Finally this weekend, I had the pleasure of eating some fresh springtime crappie, and I couldn’t have had a better time – even though I didn’t catch a single one of the tasty fish – only a puny bluegill that I only cleaned because he took the hook and minnow I was using all the way down into his gills … a mistake a bungling fisherman makes if he looks away at the wrong time.

This past weekend, 20 or so friends and I went camping out at Clinton Lake, near Lawrence, Kansas, and had a wonderful time. We stayed Friday and Saturday night, and fished about all that we could Saturday.

It was 75 to 80 degrees for most of the day Saturday, so we couldn’t have picked a better time to head out camping. The forecast had called for rain Saturday night and into Sunday morning, and we felt a few sprinkles, but the rain never hit until Sunday evening.

Saturday, right after I went up to the bait shop and picked up a dozen minnows, about four of us – three adults – headed down to the water to see what we could get into. Our friends who had been there before us had already put one wiper into their fish basket.

After a couple of hours, frustration was building since we couldn’t seem to get a bite. That’s when Gwen and I headed over to Heidi (wife of my pal Kenny, and mother of their four kids), who was using worms to no avail. She threw out a minnow and quickly reeled in a wiper (which is a hybrid breed of fish, identifiable by the broken horizontal stripes, that is a cross between striped and white bass), and it’s hard to say who was hooked more – Heidi or the fish.

After another hour or so with no action, we determined we’d go back and have some lunch, and maybe hit it again later in the day. That was when Heidi surprised me by going over and checking a limb-line she had set, which she called a set-line. Whatever you want to call it, it worked and there was a 1-pound to 2-pound channel cat that we added to the stringer.

Once back to the campsite, I started cleaning the catch with my new Buck Knives Model 223 fillet knife that our friends over at Buck Knives had in my hand in about two days. Right out of the box, it cut through the scales, skin and meat very smoothly, which made me antsy to use the Alpha Hunter skinning knife that I also recently acquired.

I’ve always used an electric knife to filet fish – they glide right down the backbone – and the 223, with slow, back-and-forth strokes, moved down the backbone very smoothly. I was impressed, especially considering the knife goes for $35.

While I was doing that, Heidi and the kids went back down to the water and hauled in another couple of wipers and an even larger catfish.

After she got done cleaning those, I realized this was a hobby she truly loved because she said she was headed back down to the water’s edge.

Gwen, Heidi, two of her kids and a couple of their friends, and I went straight back down to the sunken brush pile we’d been fishing all day and got back to work.

Kenny and Heidi’s 11-year-old daughter, Leah, started pounding them right away, and reeled in three crappie by the time it was getting too dark to see.

I think it was about at the point of crappie No. 2 when I turned to Gwen and apologized for not getting her into fish, but I was genuinely happy Leah was having the luck. Seeing children catch fish, and the excitement that brings, is always pretty awesome.

She carried them all the way back to the campsite, taking them directly to Kenny to show her prowess on the water.

Later, after we grilled them using a little tinfoil and oil over charcoal, she was pretty quick out of the tent to get a taste. The wipers were good, but as I’ve said before, crappie are right up there with walleye according to my taste buds. And seeing a youngster so proud to provide food made me thankful for good friends and simple pleasures like camping on a June weekend. I’m thankful to enjoy rural America every time out.

My youngest daughter, Alaina, came to the farm to visit last weekend. She was between terms in her physical therapy doctoral program at George Washington University in Washington, DC. She wished to reconnect with her old man by going fishing, like we used to do when she was young. I was taken aback and touched when she requested an angling excursion. The memories of wetting lines with Alaina (and Erin) in Black Hills streams and lakes, and the prairie rivers and potholes in South Dakota are powerful indeed.

Since I hadn’t yet gone fishing here in Kansas, I was quite sure that the day would be a bust. I didn’t have time to scope out any likely spots – but a couple of fishing lakes and 110-Mile Creek are all within minutes of the farm. We stopped at the sporting-goods store for some fresh fishing supplies and licenses on the way home from the airport and headed to the local bait shop for some crawlers the next day (after a work clothing photo shoot and mowing the lawn). As luck would have it we ran into a buddy there and he told us to check out a spot on 110-Mile Creek that was just a few minutes from the farm.

