.

I was surprised then, when a few seasons ago, he suggested we try our hand at some wood ducks on a little creek we had permission to hunt.  It was early in the woodcock season, the leaves were still up, it was stiflingly hot, and the hunting had been particularly tough.  Not the fine and pleasant misery Pat Mcmanus so brilliantly introduced us to, mind you, the sweaty, chaffing, want to shower and sell my gun misery.

So we did it.  We stalked up on a beaver pond, scared up some ducks, and shot them.  Easy as falling in a stream.  What follows is a snippet of the post I made the following Monday on a close-knit outdoor forum I frequent.

We walked another hundred yards, then crouch walked/belly crawled as near to the bank as we dared.  He looked over at me from his belly, and whispered, "If it flies, it dies," and grinned.  We popped up and started banging away...I couldn't stop smiling.  


Sunday, there were no ducks when we arrived at the dam so we hunkered down in the grass and waited.  It didn't take more than a half hour to limit as they circled in singly and as doubles... I can't believe I'd never tried this until now.  What a true blast!  

I was plainly thrilled with our success, and flush with excitement over my new-found and seemingly simple brand of hunting.  Oh, the blatant naivety. 

My first woodie drake

And the beaver pond that began my new obsession

Since that fateful trip down the creek I have been humbled.  I have learned it is not always that easy.  Sure, ducks coming up off the water are a million times easier to hit than a woodcock whizzing through the thick stuff... if you can find them.  Not to mention long passing shots and ducks streaking in from behind you.  Yes, it is much easier to sit on a stool or in a kayak than it is to push through brambles until your legs seem to belong to to someone else.  It's also a much bigger test of patience.

I've modified Selma Kayak for both jump shooting and calling ducks from a blind since then -- built the blind out of PVC and camouflage burlap.  I've foregone the kayak paddle for a single bladed canoe paddle while hunting as it lowers my visibility.  I've left the seat in the truck to kneel in the footwells for easier shooting.  I've purchase calls and decoys, mimicked more experienced callers on Youtube.  I've pestered my buddy Adam, a much more experience duck hunter, with novice questions via text at all hours, and he has been more than generous in helping me.  I've shot some ducks, and missed many more, or failed to get near them in the first place.  All of which is to say, I still suck at this.

While that is sometimes frustrating and humbling, it's also refreshing.  It feels good to be challenged with something new.  It's not always in my nature to ask questions and lean on friends for support, but it is good to know they are there and willing to help.  Even if it is with something as mundane as, "what in the hell am I doing wrong now?"

And there's a sense of wonderment.  Maybe wonderment is too strong a word here.  They're ducks, not mermaids.  But the learning curve, the vaguely new sights and smells of it all, sitting in the cattails instead of tromping over them chasing a pheasant, the excitement of getting up well before you have to in order to chase grouse... all of it leads to a sense of renewed pleasure.  Of course I'd seen ducks flying around everywhere in the fall, but I'd never stopped to look at ducks before.  When I'd driven over streams and rivers in the past, I'd study the brush to see if it looked "birdy," that undefined feeling that woodcock might be hiding in there.  Now I look for ducks too, and often this time of year, they are there.  They were probably there the entire time.  I just wasn't looking for them.

That Guy

You run into all sorts out in the wilds, just as you would at the mall or in the office.  Hunting mostly on public land this fall, I've had my share of run-ins.  They vary from the almost imperceptible nod and grunt, often favored my males unknown to each other, to full, rambling conversations.  Very occasionally, such an encounter might even evolve into a friendship.

Let's take a look at some of the people encountered afield in the past month or so and the archetypes they represent.

Duck season was not yet open.  I was scouting a lowland creek near home, looking to see if I could get Selma, my kayak, in there to jump some wood ducks out of the bends in the upcoming weeks.

It turns out I can...

It was an early morning on a Wednesday, so I didn't expect to meet any people out there, but I did.  As I scrambled up out of the Alder scrabble onto the railroad tracks that bisect the property, I almost literally bumped into Mark.  The typical stilted conversation of two slightly startled guys ensued.

