Of Sweat and Flannel

According to the all-seeing eye of the National Weather Service, we are now experiencing an official severe drought over here in my neck of the woods, with no rain in the foreseeable future.  Glad they cleared that up.  I'd been wondering why my lawn has taken on the shade of a blond roux, puzzling over my home smallie water, and its resemblance more to a rock garden than a stream at the moment.

Not only that, but we suffered brutal record temperatures most of last week.  I personally saw 106˚ accompanied by sopping wet dew points on two different occasions.  That's just uncalled for here in America's Dairyland.  When one travels from Wisconsin to warmer climes, towering mercury is a novelty, something to be braved and remarked upon.  I've experienced blast furnace Phoenix and jungle-wet Baton Rouge, among others.  They were all bearable, if not entirely enjoyable, only because I could say I'd done it.  Been there, did my best to make like a local.  When that same heat follows me home, smacks me on my sweaty red face, it's just soul-deadening.

I enjoy all seasons outside.  Point to a week on the calendar, I'll have a fair idea what I hope to be doing then; armed with rod, gun, foraging bag, or simply my favorite pair of boots.  If I were forced to arbitrarily lay aside a couple of those weeks, hop into one of those slightly creepy, claustrophobic stasis beds from a science fiction movie for a fortnight,  I freely admit I would aim for the bull's eye encompassing the dread high heat of summer.

I should be running to "my" stream after work these days.  No epic fishing excursions that take on lives of their own, mind you, merely a quick check-in a few times a week.  I know it better than any other water, and it produces fish for me most times I stop to visit.  Sadly, thanks to the combination of crushing heat and no rain, it has been rendered practically unfishable for the moment.  That is not the end of the world, it happens every few summers, but it does rob us of some of the joyful spontaneity of the fishing quickie.

If nothing were rotten in the state of Denmark, I'd also be gathering chanterelle mushrooms right now.  I can almost taste them, almost smell that earthy aroma, but I cannot find them, thanks to the parched earth tactics currently being employed by Mother Nature.  I checked my favorite spot late last week, neck crimson and sticky, salt stinging my eyes, only to confirm that there were no fungi to be found there.  It was a pleasant hike if you enjoy trudging up and down oak forested hillsides in a sauna.  The only squirrel I saw looked as hot and panty as I felt, and I think he wondered just what I was doing out there.  Similar thoughts had occurred to me.

Shortly thereafter, Trout Caviar's gorgeous pictures of a chanterelle-based salad served only to pique my envy and frustration.  Emotions might've grown a bit out of control were it not for his calming, nearly libidinous foodie photos and my minty mojito close at hand.

Of course, one can simply purchase the chanterelles I crave, but that always seems a touch boorish to me for some reason.  Much like wild game and sex, a man shouldn't have to pay for wild mushrooms if at all possible, but I am only human after all, and I caved to my need for the shrooms after only a few days of resistance. 

Fortunately, even in the presence of mirages shimmering off every flat surface under a pounding sun, acres of pastel clusters appear in the form of the milkweed flower.  Being half a Scandinavian mutt myself, I've pickled nearly everything short of a doorstop, or have enjoyed such treats pickled by others.  Smelt and pike, Brussels sprouts and ramps, eggs and asparagus and sugar snap peas-- even some cucumbers on occasion, but I've never pickled milkweed pods, which seems odd to me now as they do sort of resemble fat little gherkins.  I'd never even considered it, a personal shortcoming I hope to overcome post haste.



We denizens of the Midwest know well, however, that punishing heat and drought cannot last.  Living closer to the center of a massive continent than our compatriots nearer the coasts, we are lucky to experience a wider climatic range than those more temperate, consistent environs.  In short, we have seasons, and I, for one, am pretty happy about that.  Among my travels, I've also been in Tucson for a Badger bowl game near the new year holiday, and let me state plainly: garland on a saguaro does not Christmas make for this Yankee.

As the seasons of summer and winter are polar opposites, so are my feelings toward them.  Between the two, I'm a  praise-Jesus-and-pass-the-ammunition affirmed man of winter for many reasons, some of which I've stated here before.

I'm a gear and clothes nerd for one thing.  There is only so much pride of ownership to be found in a wicking t-shirt and a pair of shorts while earth bakes underfoot.  Conversely, when the snow flies and mercury burrows, there are entire hosts of fragrant wool and fleece to choose from.  Earnest discussions take place concerning the contrasts between natural and synthetic fibers as base layers.   Big chunky boots and a snug balaclava can make a man feel like a northern ninja ready for assault, whether the target be fish, fowl, or fur.  And alone in my ice shanty with only the glow of a lantern and comforting whir of the Vexilar, I find chilly, comfortable peace.