We packed the old Binder with supplies and headed down the road. It was warm and relatively wind free – we both felt optimistic. Turning left off the main gravel road, we found ourselves with the truck’s front hubs locked, pushing through a muddy bottomland trail in 4-wheel-drive and low range. I am pleased to report that the 1964 International truck never gave a moment of doubt as it delivered us to the old bridge. I rigged poles and baited hooks just like I did 15 years ago. Alaina dropped her bobber-adorned line into the creek and within short order she had her first Largemouth Bass. I was thrilled, she was thrilled. In a moment of reverie I saw a much younger us sitting on the banks of French Creek or Legion Lake or the 81 Ponds – all in South Dakota. But this time we were catching bass and crappie and bluegill instead of trout, pike and perch.

By the time the night crawlers ran out, Alaina and I were ready to head home. It was the first time I can remember that she didn’t fall asleep on my shoulder on the drive. Of course, since we were only 3 minutes from the farm, there was little chance for that. When we were younger, we fished to stock the freezer. Last weekend, we released every fish we caught. I think we were both a little relieved that we could just visit and make homemade pizza for supper instead of cleaning a mess of pike. We talked about the big bass that got away long after our evening campfire had died to glowing embers. We marveled at how it would have tasted slow roasted over that bed of Osage Orange coals.

Tonight, as I walked from the main cabin to the Wee House, the wind was howling.

Hard.

It sounded like a freight train, circling around our “40.”

I stopped along my spring snow trail, secured my winter hat and listened.

Closing my eyes in the dark, I relied on one of my five senses to capture the full moment.

My two canine companions also stopped.

I have no doubt our trilogy of horses also had their eyes fixed on us, in the dark cloudy night.

The wind made me think back to my former life, 40 miles north on Little Traverse Bay, in Petoskey.

As a child, I was always a stone’s throw from the Bay, and the mouth of the Bear River.

In my later years, as I raised my filmmaker and golfer sons, we also lived near the Bay. The first thing I did in the morning was look out our front window and view the water, sprinkled with various boats, visible from the hill we lived upon.

It was as if I was drawn to it – from my childhood – from many, many days spent near the water and on the water.

My mind would always go back. Back to my childhood ... when my Dad, who was so dear to me, was still alive.

I was a fisherwoman. A lover of the sport.

A lover of Nature.

Following in my father’s footsteps.

While my other teenage friends were hanging posters of Rod Stewart and The Who, I hung full page pictures carefully torn from Field & Stream or Outdoor Life. Coho’s, Dolly Vardens, Brookies, Steelhead.

My favorite, the Steelhead.

I took pride in stumping the high school boys with the question, “What’s the difference between a Steelhead and a Rainbow trout?” Only the purists knew ...

I also knew a Swedish Pimple wasn’t something that appeared on your face one morning.

Yes, I was a fisherwoman.

And then things began to change. Slowly, it became more difficult for me.

The loss of life.

The Catch.

He would not give up. From the instant he felt the prick of the lure sink in the side of his pink fleshy mouth, he displayed unbelievable strength. He startled me as my pole suddenly doubled over and began a spasmodic jerking. At this, my Dad cut the boat’s motor and raised his pipe in a toast of his approval. The battle with my most respected fish, the Steelhead Trout, had begun.

The morning sun crept above the horizon moments earlier, displaying to us a sample of the beautiful day that lay ahead. This morning, as always when on the Bay, I relished the early morning stillness. The only interruption was the sound of the tiny beads of water dripping from my line as I pumped my Shakespeare “Back Country Special” (with my coveted #2052 reel), bringing the trout closer. The rocky bottom was visible as the cold water rippled off the sides of the aluminum boat while gliding to a standstill within sight of the shoreline of Lake Michigan.

Across the boat, I could see the steam rise from my Dad’s old red plaid fishing thermos as he poured himself a second cup of strong black coffee. The sun now reflected off the lures imbedded within my father’s old, well worn fishing hat that sat firmly on his head in the cool morning breeze. Only hours earlier he knocked softly on my bedroom door signaling it was time to substitute my warm flannel sheets for the long underwear I had laid out the night before. I now regretted that I chose to sacrifice a hearty breakfast for a few scant moments of sleep, as the blend of the aroma of my father’s pipe and the stench of the fish he had previously caught were causing my empty stomach to turn. We remained in silence, as if not to allow spoken words to disturb the communion we shared with our surroundings.

