Sandy's Blog

Disappointment Valley

2011-08-20T18:25:00.000-07:00

Pictures: Delores River, Random Pipe Section, Disappointment Valley property for sale,

Downtown Yellow Jacket, McPhee Reservoir, the wide spot in the Delores River

After two months in Bayfield, Connie and I rolled up the awnings and headed west towards Cortez. The plan is to sightsee and fish our way from the southwest corner of Colorado to Denver, where we'll spend a few days with daughter, Kelly, before Connie flies home to Tucson and I continue on north. I, also, wanted to find prairie dogs.

Our first night away from Bayfield found us parked at McPhee Reservoir, near the town of Delores and the Delores River, one of Colorado's notable trout streams. Before we fish the Delores, Peso and I took a day to explore while Connie took a day to rest her sore shoulder. It was a boys' day out. I had a camera at the ready, my dog at my side, and a map with lines representing routes yet untraveled.

I had asked around Bayfield and found that a friend of my sister's had declared that p-dogs were to be found north of Cortez. "Just follow 141 north past Dove Creek until you hit Disappointment Valley. You should find lots of prairie dogs."

Out the door at 7:00, Peso and I drove up Highway 141 stopping to take pictures of buildings and scenes that caught my eye as we went. The more I saw, the less certain I was that we were going to find prairie dogs.

The country in the western edge of Colorado was not as I had envisioned it in my mind's eye. It was anything but vast, empty, open spaces. It was farming and cattle country. Crops ranged from fields of corn, sunflowers, wheat, hay, beans, and various vegetables, to large tracts of natural grass used for cattle grazing. If there are pockets of p-dogs in this country, they are well hidden. Buildings and homes lay sprinkled across the countryside. This was not country that lent itself to open fields of fire.

It was okay. I was out on the road, moving, and that's all I really needed. Other than Peso, I know only one person who will jump in the truck with me when I ask, "How would like to spend the day just noodling around. If we find something that looks interesting, we'll photograph it?" Most of my friends are mystified at my wanderings, and very few understand my penchant for doing so in such an unplanned, random manner. Jim is my "Bunky" when it comes to jumping aboard at the drop of a hat.

My younger daughter used to say, "How random". She used it as a catch-all phrase during her high school years. I always liked that phrase. It had meaning for me. I attended a military high school, where nothing was random, where structure ruled and where I learned to avoid it when I began to control of my own life.

After several more photo stops and miles, I reached Disappointment Valley, a large area of state owned land. I had hoped the unspoiled terrain and natural cover would be supporting large numbers of p-dogs. Wrong! There were none. I don't know why, maybe it was the altitude. I continued on, finding several subjects to photograph, until I came to the Delores River. The river looked like churned chocolate milk. Side note: The Delores starts high in the Rockies, flows southwest down to the town of Delores. It keeps the McPhee Res. supplied with water

before turning north and, after about 40 miles, west to merge with the Colorado River in eastern Utah.

Shortly after crossing the Delores, I left the highway to see what I'd find if I drove over the northern lip of Disappointment Valley. I found another valley, but this one had either a working mine or the largest rock and gravel operation ever put in the middle of nowhere. I did find something to photograph.....dead trees. While I took pictures of several skeletal Junipers, Peso investigated everything within a quarter mile radius.

Turning back toward civilization, I balked at the idea of leaving half the day unused, so I headed for Utah, which was a short 30 miles west. I found myself in Monticello, Utah in time for lunch.

After lunch, I proceeded to the Monticello's Visitor Center, where I took a copy of every free publication covering what there was to see and do in southern Utah. Next Spring I'll be heading into this country for an extended look-see.

Southern Utah has an unlimited supply of eye candy and photo opportunities. There is Canyonlands, Arches, Zion and Capital Reef National Parks, the Grand Staircase-Escalante and Cedar Breaks National Monuments, Glen Canyon National Recreation area, not to mention Lake Powell and all the state parks and several national forests there to be explored.

About mid afternoon I headed back stopping along the way to let Peso have a run. It was Peso who found the p-dogs while running a mile square field. His presence set the resident p-dogs chirping, and I heard them. Twenty minutes later, I had run down the land's owner, a Mr. Redshaw, and was given is blessing and permission to let the air out of his land's pests.

I found Mr. Redshaw to be an interesting man and very friendly one to this stranger. He told me that the Plague had all but wiped out the dogs on his property, but that they were beginning to make a come back. This information fit with my observation that his field didn't have many mounds, nor did it contain more than a few p-dogs. But beggars can't be choosers. I was delighted to have the opportunity to take my rifle out of its case.

I drove into Redshaw's field, set up to shoot and waited for the p-dogs to settle down. While waiting, I pondered. It's been my observation that small populations of animals and/or birds that have stood at the brink of disappearing completely, be it due to weather extremes, disease, predator impact, whatever, have a tenacity for survival much greater than when their populations are more robust. Mother Nature at work, I suspect, survival of the species. These dogs were of that ilk, and before I could fully test their resiliency, Mother Nature stepped in on their behalf.

My gun barrel wasn't warm to the touch when stiff breezes suddenly started blowing, first from one direction and then another, and within ten more minutes rain began to fall. My shoot was over before it had really begun. The rain effectively signaled the end of our day afield.

Disappointment Valley had proved to be just that, a disappointment. I found no prairie dogs there, only a muddy Delores River, and little else of interest. Into each day a little rain must fall, as the saying goes. Still, it was a great day as far as Peso and I were concerned, and tomorrow is another day waiting to reveal its secrets.

A Tale Too Far

2011-04-18T07:09:00.000-07:00

Given the opportunity, I couldn't help myself.

Roger and Rose Gibbs invited three couples for dinner, the main course being a wild turkey taken by Roger during last year's turkey season. The invited couples were Roger's two bird hunting partners, Gordon Waterfall and Jim Behnke, their wives, and Connie and I. Jim came stag, his wife, Ronnie, being on a girls' trip to Phoenix. We all missed seeing Ronnie, but her absence created no social imbalance to this gathering of close friends.

We had no more than gone through our greetings when I asked for everyone's attention, and having it, I lifted the pant-leg of my shorts and showed the group a rather large, colorful bruise on the back of my left thigh. Mixed with the oohs and ahhs, was the obvious question of "what happened", and the game was afoot.

The situation was perfect. I had a captive audience and had their complete attention. I had given previous thought to the tale I was about to spin, having worked my story through my mind for several days. And so I began.

I told my rapt audience that I was trimming a neighbor's Mesquite trees with my chainsaw and while bent over cutting low branches, thought I had backed into a cactus because I felt the familiar sting on the back of my leg. Looking back, I didn't see the expected cactus but rather a Diamondback Rattlesnake. More "oohs", "ahs" and added, "oh my gods" from my rapt audience.

"What did you do", they exclaimed in unison? Well, I said, I sat myself down on my neighbor's low wall and waited for the affects of the strike to set in, waiting to see if the pain would increase, and see if I was going to get nauseated, a common sympton of snake bite. But none of that occurred. Nor was there any swelling, I said. To a person, they marveled at my calmness, saying they'd have dialed 911, or would have gone tearing off to the emergancy room post haste. They couldn't believe that I'd just sit there calmly waiting to see what would happen.

I told them that I figured it to be a "dry" hit, which over 50% of snake strikes are, and that, apparently, I was going to go largely unscathed. I did say that the fear of infection motivated me to go in to my doctor that afternoon for antibiotics to prevent any possibility of infection, another common consequence of being bitten. Again, they marveled.

After cell phones were pulled out and pictures of my leg were taken, things settled down and we got on with the evening. Rose put a marvelous dinner on the table and we all dove in. To go with the turkey, there was ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, and fresh asparagas to go with the several choices of wine, all capped off with Coconut Cream pie for dessert.

The dinner conversation[s] included discussions about the dismal quail populations, the problems in our public and private schools, local and national politics, including aspersions cast upon "Boo Hoo" Boehner and "Blah Blah Obama.

Having sated ourselves, and having had some great discussions, the evening drew to a close. We began saying our thank yous to our hosts. Before letting this gathering break up, I knew I had to come clean and confess that my tale of being snake bitten was nothing more than a fabrication.

As I confessed, faces fell. Incredulity turned to disappointment and disillusionment. Reading the facial expressions, I knew I had crossed the line of what is a good practical joke and gone to a darker place. I sensed that my friends felt that I had deceived them. I felt it, too, and it is not something one does to good friends. I had taken a practical joke and a tale too far.

Now, here's the rest of the story, the true story. I actually did suffer an injury to the back of my thigh. It occurred when I fell while climbing a Mesquite tree. I fell onto a broken-off branch, a stick-up, incurring a pretty good puncture wound, which resulted in a visit to the ER where I was shot up with antibiotics after having the wound cleaned and stitched.

Cattlemans Cafe

2011-04-06T20:47:00.000-07:00

Dawn broke at least an hour before my arrival at the dairy farm, and half a dozen of my friends had been working the incoming pigeons and Eurasian doves since before dawn. Letting the dog out, reading the paper, and making my morning blender's rendition of breakfast may be why I was late, but I thought I had plenty of time. Apparently, I can't remember the fact that I live as far from the dairy farm as it is possibble to live and still be in the city of Tucson. I have to cross the entire length of the city and motor up the I 10 for another half hour just to get there. In my haste crossing town, I triggered a brilliant flash from a traffic camera, which means I'm going to get a speeding ticket in the mail. Damn thing made me spill my coffee! It was not an inauspicious start to my day.

I parked knowing all the good shooting spots were taken. I wandered over to the first person I saw. It was Ray Prenvschytch AKA Boomer, a nickname he'd been given due to his extraordinarily loud hand-loaded shells. I hadn't seen Ray since before the fall bird hunting season, and we played catch-up for about twenty minutes, him telling me of his birding hunting in Wyoming and North Dakota. Like me, Ray and his wife spend months on the road during hunting season, and we enjoy sharing our experiences and places we'd seen.

Pigeons are just one of the species of birds that visit the dairy every day. I don't know the names of the non game birds, but they work the dairy in flocks of untold numbers along with Mourning Dove, White Wing Dove, and Eurasian Dove, a non native species that is legally huntable year round. Grackles, in small numbers, also frequent the dairy and can be shot year round. I made my best and only successful shot of the day on a Grackle.

The birds stop flying an hour and a half to two hours after dawn, and then we adjourn to the Cattlemans Cafe for breakfast. I was so late that I had little time to shoot.

The Cattlemans Cafe is just that, a cafe that takes up the front portion of a cattle auction building. The auction area has tiered seating for the buyers, a main display pen, several holding pens, and a raised microphoned dais where the auctioneer presides during auctions. I've never seen an auction, but if the opportunity presents itself, I would enjoy experiencing it.

Nine of us settled in for breakfast. After coffee was served all around and everyone's order taken, at least four different conversations broke out. Today there were nine in the group, a number that varies depending on who responds when Roger sends out an email announcement that a shoot date has been set.

Knowing that Roger had just finished a five month long, nation-wide varmint hunting contest, I wanted details. He supplied them. He won the national championship for the second year in a row, defeating a four time national champion from Phoenix by 18 points. Roger explained that different point totals were awarded for various varmints, Mountain Lions bringing in the most points, followed by, but in no particular order, Coyotes, Bobcats, Foxes, and Badgers. If there are other varmints included, I'm not aware of what they are. We all congratulated him giving him the kudos he deserved. It's amazing to think that during this contest, Roger hunted birds three days a week not varmints.