In summer a person can shed only so many clothes in public before the local constabulary makes an unwanted appearance.  While Old Man Winter visits, there are almost always more layers of heavyweight Polypro to be found.  And then there's flannel.  Glorious, glorious flannel.  Give me a thick Woolrich flannel shirt and pair of broken in leather work gloves, I'll move your firewood all day with a silly grin plastered to my mug.  Add a Stormy Kromer, the pinnacle of northwoods style, and we're ready to head to town for dinner and a brandy old fashioned, your treat in exchange for the labor of course.

Honestly, I'll take this over last week every time. (photo courtesy of Adam Schruth)

I fished with a group of friends the morning that picture was taken, though I was in Alpena, MI while the photographer, Adam, was at home in Wisconsin.  The weather was equally tepid in both locations.  We caught only one fish through the ice that arctic day, but such is not always the case.  If you are brave enough, and properly prepared, those deeply sub-zero days can provide very good fishing.

Years ago at the annual "Drink Beer, Burn Wood" celebration with the old guys up at the camp, the thermometer hovered at a benumbed -24 when we awoke.  With the woodstove set to pinging and a hot breakfast in me, I set forth to venture out on the ice while those of receding hairline and perhaps more intelligence gifted through age, decided to stay in the camp.

Fishing in extreme cold is a slow and sometimes cumbersome affair.  It forces you to think, to plan ahead, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it.  Much like stalking a rising fish in warmer months, simply flailing about without a plan will not do.  You'll get cold and tired long before you get your dinner.

The first thing you learn on the south side of zero: plastic breaks.

I set up my portable shanty, being reminded the entire time that slow and steady defeats the cold most of the time, and managed to get that broken heater started using a pair of needle nose pliers.  Then, with slow boreal contentment, I set upon the single greatest fishing day I have ever enjoyed on that lake.

I was fishing with dead smelt under tip-ups, and often had the great and rare pleasure of multiple flags being tripped at once.  The pike were big for that small northern basin, and hungry.  As the wind whispered through the crown of pines around the lake, I eventually flopped prostrate on the ice in appreciation, warmed by contentment and wool, and perfectly happy to be left out in the cold.

Here's hoping the weather breaks soon.  Not all the way to winter yet, but some moderation would be greatly appreciated.  I could do with some ice time, but not just yet.  There are grouse and woodcock to be chased in the thickets before then, fat fall fishes and squirrel pot pie, venison and pheasant for the dinner table before the hammer falls.

Gloves are for pansies... and for putting on immediately after your picture is taken.

  

  

 

The Swedish Glug Affair

Last weekend Brian and I fished a small river in the southeastern corner of Wisconsin.  It hasn't always been the most generous river in terms of catching fish, but it is right in the heart of my childhood stomping grounds, so I enjoy it almost no matter what.

We've waded this diminutive beauty together for smallmouth bass numerous times over the years.  Like all small rivers it is often sensitive and moody, showing great diversity of flow and attitude from trip to trip.  The fishing last weekend was not particularly good, but it was not terribly poor either.   It was, I guess, reliable -- quite possibly the only word you can use to simultaneously compliment and insult a fishing river.

As we fished, I noticed again that Brian is entering the Crusty Old Guy stage of his outdoor career with a good deal of grace, actually.  He has avoided stagnation in the form of idleness.  As he creeps toward his sixth decade outside, he remains an archetypal man's man. Meat and potatoes seasoned only with the salt of the Earth.  Canning and foraging, gardening and pickling, doting over an aging bird dog have in no way diminished the stunning natural athlete and hickory-hard badass I've known since I was a boy.  He can still walk farther than you and I, carry a heavier load than you and I, and close through the thick stuff on a birdy flushing dog faster than you and I.  It's just that those abilities, once a matter of no conscious thought, are concerns of effort and pride to him now.

I will stipulate that the swim trunks do detract from his tough guy reputation

We waded in each other's company, Saturday, letting the flow and layout of the river dictate our cadence and relative positions.  Communicating through language pared to it's essentials by decades of friendship on the water, we melded into a single fishing entity, covering water, passing one another or waiting for the other, as the bends and current dictated.  After you've fished together for so long, especially on a familiar stretch of water, there is little need to talk.  You grunt, and point, and slide around the river like stars orbiting each other, both to cover water and stay out of each other's way.  This dance will never appear on any reality TV show replete with deep spray tans and miles of cloyingly saccharine cleavage, but that does not render it any less beautiful to me.

