Lessons on living from grass and salt water

If you've never looked out across a lowcountry marsh you've missed one of nature's special works.  Aside from the complexity and diversity of the ecosystem, it's just plain beautiful, stretching for miles over salt water and grass interrupted only occasionally by a resilient evergreen.  It has the same effect, on me at least, of looking at mountain ranges or prairies.

The family unit has landed here for the week, my first stretch of more than 2 weekdays off in several years and it won't go to waste. A little fishing, exploring the creeks by kayak, some unadulterated kid fun on the beach, and overlaying it all an opportunity to place certain things back in their pockets of proper perspective.

I have a natural tendency to worry. Not the scared-to-leave-the-house kind of worry or the quivering-mess-unless-I-medicate-it kind of worry, more the tendency to see potential problems and overwork my brain about what I can do to prevent them kind of worry. In my younger days it was suppressed by things like hormones and adrenalin and brute ignorance. I didn't worry too much because there was always something else in my brain keeping it occupied. That or, as was often the case, I was too dumb to see trouble coming. The veil of this lifts with age, though, and reveals all manner of things to worry about if you're built that way.

As I've confronted it over the last few years I've realized that more often than not it boils down to a sense of control. There's this illusion that because you can control certain things, you can control everything if you work at it hard enough. That's horseshit, and I know it's horseshit, but it's a tough notion to set free. Setting it free is rather important, however, if you want to be happy.

There will always, ALWAYS, be potential catastrophe. Not impending, but potential, possible, imaginable. Your roof could spring a leak. The industry that supports your business could collapse. You could get cancer. And you can only do so much to prevent it. Beyond that line is beyond your control.

Nothing is immune from disaster, not even this marsh. Almost exactly 24 years ago a hurricane with the comical name of Hugo screamed through here leaving only the top few feet of the trees in the picture above water. Houses became swamped, soggy messes that took months to refurbish. Boats, still attached to their trailers, were found miles inland.

The marsh eventually digested the trash, absorbed the waves of sand and went on about its business of being a marsh, different in places but not measurably better or worse. If it's at all like me, it worries about the next Hugo. But it's not like me, and therein lies the lesson.

Blogs are heat-sensitive

It's a pattern that repeats with the season.  Summer rolls around and blog activity grows more and more lethargic and it's not just the hunting blogs either.  Quite a few from the fishing world slow to a crawl, beaten into submission by the heat and humidity.  Bless those few who diligently post several times a week lest I abandon the web as entertainment altogether.

It's not so much a lack of anything to say as it is a lack of motivation to say it. I don't know why it is that apathy, the bermudagrass of activity, grows so well in warmer temps, stretching and creeping and slowly covering nearly everything if left to its own. Words struggle to find the light of day.

Doesn't make much sense to blame it on the heat, either. When it gets too hot outside and we take refuge in the A/C there's only so much to do. Opportunity knocks and we pretend we're not home.

If there weren't bad seasons there wouldn't be good ones.

Independence Day

Wish I had some deep insights into freedom and liberty and all.  I don't.

Guys with big nuts

Happy Birthday, America. There's no place like home.

The Roaring Silence

Been a little quiet here for the last few weeks but hey, it's that time of year. When the grass is growing faster than I can cut it, bird hunting is about the furthest thing from my mind. I know, this is the time of year to do your trip planning and your gear repair and your dog training and read your books and where was I going with this? Motivation is a bit hard to come by this time of year.

This might be called the season of "ought" as in I ought to be shopping for another dog, I ought to be getting out at first light to run the dog I have, I ought to be at the range working on my crossing shots, I ought to just shut up and do something productive.

Instead I'm just sitting here with a colossal case of apathy.

Seventy seven days to the opener.  Nineteen more til Fall.

Reason #36 I'd like to spend a season in Montana

I just love the names of the mountains. Beartooth. Sawtooth. Elkhorn. Gallatin. Absaroka -I don't even know how to pronounce this but however you say it sounds cool.