As I eyed the frigid, clear water, I half expected to see the fish lash the surface and face another element unknown to him. My ungloved fingers were growing numb from the cold as I reeled him closer. Sixteen-year-old girls who rise at dawn to sit out on an open body of water should not worry themselves with wardrobe, only warmth.

I was now getting anxious to land the fish, as I had waited all morning for this moment. As the fish neared the boat, I could sense his loss of stamina as the line grew slack. I knew I must keep the line taut, as by now he had most likely worn a hole in the side of his mouth and the lure could slip from its hold. Suddenly, without warning, my line peeled out as the Steelhead made a final effort of retrieval and displayed to us the acrobatic tendencies for which he is famous. I let him use all his strength, then brought him in, to the side of the boat. The net was poised in the water, waiting. I spied him gliding on his side as I drew him near. Straining my eyes to get a better look, I could see a companion fish was with him, very near, as if sensing his fate. It dashed off with a flick of the tail as the hooked fish was scooped into the net and placed on the floor of the boat. I watched, mesmerized, in awe of his beauty. My Dad casually dealt the fish a solid blow from a small wooden club, my silver lure was removed, and the fish was gently lifted from the net. He lay still, next to me on the cold seat of the boat. His wet, silver side glistened in the sun that now warmed the morning air. His gills opened and closed, frantically gasping the air for life. Then, as if in final defiance, he gave one last flip, landing in the dirty leaves and rainwater that covered the boat’s floor. There he lay, bending and flipping as if he were free to swim away. My fascination was broken as my Dad shouted, “Good job, Kiddo!” before starting the boat’s engine to begin trolling again.

The magnificent trout, left to die this way. I turned my eyes away as the boat began its course, but not before rainwater splashed on my face and mingled with my tears.

Until tomorrow ~ wishing my fisherman Dad were here ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

Back in college, my brother’s friend loaned us a documentary that we became enthralled with for a couple of weeks. We couldn’t get enough of Okie Noodling, a Bradley Beesley documentary about the peculiar practice – also called grabblin’ – of catching catfish with your bare hands, and also the culture that surrounds the method.

The method, for those who don’t know, is basically for the fisherman to stick his hand in a hole – be it a crevice between rocks on the bottom or a small cavern along the bank of a pond, lake or river. Catfish like to hole up here, and when you put your hand in, the catfish will latch on. Then it’s a fight to the surface.

I strongly recommend that movie to anyone curious about the sport or about how admitted rednecks behave. And it’s more about how hilarious rednecks can be in a good, innocent way rather than in any morally wrong way. (The plumber is my favorite of the noodlers. You’ll know him when you see him.)

Shot in Beesley’s home state of Oklahoma, the noodlers in his video not only embrace their rural reputation, they flaunt it.

Looking around YouTube now, you can find noodling videos of both men and women. A buddy sent me a link to “Girls gone grabblin” earlier, and that led me to do a video search for noodling. This sport is more popular than I ever imagined, but I just can’t believe women are partaking.

Inspired by Native Americans, this method of catfish fishing is extreme. Catfish are a big, powerful fish, and people have drowned by being held down while noodling.

I would still do it, though. I want to someday. Catching a big catfish with your bare hands has to be quite a rush. My question, though, is how does one come upon new holes for grabblin’? Trial and error wouldn’t work, just to go down a bank feeling along. At least it wouldn’t work for me. I don’t need to catch catfish with my hands bad enough to risk losing fingers or a hand because of a snapping turtle, or getting bit by a copperhead.

But if someone else had some holes that they knew of, or maybe if the water was clear enough to snorkel and see clearly, I’d give it a try.

The only problem, before you run out and jump into your ponds and lakes looking for crevices and holes, is that the only state I’m aware of which it is legal in is Oklahoma.

First of all, has anyone out there ever done this or have friends who have, and second of all, how did you find your spots?