Brian has fly fished in the past, but for the most part, I think I'm reading him pretty well when I say that he simply doesn't abide that fancy crap.  He grew up when fly rods were called "trout rods," and that was what they were used for, usually by effete city boys in funny clothes from Chicago.  Times change, Brian doesn't.

So it was, then, that I was was casting the big streamers I love to tie, on a fly rod that has become my right arm, while he pounded the water with a crankbait and spinning rod.  That was fine with both of us.  We don't judge each other for our personal preferences in methods of fighting fish.  I think it's ridiculous when fishermen do.

"Peanut Envy" Designed by Kelly Galloup, habitually tied and fished by me.

Brian was throwing the old reliable Rebel Crawfish crankbait, and muttering to himself in an affected Yooper accent every time he caught a fish, "That's the only luhr a man needs, hey."

For those few of you unfamiliar with the crankbait as a concept, it is one of those fishing lures that consists of a body or "plug," usually constructed of wood or plastic, from which hang multiple sets of triple or "treble" hooks.  The crankbait is often used as a so-called "search bait," meaning you cast it around, with that armory of hook points rattling through the water until it snags into something; be that fish, tree, stone, or otherwise.  Crankbaits as a class are a formidable, spiny little bunch, and the only ones that make me think, Aw Geeze, please don't put a hook through my thumb, every time I reach down to grab a fish with one in its mouth.  

Eventually, just as sometimes happens on the dance floor, there had to come an ugly end to our watery gambol.  As we occasionally uttered three-word thoughts to each other, and silently pointed out likely targets for one another's casts with our rod tips, he suddenly yelled, "Look Out!"

I had been lulled into that trance born of the rhythm of fly casting blindly to a sparse fish presence, when the big smallmouth bass he'd latched into, crankbait bristling with hooks, turned sideways in the current, and shot between my legs.  There was nothing either one of us could have done about it.  Those hooks were buried in my hide inside a second or two.  The fish thrashed a few times whilst tethered to my ankle, an interesting sensation to be sure, and it was a welcome relief to my rapidly firing pain receptors when she finally pulled herself free.    

Crankbait by Rebel, river sandal by Keen, pasty Sconnie ankle by Mary and Kurt

I may be judged soft and weak by future generations, but it was then that I declared we were done fishing.  At least until I was able to return to a comfortable gait sans crankbait welded to my ankle, snagging on the grass and weeds every other stride.  An Ace Bandage temporarily snugging it to my leg would've been the perfect option for continued fishing in minimal discomfort, but you can only carry so much stuff in your vest.

We retired to Brian's house where he found a pair of cutters and some heavy cord with which to pop the hooks out of my flesh, but not before the banter began as I drove us back to the homestead.  It took only minutes before the digs began to fly, concerning both his inability to control his fish and my failure to get out the way.  It may very well be that we each felt a little bad for the way it went down, but such feelings are seldom shared between us.  Instead, we jab and laugh and curse each other.  And laugh some more.  It's a different form of intimacy, much more comfortable and effective than talking it out.  I can't even imagine...

"Oh, my!  I am so truly sorry I was unable to control that fish before he hooked you in the ankle.  It must be dreadfully painful.  Please let me know if there is anything I can to to assist you."

"It's quite alright.  I apologize for being unable to get out of the way of your trophy fish.  Let's just ride home quietly, and get this taken care of immediately."

How uncomfortable.

The hook removal went swimmingly well, using a method of cutting away the body of the plug (because I was hooked on both ends), then popping them out with a length of heavy monofilament line.  Easy as pulling a loose tooth, really, except there is no hook fairy to give you a quarter in the morning.  It's probably best not to hide hooks under your pillow anyway.

I was certain to remain stoic and completely unmoving during the procedure, knowing that the tiniest movement or peep from me would result in Brian having the ammunition to blow the ensuing decades of campfire re-tellings entirely out proportion.

Therein lies one of the few challenges (and greatest pleasures) of being a dude hanging out with other men.