Bitterroot.  Big Horn. Anaconda - which is cool although it sounds out of place in Montana. Big Belt. Big Sheep. Chalk Buttes. Tendoy. Coeur d'Alene -  I'm not much a fan of the French (aside from their cooking) but this name is just sexy.  And my favorite, the Crazies.

Prairie Solitaire

The first line in Edward Abbey's book about a season spent in the Arches National Monument reads "This is the most beautiful place on earth."  I haven't been to Arches - yet - but I have uttered that line any number of times.  I said it the first time I saw the Florida Keys, which was 30+ years ago when things looked a bit less, um, overrun.  I said it standing on a snow-covered mountain in Colorado and ten years later on another snow-covered mountain in a remote section of British Columbia.  I said it looking across a mountain-framed geothermal basin in Yellowstone.  Oceans and mountains, the giants and sirens of Earth.

I also said it the first time I stared out the window of a car in South Dakota.  And I still think it every time I visit.  Odd because the colors are so muted, there's nothing majestic rising out of the earth, nothing otherworldly at all about it.  The splendor lies in its reach; grandeur that doesn't climb out of the earth or reach down into it but unfolds across it. Breathtaking simplicity. Buzz Aldrin coined the phrase "magnificent desolation" although technically it's not.

The midwestern prairie is the middle child of America, overlooked and unnoticed, casting an existence in the shadow of its higher profile siblings. It will never be the pro athlete, the opera star, the doctor or lawyer or supermodel or fashion designer. It will never be the prodigal son.

This is the son that feeds the family.  This is the son you'd want to raise your children if anything happened to you.  This is the son every man wants his daughter to marry yet fails to catch the eye of most young women.

This is the most beautiful place on earth. I wonder if, after living there for 30 years or so, you'd say the same thing?  If you did, you'd probably be right.

Thoughts on general relativity and Christmas

This could easily be the title of a term paper but for the fortunate fact that I'm 20+ years removed from institutions of higher learning.  That's a gift in itself.

Last month I read Walter Isaacson's biography of Albert Einstein, an engaging if not excruciatingly detailed account of the physicist's life and work.  Einstein was not overly religious but on several occasions was asked if he believed in God.  His response never varied, explaining that there was far too much order in the design of the universe for it to be accidental.

Having never won a Nobel prize, my thoughts carry somewhat less authority, but on occasions such as the Eve of Christmas I make it a point to stop, look, and think about our existence.  Those of us who spend time in the natural world are either the smart ones or the fortunate ones or both, and because of this are witness to the beauty and wonder of things that even Einstein might struggle to quantify. Feathers, fields, fins or fur, they all hold the power to make us stop and stare and feel good inside.

If life evolved strictly on a functional basis most of nature would look like college engineering projects. Whoever or whatever created the life on this planet didn't stop when the practical issues were resolved. Camouflage needn't be stunning, after all.  Or maybe the miracle is simply that we were created with the ability to see the beauty in all of these things.

If you start feeling that twinge of envy tomorrow morning when your little brother ends up with two more presents than you, step outside and look around.  It's a gift too big to wrap and that's a good thing, because no one could afford it anyway.  And it's yours.

Merry Christmas-

Apple and the dog

I don't own any of her CDs and in fact couldn't tell you the name of even one of her songs. The only thing that immediately comes to mind when you mention her name is that her bus got stopped coming back into Texas a few months ago and she was locked up for possession of hashish.  She may have been good and baked when she wrote this letter, but it still hits home:

Singer cancels tour to stay with dying dog

Bottom line is dogs don't care who you are as long as you're good to them.  You can be the biggest fuckup in the world and they'll think you're perfect.  And so we do things like forego six figure paydays, sleep on the floor with them, make certain their last breath is filled with bird scent, even tell them it's ok to leave us behind, all in the naive but well-intentioned notion that we can somehow pay them back.

