“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.”   ~Henry David Thoreau

A few days ago, I was gifted with a real treat. My son, Brent, invited me to join him and our oldest grandson, Lydon, for a birthday outing on Lake Pleasant, a reservoir near Phoenix. While the ostensible purpose of the trip was to fish, it quickly became apparent that actually catching fish was a pretty low priority. Instead, it was a time for the three of us to enjoy a beautiful day together – being on the lake and just having a good time. What a great way to celebrate Brent’s 40th birthday!

There is something about being on the water, whether in a canoe or on a luxurious pontoon boat, that is mesmerizing. Whether floating quietly or flying over the water with wind and spray blowing, it is easy to forget both past and future and just exist in the present moment.

Watching grandson Lydon sitting on Dad’s lap and steering the boat jogged wonderful old memories for me. As a kid in the lake country of northern Minnesota, I spent hundreds of hours on the water and in the woods. My dad had a small cabin, a little one-room building the size of a chicken coop that had been hauled to the lakeshore on a machinery trailer the year I was born. From this primitive little home-base, I fished with Dad or, as I got older, by myself on the little lake. Although we often caught fish, it really didn’t seem to matter much. We would trudge back up the hill at the end of the day empty handed with smiles on our faces as wide as if we had caught our limit.

As my memory slide show moved forward in time, I recalled a few of Brent’s first fishing trips with me. One mental picture was of Brent, only a few months old, propped in a car seat in the shade while I fished for trout in an Oregon lake. Later, I remember him landing a really nice smallmouth bass while we were canoeing in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area wilderness. The smile on his face became an indelible image which I’ve treasured for 25 years. Since then, we have fished together on streams, lakes, and the ocean. These treasured activities over the years provide all of us, from my Dad to my Grandson, with an appreciation of our wild places that has been unbroken now for four generations.

Our day started, as many fishing trips do, well before dawn. After an early breakfast of serious proportions – in my case consisting of chicken-fried steak, pancakes, potatoes, and eggs – the three of us drove through the sunrise to the marina at Lake Pleasant to board our pontoon boat. I was blown away when the marina attendant brought it to the pier.

This was definitely not my idea of a fishing boat. I thought back to when I was a kid in Minnesota and it was a big deal to go fishing in a 14’ aluminum boat with rock-hard seats and a 5 hp outboard. There were a few pontoon boats around then, but they were primitive affairs cobbled together by local blacksmiths or welders. Comparing this luxurious craft to those old rafts was like comparing a Model T Ford and a Lexus. I admit to some nostalgia for both the Model T and the old boats with their single-digit horsepower “kickers” moving them through the water at a very modest speed.

During the day, we were privileged to see a variety of local wildlife including heron, bald eagles, and, special to me, a small group of wild burros. These delightful critters are the descendents of the animals turned loose by gold miners many years ago. They have thrived and now can be seen in much of northwestern Arizona. While some area ranchers consider them pests, I regard them as a beautiful example of the resilience of life in the wilds.

Beyond the enjoyment of a day on the water and the welcome wildlife sightings, the opportunity to spend time with Brent and Lydon was the high spot of the day.

Sadly, a day in the company of loving family while enjoying the outdoors is an experience that too few people know. Our day on the lake helped me to understand the happiness my Dad must have felt when he took me fishing all those years ago. As we meandered around the lake, I watched my son and grandson and could appreciate the feelings Brent now enjoys as he introduces the love of Nature to his children. I like to think that we are  passing forward a legacy of love for Mother Earth. All things considered, I am a very lucky person to have had such a day.

My most vivid memories from childhood days spent roaming the farm involve both horses and horsepower. My two older brothers and I had horses to call our own, and a Suzuki Quad-Runner 50 that we shared – oftentimes with two of us perched at the picnic table with a stopwatch, one of Mom’s safety and sanity mechanisms. Those days were the best, and God-willing, one day when I have a family and my own corner of land, my kids will get the chance to enjoy something as much as my brothers and I enjoyed our quad-running ways.

But just like anything, quad-runners and other ATVs can cause problems. David A. Lien recently wrote an editorial that was published in the Duluth News Tribune titled “Overuse of ATVs Threatens Backcountry Hunting.” That link will lead you to the article, only you may have to pay to read it, so I’ll briefly summarize.