Aside from the achievement that comes with knowing you were the best, there is little money in winning. I asked him if animal pelts were saleable and he said desert Coyote pelts are all by worthless, but Bobcat pelts were worth $100 to $500. He wouldn't tell us how many of those he shot, but said he got his share. That's Roger. He is a rather quiet and self deferring. In fact, you have to pull information out of him.

Wally told us of his recent experience in Texas where he was able to shoot a wide range of guns in the company of some of our military's finest. It was a thrill, he said, to shoot a .50 caliber sniper rifle, a 308 Pua [spelling?] ammunition, which is also sniper ammo, among others, in the company of Seals and other highly trained people. Wally is a retired Air Force pilot who still has many friends and contacts within the military. He, like Roger, is quiet and perfectly happy not to volunteer information until asked. Come to think of it, most of this crew is self effacing. I guess I'm the blabbiest member of the group. I like to think it's because I'm so curious and lack a certain amount of restraint.

This group is not limited to the nine participants of today's shoot. There are others. All told, there may be twenty or so members, who on occasion bring a friend. But the dairy farm is not open to anyone. We, this group, have sole and exclusive permission of the dairy owners to come and shoot their dairy. It is a relationships that evolved and became exclusive some years ago. Harold Snyder was our first point man who established the relationship we have with the owners. A few years ago, he passed the reins over to Roger who picks the shoot dates, collects the $5/head of those who come to shoot, and sees to it that the fee of several cases of beer and a bottle or two of wine get to the owners at the end of each visit. We pick up our birds and empty shotgun shells, leaving the cow pens clean. I think we all realize what a privilege it is to have this access and take pains not to abuse it.

I think if wasn't much past 9:30 when we adjourned the breakfast table and headed home. We enjoy the shooting and the socialization that comes with each visit to the dairy and the breakfast that follows.

Letter to Tucson's City Council

2011-03-09T19:34:00.000-08:00

Waiting my turn before the Municipal Parking Court Bench, I heard a half dozen cases and the amounts of the fines assessed for simple parking violations. Very pricey. I left the Tucson Municipal Parking Court this afternoon deep in thought.

Tucson, like so many cities, is suffering financially, and it appears that Draconian parking fines have been instituted to help fill the gap.

Just a couple of years ago, a local newspaper story covered the increase in RV parking taxes applied to our winter visitors. What made it a story was the fact that the parking tax increase raised the ire of many RV owners to the point that hundreds said they would not winter in Tucson, and would not come back in the future.

It has been widely publicized how unhappy the venders of the annual Tucson Gem and Mineral Show are over the high parking fines assessed against their customers. So much so that moving the Gem and Mineral Show to a more friendly city has been openly discussed.

The Rio Nueva project has floundered for years, costing the Tucson taxpayers millions of dollars with no clearly defined progress.

As a long-time citizen of Tucson, I am concerned. I think the City Council could do a better job of providing leadership and guidance, and might want to review its revenue raising policies, not just in the area of parking, but across the board., including licensing and permit fees.

During these hard financial times, leadership is very important, and setting realistic city budget and adhering to it would serve this city well.

Montana Eclectic

2010-09-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

In no particular order, random thoughts and snippets from my time in Montana to date.

Running a dog in wolf and bear infested forests may not be in the dog's best interest.

I'm in outback Montana, dependent upon and held hostage by 9 devices that need regular recharging. How free is that?

6 and 7 X tippet material is almost too much for the near blind and numb-fingered to deal with.

For $15 I had my soft-pedaled, squeaking brakes adjusted. It cost me $40 to have my RV water heater vent tube cleaned out with a single blast of compressed air. [There were no other discernible problems]. And it still doesn't operate properly!

When away from towns [there are few cities in montana], I eat well and lose weight. Near a town, I can't seem to stay out of restaurants, and I eat everything in sight.

I'm either a very bad fly fisherman, or every fisherman I've talked to is a liar.

Ranchers and hunting sportsmen have real issues with the Feds and their wolf policy. The "Three S" system is quietly being employed: "Shoot, Shovel and Shut up".

A cold shower is to be avoided at all costs.

Shampooed Peso in the rain this morning. He looks good.

Bacon grease added to dog food increases food intake.

My onboard generator burns 1.2 gallons of Propane/ hr.

The fresh water supply is always the first to go.

Finding wildcat, free RV parking in towns is challenging and very satisfying. Saves $900/month @ $30/day.

Picked up three bags of garbage near my parking spot this morning. While Peso ran, I did a little volunteer work as penance.

Nice one bedroom home in Anaconda, with washer/dryer and other appointments, $375/month! It might have something to due with the fact that there are now only 8000 residents when there were once nearly 50,000.

I have met only friendly, helpful native Montanans.

Casinos are everywhere, taking money from fools.

I need a haircut and beard trim. Walmart wanted $15.50 and $9.50 more for the beard trimming.. Will have a go at it myself.

My new favorite hat sits down to my ears and has a brim that throws shade for miles. It's a $10 marvel.

Bought another pair of gloves today. Just $11 for good Kangaroo hide work gloves. That makes 9 prs. of gloves I have on board. Can't seem to pass them up.

I drink more coffee, by a factor of 10, than I do at home while out and about. It heats the innards and starts the heart.

Wish I'd bought an RV years ago.

A woman can over stock and over load an RV to an extent that is incomprehensible to men. Eight boxes of tea bags?! Two bags of artificial sweetener. One a five pounder!

Peso now understands fishing. When I find rising fish, he sits waiting for me to bring them in, one at a time, for his inspection.

Peso now can't pass a tree without looking up to see if a Grouse isn't there.

Computers still flummox me. My new sophisticated photo program adds to my flummoxedness.

I enjoy walking a stream or the woods unfettered. That said, I feel naked without a camera.

Nearly strangled myself. The cords of my pocket camera, my hat, my dog color transmitter, my sunglasses, and the strap of my big camera became a Gordian Knot around my neck. It was worse than undoing a bad cast "rat's nest". That, at least, you can cut out.

I love Frog Eye salad, a refreshing concoction sold only in the deli departments of some of Montana's grocery stores.

The TV hasn't been on since the wife flew home. Either one of them.

Want to ingratiate yourself to the locals, and learn a lot? Go into a bar and buy a few beers for the guy you think can fill you in on what's what in the area. The more beer, the more he shares.

Ask a fellow fisherman what seems to be working, and they'll tell you, "Bugs".

Even if you manage to accurately "match the hatch", that is no guarantee that you'll have success.

Kingfishers won't let you close enough to photograph them, no matter the power of your lens.

Bald eagles are neat, bur standoffish, like Kingfishers.

I'm still waiting to see an Osprey take a fish, first hand.

Moose are cool, even if gangly and looking like they were designed by a committee.

Windshield wipers serve as great fly rod holders [up to 5o mph and providing there is no stiff cross wind.]

Flies smaller than size 24 are suited only for those with keen vision, dextrous small hands and a mind to match

Good fly casting technique is a rare and wondrous thing.

Windy days on a trout stream suck. Really skinny trout waters suck, too.

You can't buy underwear or flannel pajamas in Anaconda. Honest!

Peso sits at the door of my truck in the morning, waiting to be let in, so he can go hunting.

I sleep under two comforters wearing just a smile, despite the near freezing interior morning temperature.

I share my wild raspberries with Peso. He loves them, too.

Fall colors are showing up, and coming faster and faster.

It Wasn't High Tea, but...

2010-08-07T18:54:00.000-07:00

We departed Bayfield, Co. about noon, climbed Wolf Creek Pass, skirted Sand Dunes National Park, heading up 285 toward Salida. Salida is to be tomorrow morning's first stop. Not wanting to sleep at Salida's elevation, I was looking for a good place to park the RV for the night while still in the valley when we saw it. We saw a sign with directions to a mineral hot springs before we could pick a place to park for the night. It being only 4:00 p.m., we decided to treat ourselves to a good, hot soak.

Our half hour in the hot mineral waters was delightful. It removed all our car stiffness, while providing a spectacular view. The soaking pool was surrounded by plexiglass panels, which allowed a 180 degree view of the Sangre De Cristo Mts.

Out of the waters and just a few miles down the road, I turned the coach onto a narrow dirt road leading, to god knows where, but the road was signed, "access to public lands". I didn't need more of an invite than that. We pulled off Highway 285 and parked not far from the highway.

Leveling the coach turned into a lesson in the limitations of equipment, and the astounding ability of a husband and wife of 32 years to still not be able to communicate. I'll leave out the details, but suffice it to say, we had to develop a new common language before we could work together to solve our leveling problem with the coach.

To get the coach leveled, I was outside observing the hydraulic pistons and Connie was inside activating them, on my call. Sounds simple, doesn't it? With a complete stranger, maybe, but not your wife. Up was down, and down was up, then down was down, then up ran off to save itself, then...

Our communication problems were further complicated by a small mechanical failure. Parking out in the "bush" doesn't always offer flat terrain. While raising the rear of the coach to level it, we asked the rear pistons to reach further than, apparently, they were designed to go. A spring on one rear piston let go. Without this spring, it's questionable whether I can provide enough added muscle to retract this bad boy in the morning. That's tomorrow's problem.

I walked the dog before dinner. What I really mean to say is, I opened the door and Peso was going over the horizon in about a second and a half. He came back 15 minutes later with knowledge of the entire county, I'm sure. Then back to sleep on the couch. Connie and I had dinner and I've sent out an email to alert friends of the pictures I've posted on Snapfish for them to see. And I've written this blog. It's been a good day.

Our soak in the mineral hot springs wasn't exactly mid afternoon tea, but a cup of tea, even Earl Gray, cannot restore the body the way a pool of 106 degree water can.

Coronation of the Queen

2010-08-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

Connie caught her first legitimate fish today, and she did it by herself! She made the necessary drag-free float of a two fly nymphing set up, recognized the take and properly set the hook. With minimal verbal coaching from me, she presented the fish to my net after letting it tire itself out.

The timing couldn't have been better. Connie had just about reached the end of her tether with all the instruction I had given her during our first half hour on the river. Wisely, I recognized that she was just about at her boiling point and left her alone, going off a short distance to fish myself. It wasn't fifteen minutes later that she hooked-up with a nice Rainbow.

Prior to Connie catching this fish, I had given her my rod with a fish on, letting her feel what a nice fish felt like on the line. So, when she hooked her fish, it was not a completely new experience, and she handled it with aplomb.

When her fish took her well down stream, the four fishermen working the water below her, gave her right of way. To a person, they stopped fishing and took in the show. With the successful netting of the fish, congratulations came from everyone who had observed the battle, starting with me.

I call Connie "The Queen", have for years, and today was her trout fishing Coronation.

Lost and Found

2010-08-03T19:45:00.000-07:00

It's been three years since I've taken up a fly rod and waded into a stream to outwit the wily trout and feel the thrill of a tight line once again.

Yesterday was my third day on New Mexico's San Juan River. The first two days were long exercises in frustration. In the intervening three years, I appeared to have lost any skills I may have once had. My casting created rat's nests. My every move with a rod seemed to be the wrong one. Trying to tie 7 X tippet material to # 26 flies almost drove me mad, as well as blind.

And the flies! They are so small! Threading a piece of spider web through the eye of the hook so small that you have to hold it, just so, to even see light through it. I wore magnifying glasses to little avail, and the second I took my focus off my tippet and fly, I was suffused with a sense of vertigo that threatened to tip me into the river.

To say that my skills had deteriorated somewhat would be a fair statement. When I did manage to stay tangle free long enough to cast my line, it looked like a thrown piece of wet, limp spaghetti. Drag-free float! You've got to be kidding!