I am pleased and lucky enough to inhabit a huge group of loosely-knit men who cover the entire spectrum of interests and allegiances from MENSA to IBEW, burning Red State to hardcore Blue, Metallurgist to tattooed Heavy Metal rocker.  Fifth generation farmers and hipster nerds, alike.  I think that stems partly from the fact that any time you claim a bar stool in Madison you're as likely to sit next to a Doctor of Meteorology as you are a plumber, and partly from the fact that nearly everyone fishes at some point, no matter what they were born into.  Fishing talk transcends almost all boundaries, and comes up just as easily at the bar as it does whispered in the pews before a wedding.  At least if you're hanging with me.  

The one thing almost all of these friends have in common is that they love to give each other a hard time.  I do too.  As far as I'm concerned, one corner of heaven is reserved for a card table or wood stove and the re-telling of the time your buddy screwed the pooch, or pulled the greatest prank ever played.

Speaking of which...

In the fall of 1996 I was invited to join a deer camp in the northwoods of Wisconsin, by a family whose only natural state of being is one of generosity and kindness.  Let us not assume, however, that their natural inclinations toward charity and goodness precluded these men from pulling one of the most well-conceived and enacted, stressfully painful pranks I have ever been the target of, early in my stay there.

It involves the consumption of a homemade Swedish liqueur called Glögg, or "glug" as it is known to the American ear in camp.  Rodger makes glug for the boys almost every year.  It is a family recipe passed down from father to son, with rightful pride, for generations.  I've seen the tattered and dog-eared oldest surviving incantation, the writing barely legible on crumbling yellowed paper.

It's the good stuff.  An alcohol content absolutely through the rafters, but prepared and reduced in such a way that the drinker feels almost none of the deleterious effects until it's too late.  And that is the crux of the problem, as I so ruefully learned.

At the time, I was only newly dating Rodger's eldest daughter, Erin, she of radiant green eyes and perpetual mischievous grin.  He was a pilot and retired naval officer, I was a nerdy little college puke, invited by his nephew, Frisbee, with whom I'd become fast friends in the dorms.  I was was fully and rightfully intimidated by Rodger.

The first Sunday night of our eleven-day deer season the glug came out.  I partook, and heartily.  Being the new guy, however, and unable to taste the intensity of the alcohol so well prepared, I over-indulged.  That's stating it kindly.  I hastily got very, very intoxicated.  Rip-roaring drunk.  Loud, annoying, hammered-asshole inebriated.  You get the picture.  I was 22, don't tell me you never did.

Frisbee and I had to return to Madison the following morning for our mid-terms.  I was hungover and tired, but happy to get back to the city to see Erin, admittedly less joyful about the tests.

We took our exams, and, as promptly as possible, made the four-hour trek back to deer camp.  I was in high spirits, riding back up north with Frisbee, the appropriate clothes and firearms in back, ready to hit the woods and hang with the guys at my new camp.

We rolled in, full of youthful enthusiasm, and I was surprisingly greeted with less than stellar salutations.  Even shunned a bit by the better actors.  While Frisbee was greeted with hearty handshakes and claps on the back, I was granted only mild acceptance.

Rodger's brother shook my hand, and whispered, rather mystically,  "I CANNOT believe what you said about Erin to my brother."

Later that night Rodger came in with the bottle of glug under his arm.  As is the tradition, he shook hands with every man around the table... except me.  Completely ignored me, as a matter of fact.  I stood up straight and tall, as a young man courting his daughter should have, and stuck my hand out, only to be met with cold indifference.

As the evening progressed, he offered shots of glug to the boys.  "Who wants a shot of glug... Ted?  Paul?  Primo?"  All the way around the table, until he got to me.  He looked me directly in the eyes with a fair amount of derision, and asked plainly, "Truth serum?"

I wilted inside.  Damn near died, honestly.  I had no idea what I'd said to him about my dating life with his daughter, couldn't recall most of the previous Sunday night, honestly.  In the days that followed, it was all I heard about from the other guys.   ...you need to apologize to Rodger.... I can't believe what you said to him... you should never drink that much in front of your girlfriend's dad....

The entire remainder of our gun deer season progressed like that, as I fretted in my ladder stand and worried in my bunk.  Cold shoulders from the old guys and glances of pity from the boys my age.  In the true spirit of a good prank, it was perfectly executed and very nearly too uncomfortable to take.

Of course, it came out on the final Sunday that I hadn't said a single bawdy or remotely inappropriate thing to Rodger about Erin and I.  But they knew my memory of the evening in question would be foggy at best, and jumped on the opportunity as a clan.  They gleefully played me the entire week.  I have to say that Rodger played his part very well, effectively treating me like a leper the entire time.  I only wish that I had known him then as I do now, so that I might've been able to express true thoughts to him personally, concerning his acting skills and devious trickery.  As it stands, we remain tight friends to this day, so perhaps it is better that I couldn't.