Lien, a big-game hunter and lifetime member of the Minnesota Deer Hunters Association and the acting chairman of Minnesota Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, argues for common-sense off-road law enforcement and management practices. This includes limiting the number of public lands that are off-road vehicle accessible. The Department of Natural Resources did just that recently by closing some motorized routes in the Cloquet Valley State Forest, leaving 80 percent of the forest’s routes open to motorized use.

Honestly, it’s nice having motorized access to hunting and fishing grounds; driving out to field dress big game, emergency use, etc. The key is being responsible. On private land, it’s the landowner or a person who the landowner gave permission to (at least it had better be) that is operating with or without an ORV. It’s fairly simple to take the same route, park in a place that doesn’t harm wildlife habitat and responsibly access hunting and fishing lands with little adverse effect.

But on public lands, it’s an entirely different animal. Unlimited ORV access threatens habitat, private land access on surrounding properties (poaching and trespassing and all it encompasses) and fair chase ethics. Also, animals that once had an advantage on rough terrain now are at a disadvantage, and that threatens hunting access. These things combined are a threat to hunting opportunity in general.

I know I’d feel pretty discouraged if I didn’t have access to those public lands in western Kansas that are renowned for bird hunting.

Lien, in one paragraph wrote, “Hunting is more than a form of outdoor recreation. You don’t hear participants of other outdoors pursuits, even the most avid of participants, talking about our skiing heritage, boating heritage, bird-watching heritage, ATV-riding heritage or other heritages the way hunters talk about the hunting heritage. Our hunting heritage is separated from all other outdoor endeavors because hunting requires and imposes ethical standards on its participants.”

Same goes for fishing.

The actions of reckless individuals have heightened awareness nationwide, and 39 states have considered legislation to deal with reckless ORV use. Check your state at Responsible Trails America.

Photo: iStockphoto.com/Vladimir Kolobov

Any person who’s ever shot at an animal and then undergone the task and responsibility of cleaning and eating that animal takes pride in how they prepare game. If not, that person is purely selfish in their hunting pursuit. I sure take pride in game preparation, and just last night I prepared five dove that we shot this weekend (dove season opened September 1). Here at GRIT, we’re a little under the gun with the November/December magazine deadline looming (it’s a good one too – grassfed beef, DIY cold frame, raising chickens for meat, to name a few), but I had to take a moment today and share one of my game recipes, given to me by a friend and enjoyed by family.

First of all, it’s important to admit the inefficiency with which we (Uncle Fred, brother Josh, Gwen and I) shot the dove. It was flat-out embarrassing and a little expensive. We did do better than a box per bird, but not by a whole lot. Uncle Fred didn’t shoot nearly as many times as we did, and admittedly got a kick out of watching Josh and I blast away, cuss, then throw our hats to the ground from a distance.

With dove hunting, they fly so fast that you have to lead them a little more than you would a duck, goose or pheasant. Dove are quick and come upon you fast. So I have no doubt early-season mistakes played a role in our inability to drop more birds.

Also, it occurred to us that 8 shot might have been a little light. I know I winged several birds where feathers would fly and they’d start to dive only to flutter their wings enough to make it to a distant hedgerow. I couldn’t help but wonder if 7 or, more likely in my mind, 7 ½ shot would have done any better. But, you should never put yourself in a position to blame your equipment, so I’ll just admit we stunk and get on with how I prepared the breasts of this tasty bird.

A friend of my family from Texas, Luke, let us in on this beauty of a dove recipe.

Really, all you need is some jalapenos (for five breasts I used one whole, fresh pepper), Cajun seasoning, bacon and two toothpicks for every dove breast. Remember, when you are cleaning the breasts to begin preparation, try and pick out all the birdshot.

On each breast, cut a slit down the side of it. Cut right in the middle of each side too, so that you have meat-jalapeno-meat rather than meat-jalapeno-bone.

Stuff the jalapenos in the gap, and sprinkle the dove breasts with as much Cajun seasoning as you think appropriate. This may take some trial and error, but this is how I did mine and liked it.

Now, wrap each breast with a piece of bacon, and secure the bacon in place with a tooth pick stuck horizontally through each side. You can stick it any way you want it, actually, so long as the bacon and jalapenos stay in place. The bacon cooks some extra fat into an otherwise very lean meat, and it holds it all in place, obviously.

Throw it on the charcoal grill, and slow cook it until it looks something like this.

I threw some corn on the cob in foil on the grill as well, and those two, along with Gwen’s pesto pasta salad and a green salad made a meal to be proud of.