Until last Saturday, my experiences ice fishing included plenty of frostbite, cold feet and hands, and little more than several layers of Carhartts and a nylon-fabric tent for protection. Late last year one of my buddies from up north won a weekend with Distinct Builders Inc.’s Grand Lodge Fish House. Well, he didn’t actually win the weekend, he won the silent auction for the weekend. And we got to take advantage of his hospitality in the frozen north last Saturday. All I can say is wow, there’s nothing like coming in out of the cold to experience the amenities of home … complete with indoor ice holes. I will let the photos speak for the Grand Lodge Fish House, because I am still somewhat at a loss for words about the entire luxury experience.

The Lodge line of fish houses are built in Brookings South Dakota, and they take the ice fishing experience to a whole new level.

If you have ever wanted to do some ice fishing, but were afraid of freezing something important, you should give it a try with a Lodge Fish House hooked to the back of your truck.

When it comes to fishing through the ice, my buddies and I like to maximize our potential to catch fish by setting the maximum number of lines we legally can. In many of my winter fishing spots, that means four lines apiece. We usually reserve one ice hole apiece in the shack for jigging or bobber fishing … we set our other three holes with HT Enterprise’s Polar Tip-Ups. The HT Polar Tip-Ups are economical, almost foolproof and heck on fish. Setting them can be heck on your hands at minus 12 degrees in a 20 mile-per-hour wind too, but hey … ice fishing is all about braving the elements, right?

One of my friends used to be a professional fishing guide in the northern plains and he is a master at setting the HT Polar Tip-Up for maximum effectiveness in varying conditions. His approach is to drill the ice hole in a shallow snow drift after scraping a trough in the drift that’s parallel to the wind. After cleaning the slush out of the hole (often with his bare hands) he clips a several-ounce weight to the hook (attached to the line that’s spooled on the Polar Tip-Up) and runs the line through the hole to the bottom of the lake or river. He pulls the line up about 3 inches and marks it with a small split-shot right where the line and spool meet (this makes it unlikely that you need to check the depth again for that hole). He next pulls up the weight and hook, removes the weight and baits the hook with a live minnow or chub … depending on whether he is after Walleye or Northern pike. With the hook back in the water, the Polar Tip-Up is placed in the trough and the spring-loaded flag is tucked under the trigger.

After setting the Polar Tip-Ups, all you need to do is head to the shack to warm up and dangle a line or watch a bobber in comfort. Look out the window now and then to see if you have a flag up … when the fish takes the bait, it releases the trigger and the spring-loaded flag pops up. It’s all very exciting. Etiquette requires one to call out “flag up” whenever a flag is, well, up. Mild pandemonium ensues as heavily insulated less-than-coordinated guys scramble onto the ice for that adrenaline-building 100-yard (or more) dash to the ice hole.

Once the hole is reached, etiquette requires one to call out “still turning” if the fish is still taking line from the spool. Once the complete entourage has trundled out to the hole, the hole’s owner may carefully pull the Polar Tip-Up from the ice, gently caress the line and slowly take up the slack. Once significant resistance is met, a tighter grip is required and a small tug should set the hook. If it is a big pike, the line will go racing out again. If it is smaller there will be just a bit of tugging. Either causes another adrenaline release. With any luck, the fish is eventually maneuvered head-first into the bottom of the hole and in a final effort will come shooting up through the hole and onto the ice. That’s when the speculation on size and weight begins … and when the entourage begins to move back to the comfort of the shack. It’s also the place where fish stories are born.

I know I promised it today, but I will report on the luxury ice-fishing shack tomorrow. Stay tuned.

I apologize for not pulling off a blog from the ice on Friday ... let's just say that brutal winter weather got in the way.

The end of last week was just about the worst time to head north to chase after monster pike, but I did it anyway. I had neglected to look at a weather report before heading out, but when it comes to ice fishing, you can just about never have enough clothing, so I was well insulated when the arctic blast swept down upon the northern plains and dumped snow and sub-zero temperatures all over the place. I also tossed a box of DueNorth All Purpose traction aids into the truck to help my less-than-coordinated buddies keep their footing when sprinting toward tip-ups (check tomorrow's blog for more on tip-ups) that some of my mischievous buddies like to spring. They get a kick out of watching eager anglers race to the ice hole with anticipation, only to pull up the chub they had set 10 minutes earlier.