Then there's the reading of the water. I thought I could "read" water until I got on it again. Gauging the proper distance between strike indicator and the first of two flies, how much weight to add to get the nymphs down to the fish, a total mystery. Trying to attach a piece of split shot the size of a microdot to a piece of spider web, good luck! A drag-free float existed only as a construct.

Now, add Connie, an absolute novice, to the equation and you have a combined degree of ineptitude not seen since the first fool threw himself out of a barn hay loft expecting to fly.

Before one ever reaches the point where he/she can say they head to the stream to enjoy the Zen of fly fishing, they must first suffer Dante's 7 levels of hell. That was us those first two days. The only break in my frustration was my time spent trying to get Connie to do what I couldn't do myself.

How bad did it get? At one point, I placed a fly on my tongue, both hands being fully engaged in trying to unravel a Gordian Knot in Connie's line, and minutes later,when I went to retrieve said fly, found it gone. I had swallowed the damn thing! No worries, it was a barbless hook, and it must have passed my vocal chords, because my voice hasn't changed even half an octave. Hopefully, it's sailing smoothly south.

Then came my third day on the river. Unlike the two gentlemen from India who had to seek reconciliation when the first gentleman's Karma ran over the second's Dogma, there came my moment of blissful convergence. I made a proper presentation, and hooked and landed my first fish. My skills might be reemerging.

I was rediscovering the skills that had eluded me those first two days. The fact that I was fishing with my brother-in-law's son, Jeff, who had 150 days of experience on this river aside, it was me that was now making fish-catching presentations. Jeff, his 14 year old son, Chase, and I had a great day catching trout, both Browns and Rainbows. The Zen of trout fishing was alive and well.

What had been lost, was found.

Fish Stories, Observations, etc.

2010-07-30T07:21:00.000-07:00

Connie and I have been on the San Juan fishing for two days, with several more planned. Yesterday, we had a deer walk across the river just down stream from our location. There were fishermen both above and below this deer, she was nonplused. I'd guess this is a frequent occurrence.

In the course of trying to undo one of Connie's better line birdnests, I removed one of her two flies and, having both hands occupied, put it on my tongue. Well, it took so long to unravel her mess that I completely forgot about the fly on my tongue and assume it is currently working its way through me. The fly has a barbless hook, but still, not one of my better moves. Hopefully, it will never have to be seen on a MRI.

The value of a guide and his drift boat cannot be over estimated, especially by those of us who are still pretty inept. It's to bad that a day of their services is so expensive. It now costs $370/day, plus tip for a guide here on the San Juan, full day. On the other hand, I don't begrudge their rates, because they all live a hand-to-mouth existence, guiding because they love fishing so much themselves.

The true value of a professional guide is his knowledge of the river. He/she can put you where the fish are, rig you with the right flies at the right depths, and change flies, makes adjustments to your equipment, and unravels your mistakes, all in a fraction of the time you could do it yourself.

But a guide is also like having a driver... you get there quickly and safely, but at the end of the trip, you're driving skills haven't improved. Seeing and doing are two very different things.

Connie has been fishing this tailwater stream wet [no waders, just a pair of shorts]. To her credit she has lasted up to two hours in this very cold water, [42-46 degrees] before she's has to get on land and let the sun return circulation to her legs and feet. The fly shop employees, who fish themselves, cannot believe she can stay on the water so long without waders and warm socks.

And her with those bandy, little bird legs!

We've seen great casters and some real flailers on the river. We've even seen a spin fisherman [teenager, actually], who received his first stern lesson in river ettiquette from me when he tried to stomp across the river within 15 feet of Connie and I.

Connie landed her first fish, yesterday, a fingerling too short to measure. It's a beginning. We are both becoming much quicker and more proficient at tying on microscopic flies and unraveling birdnest line situations created by our bad casting. We should be, we're getting more practice than either of us would wish on our worst enemy.

San Juan River

2010-07-27T20:03:00.001-07:00

Connie and I spent our first trout fishing day of the year on the San Juan River, today.

Our first stop was at the Float N' Fish fly shop. [Thanks, Whitey, great choice! Good recommendation ]. We met Andy, the man behind behind the counter, who couldn't have been nicer or more helpful. He chose about 20 flies for us, dividing them between those he felt would be good morning fare, good midday stuff, and some more that he felt would be good in the early evening. Over the next two or three weeks, we plan to fish the three segments of the day.

From the fly shop we cruised into the parking lot at Texas Hole and geared up. This took awhile. We donned our fishing clothing and assembled rods. I changed our tippet material, going to 5 X. I spent forever getting our #22 and # 24 flies tied on. I rigged the two rods with different flies, a lead fly and a dropper, both nymphs given the time of day and no hatch to be seen. We strapped on our fishing bags. I added a small backpack with lots of liquids, and within a hundred yard walk, we were standing at the east end of the Texas Hole. We managed to find fishing space for the two of us, just about closing out the remaining available space at this famous spot on the river. There were three guided drift boats and at least 8 other fishermen working the Hole.

I got Connie out away from the bank and its fly line grabbing brush, lining her up with a likely looking seam in the river. I spent the next twenty minutes working with her, including demonstrations on how to get her flies to attain a drag-free float under her strike indicator. Then, for the next two hours, she worked on hitting this seam and getting a drag-free float. To her immense credit, I only had to untangle two or three line snarls.

When I felt confident that she could carry on by herself, I found a casting space along the same seam downstream from her and went to work myself. It had been a long time since I've wet a fly and I was as much into the "practice" mode as she was. Truth be known, we both could devote some real time to practicing our casting away from the water, as in at a park or golf course close to home. And do it regularly to increase our casting skills.

After a couple of hours, we broke for lunch, returning to the parking lot and our cooler stocked with PBJ's and cold drinks. We spent a half hour at a bench under a ramada enjoying a respite from the hot sun.

After lunch we moved all of 150 yards upstream and took up positions in the "Kiddie Pool". This pool is a wide spot in the river. The water is, for the most part, knee deep or less, and the current quite slow. In this area of the river, you literally stand among the fish, which you can easily see. I brought both of our primary and dropper flies closer to our strike indicators and shortened the distance between the flies.

We saw many fish. We saw them occasionally feeding in the water column, from the bottom to the top, some even taking what must have been emergers right at the surface. During our two hours in the "Kiddie Pool", we only saw two fish caught among the dozen fishermen working the area, so we didn't feel too bad ourselves for not catching any. Watching the fish was almost interesting enough. [Changing flies, even going to a dry, had no positive affects.]

We caught few fish for the day. But in our defense, we didn't see many fish caught by the fair number of fishermen we shared the waters with. This may have been largely due to the fact that the flow of the river had been rather drastically reduced during the preceding night. A sudden raising or lowering of water flow in a trout stream affects fish behavior for a day or two.

The San Juan is a tailwater stream. That means its waters originate and are made up of waters released from the base of a dam, behind which usually lies a large reservoir. In this case, Navaho Lake, a body of water that runs for miles and is a huge recreational boating and fishing resource in its own right. It has marinas and supports two or three campgrounds.

I was told, by another fisherman that the San Juan River fishery is rated the # 10 best fishery in the country. I assume he meant tailwater fishery, but whatever, it is a great river. It produces lots of trout, some of which belong in the monster category.

We departed the river about 5 PM and were back at my sister and brother-in-law's, and our RV, 1 1/2 hours later. We grabbed a "slider" at the A & W in Bayfield on the way back.

Connie and I agreed that it had been a great day. We both enjoyed ourselves immensely despite not catching many fish. There is always tomorrow, or the next day.

One of the many reasons I love trout fishing is that I've never seen an ugly trout stream. Any time spent on a trout stream is time well spent. It's always beautiful, or close to it. Despite living in Tucson, which I facetiously call the trout capital of America, I venture forth to find a trout stream often enough to feed my soul. I'm not a great trout fisherman, but I do appreciate them sharing their habitat with me.

Added Note:

Yes, that's me in the pictures. Look closely and you can see that I've begun to sprout pure white whiskers. I'm growing a "Sympathy Beard". It should aid in my attempts to gain landowners' permission to hunt upland birds in Montana in September.

Here's the logic: How can any landowner, in good conscience, refuse to grant permission to hunt to a white-bearded old man who is still willing to make the effort?

Pretty smart thinking on my part, huh? The only fly in ointment is the fact that my lovely wife can't stand me in a beard. She says it makes me look older than dirt.

"But, dear", I responded, "that's exactly the look I'm trying to achieve." She's having a hard time with it.

Lynx Lake, Seligman, Gallup

2010-07-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

Lynx Lake, near Prescott, was the rendezvous point. Connie and I spent a couple of days camping with Morgan, Nathan and their two children. Nathan's sister-in-law, Angie and her two boys were a surprise. Angie's husband, Andy, is currently deployed with Special Forces in Afghanistan, and she and her boys had flown in from North Carolina to visit. With both sets of grandparents present, we were a group of 12.

Lynx Lake is a gem. It's about 10 acres of water in a mixed forest of oak and pine at 5300'. The campsites are first rate, with fire pits and ramadas, which provide much appreciated shade.

For two days the kids collected countless pine cones, took rides on the lake in Nathan's small inflatable, driven by an electric trolling motor. Everyone got a turn around the lake. Evenings were spent at the fire pit. The kids loved making sssmores, that wonderful treat made up of Hersheys chocolate, grahm crackers and fire-toasted marshmallows. With two sets of grandparents to dote on the kids, the mothers had a break and were able to enjoy themselves.

When the dispersal came, Morgan and Nathan headed back to Anthem, Angie and her boys headed for California to visit her mother, David and Sandy Whicker left for Flagstaff, and Connie and I headed north to Ashfork up on I 40.

Connie and I dropped the RV off in a parking lot in Ashfork and headed into Flagstaff for lunch with Connie's sister, Adele and her husband, Randy. That was a nice visit. It had been a while since we'd seen them. After lunch, we headed back to Ashfork, picked up the coach and continued another 25 miles on west to Seligman.

I spent the latter part of the afternoon photographing Seligman. This small town has made itself a "Route 66" tourist memorabilia center. From wonderful 1950's murals painted on motel walls, to a plethora of iconic 1950's signs and souvenirs, there is much ti see. The eye candy is everywhere. To some, it would appear hopelessly "campy', and to others it's a delightful step into the past. There is even an Edsel parked on Main Street with a mannequin of Elvis sitting on the trunk looking cool as only Elvis could.

The following morning, I left Connie sleeping and I headed out of town for a prairie dog shoot. Upon reaching the huge flats west of town, I broke out my .223 and went to work. Shooting off the hood of my truck, I spent a couple hours entertaining myself. My long shot was made at 340 yds, and considering that I lacked my bean bags and proper shooting table, I was delighted.

By noon, we were headed east, reaching Gallup, New Mexico by early evening. Our initial choice of Walmart's parking lot as an overnight camping spot proved too noisy, so we moved to the parking lot of a Chinese Restaurant. We spent a pleasant, quiet evening there, and in the morning, I dumped our tanks when I realized that we were parked next to the restaurant's clean out. A free dump! I loved it.

Then things went sideways. Starting north on 491 for Shiprock and, ultimately, Bayfield, Co., I saw my truck, in my coach's side mirror, floating in and out of view. I pulled over and found that my tow bar had buckled. Not good.

The next five hours were spent getting the tow bar straightened, changing all the fluids in my truck, and calling in the mobile RV repair people.

Straightening the tow bar took some time. Finally, after exhausting the phone book listings of machine shops and welders, I found what I needed at RG Truck Repairs. He had a 55 ton hydraulic press, which did the job. Or, so I thought.