Hunting is about a lot of things, camaraderie and enjoying the outdoors and securing your own tasty food, and I got all three with this experience.

And Jean and Jenn (GRIT associate editors and a K-State Wildcat and Nebraska Cornhusker, respectively), this is just to show you what a winner looks like (look in near background).

Anyone know any heirloom or personal secrets to better prepare dove or other game? 

Live dove photo (second from top): iStockphoto.com/Steve Byland

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.

If anyone had wandered by this morning as I was making my daily rounds with Crazy Puppy, they might have thought I was a couple of spoons short of a table-setting.

There I stood with my face buried in a branch, inhaling deep breaths of the Russian olive tree as though it were a scent created especially for me. And in some ways, it might as well be.

I’m always the first to notice that the Russian olives have blossomed. Some people smell new-mown grass on the air, or the yuck from the Frito-Lay plant just down the road from our office. I’m programmed to recognize the first whiff of Russian olive--and to try to coax my acquaintances into my particular enthusiasm.

In an ongoing demonstration of the power of aromatherapy, Russian olive scent always boosts my spirits and makes me feel ready for anything. Although many people view this wispy, gray tree as nothing more than a very tall weed, for me it’s sensual ambrosia that takes me back to a specific time and place where I felt strong and free and ready.

For a couple of years when I lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I joined a group of other bicyclists early on Sunday mornings throughout as much of the year as the weather permitted, to make a roughly 30-mile loop out to a wonderful café (which I think might have been called the Lone Wolf, but can’t remember right now). We’d ride like hell out, have a cup of coffee and the best breakfast burritos in the world (green chile, please, and lots of it), then meander back into town about the time the rest of the world was waking up.

Although some of the diehards rode throughout the winter, I generally laid out until the season started warming up. Then the Russian olives and I came out of hibernation at roughly the same time.

I never liked riding with a bunch of other people, so I usually arranged to find myself alone on the road. And there in one place I still can imagine with complete clarity, just as I crested a hill and was gulping for air, I was greeted by a wall of fragrance that I soon came to recognize as Russian olive. When I reached that spot, I knew I was more than halfway to the café and still riding strong. I felt so able and so happy to be out there in the air and early morning solitude. It was heavenly, even though the trees only blossomed for a few days. For as long as it blossomed, I made that route my daily ride.

Now, years later, I can walk outside my office these late-spring afternoons and be overcome by the same wall of aroma. I return to my office after my errands and say, “The Russian olives are blooming. Did you smell them?” only to be met by polite, somewhat mystified expressions. Either my co-workers don’t know from Russian olives or that scent just isn’t something on their aromatic radar.

I forget from year to year that there also is a lone Russian olive on the bank of the lower pond out on the farm where I live. Yesterday when CP and I were walking toward the hen house with some awesome strawberry and radish scraps for the chickens, the aroma stopped me in my tracks. I buried my face in the slender, dusty-green leaves and slurped down scent.

Instantly, I was back on that hill, feeling strong, feeling up to the challenge—and ready for that breakfast burrito with lots of green.

I wish I could bottle that aroma. It would be my signature scent.

Which of the following is correct?

1.) Equinox: the two times each year (approximately March 21 and September 23) when the sun crosses the equator and day and night are of equal length.
2.) Equinox: a rare breed of farm animal which is a cross between a horse and ox; from the archaic term equine-ox.  

Yeah, that was ridiculously and silly of me, and childish too. The equinox has nothing to do with equines or oxen, or even spring chickens for that matter. The vernal equinox was Friday, and it signaled that spring had come to the Northern Hemisphere! Spring is my least favorite of the seasons, and I wasn’t giddy-up until now about its arrival. Ok, I swear I’ll quit horsing around now with the bad puns. But who doesn’t feel at least a little bit silly and giddy at the beginning of spring? I think more people anticipate the start of spring more than any other season; it’s the season of rebirth, and brings a renewed respect for the green earth around us. Doesn’t that make you want to jump for joy, (preferably in a mud puddle), and act like a child again?  

You wouldn’t know it’s spring by looking at my thermometer; it read 21 degrees Friday morning! We enjoyed some warm temperatures leading up to today though, and signs that spring had arrived were present everywhere. Like Punxsutawney Phil did last month, the crocus, glory-in-snow and daffodils stuck their noses out of the ground recently and sniffed the air – but unlike Phil, shadow or not - they found it to their liking, and decided to stay awhile.