At the end of the day, the DueNorth traction aids performed like a charm, though. The Over Sized model fit even the largest (monster-sized) LaCrosse Pac boots in the group and large easily fit the more reasonably-sized winter footwear. On the second day of my trip the weather turned brighter and the DueNorth grippers made it possible to take advantage of a bit of walleye action … not all 100 yard dashes were in vain.

Seriously, I have used all kinds of foot-traction devices for getting around safely on the ice, and the DueNorth grippers are reliable, light and very easy to use. One of my friends said that they were easier to put on than any other creepers he has tried. Another friend noted that it was nice to be able to drill a hole in the ice without the augur spinning him around (he’s kind of slow). A third friend was really impressed that the little spikes on the DueNorth grippers didn’t catch on the indoor-outdoor carpeting in the luxury ice shack that we used one of the days … I’ll have more to say about that shack and its amenities tomorrow.

Monday, the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks released its annual Kansas fishing forecast, a tool I anxiously await each year that tells anglers the best locations for the fish they are looking for.

This is one of the coolest, most useful tools in evaluating where to go fishing in Kansas during spring. The report incorporates the KDWP’s Density Rating, Preferred Rating, Lunker Rating, Biggest Fish (found during sampling), the Biologist’s Rating (which introduces a human element – the biologist’s personal opinion given the data), and the Three-Year Average; all things that help the angler who wants to find bigger, more numerous fish.

This report is done through actual sampling, too, which I find to be cool. Lakes, ponds and reservoirs are monitored by biologists – through test netting and electroshocking – and the data is compiled. Since it’s impractical to survey each lake every year (especially smaller reservoirs), the 3-year average is included.

This is different from a fishing report. It’s more of an indication of what is to come during spring and summer, since it is actual data about what is in the lake, numbers-wise, whereas your typical fishing report, found here, often relies on word-of-mouth and gives more indication of what is happening at a particular moment – or more often, what was happening a week ago.

Perusing the 2009 Kansas Fishing Forecast today, all indications say if walleye are your thing and you want to take a fishing trip this year, you’re best served heading to Lake Scott. Compared to other lakes and reservoirs in Kansas for walleye fishing, it is far superior. Webster Lake may have a higher density, according to this forecast, but Lake Scott has a much higher density of fish 20 inches and above (called the Preferred Rating).

If crappie are your thing, travel to Moline New City Lake, Lake Wabaunsee (near Eskridge, Kansas), or Sedan City Lake for the best chances for success.

Crappie numbers are pretty good at Lake Scott as well, so that would be my pick as far as a summer vacation destination to plate the tastiest fish Kansas has to offer. Other states have similar reports, and this is one way to plan an inexpensive trip and ensure high chances for success.

Has anyone seen similar reports for other states? What are they saying?

Photo: iStockphoto.com/Judy Foldetta

A little over a month ago, the editorial team here at GRIT was engaged in a fairly spirited debate – they usually are spirited in my experience – regarding the proper manner in which knives are sharpened.

The discussion stemmed from one of the pieces in the January/February issue of GRIT, entitled, “How to Have the Sharpest Knife in Your Drawer,” written by Tom Larson.

Although a couple of us had sharpened knives before, the difficulty arose with trying to craft the words and sentences so people would know exactly what was being done, especially since being right and left-handed plays a big part in this skill.

This led us all to agree – after four of us editors spent a considerable amount of time sitting in a circle with props, sharpening plastic spoons and such on our personalized bench stones (our hands) – that the package for our online edition of the story should include a video.

The need to sharpen my skinning knife was imminent, so the timing couldn’t have been better for me, and I set about trying to acquire a bench stone that would sharpen a skinning knife.

I sprung for it last year and bought myself a new Gerber knife since I’d always used a grinder to sharpen knives. Come to find out, sharpening with a hand stone, and even a strop, is much better than grinding. Grinding your knives can overheat and damage the temper of the steel, and knives once able to shave hair off your arm are rendered dull. The worst thing that can happen to your knife through grinding is for the blade to become curved in places, making it completely ineffective. I was ready to try manually sharpening my blades.