And Now We Shall Do Manly Things

If there's one thing I enjoy in any memoir it's candor.  Speak to me honestly, don't put on makeup, give me the real you.  A writer who displays his own shortfalls unapologetically and without casting blame, placing all that he isn't out there for the world to see has my respect. As I read Craig Heimbuch's recent release, And Now We Shall Do Manly Things (not just a clever blog post title), I found all of the above woven into a tale about a man wrestling with the tribulations of manhood as he takes up bird hunting.

Heimbuch's quest begins when his father gives him a 12 ga Winchester, more in a "Here's something pretty cool" way than an ill-disguised prod to go hunting. Curiosity gets the better of him and the result is a year-long chronicle of discovery, missteps, perseverance and self-realization.

A journalist married to a schoolteacher raising three young children, he is consumed daily by a job, paying rent, and the endless challenges of parenthood.  Here is a guy who doesn't have hobbies or passions as much as he has roles: employee, employer, provider, husband, father, fixer of all that breaks.  "Life is too much about compromise," he notes, a sentiment painfully familiar to many of us. For Heimbuch, hunting evolves into a departure from an existence devoted mainly to the well-being of others.

The story is funny, at times laugh-out-loud funny, without seeming silly or contrived.  The simple truth of lines such as "like our toys, pheasant were imported from China," kept a smile on my face while an extremely witty, albeit fictional, exchange between Ted Turner and Mark Zuckerberg had me spitting milk through my nose.

"Hello, Ted?  Hi, it's Mark Zuckerberg."

"Who?"

"Mark Zuckerberg.  I created Facebook."

 "Look, if this is one of them cults or Amway or some other foolish thing, I don't want any and Jane don't live here no more."

The relatively one-sided conversation continues with Zuckerberg intent on shooting one of Turner's bison and Turner, well, just being Ted.  Heimbuch possesses a well-grounded sense of humor and never falls into the trap of taking himself or the story too seriously.

The book offers a somewhat sobering glimpse into the declining number of hunters, one extending beyond the loss of habitat and the urbanization of America.  Heimbuch experiences the difficulties facing a guy who hasn't grown up in the sport but would dearly like to give it a try, the closed doors and skepticism encountered by a grown man who wants to hunt.  Were it not for several accommodating relatives this book might never have happened.  Our sport is one that's difficult to figure out on your own, at least before you grow tired of getting skunked and give it up for something less cryptic.

Oddly, the father who gave him the shotgun and who is an avid lifelong hunter only plays a peripheral role in his son's passage into the shooting sports.  We're left to wonder whether this was intentional or merely bad luck on the calendar, but Heimbuch leaves little doubt how much he wanted his father included.

I learned of this book through an email from TLC Book Tours who subsequently sent me a copy and included this review in a month-long virtual tour.  At 324 pages it's an easy read and one any bird hunter would enjoy.  George Bird Evans or Datus Proper it's not, nor is it meant to be.  It's a modern story that most guys can relate to, and fortunately it happens to be about wingshooting.

What does pheasant hunting have to do with deer?

Occasionally worlds collide.  This video was shot by pheasant hunters in SD who came upon two antler-locked deer.

I wonder how Darwin would weigh in on this.

Hits and misses

We had the winter that wasn't this year.  It was the warmest I can recall in slightly less than half a century that I've been available to take notes. The laws of nature and the law of averages and Murphy's Law and a few others say you're going to get one of these now and then, and not likely when it suits your schedule.  I felt a little cheated not even seeing a flake of snow.  I didn't even burn a full rack of firewood.  And now spring is here, wide open and at least a month ahead of schedule.  Winter is definitely gone.

I will miss being able to drive down the highway at dusk without bugs smashing all over my windshield, especially whichever ones make the tiny white streaks that look like someone ground up a grease pencil and hurled the shavings at the truck.

I will miss the smell of burning leaves, of the air first thing in the morning after a cold front moves in, of my waxed cotton gear that is uninhabitable in warmer weather.

I'll miss sitting in the office on Wednesday knowing I'm going hunting in only three days.  I'll miss waking up while it's still dark, loading the truck in the dark, and heading down the highway looking at the horizon for the first signs of light.