The maples are budding, and will soon release a storm of pollen that’ll color everything yellow.  

The milder weather has brought the birds back to my feeder....and the squirrels too. Keith usually keeps the pole that the feeder sits on greased because those pesky squirrels have torn apart numerous feeders in the past. The grease must have worn off over the winter because they had no problem climbing the pole. They were fun to watch, actually; little acrobats that go through all kinds of antics to get at the food. But, sigh ... Later, I noticed they'd chewed through the plastic part of the feeder … again. The new replacement feeder I bought the following day, is supposed to be squirrel-proof. We'll see.

Pavement clear of winter’s snow and ice is a fresh canvas for sidewalk chalk graffiti. Shelby’s message on our back porch is a reminder that even during these tough economic times, you just have to take a break, and enjoy the day.

And that we did. Now, if only I can get that irritating song out of my head that’s been stuck there since she wrote the message.

Keith tended the firepit, burning the branches that blew down over the winter, saving a few choice ones so Quetta can still play "Stick". He also cleaned and prepared his grill, readying it for the first steaks of the season. Mmmmm ... the smell of steaks cooking outside ... another sign warmer weather has arrived.  

And while there was a fire burning, steaks marinating, graffiti drawn, and sticks being chased, I ... well ... I played in the mud. Go ahead and laugh. Keith did.  Staring at the pile of concrete cinder blocks, I had a vision. The blocks were from retaining wall we buried last fall in our “Saving Grace” effort. While the majority of the wall was buried, the top layers were removed to allow for a gentle slope down to the ravine. I decided they’d make a good, basic framework for a set of steps leading down the hill.

I thought this would be the perfect time to start; because it’s mostly clay, I wanted to get the digging done before it dried to an impenetrable consistency. It wasn’t just soft though; the snow-melt and rain turned it to mucky mess. Up and down the hill I lugged those blocks, and set them in place. It had to be a quick process – if I stood in one place too long, I’d be stuck there. My aptly named Muck Boots made smucking sounds with each step I took.  

“You should see yourself," laughed Keith. I looked down. My boots were covered in mud nearly up to my knees; my jeans and shirt only were only a little less splattered. My gloves ... what gloves? You couldn’t even tell I had them on; it looked as if I’d dipped my hands in chocolate cake batter. I couldn’t see my face or hair, but I imagine they were streaked with mud, too.

Our new neighbors two houses down decided it was a good time to introduce themselves. First impressions are lasting impressions, but I’m sure they’ll see me looking much worse as the gardening season progresses. Spring is also the time to get reacquainted – and acquainted – with neighbors. The warmer weather brings everyone outside and they’ll stand, chatting while you work, offering suggestions. Sometimes they’ll even help implement those suggestions.

Sometimes I have too much help.

Our pup, Quetta (Key-tah), was no less muddy than I. She stuck her nose into everything I did, even helping dig the holes ... mostly in places were I did not want holes dug. She inspected the wooden handles on the shovel and rake – and they met with her taste-tested approval.

While I was covered in mud, I decided to play some more. I moved two Michigan holly – in other parts of the country known as winterberry (Ilex verticillata), and starts from a yellow-twig dogwood from the creek bank onto the hill. The yellow-twig will root anywhere a branch meets with soil, and I had enough starts to make a good-sized bush. I did the same with Virginia sweetspire (Itea virginica) – it spreads by runners; four shrubs were made from the fifty or so starts I got from one main bush. All should do well in the heavy soil and partial shade on the hill. If they don’t, or if the steps don’t compare with my vision once they’re complete – if my dream of rustic stairs leading down a woodland slope turns into a nightmare – I’ll just rip it out and start again.  

That is part of the beauty of a garden; it is ever-changing. Plants grow ... or they don’t. Sometimes they grow more than we anticipate. They can always be moved to a more suitable site. “Permanent” features are never permanent; walkways can be redirected, potting sheds reconstructed to make them bigger, and cinderblock stairways can be dug out ... providing the muck they were set in didn’t harden to a concrete-like consistency.  

But when all is said and done; when the day’s work is finished – nothing feels as good as resting in the warm spring sun.

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

Not urban skiing exactly. ... I don’t live in “urbania”, or suburbia either. But I do live in town, and don’t have the luxury of having wooded acreage or farmland outside my back door. If I did, I’d be out there cross-country skiing whenever I had the chance.