First on my list in setting out to find a bench stone was www.sharpeningsupplies.com, and those folks didn’t disappoint. I was immediately attracted to a very cool-looking Hard Black Arkansas Stone (Model HB376). It came in a wooden box and is beautiful to look at, plus the stone is a hard black Arkansas stone so it’s for achieving the sharpest of edges.

But after talking with SharpeningSupplies.com Manager/Owner John Carmona, he urged me to also consider a combination stone, since he worried that the hard black stone was so fine it’d be tough to employ when dealing with extremely dull knives. He was absolutely right.

Within two business days, I not only had the Hard Black Arkansas Stone in Wooden Box but also the Norton Combination India Sharpening Kit, which includes a combination stone (this one was 8-by-2-by-1 inches), sharpening stone oil, and a black case (Norton IM50 Case-Black) that sits on four little rubber stoppers so you don’t have to hold the case in place when sharpening.

The case is more useful than one might think, since with it you’re allowed to sharpen without using a hand to hold the case in place – very important when trying to keep your extra hand out of the way and your fingers unharmed.

Come to find out, the hard black stone is great to use, but I could have gotten away with just the combination stone. I wouldn’t want to now though, since the hard black stone provides such fine, smooth sharpening that your knife truly will take hair off your arm like never before. I was sharpening last night to the point that I was out of knives and all my blades looked and cut perfectly, but I was so pleased with myself I couldn’t put the stones away.

In the future, after dealing with hides, I will turn to the coarse side of the combination stone (black side), then the finer side (red) before putting the finishing touches on my Gerber with the Hard Black Arkansas Stone. All three made my once-dull knife look and cut just like new once again.

I can only imagine how useful the stones will be when I resharpen blades for filleting fish, an experience that only goes as smoothly as your blade cuts.

As a youngster, my mother taught me how to tie a basic fishing knot before I can remember. She had fished the same farm pond ‑ 30 years earlier ‑ that I would fish throughout my childhood, and she had me tying my own knots as I first learned to bait a hook and cast a fishing pole. In fact, I think I may have learned how to tie a basic fishing knot while wearing Velcro sneakers, or at least it was close.

The knot is paramount to any fisherman. And, in a lifestyle where quick, improvised countermeasures can mean the difference between such things as getting a hay harvest in before the rain or not, knots are sometimes equally important in farm life.

Aside from fishing as a young boy, I dangled from our two-story hayloft on more than one occasion, and I know my health was preserved because someone, maybe before I was born, constructed a solid knot in the rope upon which I was dangling.

Less seriously but equally important at the time, knots salvaged the quality of many a winter day when any number of unfortunate events would sever one of the ropes tied behind my father’s 1966 Chevy truck (“Old Blue”). A quick square knot later and all three sleds could again be racing through snow drifts.

Something about the need to improvise in the country seems to make knots used more frequently than in urban life, and old farmers – in my experience – always seem to have one or two go-to cinches.

Myself, whether it’s just luck or the actual quality of knot, I’ve always had the best luck with fish while using the improved clinch knot (a variation of the taut-line hitch, shown in our “Tie the 10 Most Useful Knots”).

The timber hitch is my knot of choice when cinching horses to trees. It has yet to leave me stranded, holding nothing but a grudge against a particular type of knot ‑ often the result when you get burned by one you feel you tied securely.

What about you? What sorts of knots have you had the best and worst luck with?

Early 20th-century philosopher and educator John Dewey once said, “To find out what one is fitted to do, and to secure an opportunity to do it, is the key to happiness.”

If that’s the case, I consider myself in possession of a shiny new set of brass that I feel will allow me to expand my knowledge, professional skills and acquaintances to new horizons in a facet of life I’m very passionate about – country living.

Until I was about 15, my family – my mom, dad, two older brothers and an older half-brother – called just under 200 acres in southeast Kansas home. Our place was over a mile from our nearest neighbor and 30 miles from the nearest town of more than 300 people.