"Morning."

"Morning.  Scouting for deer?"

"Ducks.  You?

"Deer."

"Ah... nice area for deer.  I saw a couple rubs back that way.  I'm gonna head upstream, look for beaver dams.  Good luck."

That's where the typical exchange usually ends.  I was obligated, by some unwritten code, to imply I agreed with his choice of scouting area by telling him I'd seen some sign or heard of a big buck coming out of that area in the past.  You don't crap on another man's dreams.  If he'd told me he was scouting for tribbles or fraggles I still would've felt obliged to hem and haw, and finally mumble something about it looking like good tribble cover.  Politeness sometimes requires fibbing.  Like telling her that her ass looks fabulous in those pants, it's the way of the world.  Not that it's a bad looking area for deer, it is.  I had seen some rubs... this time.

Mark looked a little new to the woods.  He was wearing hard shoes that would fit better in a cubicle.  He carried a clipboard full of aerial photos of a public hunting ground, printed from Google Earth, you could walk across in ninety minutes if you pushed it, and his pack looked like he was going to summit K-2 after a business lunch downtown.  When he asked if he could accompany me upstream, my first thought was that I didn't want to be telling the cops I was the last one to see him alive later that week, so I said sure.  I regretted that decision minutes later.

Mark was a talker.  And worse than that, as I should have guessed from the cognac cap toe oxfords on his feet, he was a salesman.  Double whammy.  Or maybe he was a money manager or an investment advisor... I can't remember.  I stopped listening sometime around the first mention of mutual funds.  I went out in the pre-dawn light to find likely looking outside bends with some timber in them, he went out to network.  Or perhaps he simply can't help reaching for that stack of business cards the second a new face trapses out of a ditch, into his line of sight.  We soon parted ways, and though I might have been able to avail myself of his financial services, and I'm sure he's a nice guy, his card was relished to the bin almost immediately, if only because he wouldn't shut the hell up.

A week later I sat on my miniscule, butt cramp-inducing camp stool, camo from head to toe.  This time it was after work, and I was waiting for the doves to come into roost on another parcel of public land near home.  I hadn't seen any other vehicles in the parking area, but this wildlife area is quite large with multiple parking lots, so I was only slightly suprised when I glanced to my left, only to see an entire Cabela's catalog slowly making it's way toward me.  Crushed under the mighty burden of what must have been the entire deer hunting section at any of the major hunting and fishing retailer, this guy had it all.

I've already admitted that I'm a bit of a clothes horse and a gear nerd, but this guy put me to shame.  I was a mere piker in his presence.  He was either going bow hunting for the entire season, or his wife had kicked him out with a garage full of his belongings on his back.  I saw the normal items you would expect on an archery hunter -- the bow... obviously, the range finder, binoculars, knife, backpack.  But beyond that, the poor pack was bristling with every conceivable piece of gear.  I saw a water purifier.  Let me stress that there's a convenience store 30 minutes away, tops.  I don't know, maybe he's still living out there.  I didn't catch his name when we exchanged pleasantries.  He was panting too hard from carrying a metric ton of stuff out to his tree for a couple hours of hunting.

Fast forward a few days, and we find ourselves somewhere on the same chunk of DNR land, down by the creek this time.  I'd walked the banks for a couple hours, unsuccessfully attempting to jump wood ducks.  Unsuccessfully attempting to even see wood ducks, actually.  I'd decided to take the stool off my back, and wait out the last hour of light cloistered in some willows near a spot where the creek widens nicely.  It's a spot I've hunkered down in quite a few times, watching the sunset, and even harvesting a woodie or three once in a while -- the adult equivalent of a living room cushion and blanket fort for the hunter.  Just as I was slipping into daydream land, a black lab pup burst into my lap, and nearly caused a major heart attack, doing the happy dance and face licking young dogs do when they get to go hunting.  His owner soon appeared on the opposite bank, having had the same idea about walking the creek for ducks, and called him back across.