Skiing is my thing; my greatest moments of bliss in the outdoors come from cross-country. I do it all year ’round; traditional cross-country skis in winter, and roller-skis (essentially cross-country skis on wheels), the rest of the year. I don’t always have the time though, to pack up the equipment, drive to one of my favorite spots, do my thing, then pack up and drive home. That’s when I take to the streets and head through the neighborhoods, downtown, or to the beach for a bit of urban skiing. With driving conditions being as bad as they had been the past couple of weeks, the urban ski conditions have been great.

A woman unburying her car from the most recent snowfall told me, “Now, that’s the perfect transportation for this kind of weather. ... Too bad you can’t carry groceries home on skis though.” I’m sure that’s where she was headed; she had that desperate “it’s snowing; I need milk and bread!” look in her eyes. I’ve thought about skiing to the grocery store, but the groceries I buy for the week would need an entire sled dog team to haul home, instead of one mere woman on skis. Whatever fits in a backpack though, I’ve carried – DVDs from the video store, books from the library, cookies from the bakery and a gallon of milk from the convenience mart to go with them. Once, I took canned goods to a friend who was preparing baskets for the food pantry at Christmas time. She is the one who coined the term “urban skiing.” Laughing, she said I should lead Urban Ski Expeditions through town for the tourists during the off-season.

She’s not alone in thinking skiing down the sidewalks and streets seems a bit odd. “Mommy! Mommy! There’s that lady coming down the sidewalk on skis again!” “Don’t look, Dear,” I imagine her mother said as I skied by, “she’ll be gone in a minute.” And there are the strange looks I receive “parking” my skis outside the video store and library. You’d think they never saw a person on skis before.

But I don’t think it’s that odd at all. People bike, roller-blade, skate-board and go for strolls down the sidewalk. What is so different about skiing down them? Of course, there is that warning painted on the sidewalks in the shopping district of downtown proper: No Skateboards, Roller blades, or Bicycles on Sidewalks. It says nothing about skis though. Even if it did, the warning is covered by snow, so I could always claim ignorance if I were pulled over for being in violation of it.

There is at least one other person in town that shares my point of view. My neighbor had a visitor close to Christmas who arrived on cross-country skis. Keith got a laugh out of that, saying it looks like my Urban Skiing Movement has finally caught on. I met the man a few days later at a holiday open house in a downtown shop. I told him what Keith said, adding I’d thought I might be the only one who "Urban Skied" around here. He said no, no – he's been doing it all his life in this town, an activity passed on by his parents who found creative ways to make time to cross-country ski.

He grew up with five siblings, and his parents rarely had any time to breathe by themselves. Cross-country skiing was their one indulgence without the kids – he'd see the tracks going around and around the house when he'd get up in the morning. His parents woke before any of the kids, and not wanting to leave them home alone, got their bliss by skiing in the yard.

Urban skiing, like with any “adventure sport,” does come with a set of unique challenges. Tandem plowing presents a problem. One huge plow barrels down the street, followed closely by another spreading salt and cleaning up what the first plow missed. Early rising, overzealous home owners and shop-keeps fire up their snow-blowers, clearing the sidewalks before the cock even thinks about crowing. Like guests at a wedding party, they smile and wave as I ski by ... except instead of rice, they throw enough ice-melt to make a dent in the polar icecap. All seem determined to turn my fun into mush.

But we reached the point earlier this week, when the streets cannot be plowed even close to bare pavement – there's a nice thick base of compacted snow covering all but the main thoroughfares. Road salt doesn’t work when the temperatures are this low, so they don't even bother with the salt trucks. It makes for a nice slick surface to catch the perfect slide. If only the plows wouldn’t leave those mounds of snow behind; mountain-climbing gear is more suitable equipment than skis to conquer some of them.

As much as I’d like it to, I really don’t think the Urban Ski Movement will catch on; I can’t imagine a skier trying to navigate through pedestrians or traffic on the snowy sidewalks and streets of Detroit, Minneapolis, Chicago or Buffalo. But it’s movement that is the important thing; an activity that brings the kind of feeling that only being outdoors can bring. Too often we tend to hole up inside when the weather turns cold, or just fail to take time out of our busy schedules for ourselves.