I can't explain it to you now, all these years later, but this ribbing and silliness are examples of things men can bond over.  It doesn't hurt anymore that they keelhauled me.  It's hilarious.  There are plenty more camp stories where that came from.  Pranks that I had a part in, or that happened before I was even born.  They are the basis of our banter and inside language, rites of induction and continued membership.  They're part of the narrative of who we are as a tribe, and I love them.  Even if they occasionally sting at the time.

The deer camp boys, after a deer drive.  I'm on the left, safely four away from Rodger.

Into the Fire

Seasons wash over us inexorably and without fail.  Hot August nights slip into the cooler days of September, and we know that bird hunting and football will soon be on the menu.  The ice softens under our feet as we chance one more wary trip for bluegills, the sun making way for April.  During the long drive home from deer camp many of us stave off the soul-crushing depression of returning to the world with thoughts of hunting pheasants and squirrels in the blustery snows of December.  If time is a human construct, it is in that specific moment that I'd like to meet the guy who invented it, and invent him a cuff upside the kisser.

One season remains immortal, however, nearly unchanged by weather, calendar, or the plight of man.  While it can be challenging at times, and it would be occasionally easier to forgo altogether, it is among the most rewarding of all seasons, and therefore must be treated with reverence.  And a good deal of fun.  While we exist in the sweet, juicy core of it right now, in my world, grilling season lasts all year long.

Before we begin, it must be stated that some part of the fascination with grilling stems from the slightest whiff of pyromania that I think inhabits most of us.  Fire enchants us.  There wasn't fire, then there was fire, then we didn't die.  Pretty simple, really.  We stood up, and while our incisors shrank our brain pans grew, we suddenly became capable of mastering it.  A million generations of your ancestors had to not die at the icy hands of hypothermia or the jaws of some fearsome Pleistocene beastie for you to be sitting here reading this, and fire is directly linked to that happening.  The attraction is programmed within us now.

You can still see those roots, at least in my clan, if you look closely enough.  Men stand around meat over flame, congratulating each other on yet another successful hunt.  Entire families stare contentedly into the prism of glowing embers, conversation lost to rising smoke and the knowledge that we are all fed and safe, at least for tonight.

I was staggeringly lucky enough to be born to a father who held a deep and abiding relationship with the fire and grill for nearly all of his life.  A man who let me play hooky to learn how to build bow & drill fires and cook over a Swedish Fire Torch.  A woodsman who made his own fire-starters out of charred cloth, pine pitch, saw dust, and the little paper cups you used to squish your ketchup into at Burger King (my brother and I would swipe them by the pocketful for him).  We heated our houses with fire, cooked over it, and occasionally had father-son races to see who could build a fire from scratch the fastest, the object being to burn through a length of twine strung between two stakes a foot off the ground.  Only one kitchen match per man was allowed before I was old enough run a flint with any competency, and I seldom won either way.

If my obsession with fire was not honed to a razor's edge by a couple eons of heidelbergensis forefathers surviving, it was pounded into me by a progenitor's obsession.  And if he taught me any one thing, it's that you don't touch another man's fire anymore than you'd touch his wife.

  

The fascination with flame well established, we move on to the other appeal of grilling.

I'm a Cheesehead.  Did you honestly think the pic wasn't going to be of brats?

...and in the grilling basket with my beloved veggie friends.  Weirdos.

The way I see it, our grilling scenarios break down nicely into three disparate categories.

Firstly, and most often, you have your Home Game.  This is the sanctuary, the place where you grill most often and feel most comfortable.  Ideally, you grab a beer, linger over the licking flames, poking and prodding until all is sublime with dinner and the world.  You can smoke pretty damn good homemade bacon here too, without even really thinking about it.  All spoken like a dude sans progeny, I know.

In any case, this is the place to relax or let it fly as your mood and situation dictates.  You're free to stretch your legs and give 'er, or keep it spartan and simple.  This is where you're welcome to grill every available foodstuff on the planet without recourse or judgement, or simply char a hot dog.  Your call.  In my case, it's where pizzas, ingredients for dip and soups, desserts and salads also get grilled.  They don't play a big part in the next two testosterone-fueled situations, sadly, but they should.  Pistachio stuffed figs... hello?  Even John Wayne would smile after he tasted those.    