I changed all the fluids in my truck. The run from Seligman to Gallup, a trip of 200 miles, was made towing my truck without its drive shaft having been first disengaged. I had forgotten this rather important step. I realized my mistake in Gallup. A dashboard idiot light had notified me that something was wrong. Had I fried my transmission? I disengaged the truck from its towing rig and headed straight to the Toyota dealer for a diagnostic reading. Being too busy to see me in a timely fashion, I went to a Jiffy Lube and had them change the transmission fluid after their computer showed the "idiot" light indicated a vacuum problem, not a transmission problem. And since I hadn't changed the transfer case fluid or any other fluid other than oil, for at least 80,000 miles, I told the boys to change 'em all.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I decided to deal with the leaking toilet while waiting for fluid changes. One look and I knew I couldn't deal with it. To small a space, and too fat a pair of hands. A call to the mobile RV boys brought them on the run. When they, Roy and Stan, told me that the labor to effect a proper repair would nearly equal the cost of a new toilet, the decision was made to put in a new one.

Finally, poorer but happy, we started north once again. We didn't even make it out of the Safeway parking lot. The tow bar bent like a pretzel, again. I gave up. I had Connie drive my truck while I drove the coach to Bayfield, Co. The tow bar is an issue I'll deal with during our several week stay with Ken and Mimi.

P.S. We have been parked at Ken and Mimi's for one day. I spent an hour on the phone this afternoon and have the replacement parts for my towing system ordered. All should be well when I get it back in order, which will be in less than ten days when the parts arrive from Texas and Missouri.

We had a 2" rain today. The water thrumming on the coach roof put me right to sleep. I had a nice, long nap, waking in time for a steak and potato dinner, apple pie ala mode for dessert.

Another couple of days ought to see me adjusting to being at 7300'. Then, I can start walking around... doing something other than napping and feeding my face.

Peso is in dog heaven. He has free range and uses it all. He ignores Ken's goats and, after being toasted once with the shock collar for drooling at the sight of Ken's chickens, may leave them alive for a few more days.

A Car Jacking!

2010-07-13T20:36:00.000-07:00

I was working in the garage when the call came in.

I answered my chirping cell phone to hear Tresha plead to come save her . She sounded desperate. Just ten minutes earlier she had left her house, which is next door to mine, with a massage chair which I had helped load into her car.

Over the years, I have answered a half dozen stressed phone calls from Tresha. Up until today, all of those calls were to have me come remove a rattlesnake that had parked itself near her back door, or in the garage, or on her front porch.

Today's call was different and it had me truly concerned. Knowing that I'd just seen her off and watched her drive away, I couldn't imagine a snake being the problem. But her voice on the phone told me something was terribly wrong.

Without any explanation of what had upset her, she asked me to come quickly, that she was pulled over less than a mile from the house. I said I'd be right there and jumped into my truck and tore down the road. I found her within minutes, parked at an angle, the left rear of her car still on the pavement.

I approached the passenger side of her car quickly, but with caution, wondering what I was going to find. What I did find was her, cowering in the passenger seat, scrunched into a ball, holding her windshield shade as a defensive shield from... from something that she felt threatened by.

Every window in the car was tightly closed. I could see her, nothing else. I had to rap on the window to get her attention, her entire being so focused toward the driver's seat that she hadn't heard my approach.

She slowly acknowledged my presence by lowering her window and telling me that Asshole had broken loose and had taken possession of the steering wheel, and was clearly ready to defend it to the death. With the clarity of a lightning strike, I understood.

I couldn't help myself, I started laughing, which did nothing to lessen her anxiety. Getting myself under control, I told her we had to change places. If she would get out of the car, I'd take charge of the situation.

As we were about to change places, my brother and sister-in-law, who were coming out to enjoy the day with Connie and I, pulled over to the side of the road having recognized both Tresha's and my vehicles. I walked across the road and told Tom that Tresha had been car jacked. His face immediately crumbled showing his concern. But, he hadn't heard all of what I'd said. I repeated myself, saying that Tresha had been car jacked by Asshole. He relaxed immediately, concern leaving his face, as a smile took its place. I asked him he could lend a hand and the two of us returned to Tresha's car.

Asshhole is Tresha's cat. Let me clarify that. Asshole is noboy's cat. He is a ten pound feral beast that wandered into Tresha's life three years ago, taking up residence in her garage.

Tresha and this cat worked out an accommodation over time. Tresha left access to the garage available for shelter and Asshole kept the packrats and mice population on her property under control. .

Tresha loves animals and has a huge soft spot for them, but she has never been able to make any headway with Asshole, despite her best efforts. She tried for a long time, but finally had to concede that this cat would have none of it. Any attempt to approach it met with snarls, fangs, and claws. There was never to be any shared affection between these two.

Twenty minutes earlier, after I helped load up her chair, she asked me if I'd help her cage her cat. It had taken weeks for her to finally trap it in the garage and get the door closed without it escaping. I managed to corner this beast and grab it by the scruff of the neck, and with Tresha holding the cat carrier, I managed to load it, avoiding its best attempt to shred me with its claws.

Back to the roadside. Having gotten Tresha out of her car, I donned a pair of leather work gloves and slid in, taking her place. The cat gave up its death grip on the steering wheel and leaped into the back of her Sequoia. I crawled over the seats and the massage chair, and managed to, once again, grab this beast by the scruff of the neck. I exited the car with this spitting, yowling, clawing monster at arm's length. While Tom held the cat carrier in the vertical position, open door up, I fed Asshole hind feet first into the carrier. I secured the latches and Tresha's ordeal ended, and the idea for this blog began percolating.

I asked her if she really intended to turn this cat loose into her townhouse. She said, "Oh, no, I'm taking it to a friend who lives on acreage, who has a packrat problem". I was relieved to hear that and told her so.

Nerves now under control, she prepared to continue her trip into town, I told her that her cat really was an Asshole.

She smiled and said, "That's how he got his name, because he is one".

"He's properly named", I said, and waved her on her way.

Car jacked by a cat! You can't make this stuff up.

Cabo San Lucas

2010-06-27T22:54:00.000-07:00

Connie and I just returned from a two week stay in Cabo San Lucas. We've been vacationing there for twelve years. It's become an annual pilgrimage.

We are co-owners of a time-share at the Los Cabos Country Club with my brother and sister-in-law. It's a facility of outstanding architectural and landscaping beauty. Stonework is Mexico's forte, and the owners made sure the overall ambiance would be pleasant by bringing in vast amounts of colorful plants, like Bougainvillea. The place is a riot of color.

The icing. The golf is FREE. It was given to the earliest time-share buyers as an incentive to buy. We bought an existing time-share and were grandfathered in on the free golf.

Full, I'd guess the resort might have maybe 200 people sharing the championship golf course, the restaurant, and the swimming pool. In 12 years, it has never felt congested. Once in a while a tad noisy, but we all know that happens. A prepubescent kid or two can produce a racket, a shrieker can make you grind your teeth, but it seldom happens, given our older clientele. The time-share rabbit warrens on the beach are a 20 hour/day party. A moment of silence there would bring you bolt upright out of a good sleep. It would be one of those "the silence was deafening" moments.

After a morning round of golf, the men seem to gravitate to the shaded poolside bar, while the girls tend to covey up in the searing sun to fry poolside, to tweet and honk quietly among themselves.

The best part of it all is that our golf is FREE. We can play as much as we want, gratis, Amigos. Tom and I make it a point to be the first off every morning and, after a round-ending beer or two at the 19th hole, are poolside no later than 11:30. We have the rest of the day available to do whatever. Usually, it's drink 2 for 1 beers in the shade, nap and, maybe get a few pages of the latest best seller read. I admit to it being sinfully delicious. We did get the girls to the beach at their request one day, and I think there was something else we did besides drink beer and nap, but I can't quite remember what it was.

Cabo San Lucas is located at Land's End, the southern most tip of the Mexican Baja Peninsula. Founded as a fishing village, [who knows when], in the last 20-25 years it has grown from 20,000 to over 200,000 people. The initial growth was a result of the excellent fishing [for most]. I don't know the history of the time-share phenomena, but Cabo's explosive growth can be attributed to its time share sales. What was a sleepy fishing port has become a major end-point destination. Boat berths in the harbor run to $5000/ mo. Hollyweird and other big spenders have helped put Cabo on the map. Papparattzzzi and publicity quickly spread the word.

Now, our crew doesn't seek out the beautiful people, nor chase the stars for autographs. We spend our time shopping at Cost-Co for food we prepare ourselves and occasionally dine at very good restaurants just slightly off the beaten trail for very moderate prices. As for being a tourist, I confess, I bought one baseball cap and two barbeque aprons during my two week stay. I don't count the beer I drank. It didn't come back with me. In fact, it was a very short term rental situation with the beer.

Cruise ships drop anchor four days a week in Cabo. The price of dropping anchor is $50,000 for six hours. It's another $50,000 should the cruise ship overextend its stay by even the least margin. Can you imagine the cruise ship captain getting tagged for and additional $50,000 because a few of his Touri Americanus are trying to figure out how to carry 75 or 80 useless trinkets back and miss the last shore boat back to the ship?

Cabo C.C. is about a half mile from the water and at just enough elevation that the geological beauty that is Land's End can be seen from our rooms. That same view is what one sees every morning as you ride toward the first tee on the golf course, which was designed to show case Land's End.

In the course of our two week visit we met new friends, some of whom we will keep in touch with and try to co-ordinate next year's trip scheduling. But the highlight of the trip, for me, was and always has been the golf. Same for Tom. We went at it hammer and tongs, as we do every year, and at the end of 13 rounds, we tied, 6 rounds apiece, with one tie. Our matches came down to the 18th hole more often than not. And since I only played three rounds of golf since my last visit to Cabo, I can take heart. If I were to actually practice this game, I might drop some strokes.

Now, whereas our golf was always exciting, filled with friendly tension, our day of chartered deep sea fishing had a different feel to it.

We ended our 8 hour run with no fish, no hook-ups, and almost no beer. What we lacked in fish we made up in beer consumption. But that could not disguise the fact that I am now 0 for 5 when it comes to salt water charters. I mean 0, as in I have never even had a bite, much less hooked or landed a fish. Nor has anyone who has been on a boat with me. Call me JONAS.

You know what is a more humiliating prospect than going on and on without catching a fish on salt water? It is to finally catch one. What's that first one going to have cost me per pound? $1000/lb. ? Maybe I should start a pool. I can quit going out on those bounding waves or just sack up and keep trying. Maybe, I can win the Plugger's Prize. That goes to the fool who doesn't know when to give it up, get off the water and go take up bowling or badmittan.

I know I'll be back in Cabo next year. Whether I go out on a salt water charter is problematic at this point.

Aquatic Photo Op

2010-06-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

After watching two softball games Peso and I were ready for a walk. It was 7:00 PM when I opened the door into the garage and punched the button to open the big door. Peso thinks if he drives himself under the door, acting as a living wedge, he can get the door to open faster. You hear a crash as he jimmies himself under the door and runs out onto the driveway.

With the door noisily grinding its way up, I didn't hear the Diamondback buzzing at the inside edge of the rising door. I heard and saw it at the same time, which was just in time to take a step sideways. Peso was standing in the middle of the driveway looking at me as if to say, "What the hell is THAT doing in the garage?" I was asking myself the same question.

I'm hoping the snake entered the garage as soon as the door started up, because if it [and other snakes] can get into my garage when the doors are down, it is going to change my entire idea of my garage as a c0mrt zone, a place that I can walk about without a care in the world.

Now, I've found one other snake in my garage, but it was years ago. Well, actually, Morgan found it when she walked into the garage and set off a buzz., which landed her on the hood of Connie's car through no conscious thought of her own. She found herself sitting there yelling for Dad not aware of how she got up there. That snake was coiled under the driver's side of Connie's car. I'm almost positive it got in the garage because the door was left open well after dark.