The next time I was down there I saw the pair again.  And the next time.  Ted and Brandy are regulars, just like me.  They know the spot.  It's close to home and easy to hit after work.  Both of us being hunters, and relatively well raised and civilized, I guess, we've come to a point where we expect to see each other, and shoot the breeze a bit.  It's public land, and you always hope against hope to get away from others out there, but running into another dude of like mind and personality, doesn't feel like much of an intrusion.  We're not gonna exchange vacation pictures anytime soon, but I'll shake his hand and pet his dog when we cross paths.

At the other end of the spectrum we have Grunty McGee.  This guy is pretty common.  Brian, his cocker Buddy, and I were finishing up the woodcock season last weekend down in the southeastern corner of the state.  By noon Saturday we could tell the flights were gone, and the hunting was going to be tough, but we pushed brush hard most of the weekend, just to say we finished strong.

All those heady woodcock dreams, and it's over for another year.  A man could shed a tear.

In that particular spot, the bird thickets are separated by open spaces so you put the dog in one end of the cover, hunt it to the other end, then just sort of amble across the prairie to the next birdy looking thicket.  It was during one of these relaxing jaunts to the next stand of willow and dogwood that we encountered ol' Grunty.  From his gear and clothing, he was an obvious pheasant hunter.  From his demeanor, I don't think he'd gotten any in a long time.  Probably no pheasants either.

Not much can be said about the actual exchange because there wasn't one.  I was ready stop, grab some water from my vest, and bemoan the lack of birds, but good ol' Grampa Grunty was having none of it.  He strode by us not five feet away, without so much as a tip of the cap.  Our greetings were met with stone silence and lack of eye contact.  I'll never understand those guys.  I just hope they are happy in some way, not too busy to be bothered while trying to shoulder some unknown pain in a life that failed them.

Finally, we reach the most dreaded outdoor encounter.  The most vilified and annoying guy you're likely to meet afield -- the Blowhard.  The know-it-all who has shot more game, landed more fish and women than you and I, mere mortals, will ever hope to.  This self-aggrandizing asshat comes in all shapes and sizes.  Young and old, weak or stout, carrying a $5000 English side-by-side or a Sears & Roebuck single shot, he can barely contain himself long enough to ignore what you have to say.

I met one of these wonderful gentlemen while walking for pheasants not two weeks ago.  He had one more bird in his vest than I did at that point, which only encouraged him to share his considerable and superior knowledge concerning everything from the proper shot and choke tubes for pheasant hunting, to how best to train pointers versus retrievers.  All of it stated as surely as gravity would have taken him to ground had he tripped, which I was so wishing he would.  There's nothing to do with that guy except get away from him as fast as you can, let him go tell his wife how she folds laundry wrong or something.


Hunters are a cross section of humanity.  Just as with any other group of people, there are a handful of cretins and twits surrounded by the majority of good folks out doing what they love.  I look forward to going out there alone or in my small party of close friends, but sometimes you run into other people, and you just never know what you're going to get.

Anticipation

Summer can be a time of great anticipation for many outdoor sportsmen and women.  The fishing, at least here in Wisconsin, can enter the doldrums at times.  The dog days.  Sure, the smallmouth bass slash voraciously at my topwater flies late in the evening on a small, wadable river, and the cats bite well all through the humid days and nights, abuzz with cicada and mosquito.

Still, I find myself dreaming of the days to come.  And most of my year is like that.  A "grass is greener" thing.  Not that I fail to fish or hunt or be in the moment (OK, busted.  I do that all the time), but on those pleasantly dark drives back to the shack after a long day afield, my mind constantly wanders to the adventures to come.  The hits and misses, the easy walks and trudging marches, the time we will spend around the tables and campfires celebrating our successes and pondering our shortcomings.  Neuroscience sometimes calls the act of planning simply a "memory of the future," and my future memory is outstanding.