As boys, my brothers and I had horizon to horizon to call our own, and that sub-200-acre farm still seems today as if it had to have been in the thousands of acres. From sunup to sundown, when we weren’t attending school, after the work for the day was done – animals fed, garden and yard maintained and anything else my father had for us to do – we were given free reign to run as boys and grow as outdoorsmen.

We each had a horse, pet (at times our own bird dogs) and plenty of hunting and fishing gear to test our aptitude and ability to self-sustain.

Hunting became the favorite of Josh and me. Josh is four years my senior and my favorite hunting buddy today. Two years each way between us, the middle child, Andy, developed more of a fondness for fishing, but both realms have combined in all three of us, and we share an appreciation for nature forged in that childhood setting.

Hunting, for me, was a right of passage. I can remember walking through the snow behind my Uncle Fred – who taught us how to hunt and harvest meat, since Dad didn’t hunt – with a BB gun, my mother’s brother laughing as I tried to pick up my boots high enough to make it through the snow without tripping.

I finally felt like a man after I passed a hunter’s safety course at about 9 years old and carried a shotgun of my own along the hedgerows searching for bobwhite quail.

Aside from the hunting, being so far away from others’ homes helped us develop a genuine appreciation for family, the solitude and serenity of rural life and all that that encompasses.

The chance to work in the magazine industry dealing with this type of content was a great opportunity for me. I’m happy to be the newest member of the Grit editorial team, and I look forward to getting to know everyone.

As I go forward with this blog, especially as fishing season comes to a close and bucks prepare to rut, I’ll share observations, experiences and analysis of important hunting, fishing and outdoors issues as they come up. The opportunity to share photos and experiences with you has me more pumped than ever for hunting season to get under way.

Tight lines and straight shooting,
Caleb

Ok, so we’re not Oliver and Lisa, and we’ve never been in Hooterville, but after living our entire adult lives in relatively urban settings, Sue and I have moved out to a place with 2 acres and a pond near Chelsea, Michigan. In a way, we’re both going back to our childhoods – I am from a small town in Iowa, and Sue grew up in the country 100 miles west of here.

The house was a bit of a wreck with years of deferred maintenance to correct before we could move in. Now, the house itself is mostly done, our dog has turned junkyard almost overnight, and we’re beginning to focus our sights on the prospect of project work for the next zillion years or so. Unless I miss my guess, we’re not the only ones who have had to learn rural-ish ways, so this blog is dedicated to sharing ideas and discoveries along the way.

This list of potential projects goes on and on, and we’re looking for insight from the experts – folks who have actually had to tackle these things. Some of the potential topics we anticipate discussing are listed below. If you have some particular insight into any of them, jump in and share your thoughts!

Potential topics: building the ideal compost pile; what’s the cheapest wood for heating a home when you consider BTUs and everything else; septic field dos and don’ts; how to heal a pond; picking out fishing lures; cleaning up a scrub woodlot; raised bed gardening; tapping into the sun’s power; pros and cons of small lot wind generation; personal hothouses; native plantings; persnickety chain saws; home improvement nightmares; back-up power; can bass really taste good; deer and dogs; native plantings.

I’ve attached a couple of photos of the place. The first one is the pond out front. It’s about three-quarters of an acre, which is great because I don’t have to mow as much lawn that way. The pond is stocked with bass, catfish, and the biggest bluegills I’ve ever seen. Problem is, it’s also full of muck, algae, and bottom weeds.

The second photo is the back yard, which is the intended site of the garden, native plantings, and the perfect compost pile. There’s also a big beautiful wolf oak and the remnants of a foundation that was probably the original barn. Oh, and my dog Chili is in the photo, too. She refused to move, sensing her chance to become a celebrity. She’s an Australian Shepherd mix with her summer hair cut. Make no mistake, this is her place and she’ll defend it to the death, at least until the next thunderstorm sends her flying off to hide in her master’s arms.

Before I sign off, I’d like to share a quick method I learned for getting a newly installed ceiling fan to straighten up and quit making that maddening “tick tick tick.” First rebalance it, and when that doesn’t work, just cuss at it. Worked like a charm for me.

So there you have it – this blog is about discovering the country life after becoming citified. Please share your own experiences and discoveries, and we can all learn together. I hope to hear from you soon!