I'll miss knowing that if I really wanted to, most likely at the cost of a job or a marriage or at the very least a severe ass-gnawing from either, I could go hunting today.

I won't miss the barren, naked look of trees.  For years I've wished that leaves would change color in the fall and stay that way until spring when the new ones would push them off the branch.  A winter wardrobe.

I won't miss scraping frost off of the windshield or my door freezing shut.  I won't miss driving off with a stack of bills and checks on the toolbox, the ones I put there so I could use both hands to pull open the frozen door, and watching them take flight in the rearview.

I won't miss the mud in my yard.  And on my shoes.  And on my pants.  And in my house.

I could go on but there's not much sense in dwelling on what was, wasn't and isn't.  Winter is gone.  Give it eight or nine months and there's a good chance it'll be back.

The only good coyote....

With only two weekends left in the season I don't see a whole lot of downside in trying some new spots, the old spots being marginally productive and becoming a bit too familiar.  I pulled into the turnaround area on some national forest land this morning, cup full of coffee and optimism based on some positive reports from early in the season, and stepped out of the truck to this:

After a little scrounging around I found the missing pieces:

I'm not 100% on the ID but I'm pretty sure it's a coyote.  And this is the form I like to see them in.  A little more scrounging revealed some duplicate parts, pointing to at least a second casualty in the vicinity.

Only question is did someone drop the carcasses here in a display of pride or did some creature drag them here for a pagan feast?  Odd karma oozes from either possibility.  

Oh, and lest you think I'm a complete and total lesser canid bigot, there is one example of the species I hope never completely dies.  Since the beginning of time this earth has not seen a creature with more mechanical ambition and misguided persistence and as a guy with an engineering degree who is trying to bring back bobwhite populations, well....let's just say I know where he's coming from.

Aromatherapy

Last weekend it rained.  Again.  How this still qualifies as a drought I can't understand, squishy as the ground is nearly everywhere.  According to NOAA, however, we have improved from Extreme to merely Severe status. Whatever.  We were stuck inside.

The only real blessing I find in days like these during hunting season is the opportunity to get slightly caught up on what unavoidably gets neglected from September to the first of March.  Cleaning, fixing, moving, touching up, throwing out and the general repair and maintenance of the nuptials can eat up a weekend in no time.  After I let the dogs back in I sat down for a minute, taking a break from the domestic gulag to catch up on some reading, and was immediately overcome with the smell.  Unmistakable, overpowering, thick enough that it ought to be visible.  Wet bird dog.

I can understand why some people, especially non-dog people, would find it less than appealing.  It's not exactly perfume or potpourri and I doubt Glade will be incorporating it in their lineup this year but it's not altogether repulsive either.  Dew-soaked mornings, dips in a puddle or a creek, rides home when the inside of the truck smelled of nothing other than damp dog fur.  This never turned me off.  Sometimes it lingered for a few days and I'd get to enjoy it on the way to work.  I can never recall, not even once, rolling down the windows or otherwise trying to cover it up.

I have a closet full of scents that fit the same bill. The bottle of Hoppes No 9 in my cleaning box is as unique as anything in there.  The fact that it's a solvent can't be denied and it will open your eyes if you get too close.  From working distance, though, it almost has a sweet smell to it.  Apparently enough people felt the same way that Hoppes now offers air fresheners.

When I pull out the No 9 and the barrels for scrubbing I get a faint whiff of the leftover powder.  It smells exactly like the gunpowder hanging in the air after the first trigger pull on opening day, sharp, announcing with its presence the beginning of a new season.  By January or February you don't notice it as much, but after a long summer it floods a nose.  Powerful stuff.

The tincloth of my Filson vest has an aroma all its own.  As do my gloves which, like any really good gear, have a story.  When I was maybe thirteen or fourteen I saw an ad in a magazine for authentic Marlboro Man gear.  Shearling coat, cowboy hat, boots, vest, the whole works.  The deal was you sent in empty packs of Marlboros as legal tender. Everything in the ad was many cartons' worth, the shearling coat priced at a good decade of any chain-smoker's pleasure.  But there was a pair of leather gloves for the occasional, only-when-I'm-drinking smoker, maybe twenty or thirty empty packs.  And I wanted them.