I'm wading a small river in Wisconsin's Driftless Area. The late afternoon sun, still full of August bluster and swagger, beats through the overhanging brush, tatting lacework shadows on the surface of the quick water as I swing my fly through the undercut bank.  I've stumbled into my share of fish for the day, and my subconscious may already be heading for the cold beverage back at the truck, so thoughts begin to wander...

... to birds.  The next undertaking of the year.  It will start with doves.  Dove hunting, still controversial in some circles here, only became legal a few years ago in Wisconsin.  Last year brought our first dovey endeavor, and man, did we have a hoot.  As usual, I was flailing around the countryside with my longtime friend Brian and his trusty English Cocker, Buddy.  We scouted a little, if you can can call noticing doves on power lines scouting, but mostly it was a seat-of-the pants operation.  Up early in the mist, we took our positions along a small creek where we knew the birds to be roosting.  As legal shooting loomed, the birds began to move.  And then the melee began- little slate rockets in the pale morning light.  We hit a few that first day, and a few the following evenings, but mostly we missed and laughed.  Laughed at each other, laughed at ourselves, and laughed at the joy of being out there. 

 Buddy, dove hunting in the present.  I envy his concentration.

Driving back home after my first ever dove hunt, I could not wait for grouse and woodcock to open, though they were a month away.  Never satisfied, my thoughts began to wander...

... Up North.  There's a broad term for you.  For me, Up North refers to a couple small cabins that belong to friends in extreme northeastern Wisconsin, right along the border of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  And the grouse hunting can be fine.  Fighting through popple thickets and stands of balsam so you thick you are sometimes forced to crawl, you can spend an entire day immersed in the vibrant colors, deep earthy smells, and clean crisp air of autumn.  Not to mention the famously heart-stopping flush of the ruffed grouse that will, on occasion, lead to everything from a dumbfounded stare to questionable language to an actual shot.  But, when that shot connects, angels sing and you are dancing at the feet of your Lord.  Last year, in a rush to get to a downed bird, I attempted to crawl under a big old popple that had broken off about 7 feet up the trunk, folded over into a messy A-frame.  Somehow, I managed to stand up too soon, and crack the exact crown of my head on a severed branch protruding from the down-angled trunk.  The resultant torrent of blood blinded me as it ran down my face.  The foot stomping, head clutching, stumble hopping dance I performed did little to solidify my position as an intrepid, stoic outdoorsman.  My partner for the day, the notoriously reticent Primo, calmly retrieved my bird from his young dog, then quietly asked, "You need a hanky or something?"  And a brandy old fashioned.  Stat.

The oddest looking of all our game birds, so bulbous and spindly at the same time it sometimes looks like God's happy little accident, is also nearest to my heart.  Of all the daydreams during the year, the most detailed and filled with yearning are for the beloved little American Woodcock.  Slogging from muddy creek bottom to alder thicket, taking slappy dogwood off the face, clawing through cover so thick I curse not having taken up golf, somehow brings me the greatest joy.  I love the effort required, I love the commitment to long walks "in the shit," I even love the clothes and gear.  But mostly, I love that unpredictable flush, corckscrewing up through the mesh of branches, only to dart off in any given direction.  Get on them fast and shoot.  Don't wait for "the shot" because there often won't be one.  The woodcock is one of those birds, for me at least, for which there is no shame in slapping the trigger with the gun mounted slapdash on your chest or your cheek after having doinked the barrel off a sapling or two.  And the meals they bring --  roasted whole and served on toast with a fine reduction, or ground up into pate' on a rye crisp with a porter in hand.  Recipes good enough for Industrial Age barons must be at least passable.  Right?  But still, hiking back to the turn-off with spruce needles down my back and wet feet, my mind wanders further still into the fall calendar...

... to ducks and deer camp, coyotes and rabbits, and beyond into winter ice fishing and the first paddle trips of spring.  But it's late, and it's August, so I'll retire to dream of Mourning Doves.  The next big thing on the calendar.