I'll check the door seals and make any adjustments required. I dumped this intruder into a garbage can where it could wait for its future role as a photo model.

I have taken many pictures of many snakes. I have even put rattlesnakes in the freezer until they are incapable of movement. In that state, they make good models. You can move them around for better poses and change their location for better lighting, etc. Nearly frozen snakes do tend to lack a certain vitality and vibrancy. And you have to keep a sharp eye out, because as they warm up and regain their mobility, they always seem to have a bit of an attitude.

With the snake in a garbage can, Peso and I took our walk to the pond. Seeing the water, a new way to photograph snakes came to mind. I'm going to photograph my rattler in the water.

I imagine that it'll take a session or two to find a working relationship with this critter. It probably won't like being kept swimming while I shoot photos, but with time, I'll get my pictures and the snake can become an accomplished swimmer, if it isn't already.

What will I need in the way of props? I'll need an assistant, a small rake that is easy to handle, waders, preferably with nonslip bottoms, a couple of different lenses, the right light and a few things I haven't thought of yet. It'll take a couple of sessions to work out all the kinks, but this is doable. I'm looking forward to it.

POST SCRIPT: Two weeks later

I regret to inform you that Sammy [the snake] passed away while I vacationed. He went from a vibrant, tail waver to just a shell of himself [literally]. The heat, then the snake beetles had their way with Sammy, leaving very little behind. Interestingly, Freddy, the rat I fed Sam before leaving town, survived Sammy's desiccation and consumption by beetles showing no wear whatsoever. Imagine that!

Well, another snake will rear its head soon enough, and I'll be ready. Photos to come.

P.S.S. I have twin hummingbird chicks residing in a nest just two feet off the ground. Momma built it in the hedge in front of my house. What's interesting is that Peso [my dog] has discovered the nest and its occupants. It is at his eye level. It's worth a picture when he stands there nose to nest. I tell him "no", and he walks away. I think he's no more than curious.

Bad Timing

2010-06-06T21:17:00.000-07:00

I spent the better part of the afternoon watching Arizona's girls softball team win two games, completing a 4 game climb out of the loser's bracket, and into the championship series. To make that climb, Arizona had to beat last year's national champion, Washington, Hawaii, the national home run record setting team, and Tennessee twice, earning the right to play UCLA .

Arizona is being carried on the arm of Freshman pitcher, Kenzie Fowler, who had to overcome extreme heat, four games pitched in two days, and the Referees who called her for 21 illegal pitches.

Kenzie was called for 2o illegal pitches in the first three games, and 1 in the 4th. As if the pressure of the World Series and playing the best teams in the country wasn't enough, this Freshman had to alter her footwork under fire to keep the Referees at bay.

She lost the team's first World Series Game when she couldn't overcome the shock and uncertainty the illegal pitch calls created. She had only been called for 4 illegal pitches in the previous 55 games. To say it was disconcerting would be a gross understatement. Kenzie made adjustments to her footwork during play and the illegal pitch calls dropped with each succeeding game.

Kenzie proved that she has uncommon maturity for a Freshman, unbelievable composure and an extremely competitive nature. This she proved beyond a doubt by staying strong and making the adjustment to her pitching form during the heat of battle against some of the best teams in the country.

I think the World Series was deliberately chosen as the venue to suddenly enforce this rule. Nowhere else could the rules committee make a stronger statement and have a greater impact.

Using the televised World Series was an effective way to get the message across to the widest possible audience. Coaches and players across the country are now on notice: don't let the hind foot come off the ground during the pitching motion, or be called for an illegal pitch.

Despite all the travails, Arizona has succeeded. The team came up through of the losers bracket and is poised to play UCLA for the national title. It's now a 3 game series for all the marbles! GO ARIZONA!

Back It Up, Henry

2010-06-06T19:50:00.000-07:00

I haven't been on my Apple for three days, and I'm feeling just a little out of sorts.

I decided it was time I backed up my computer. Specifically, my photographs. My Apple is downloading its contents to a mega computer somewhere out there in the ether as I write this. It has been downloading for the last three days, 24hrs./day, and will complete this task in the next 12 hours, give or take an hour.

I am paying $55/year to have my computer backed up. It will be done automatically, on a daily basis. This three day backup is the initial downloading. Then it will take only an hour or two a day, done in the wee hours of the night.

If my computer suffered a hard drive crash that destroyed all my photos, it would be a loss of untold magnitude. I couldn't possibly replace what I'd lose. There are years of photographs in my computer.

I'll never get back to many of the places I've been. I can't be in the right place at the right time, again which produced so many unique opportunities. Those shots and the shots of people were time specific and will never present themselves again. The list goes on...

I will be relieved knowing that there is a back up set of photos This is great insurance, and a small price to preserve so much.

Arizona's Rattlesnakes

2010-06-01T23:00:00.000-07:00

Rooting around my office, doing some spring cleaning, I found a poster of Arizona's rattlesnakes that I had rat-holed in a cardboard tube with a bunch of my Montana maps. Put out by the Arizona Game and Fish Department, the poster shows a picture of each of Arizona's 11 species of rattlesnakes accompanied by a description and some data.

Eleven species. That is an impressive number, especially when you consider that there are only fifteen species in the entire country. [Subspecies not counted.] Arizona has more species of rattlesnakes than any other state. Only one conclusion can be drawn from this fact. We are blessed! Lucky us!

By far, most dangerous species is the Mojave. Its poison attacks the nervous system, and the neurological effects can come and go for years. The effects vary greatly, from temporary blindness, to Parkinson's like shaking, severe headaches, memory loss, full body sweats, and the standard chills and fevers, among many others. A bite from a Mojave becomes a Neurologist's puzzle and the victim's nightmare.

The other types of rattlesnakes' venom attacks the circulatory system. You may lose a chunk of meat, at and near the bite location, but a least there comes an end to the trauma. As bad as it can be, it is not as bad as the affects that come with a bite from the Mojave Rattlesnake.

The Diamondback produces the most hospital visits by human victims per year. This is do to its being found over a wide geographical area, thereby making it the snake most often toyed with by people. And it is people messing with rattlesnakes that results in a large percentage of the bites people incur annually.

The Diamondback averages 2-3' in length and rarely reaches 6', here in Arizona. Likewise, the Mojave averages 2-3' in length, but rarely grows past 4'. Personally, I don't make a distinction between a long rattlers and short ones. If it rattles, I'm looking to get a safe distance, length be damned. A short one can put you in the hospital just as surely as a long one can.

Rattlesnakes are born live, and can make your life miserable from day one. The only difference between a young snake's bite and a mature one's bite, is the amount of venom you are injected with. Even a "dry" bite, where no venom is injected, can potentially leave you sick and with a severe infection, if left untreated.

The other 9 species are far less often seen and have narrower geographical ranges. They are the Tiger, the Sidewinder, the Western, the Black Tail, the Rock ,the Twin-spotted, the Ridge Nose, the Speckled, and the Massasauga Rattlesnake. I've only ever heard mention of the Western Diamondback and the Sidewinder before seeing this poster.

I used to kill rattlers; I no longer do. I figure they have a right to make a living along with all the other desert critters. If I'm away from the house, I'll walk around a snake and go on my way. If I discover a snake on my property, I remove it to preserve the safety of my family and my dog.

I use my homemade snake stick and a garbage can to capture and transport snakes. Paul McCartney owns a home and extensive acreage just down the road. I release snakes onto his property. He is rarely ever there, and he's an avowed animal lover. What's he going to say?

According to Arizona Game and Fish, on average, Rattlesnakes eat about 4 times per year That's about once a month during the warm season. They can shed their skin multiple times per year, or just once. Every very time a rattlesnake sheds its skin another segment is added to its set of rattles.

I have become quite accustomed to living with rattlesnakes. As long as they give me advance warning, I don't fear them. It's a different story all together when you get caught with your pants down.

Walking Sticks

2010-06-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

Walking sticks come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and lengths. They are made of many different materials. I've seen any number of wood types used, and I've seen them made of plastic, different metals and even expensive alloys. Many are now adjustable. There's no end to types and styles to this once simple walking aid. They also come in prices from reasonable to obscenely outrageous.

I've seen them decorated with everything from feathers to gold, and everything between. Some are works of art, and others are unbelievably tacky.

I have had many walking sticks, and a few still occupy the odd corner of my garage. Over time, I have settled on a favorite. It has surpassed all others, and it has been fulfilling my needs and serving me admirably for years. It requires no maintenance and never creates splinters or burrs.

My walking stick of choice is a length of plastic pipe. I prefer a 5-6' length of schedule 40, 3/4" in diameter. It provides sufficient rigidity when needed and is flexible enough to prevent my skewering myself should I stumble awkwardly, which happens from time to time.

If I break it, I can replace it with ease at a very nominal cost. It can be purchased at any hardware store in 10' lengths and can be cut to custom length with any saw, no matter how dull. It even doubles as a Mistletoe whacker, something only a fool would do with a "nice" walking stick.

I have found my walking stick to be very handy beyond just being an aid to balance. I often use mine to push brush or cactus aside, and its great for rooting around in cover I'm not quite sure enough about to stick my hand into. It is a good depth finder when negotiating waterways or suspicious looking sand. It can be used to fend off an angry dog, an angry dog owner, and any snake.

I've become rather accustomed to carrying my walking stick and don't feel quite dressed without it. It is the perfect walking companion, second only to a knowledgeable conversationalist.

No Two Are The Same

2010-05-31T19:40:00.000-07:00

Peso and I went for a walk this evening. We do it all the time. No two walks are ever the same, and tonight was no different.

I struck off at a good pace expecting to pass the pond, loop around to Redington Road, and cover the back half of the walk home in time to avoid returning after dark. Well, as so often happens, the best laid plans...

First, Peso pointed a group of quail with such a hard, solid point that I had to honor it . That meant walking out and around, well into the desert, before I could make the flush for him. Not to have done it would have been criminal. His point was a beautiful piece of work. He got a couple of "atta boys" for his effort.

Returning to the asphalt, I passed a Mesquite tree full of Mistletoe. As I've stated previously, I have difficulty just walking past these trees. I spent time clearing this first tree of its parasitic guest and a quite a bit more cleaning out two more. Now the sun was sinking like a stone, getting very near the horizon.

I turned around to retrace my steps home, it being shorter than going on to complete the loop. I hadn't walked more than 30 yards when the unmistakable buzz of a rattlesnake snapped me to. I'd come awfully close to stepping on a rather handsome Diamondback. I immediately thanked it for the buzz.

I have to say here that I would rather live with rattlesnakes than in an area where venomous snakes exist that don't rattle. Given half a chance, a rattlesnake will announce his presence unlike Cotton Mouths and Copper Heads of the south. Not only don't they rattle a warning, they are aggressive. It's a no-brainer. I'll take the buzzmeisters!

I realized that I had an opportunity here to check Peso's snake response. So, after walking on past this snake, I gave Peso the "Here" command to see how he'd react to the snake as he came to me. [The snake was buzzing nicely]. I was delighted when his route down the road suddenly altered taking him 50 yards out into the desert around that snake before coming in to me. When he arrived, I gave him well deserved praise. Clearly, he would not need a snake breaking update this year.

I ran into a herd of Javalina and a Diamondback a couple of mornings ago while on another walk. While I photographed the snake [accompanying photograph], Peso was running about doing his thing, never coming near, so I had no idea of how he might react to a snake. He was, however, running into members of a dispersed herd of Javalina. I did pay attention and noticed that he had no interest in harassing them, nor would he let any of them get too close to him. That was nice to see. Other than porcupines, Peso has no interest in mixing it up with animals bigger than a gopher, and after two run ins with porcupines, I'm hoping he'll leave them alone this year.