Do whatever you want at home.  You want to do a fresh take on easy old school?  Coarsely ground local chuck and sirloin, formed into an imperfect, squat cylinder, stuffed with stanky Blue or stringent aged Cheddar, and slabbed on a toasted kaiser with spinach and fresh, fire-roasted salsa?  I'm in.  You want to get nuts and stuff a lamb shank with the catnip you mistakenly identified as mint down the road?  I'm still in.  I'll bring a cooler, and run the camera for YouTube.  Home is where the grill is.

Secondly in the grilling universe, we have the Away Game category.  Not an away game for your team, but away from the comfort and ease of the homestead.  I do a fair amount of these for the group, mostly tailgating, and I keep them unabashedly simple.  Badger football at home, under twin buttresses of turning leaves and the magic of a college football Saturday, or the beloved Pack in sheets of driven snow, I have exactly four menus in the playbook, and I rotate them blatantly without regret or shame.  A few big flank steaks, nice and rare, with some grill-marked ciabatta and a short selection of sauces made beforehand at home to complete belly-warming sandwiches... maybe, just maybe, some caramelized onions or roasted peppers if I'm liking the boys that weekend and it isn't too cold for my hands -- that one seems to be the prevailing favorite. 

Our last scenario of the three is the Camping Setup.  There was a time when I would scoff at the very thought of calling drinking beer around a fire in state forest, or even more embarrassingly, yards from the trucks in a state park "camping," but alas, that time has passed.  It seems to be all that we as a group can muster anymore, and even then, not very frequently.  This is where worlds collide on top of the fire.

You have easy access to a cooler, full of all the ingredients you wish to bring, screaming for you to go overboard with the meal plans.  You also have no idea what the physical setup of the fire and/or grilling station will be.  The Furies are tempting you into a dance that will mostly likely end in your terrible demise.

There is an old stainless grill grate with impossibly weak, little fold-out feet in the basement directly below me as I type this.  I won it in a Boy Scout .22 rifle competition as a kid, decades ago, if you can believe that.  It remains in a backpack there strictly for this situation.

Honestly, when I'm heading to a campsite in a park with a cooler and a possibly sketchy grilling setup, I bring dinner prepackaged in little foil pouches.  Toss them in the coals, and be done with it, no grate necessary.  But inevitably, somebody arrives with frozen grocery store patties or chicken breasts, and no idea what to do with them, and that old reliable, apparently invaluable, BSA grill grate saves their evening one more time.

   

Let us conclude with the Manifesto Portion of this post.  This should piss a few people off.

Gas grills are wrong.  An abomination.  An insult to cows and pigs and chickens everywhere.  It is a bold generalization, probably overstated and not always true, but it's how I feel, justifiable or not.  If you fire your dinner over propane, God bless you.  This is not meant as a judgement of your character, though it may be a judgement of your judgement.

I understand the appeal.  All the brushed metal and big fancy knobbery... and you saw that celebrity chef glazing pork chops on one under a lens filter they hadn't used since a Playboy shoot circa 1978.  Cool.  Shelves and sinks and that snappy little piezo-electric start jolting across the millennial abyss from cave painting to garden party in an instant -- I get it.  Gas grills are convenient and fast, relatively clean and easy.  And they taste like it.

I ask that you show me one instance of anyone ever, in the history of the universe, winning a major grilling or barbeque contest on a competitive circuit while using propane.  Post it in the comments if I'm wrong.  I'm wrong all the time.  I have no trouble with that.

Not that such contests are the defining measure of cooking with fire.  I would make a convincing argument that they are, in fact, the stark antithesis of such.  I simply posit that not one competitor has won a nationally recognized competition over strictly gas because we all know the flavor produced is inferior to that produced using charred hardwood chunk.  When the crying's done, we're only talking about flavor here, after all. 

I'm a purist and a bit of a Luddite, I'll admit.  You got me.  That combination lends itself to a touch of zealotry sometimes.  I much prefer the taste of meats (and fruits and veg) off a hot lump charcoal fire, that's all.  If you can't tell the difference, you're not paying attention or you've never been blessed with the chance to try.  And that's a shame.  I won't turn away your gassed food at the graduation party or wine tasting.  I will remain picture of decorum, happy to be amongst friends -- I'm a true believer, not an ass.

Lastly, however you see fit to grill your meal, keep your grates clean.  Just because we're firing like cavemen, doesn't mean we should practice their grill hygiene.