As luck would have it my dad worked with a dedicated Marlboro patron who gladly contributed to the cause and in about 6-8 weeks I had my gloves.  Normally the stuff you get in these giveaways is worth less than the empties you trade for it and falls apart in a few months, junque in the classic sense.  These, however, may go down as the deal of all time. Thirty plus years later they're still at it, not a tear, not a crack, not a loose stitch anywhere. It's gonna be a sad day when that first chink appears.  All well-worn leather smells distinctive, far different than brand new, and each individual piece more distinctive still.  I could pick these out of a lineup blindfolded.

As potent as these scents are, even more so are the memories tied to them.  Instant, uncontrollable recall kicks in as they tickle the olfactory wires.  Hundreds all at once and strangely each one is good.

Rain, rain go away.  But don't take these smells with you.

Time for some adjustments

I've been an analytical sort for a long, long time.  I studied engineering, I work in the financial side of a decidedly blue collar business, metrics, analysis, measurement, comparisons, reporting, scorecards .... all tools of my trade and fairly ingrained in my approach to just about everything.  I even keep track of the books I read and listen to.   We all have our demons and this is one of mine, somewhere between compulsion and affliction.

Today was the last day to shoot dove until September.  The funky weather patterns since Thanksgiving have thrown long-held expectations for the third season out the window (translation:  everybody sees birds around, calls a hunt for the next day, shows up and the birds are gone).  I've shot a limit on the last day of the season before but I knew when I left the house today that it wasn't in the cards this year.  The worst part?  This is the first season since I started hunting that I haven't managed a limit of dove.  At all.  Not even on opening day.

And there's something wrong with that.  Not with the fact that I didn't get a limit, with the fact that I know I didn't get a limit.  This isn't a competition, it's something I supposedly do for enjoyment.  You don't get some rodeo-sized belt buckle for shooting limits.  Once it's over you get an ounce of boost to your ego and have a serving of satisfaction and that's it.  Why not get that satisfaction from something else, and get it every time?

Easier said than done for an analytical type.

The splash of cold water in the face is that it's time to let go of a few things I've held close for many, many years.  These things have provided some measure of comfort, most likely through a perception that if I kept track of the numbers I'd maintain control.  What gets measured gets done, right?  Not necessarily.  And not if measuring takes the fun out of it.

I've been pecking away at this since early September and during that time I came across this post on The Drake's website.  Bruce Smithhammer hit it pretty solid and while he was talking about fly fishing instead of bird hunting and anger directed toward others instead of toward yourself, he makes his case exceptionally well:  never forget that this is about fun.

Without dessert a great dinner is still great, but dessert leaves nothing unfinished.  This is kind of the way I felt about shooting a limit of birds.  I always had a great time in the field, but leaving with six or nine or even twelve birds had a loose end feel to it.  To have fun every time this loose end has to go.  I'm not talking about clipping it.  I'm talking about not acknowledging its existence.  I'm talking about looking at it and not seeing it at all.

Somehow, some way, this calls for a shift in consciousness.  I don't know how it plays out, but I know it's time.  There will always be occasion to celebrate a double and be thankful for a limit, and those limits will come.  I haven't completely given up trying to hit birds.  And my guess is, for a while anyway, there will still be those nagging numbers in the back of my head.  But it's time.

This is what they call a zero-sum game

What's good for one group is bad for another.  It's hardly mentioned in this Thursday article on the NY Times website, but the plain truth is that rising crop prices aren't generally a good things for birds or the hunters who chase them.

Higher prices for corn and other staple grains translate to fewer acres of native grasses and shrubs, prime habitat for many gamebirds. The economics work like this:  A farmer has 20 acres of what he considers 'marginal' land, dirt so full of rocks or so lacking in nutrients or so damp that he can only manage 15 bushels of crop per acre when it comes time to harvest.  With corn prices at $2.50/bushel this land generates $37.50 an acre under the plow.  Take out the $5 or so per acre it costs to actually grow the corn (seed, fertilizer, diesel fuel, etc) and he nets even less.  The Conservation Reserve Program offers the farmer $50 per acre to plant some native grasses and just leave the land alone for ten years.  Easy decision, right?