I arrived home just before full dark.

A Boys' Outing

2010-05-31T12:31:00.000-07:00

Three of us met early this morning to entertain ourselves with boy toys out in the desert. I'm talking about toys that go BANG!

I loaded my truck last night so as not to waste daylight this morning. Here's what went into my truck: one shooting bench, one home-made shooting table, two folding chairs, one lounge chair, one spotting scope, four boxes to staple targets to, two bowling pins [targets], one milk crate full of sand bags, one rabbit-eared bean bag, two rifles, [ a .223 and a 10-22], one pistol, [a .40 Glock], and a crate that held ammo for the three firearms. There were extra banana clips for the 10-22, and paper targets. Bruce brought an AR 15, a .223, and a pistol. The second truck held a very similar load. Shooting is an activity that can require lots of peripheral stuff.

We drove out into the desert to play, ignoring the county shooting range, which is undersized, inadequate, and badly managed. It's a shame, because the Phoenix range in Maricopa County is a marvelous facility and it is very well managed.

With two shooting tables set up, Roger was free to spend time sighting-in his favorite varmint gun. Roger's shotgun had an electronic sight that he suspected of being off. I'd tell you about it, but I'm not familiar enough with it to give an adequate description. Before we left, Roger had his shotgun sighted in and a very sore shoulder. Apparently, sighting in using 3 1/2" heavy loads, off the bench, is not for sissies. You the man, Rog!

While Roger abused himself, Bruce and I took turns on my shooting bench. I shot golf balls with my 10-22. What I lacked in accuracy, I more than made up for in quantity. I had a 30 round banana clip in my gun, and it didn't take long to send those golf balls out of sight down range. The bowling pins were pistol targets taken from various distances. Both Bruce and I had a go at them. Lots of spares, few strikes.

Last, but not least, paper targets 100 yards down range let us check the accuracy of everything from Bruce's AR 15 to my 10-22. Bruce shot his .40 Glock accurately from the bench at this distance. We both blazed away with our .223's.

It didn't take long to do all the shooting we cared to do. We policed our brass, picked up our targets, reloaded our trucks, and were off to breakfast by 9:30.

After breakfast, we drove to Bruce's where he machined a new screw for Roger's shotgun. Roger had lost a screw during hunting season and had replaced it with a hardware store substitute. Tacky, very tacky, something Bruce offered to make right.

It was a typical workshop session. It took Bruce 30 minutes to make a new screw, 26 of which were spent looking for tools, even with our help. Don't we always spend more time trying to locate tools, or trying to relocate them after using them, than we do actually doing whatever it is that brought us to the workshop in the first place? You know we do.

It was a great morning.

An Epiphany

2010-05-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

I recently had an epiphany. My dictionary defines an epiphany as a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into reality. That's what I had.

I just met the $5000 deductible requirement of my health insurance policy. It happened last week in one visit to a specialist. Having to write a check of that size startled me, to put it mildly. It also induced my epiphany.

I realized that having met my health policy's deductible, it is in my best interest, financially speaking, to seek medical treatment for everything I can think of until year's end. Why? Because at the beginning of the new year, I will be subject to another $5000 deductible before my insurance kicks in .

While people shouldn't be discouraged from seeking medical help, it seems a bit strange to realize that the medical care system inadvertently provides incentive to seek it once one's deductible has been met.

I've Got a Secret

2010-05-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

I went out the door this morning ready for a long walk. Peso, too. He had been confined for the last two days having had a growth removed below his eye and needing to be kept quiet. He was more than ready to get out for a good run.

An hour into our walk, we hadn't managed to cover even one hundred yards. It wasn't that I'd found a worthy subject to photograph, or bumped into a neighbor to spend time chatting with, or found something fascinating that warranted a lengthy look-see. It was nothing of the Kind. It was my bizarre desire to attack Mistletoe.

I am occasionally, and inexplicably, consumed by an urge to rid Mesquite trees of Mistletoe. When this urge strikes, I have to give in to it. I have tried to fight it, but to no avail. I no longer try.

The Mistletoe I'm speaking of is not the Christmas Season variety that hangs in front foyers in December. This is a species of Mistletoe unique to Mesquites, or nearly so. It's that particular parasite that sometimes kills a Mesquite tree by depriving it of sunlight and nutrients by growing massive amounts of itself at its host's expense. Mistletoe grows for five years before producing sticky, red and white berries. Birds eat these berries. The sticky berries attach themselves to birds feet and are carried to other trees, spreading the Mistletoe to new hosts.

Mistletoe is from Old English. Its English derivation is quite unclear. The word's meaning was probably derived from the related German words Mist, which means dung and Tang, which means branch. Dung branch. [Personally, I don't think I'll look at Yuletide Mistletoe quite the same way again.]

The Mistletoe that is too high in the trees to reach, I attack with my walking stick. This gives me another six foot of reach. Once started, I move from tree to tree with a compulsive zeal. Fatigue, dehydration and becoming over heated are what usually bring my sessions to a close. I then continue on my walk or return home, depending on my energy levels.

Often, I arrive back at the house sporting a tear in my shirt or my pants. Sometimes both. Connie has chided me on more than one occasion for ruining a good golf shirt or a perfectly good pair of pants. Since it isn't every day that the urge to annihilate Mistletoe consumes me, I don't know, day to day, if my clothes are in jeopardy. In an effort to spare my clothes, I have taken to wearing only tee shirts and old pants on my walks. [Now if there were only some way to get the kabillions of weed seeds and other little grabbers out of my socks at the end of my walks, I'd be tickled, and so would Connie.]

Passersby who have come across me thrashing about in a mesquite tree seem equally divided between two camps: those who think I might be nuts, and those who know I'm nuts. Members of the former listen and grapple for understanding when I offer my explanation, and the latter group members head out without so much as a by your leave. I think they are in a hurry to tell their friends about the freak in the tree they discovered while on their walk.

I'm not completely sure why I do it. I know that I derive some satisfaction. Trust me, I wouldn't do it just for the hell of it. It makes me feel good, like I've cleaned up a mess and restored order. It also makes me feel bad.

If you saw my hands following one of my sessions, you'd say, "My, what's up with those hands?" They do get stiff and they do end up with a lot of scabs and scratches. But I'll be back at it just as soon as that urge tells me it's time.

Lucky

2010-05-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

We have had a magnificent spring bloom in Southern Arizona this year. The bountiful winter rains made possible an explosion of color, the likes of which we haven't seen in years. The blooming Brittle Brush formed a yellow carpet over large areas of the desert. The Jumping Cholla, Prickly Pear and Ocotillo are bursting with red, yellow and orange flowers. Saguaros are now declaring themselves with large, white blossoms atop their multiple arms. And all this exists out my door, just steps away. I feel fortunate to live so close to so much beauty.

Rarely a day passes that I don't grab my camera, call for Peso and take up my walking stick. We go for a walk around the neighborhood or out into the foothills, walking horse and animal trails that go on for miles. During this spring bloom, I can't seem to spend enough time out doors.

I can make a circlular walk of a mile on pavement, or break off and head out into the foothills anywhere along the route. My walks with Peso are only limited by time constraints or the heat. Each time I walk the desert, it seems new and fresh to me. With its unparalleled bloom, this spring has made it especially so.

As much time as I spend in the desert, as closely as I look, I miss things. This was brought home to me, again, just the other day. On an evening walk, I ran into a neighbor out with his dog. We linked up and walked together. Peso ran loose while Bodey jealously danced around at the end of his rope. Ron asked if I wasn't concerned about Peso's safety. I said, no, I wasn't, explaining that Peso was snake-broke and well used to running in the desert. Ron asked about Peso and cactus, and I told him that Peso was adept at picking his way through the desert without picking up cactus. He seemed to accept that, since he didn't ask any further questions.

Ron's next statement surprised me. "The only thing that saved Bodey from severe harm, maybe even death, on several occasions recently was this rope he's attached to. I asked for clarification, being a little confused. Ron told me that within the last week Bodey had had three separate run ins with a rattlesnake, a face to face with a bobcat, and was nearly surrounded by a herd of Javalina. This while walking the same road we were then walking. Peso and I walk this road daily and I hadn't seen anything bigger than a rabbit over the same time period. How could this be, I asked myself.

As it grew toward dark, we separated, each headed for his respective home. I was almost to my driveway when it suddenly came to me. I understood how he and his dog were seeing wildlife while I wasn't. I miss seeing many animals because Peso is running well out in front of me announcing his and, indirectly, my presence to all the desert dwellers in our path. Seeing Peso gives the critters time to fade away before I ever get close enough to see them.

Great dog that he is, Peso gives way to or ignores larger desert animals rather than confronting them. Being a dog, bred and trained to point birds, chasing has been discouraged since he was a puppy. Is he perfect? No, but I accept his penchant to point the occasional rabbit, ground squirrel or gopher. He doesn't chase deer and is perfectly happy to leave Javalina, coyote and bobcat alone. Peso has had a couple of negative encounters with skunks and porcupines, but so have all the dogs I've owned. I think skunks and porcupines are part of a dog's right of passage. And he's never had a close encounter of the bad kind with a rattlesnake. Nor have I, and for that I'm thankful.

Peso's disposition is delightful. It is one of live and let live. Whether in the bird field or walking in the desert, he is a wonderful companion. He doesn't even begrudge me the time I spend taking photos. I'm lucky to have him, and I imagine he feels the same.

Eagle River, Wisconsin

2008-07-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

Connie and I have just returned from northern Wisconsin where we were among forty-some members of her family who attended the fourth Forsberg family reunion. The first reunion was held twenty years ago. There have been three since held at five years intervals.

Boating, which included water skiing, wake-boarding and tubing by children as young as five and as old as 60 was clearly the popular activity. I'm happy to report that other than a few sore muscles all survived unscathed.

The picture of Nathan holding up very large empty fishing net tells the story of our Musky fishing. He and I spent one day out with a professional fishing guide throwing obscenely large and heavy lures attempting to thwart the axiom that it takes 10,000 casts to land a Musky. Sigh. We failed. At day's end we were arm weary and without a fish landed. Between us, we did see eight different Musky following our retrieved lures. Seeing these monarchs of the food chain, while gratifying, could not be called satisfying. Landing a legal Musky remains on my list of things to do.

The last two pictures are blatant promotions of my granddaughter, Katherine. Her parents, Morgan and Nathan are marvelous, too, but Katherine stole the show. On the return drive to Milwaukee, our fly-out point, we pulled in to buy cheese, sausage and crackers at the Mullins Family Cheese Factory in Mosinee. Finding the Cheese Head gear was a bonus, and with the Whicker family sporting the proper head gear, they were sworn in, becoming three new members of the Cheese Head Legion.

Throughout the week, there were countless opportunities for the members of this family troupe to catch up on the news of family. Gathering every five years has allowed everyone to maintain a level of contact that would be difficult to maintain any other way and, as always, it was a great deal of fun. There was a new group of babies to meet and kids that were once kids, are now teenagers and young adults. The adults of twenty years ago have grayed a little bit, but seem to be the constant in this dynamic family so full of changes.

Riptide

2008-04-19T14:24:00.000-07:00

This month is the one year anniversary of our ownership of a recreational vehicle. During our first year of use we had no breakdowns or system failures. Life was grand.

I recently took the coach in for an inspection in preparation of this year's travel. After all, if anything was found to be amiss, the rig would be with the folks from whom we'd purchased it and with whom we have an extended service contract.