We hear that time is valuable and not to be wasted. Always there seems not enough to go around. But taking time – making time if we have to – to be outdoors doing something you love doing, is equally as precious. Whether it is time snow-shoeing, hiking, an early morning walk with the dogs, photographing the beauty of the seasons ... or even cross-country skiing around the house a few times, it’s time well-spent. Layers of clothing keep the body warm this time of year, but it’s getting out and enjoying yourself that warms the soul.

Now that late doe season is over, and bow hunting season all together has effectively come to a close, stories pop up and hunters’ imaginations tend to run crazy. During the season, almost two months ago, I was emailed a photo of a man from Baldwin, Kansas, who by his own account was headed to pick up his son for an evening hunt when he happened upon one of the biggest and oldest-looking deer I’ve ever seen.

Since Baldwin is close to Lawrence, where I live – it’s true, I’m an urbanite trying to return to the country – this story was more than any of my friends could believe; even friends who’ve never hunted.

The story finally ran in the Lawrence Journal-World seemingly a good two weeks after word was out.

In two weeks, as is typical with hunting stories, Bambi could reach full maturity and be a Pope & Young buck.

In this case, the picture doesn’t lie and, depending on how the rack shrinks (or shrunk, by now), this deer could make the record books.

To me and my friends, though, it brought up age determination in whitetails.

Part of it is looks. Gray faces and the way a mature buck’s neck connects with the sternum – bucks at less than full maturity will have a noticeable bump where the neck hasn’t fully grown into the sternum; mature bucks will have no such bump – can give you an estimate that, for me, I trust about as good as a hunch. But spike bucks have never been on my radar, and once you’re in a stand the end-all, be-all is the size of the rack.

I have hunted on my cousin’s ground now for a few years, and since he's one of the Buckmen, of Buck Commander (Adam), he often describes deer that are off limits, either because they are still young despite the size of their rack, or because he wants the hunt on which those deer are taken to be recorded, possibly for a Buck Commander DVD.

That’s understandable, and I’m just always extremely thankful for the hunt.

Anyway, age determination in whitetail deer is one thing at which I’d like to improve. Finally, Wildlife Analytical Laboratories has formed www.DeerAge.com to help people determine the age of deer.

The only problem with this is their process offers little in the way of determining age before you put an arrow into the vitals.

Their method uses something called forensic cementum annuli aging, and they claim it is one of the most accurate ways to determine exact age. The process works a lot like determining the age of a tree by counting the rings in the trunk; wildlife teeth can be stained, and different layers of growth form annually, so these folks are able to determine exact age.

What that could do in the way of whitetail age determination is allow hunters to shoot a deer, send them the proper teeth – front two center incisors – have them age it, and learn by a sort of trial and error method. The cost of doing this is $19.95 for the kit you take into the field, and then anywhere from $19.95 to $49.95, depending on the package, for the test results. Also, when getting a deer mounted, I think it would be cool to have an age certificate hanging beside the mount. They’ll send you that for $15. All packages do take over a month to reach you.

Of course, I just need to get that mount first. In what limited time I did have on weekends this hunting season, I managed a doe, which I was thankful for. But I wouldn't classify my season as a success. Like others, I still want that huge, ancient buck that has roamed the forest and managed to survive for 4½ or more years. Or maybe I just want to be tested more than anything else, to have an old, experienced deer right on me, with the chance to screw it up.

The feeling I get when heading out into the woods before the sun has risen is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I feel a combination of anticipation, nervousness, hope, and usually a little bit of fatigue, since it’s right around 5:30 in the morning when I’m heading out to my stand.

For a hunter going out in the morning or evening, anything can happen. It could be the hunt you’ve been waiting your whole life for, or you could fall out of a tree (or some other unfortunate accident could befall you) and wreck your whole hunting career.

What shouldn’t change, though, is that you spend every minute out in the wilderness observing. One of my favorite things to do when I’m not seeing deer and allowing my mind to wander is to watch the squirrels, a habit I began because they trigger noise all through the forest, noise that can initially be mistaken for animals of prey.

While sitting out there, I try to be still enough that either a squirrel or bird perches on some part of my body. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’ve always thought that if that happens I’m doing everything correctly as far as my tactics, behavior and movement in the tree, or rather the lack thereof.

Anyway, I saw a blog this morning about the natural occurrence of frost flowers during this time of year. I’d always seen frost flowers and wondered how they are created.