Easy until world populations grow and all those new bellies want food in them.  Demand increases, prices rise, and all of sudden the farmer looks up and corn is fetching $6/bushel. Now this formerly marginal land is worth $90 an acre if he farms it, substantially more than the $50 an acre it gets in CRP.  And farmers instantly start bailing out of the CRP.  

And it's not just CRP acreage that's being converted back to cropland.  The article talks about midwest golf courses, windbreaks, even old homes being torn down, cleared and plowed to make room for more rows of crop.  I don't have much of a problem with a golf course being returned to farmland.  America needs another golf course like it needs another lawyer.  And if you tear down an old house that was in terrible disrepair and hadn't been lived in since the '30s you haven't really lost anything of use.  The cropland these are replaced with does provide food for migrating birds, so it's not a complete loss.  I hunt dove over corn, wheat, soybeans and sunflowers, and ducks and geese feed in these fields on their way south every year.  Where it falls short, though, is providing the critically important cover that upland gamebirds use for breeding and shelter.  It's like having several thousand grocery stores in a town but no houses.

CRP isn't likely to disappear completely.  There will always be land so marginal that it makes economic sense to leave it in the program.  And there will always be responsible farmers who will leave field borders for wildlife. Keeping CRP acreage from plummeting, however, is ultimately about dollars.  Funding CRP at higher rates is a challenge in good times; in the current environment it's a practical impossibility.  That leaves private sector funding as the stopgap, and it's going to be tough for organizations like Pheasants Forever to raise the necessary comparable capital.  We're talking about billions, not millions.

What the conservation groups lack in finance they can make up for in marketing and public relations, raising awareness among farmers and landowners of the value in creating and preserving wildlife habitat.  One thing working in our favor now is a general national consciousness of doing things in an environmentally responsible manner.  Leveraging this holds the best hope in the fight against world economics. Zero-sum doesn't have to mean winner take all.

Psst, Santa....I been super good this year

No kiddin.  I didn't fight with my brother or sister, I didn't play hooky from work (not a statistically significant number of times, anyway), I brushed my teeth almost every day and I didn't shoot BBs at the neighbor's cat.  And I got a real short list of stuff I want:

Any one of these will do.  I'll take 'em all if it's too tight in the sleigh.

courtesy andersons-classic-gundogs.com

About a thousand acres or so of this...

A few dozen days like this one...

Views like these every week or so..

And maybe one of these.  I promise I'll take good care of it.

courtesy Holland & Holland

Why technology isn't always a good thing

Deer hunting is not my favorite thing to do out-of-doors.  Knowing that a decent sized doe will nearly pack my available freezer space and last well into the new year, I do it as much for sustenance as enjoyment.  If I manage to bag one on my first hunt of the season it might end up being the last hunt of the season; I just don't have much interest after that. Then I have years like 2010 when I get pretty mad at it and go half a dozen times or more, miss the one deer I shoot at (I still can't believe I whiffed it), and don't put a thing in the freezer.

I hunted a couple of times early this season and didn't shoot.  Again, not being a fanatic about it I don't actively seek opportunities to sit in a stand, don't drive long distances to do so, and don't get too upset if it doesn't happen.  I'd just about put the season behind me when I was invited to skip out of work last Wednesday afternoon and figured why not, it's a pretty day and I could sure use some fresh air.  About five minutes before sunset a nice big doe walked into the food plot and by the end of the week she'll be in my freezer.

But the story doesn't quite end there.  The deer made it about twenty yards into some of the thickest, nastiest brush in the county before expiring and took a while to extract.  Being the incredibly responsible spouse that I am, about halfway through the process I snapped a picture of the deer and sent it along with a text to my wife telling her that I might be a little late getting home.  Later that night I walked by the computer and saw a photo of a deer that looked eerily familiar.  On Facebook.  With my name under it.  Thanks honey.