The dealer did an inspection and reported that the radiator overflow tank had a crack in it [as I suspected] which needed to be replaced. I was told that their inspection also found the drive shaft to be damaged and needed to be rebuilt.

Hearing that the labor rate was $130/hr. was a shock. And being told it would require 4 1/2 hours to replace the over flow tank, [of which only one hour was to be covered by my extended service contract], was a greater shock. I paid for the replacement tank, having decided to replace it myself. I also decided to do my own drive shaft inspection before authorizing any work be done on it.

The bill for the inspection and an oil change was $237.00. Yikes! I called a truck company and was told the cost of an oil change at their facility was $140. I guess the inspection cost was $77.00, assuming competitive oil change pricing. I think I'll do my own inspections and oil changes in the future.

I managed to replace the overflow tank in 3 1/2 hours, doing the work myself. It took some time, but I saved a considerable sum of money and gained a small sense of satisfaction for having done the work myself.

My inspection of the drive shaft found nothing more than a loose grease seal. I borrowed a grease gun from a friend and pumped the u-joint grease fitting full. [Good thing. I was told the drive shaft was not covered by the extended service contract.]

Given the current RV market, I think acceptance of the labor rate will come long before acceptance of the fact that we are well "under water" in this coach.

Budget Busters

2008-04-16T21:32:00.000-07:00

$40/bag lead shot

$4.50/ gal. milk

grocery stables up 21% in one year [and going higher]

$4.30 diesel fuel [and rising]

$3.53 for 87 octane gasoline [and rising]

Rapidly rising whole sale prices

Re plumbing and rerouting of broken under-the-house water line [did it myself with help from friends, saving a small fortune]

My recent fender-bender [and the increased cost of auto insurance sure to come as a result]

Recent decision to subsidize one daughter and one son-in-law's shooting expenses [they couldn't afford to shoot otherwise]

RV oil change $139.95, [I'll do it myself in future. I had no idea!]

Changed out leaking 2 gal. radiator over flow tank myself when told 4 1/2 hrs. labor required @ $130/hr by RV dealer Did it myself! Cost: one skinned knuckle and 3 1/2 hrs. of my time

RV Drive shaft work next. What cost? Have service contract that I paid a fortune for. Will see if work covered. If not, will consider attending Trade school. [It should be covered.]

I hope this tsunami subsides soon.

April Fools

2008-04-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

April Fool's is generally marked by jokes and tricks played on friends. That is the usual case, but that wasn't quite the way it worked for me and my friends as we convened for our first go at Five Stand Sporting Clays after a six month hiatus.

The jokes that were played, were played upon ourselves, even if unwittingly. We all thought we'd be able to step up and break targets unerringly and with the same confidence we had six months ago. It was not how it went. We struggled.

I wasn't the only one to feel as if both my reflexes and eye sight had diminished significantly in just six months, and who held a shotgun as if it were an unfamiliar object, wondering if I'd "lost it" never to find it again. And to compound the angst, three of us were shooting new guns.

There's no fool like an April fool.

At the end of several rounds, to a man, we realized that our shooting skills hadn't disappeared, but just needed a good Spring cleaning and would come back in full with a little practice. Well, maybe, a fair amount of practice, but it would return.

This all brings to mind the adage that I'm taking more to heart with each passing year: "The older I get, the better I was."

Footnote: Shooting is like swinging a golf club, it is an acquired skill that is only as good as the amount of practice you do to sustain it, and the older we get, the more practice it takes.

On The Cusp of Spring

2008-03-07T20:36:00.000-08:00

Although it is only the end of the first week of March, it feels like Spring is about to arrive. How can I tell? I can feel it. I sense its coming.

The first warm days following a long, dreary Wisconsin Winter [where I grew up] created a flush of warmth that is unique to that time of year in that latitude. You become energized, filled with an almost giddy sense of well-being. You know that the out of doors is soon to be available to you just as surely as it has been denied to you for so many months. All this from the first warm days after so much cold.

This warmth has a quality all its own. Unlike temperatures that occur earlier and later in the year, this brief period of time provides a warmth that lacks sharp edges and is comfortable throughout. It has soft nondiscernible edges. It's the warmth of being wrapped in a blanket while reading a good book in your favorite easy chair. It's that kind of warmth, and it is just about here. I can feel it coming, and I await it with anticipation. It is a special time of year.

In Tucson the change from Winter to Spring is a very subtle event, not nearly as dramatic as it is further north, but it does occur. It can be easily missed, overlooked. It can come and go unnoticed if one isn't paying attention. I will be paying close attention and savor it when it arrives for its brief visit.

Birthday Weekend

2008-02-11T13:30:00.001-08:00

Kelly is now 27 and Morgan 26, as of today. Yesterday, we were at the Phoenix [Ben Avery] gun club by 9:00 a.m. I added a flat of 20 gage shells to the two flats of 12 gage I'd brought up with me. We started on the Trap fields.

Kelly fell back into stride shooting my 30" Beretta o/u. She hadn't suffered any fall-off in her shooting ability since she last shot in Denver last July. I was shooting my new custom ordered Arrieta s/s built to my specific stock dimensions. I had only managed to get get a couple of boxes of shells through it before departing the northern hunting field for home last fall. Now was the time to make it a no-thought, user-friendly extension of me. Nathan was shooting his 870 Pump.

Nathan is left-handed but, just a week ago, we discovered that he is right eye dominant. I did the rudimentary field test to find his strong eye when he couldn't hit targets with any consistency. Today, he is shooting right-handed, trying to become comfortable with all that that entails. He's a project that I will be working with over the next several months until I'm certain that it is, in fact, an eye dominance problem and not a gun fit problem causing his accuracy problems. We'll also have him try shooting other guns. Before too long, we'll have him sorted out and on his way to becoming a consistent shot. He has very good hand to eye co-ordination.... we just have to figure out which eye to which hand.

We shared a Trap field with two others. It slowed us down immensely. They were nice enough guys, but they were shooting reloads so old that they had no idea as to their age, and they failed regularly. They were shooting "Jamamatics" and their guns either failed to cycle or were left with a barrel-lodged wad way too often. After two rounds of Trap, we sneaked off looking for a Skeet field. They followed us, and it was two more rounds of gun problems for them and us.

Kelly and I went on to shoot a round of Sporting Clays while Nathan returned home to be with Morgan and Kate. We had a great time. When we finished our round of clays, two things were clear: she hadn't lost her touch and I needed to spend more time with my new gun.

We returned to Morgan and Nathan's house where I was to grab Connie and head to a television festooned restaurant so we could lunch while watching the U of A play ASU in basketball. Lunch was good, the game was not, although it started well. Jeryed Bayless, U of A's phenom Freshman guard put up 39 points in a losing effort. After taking a 22-6 lead, the U of A went to sleep and, other than Bayless' great effort, there was no help forthcoming from any of his teammates. Figuratively speaking, they had left the building. ASU won 59-54. Sigh...

Kelly's birthday dinner was an extravaganza. We consumed a Standing Rib Roast, baked potatoes and fresh artichokes. I ate more than my share of dinner rolls and wasn't too surprised when I found myself having trouble sleeping through the night. But, it was more than worth it.

Today, Morgan's birthday has been less hectic, although both the baby and Nathan had morning doctor appointments. I've sneaked off to run Peso before I return for the rest of the day. We'll spend time playing Bridge [Kelly, Morgan and Nathan are all learning] this afternoon.
It sounds like pizza for dinner tonight with a birthday cake to celebrate both the girls' birthdays. If I go easy, I may be able to sleep tonight.

Final Hunt of The Season

2008-02-07T03:03:00.000-08:00

Bruce and I had a great last hunt of the season. The season doesn't officially end until Feb 11, but I am returning to Phoenix tomorrow to celebrate both my daughters' birthdays and see visiting friends from the east coast.

We decided to head into the high country because we knew the birds were there, and the temperature was low. I do not perform well in the heat, but with the early morning temperature in the low 40's, an assault seemed warranted and practical. [I confess to being a high heat wienie.]

I strapped on a backpack to carry sufficient water, added extra ammo to my shell pouch, did a radio check with Bruce and up we went.

The hunt design went awry almost immediately. We had divided the slope, Bruce to take the right side and me to take the left. Well, we should have told the dogs, because they just hunted for birds with no regard for our plan. I was soon on Bruce's turf trying to get to Peso's first, second and third points.

A half hour into the hunt things sorted themselves out nicely when the terrain allowed Bruce to move further to the right through a drainage and onto a section of slope he could call his own. With separation, things clarified themselves. It was now easier to distinguish individual beepers, [we had three dogs down] and concern for each other's safety decreased dramatically. We were no longer "on top of each other" on a steep slope with limited visibility among the oak trees.

It was an arduous hunt. This slope was not any steeper than typical Mearns slopes, but we weren't hunting draws, ravines, or even hills that had a top and a bottom, we were hunting a single mountain slope that rose from the truck, seemingly, forever upward.

The slope belonged to a mountain. There was no flat ground. There was only up and more up, until you finally said, "uncle", and started back down. There was virtually no rest. With my dog going on point after point, I did my lung-wrenching best to get to each one as quickly as possible without inducing a heart attack in the process. Mearns hunting is always testing, but this was as tough as it gets.

After two hours of lung-busting uphill, and a treacherous one hour descent, I arrived back at the truck with a full game bag, empty water bottles and an empty shell bag. I shot 50% and was happy to have done that well. Both Peso and I were knackered. I think Bruce and his dogs felt the same.

We took some pictures, cleaned the birds and loaded ourselves and the dogs into my truck for the long crawl back to the blacktop. On the way, we shared our day's experiences. [Finding lots of birds gives you a great deal to chat about .] We agreed that it had been a notable hunt, one of the best of the year.

Proclaiming for the thirtieth year in a row, "I really do have to get in shape before next season", I drove us into Sonoita for lunch and then home.

This day was a great end to my season. It had started in the stubble fields of Montana, took me through southern Alberta and southern Saskatchewan and back to Arizona's quail. I enjoyed every minute of it, despite Peso's run-ins with skunks, porcupines and barbed wire during our days afield.

Best Laid Plans

2008-02-03T14:22:00.000-08:00

I had a plan.

After a week with the kids and the new baby, it was time for me to get out of the way and back to Tucson. With only ten days left to the quail season, I figured I could get three last days of hunting in before returning to Phoenix Feb. 7th.

Quail season closes the 11th, but I need to return to Phoenix to celebrate Morgan and Kelly's birthdays [Kelly is flying in from Denver] and visit with East Coast friends who are going to be in Phoenix at the same time.

I arrived home about noon Friday, the 1st, did an afternoon's worth of chores and errands, which included jump-starting my dead truck battery, changing Connie's car's oil, depositing funds in the bank, grocery shopping, laundry and cleaning up after our 16 year old cat, [ digestive problems], sorting through ten days of mail and getting the bills paid, and picking up my new prescription glasses. I ate my own cooking and went to bed early anticipating a day of Mearns hunting. That was the plan.

Well, the plan went awry two minutes into my hunt day. Still at home, Peso ran out to do his morning business while I filled water bottles. When ready, I called him and in he came. But something was terribly wrong! He arrived foaming at the mouth and smelling like skunk... a lot of skunk.

Time to rework the plan!

A slobbering, skunk-sprayed dog is pretty much worthless as a hunting dog, much less a truck companion , so I put him in the courtyard, telling him to "Have a nice day" and left.

I worked my camera as I followed Bruce and his dogs through the hills south of Sonoita. I got some cardiovascular exercise. We lunched in Sonoita.