As Patsy Bell Hobson explains, frost flowers only occur when temperatures fall to freezing before the ground has become frozen for the winter. The whole occurrence depends on water still moving up through the plant while sap freezes and makes a crack in the stem, allowing the water moving through the stem to slowly seep out of the crack (capillary action) and form very thin, petal-looking ice formations. She has several beautiful photos in that blog entry, and it was cool to read about what I’ve seen so many times, and why it was happening.

But this got me thinking. What else do I see out there while I’m sitting alone that I would miss if I couldn’t hunt?

One thing, for sure, is the attainable proximity with squirrels and birds that I can’t get in any other way. I seem to see the same squirrels each time out, each recognizable by size and distinguishing marks. Subconsciously even, I look for the squirrels to be in their respective trees and wonder about them when they’re not in the neighborhood.

Subtle changes in behavior of the squirrels also can make you privy to something approaching from the rear, although I’d rather see an approaching deer before any of my squirrel pals do the same – that way I’m in position to draw a bow and send an arrow if a shooter shows.

Icicles are another natural beauty in the wilderness--although they can be dangerous and looking directly up in search of them is not something you want to do, ever.

Watching animals behave is something I love doing anytime, but the occurrence of frost flowers is another cool phenomenon not all that many people get to witness. Yet another reason I’m thankful for being able to sit in a tree in the cold, watching and anticipating …

Good things come to those who wait.

At least that’s been my experience in most of my hunting and fishing pursuits, and I’m banking on that same notion proving true this deer season.

Since opening day, I’ve been out in the woods a total of about 25 hours sitting in the woods. That doesn’t include work put in ahead of season in preparation for the season: scouting, hanging stands, making sure my bow was zeroed in and, honestly, just driving around with binoculars dreaming.

So far, it’s been an abnormally warm early bow season, and hopefully the warm weather won’t last much longer. Either way, people all over are taking huge deer, and each email that I get from my brother and friends just makes me that much more anxious for the weekends.

What I do feel good about is I’ve seen the buck I’m hunting. About three weeks back, walking into the woods, I saw both a scrape on the edge of a soybean field I’m hunting on, about 70 yards from my stand, and a bedding area just in the woods about 20 yards from the scrape – very encouraging. Weekend before last, I saw an old-looking, 8-point typical come out and check the scrape before going out on the beans.

With a rifle this deer is hanging on my wall right now. But, that’s why bow hunting is so much better. Before I have a shot at this buck, I’ll know if he has any stubs on his rack and I’ll know exactly how many years old he is. And hopefully he won’t know what I smell like.

Maybe the allure of the sport can best be described by a story involving three brothers unrelated to myself.

Three or four weeks ago, my brother emailed me this story. Here’s the picture of that buck.

The story of the brothers – from Marquette, Kansas – began in 2005, when they spotted him as a 2-year-old buck measuring around 120 inches. Since that time he grew to a 160-inch buck last year and this year he’s expected to be about a 185, after grossing at 200 7/8 before the mandatory 60-day antler drying period required by the bow hunting record club, Pope & Young.

Each year they scouted him with trail cams, never being able to get a good look at the monster since he was wise enough to avoid many of the game trails used by other deer and also because he was largely nocturnal. But hours spent in stands and blinds gave them glimpses, and sometime around October 29 of this year, Scott White rushed home from work, showered and went to his stand. That evening “Big Nine,” as they called him, came rustling through the branches and he got his shot, which he didn’t miss. Turns out he was “Big 11” by this date.

 My immediate reply to my brother expressed how awesome I thought it was that this set of brothers  hunted the same buck for about four years. They scouted it every year, watched it grow and knew every time they sat in the woods this deer was lingering. My brothers reply, parallel to mine, was something like, “Those are the kind of stories you like to hear about. They deserved it.”

Then, a couple of weeks later, an older brother of Scott’s shot another trophy. Simply put, time in the woods always pays off.

Or, something like my mom’s bad luck turning good last Thursday can get you there by way of accident. On her way to work, mom hit a doe, a common occurrence all over Kansas, given the deer population. Thank goodness she was alright first and foremost. Then in good, old-fashioned rural resourcefulness, the sheriff who showed up on the scene gave mom a tag, and she had the deer processed.

Her words to me? “Caleb, I got mine, where’s yours?!” I can’t wait to eat a portion of that 30 pounds of summer sausage, and maybe listen to how my hunting methods are flawed.

To any of you readers who may have already filled your tags, email me any pictures you have (cregan@ogdenpubs.com). It may make me long for the forest, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. And I’d love to see the fruits of your labor.

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