I'm pretty sure she still doesn't understand why I'd rather not be seen advertising the trophy doe that I shot.  I tried explaining that around here, crowing about shooting a doe is like bragging that you got a hole in one at putt-putt.  Sure, you give yourself a little pat on the back when you do it, you enjoy the spoils at the table for the next six months, but there's really no need to alert the media.  Especially the social media.

The picture was only online a few hours but the damage was done.  Since last Thursday I've had a dozen guys with a smirk on their faces congratulate me on my deer.

Giving Thanks

With the exception of the occasional Monday most of us don't have to look too hard to find a few things to be thankful for.  The challenge is keeping the frustrations and inconveniences of everyday life in perspective so that all the good can rise to the top.  While membership in the Forbes 400 continues to elude me (and likely will until the Sun burns out), on a globally relative basis I am wealthy beyond belief.  I have food on the table and a roof over my head and a job that pays.  I have what I need even though sometimes I have to remind myself of it.  Truth be told I have more than I need...

...a couple of great kids, one of whom is showing promise as a hunting partner.  Few things make a bad day disappear more quickly.

...a wife who is generally gracious about indulging my outdoor obsessions (during hunting season anyway).  For any of you never-been-married guys out there trust me, this one alone is something of value.  I've seen the other side and it ain't pretty.


...a bird dog who has filled the hole left by my last one, right down to being a constant, devoted companion.  You're never alone with one of these.

...places to hunt that fit my frugal nature.  When I think of the people in other countries who come up short on this end, I realize how fortunate we are in this great land, government aside. And while we're on the subject, I'm extremely grateful my business card doesn't say 'Senator' anywhere on it.

...the good health and physical capacity to get outside and walk, and the inclination to do so.  If I have a nagging fear it's that I'll someday lose the desire or ability to pursue my diversions.

No one, not even those in the Forbes 400, is guaranteed an endless string of perfect days.  We all have good days and better days and now and then a downright crappy day.  The latter usually pass pretty quickly when a shade of perspective intervenes.  Honestly, every day should be an occasion to give thanks.

Free Boone & Crockett membership

The folks at the Boone & Crockett Club in partnership with Hornady ammunition are working hard to spread the word about current attempts to ban all lead in hunting and fishing.  While there are readily available alternatives in both sports the
uncomfortable fact is that they are more expensive, in some cases ridiculously so.  If such a ban were implemented I'd have to take out a loan to go dove hunting.

The animal rights activists masquerading as environmentalists have their work cut out for them given that there is no scientific evidence to support a blanket ban on lead in any activities where it is not currently prohibited (waterfowling).  That hasn't stopped them from lobbing lawsuits at every government agency in arm's reach, however, the latest target being the EPA.  Imagine that.  What goes around comes around, I guess. 




What you as a wingshooter can do is contact your representatives in Washington and voice your support for S.838, the Hunting, Fishing, and Recreational Shooting Protection Act. You can read a summary or the full text of the legislation here.  The short version is that the Act clarifies the EPA's jurisdiction over certain sporting goods, conveniently excluding lead ammunition and fishing tackle from their authority.

In appreciation for your support and for taking the time to learn more about the issues at stake, B & C and Hornady are offering one lucky reader a free Boone & Crockett Club Associate Membership.  Leave a comment below and you're automatically entered.  Wit and wisdom are always appreciated but given that this will be a random drawing these won't earn you any favors with the selection panel, which incidentally is composed of my four year old and my six year old, neither of whom has any idea how to rig a drawing anyway.  Drawing will be held just prior to bedtime on Monday, October 24th.

From the back of the photo bin...

Killing time one evening earlier this week I rummaged through the photos that never found a way into the blog and came across a few that seemed too good to waste.  No extended commentary, just a serving of visual potpourri...

Patterns

Waiting..

Libation

Poor man's field lunch

End of a day

Beginning of the next