Normally, on the way home, conversation is focused on our hunt, but since we hadn't found much, we were fairly quiet. This gave me more time than I wanted to consider what I was going home to.

It wasn't so bad. White vinegar sprayed on to the point of saturation, followed by a bath, made Peso palatable once again.

The plan tomorrow is to hunt with Steve Carrell. That's the plan.

I saw a road-kill just up the street from the house this morning. It was a SKUNK. Normally, I feel a twinge for any critter whacked by a vehicle, but not today!

Done Deal, I'm a Grandpa!

2008-02-03T13:50:00.000-08:00

Morgan had her Baby Jan 25, 2008, as advertised. Delivered on her due date, right on the money. Katherine Elizabeth Whicker is our first grandchild. She's a beauty, born with a full head of black hair tinted with blond high-lighting. She and her Momma are doing fine. It was very nearly a text book natural delivery. Lest we forget Nathan, he is doing fine, too. He's delighted and shows it.

Connie and I spent a week in Anthem with the proud, new parents. Connie is still there helping out, an experienced, reliable resource for the kids as they begin their adjustment to their new roles as parents. She intends to stay until Morgan goes back to work or throws her out. I will be commuting back and forth from Tucson.

Still cameras and the video camera have been put to near constant use, so there will be plenty to see. It was fun videotaping Kate's arrival home, her first diapering and first bath. The fun part was seeing the kids perform these tasks as first-timers. Nervous wrecks they were. Just now it's all formidable and intimidating, but they'll soon get over that. It was special be be there from the beginning.

It won't be but a "minute" and this little girl will be taking her first steps, talking and taking over their household. We can hardly wait. She has already taken everybody's heart.

Arizona Mearns Quail Hunting

2008-01-05T13:20:00.000-08:00

Peso, 18 months

The Mearns Quail population is good this year. This is due to timely summer rains, which they rely on for production. I'm taking advantage of that fact. Peso and I have been in the field and will continue to get out as often as my body will allow before the Season closes Feb. 11.

Hunting this quail species can be arduous. Mearns habitat starts at 4000' and goes up to 10,000'. It is exhausting, even when limiting one's hunt within a couple of hundred vertical feet. It is seldom flat country, and there are other factors that make it difficult.

Prime Mearns habitat is defined by high grass and Oak tree covered, often hilly, terrain. The third defining feature is loose rock. It is a hunting ground of loose rock, rock hidden by the tall grass. This rock varies in size from large gravel to rock the size of your fist and larger. It is dangerous walking in this country. Falls happen, and can happen often, if one is not vigilant. Falls can be brutal to the body and, more often than not, are to shotguns. Show me a scarred-up shotgun and I'll show you a Mearns hunter. My Mearns guns show a year-after-year accumulation of dings and scratches. Many hunters have their guns repaired and/or refinished between seasons. Then, next season comes. I don't bother.

There is relatively flat country that holds Mearns, but I gravitate to the foothills of southern Arizona's mountain ranges to hunt them. I do that for two reasons, primarily. The flatter land, the "easy chewing", gets the majority of the hunting pressure and, secondly, I enjoy the more scenic, if more difficult, foothills. Photographically speaking, the foothills win hands down.

With an abundance of birds this year, I am carrying a camera when I share hunting days with a friend. Peso gets the work and has birds shot over his points, while I have the opportunity to photograph. Getting good pictures gives me more pleasure than the simple act of shooting this quail.

That is not to say that shooting these birds is easy. It is anything but. Standing on steep "marble"-covered slopes, one foot often higher than the other, balance a constant issue, while trying to swing on fleeing, low-flying birds is anything but easy. It's often dangerous and one has to use good judgement deciding whether a shot should even be attempted. Personal safety and/or the safety of a fellow hunter and the dogs can't be left to chance. One always has to be thinking. Rookies don't to get to hunt with experienced Mearns hunters until safety and trust issues have been resolved.

Mearns are rarely flushed without a dog. Their defense is extreme camouflage and their trait of hunkering down and holding absolutely still, letting threats pass by. [Little was known of Mearns populations until surveys were conducted in the 1960's.]

These birds hold with a tenacity, until personally observed, is hard to believe. They use the tactic of motionless ground hugging against all enemies, including hunters. It takes a dog to point them [literally]. A hunter can walk through hard-holding birds and out the other side without ever knowing they are there. It takes trained dogs to alert us to their presence.

Mearns' love of the ground is even reflected in their use of flight- the final option. Members of a covey will not often fly more than 30-50 yards when flushed. These birds carry less scent than their desert counterparts, Scaled and Gambel quail, and after flying have even less scent by being wind-blown. It takes an extremely good and experienced dog with an exceptional nose to effectively find singles after a covey flush.

Mearns roost on the ground. In fact, Mearns are designed in such a way that sitting in a tree or on a branch is all but physically impossible. Their long toes sport very long claws used for digging. They dig in the soil searching for food, eating the under ground tubers of two or three principle plant species that make up the bulk of their diet. They supplement this fare with the infrequent mast production of oak trees, available insects and some weed seeds.

To maintain contact with a dog while hunting Mearns, it is all but essential to outfit the dog with a Beeper Collar. Visibility in Mearns country is often less than 40 yards due to the high grass and broken, hilly, oak tree covered terrain. A beeper collar keeps a dog handler apprised of his dog's location by sound. He can hear the beeper many times beyond the distance he can see the dog. A beeper collar also notifies the hunter when the dog goes on point or stops moving. The interval between beeps changes or the tone itself changes, depending on the collar's manufacturer. In the course of a hunt, a dog may be out of sight for lengthy periods of the time, but still be in contact with its handler. It's a marvelous piece of equipment. And now Garmin has made a GPS unit small enough to be carried on a dog collar. For the first time, a dog handler can actually track his dog is at all times on screen. Theoretically, a dog wearing this new piece of equipment cannot become lost, and can be found if injured, even at a great distance from his handler. Big running dog owners take note.

Young Guns

2007-11-27T09:19:00.000-08:00

Jeff Sievert and his family rolled into town from Durango, Co. for Thanksgiving. Jeff grew up here and they were down to visit family.

Jeff and Kami have two sons, Chase 11 and Cameron 9. Among the things they wanted to do was take the boys to the gun club for the chance to shoot Trap and Skeet.

When we assembled at the club, the group consisted of Jeff, Ken Salber, Allen Berchart, a life-long friend of Jeff's, Jeff's oldest son, Chase and Cameron. We all checked in, got our shooting cards, and headed for the Trap fields. The fun was about to begin.

With Jeff's permission, I decided to work with the boys rather than shoot, and what a great time I had. I think I had more fun instructing and coaching than the boys did shooting. I kept it simple and found both the boys more than receptive to taking helpful hints.

Chase, although only 11, is a natural. He shot a Browning straight gripped 20 gage O/U, and shot it very well. In a matter of minutes he was crushing trap targets like an old pro. He broke 16 of 25 on his very first round ever! Really remarkable. We adults were grinning and laughing watching him methodically break targets.

Cameron at 9 was just as game and enthusiastic as Chase, but is a year or two away from sufficient physical size to handle a shotgun well. Shortly after he broke his first target I suggested he shoot no more Trap. He'd had a taste of success and it's better to shoot a few rounds per outing than let him beat himself up by over shooting until he has a little more size.

We broke for a soda and a burger. Then it was off to the Skeet range. Frankly, I was surprised, but Jeff said the boys wanted to try it. Shooting Skeet is more difficult than shooting Trap, especially for young novices. I said as much, telling the boys not to expect as good a result as they'd had on the Trap field.

Chase followed his Dad, Allen and Ken in the shooting order and had a pretty good understanding of the target paths before he stepped into the shooter's box. Again, he amazed us all. He went around breaking 13 of 25 targets, having never seen a Skeet field before!! We were beside ourselves with delight. Chase did well, too, although, again we limited his shooting.

I'd like to claim it was my coaching that brought such stellar results. That would be a lie. Cameron has great hand-to-eye co-ordination and is quite an athlete in his own right. He has been coached in football and soccer and it shows. He takes instruction very well and can make corrections on the fly. Cameron is two years younger than Chase, but comes from the same mold, and he has the advantage of learning and competing against his older brother. It will be interesting to see these two kids in a few more years when the physical ability gap begins to narrow.

It was a great time for all of us. The kids enjoyed themselves tremendously, but I don't think any more than we adults did watching them have such a good time.

Door Prizes

2007-11-15T18:01:00.000-08:00

I was seated in front of the television, ready to watch the Arizona vs. #2 ranked Oregon football game, when the phone rang. It was our next door neighbor, Tresha, calling. She asked me to come over immediately and deal with a Diamondback Rattlesnake that was coiled directly in front of her garage door.

Tresha suffers from "snake phobia". Although she was in her car, she was terrified and actually pleaded for me to come save her. I said I'd be right there. I punched my garage door opener before crossing to the far side of the garage to grab my snake stick and a garbage can. [I wanted the snake alive to do a snake-breaking session with my Setter, Peso.]

With snake stick and garbage can in hand, I started out through the open door only to be brought up short. Two steps in front of me, lay a rather large coiled Diamondback of my own. I captured this beauty and put it into my garbage can. I traded my snake stick and garbage can for a flat-head shovel and proceeded over to Tresha's.

She and her daughter, Chelsie, sat in their vehicle, held prisoner by a Diamondback coiled in front of her garage door. A blow or two with the shovel dispatched the snake. You'd have thought I'd just pulled them from a roof top in the middle of a raging flood, so great was her relief. It's not often that you can hear "Thank You, Thank You" to the point of ad nausium.

Unlike Tresha, I found the two incidents rather interesting. But then snakes don't make my skin crawl and produce labored breathing just by seeing one.

This was better than game-show television. Two doors, two prizes. Who could ask for more?

[Arizona won the football game!]

Catching Up

2007-11-11T21:36:00.000-08:00

I've been back in Tucson almost two weeks. I've been trying to catch up since I docked. It's nice to see that the temperature is no longer expected to reach NINETY degrees anymore! About time. Peso and I have been dying in the heat. Quail hunting is still on hold. It looks like it's going to take the Mearns Quail opener to get me out there. [Meanwhile, Peso grows fat by hunting standards.]

I have been up and doing the long neglected yard work at first light and quitting before 10:00 o'clock due to the heat and me being a heat weenie. The palm trees are trimmed, Connie's flower beds are weeded, the hedges have been cut back and trimmed, the fire breaks re cut, snake and packrat cactus patches removed near the house and the coach has had an interior make-over, including a professional carpet cleaning, blah blah blah. All the stuff that normally gets handled a bit at a time has been dealt with.

I have pretty much culled the bazillions of photos I took on my 4 month long trip. I should be able to put some slide shows together over the next couple of weeks. I've also managed to squeeze in the reading of a couple of good books. "Five Skies", by Ron Carlson was particularly good. I read until I fall asleep in the afternoon. I call it Nap Prep.

I'm scoping out the purchase of a Mac computer, a machine that is supposed to be outstanding in its handling of photographs and all things related to graphic art. PC's and I don't get along. I'm looking forward to trying the Mac.

As soon as I've dealt with the termite problem that was recently uncovered, I'm going say that I'm pretty much caught up. It will leave me with only the coach body work repair job to deal with. That, I hope to accomplish myself. The RV dealer talked about replacing the rear skirt and one side panel. KA CHING [you hear the cost meter pegging out?] All that is required to fix it is the replacement of one piece of metal U channel and a new epoxy job to re secure the two panels. I think I can do it myself. For what the dealer wants to charge, I'm motivated, trust me. I think there may be all of $10-$20 in materials required to do the job.

My journals, collected brochures and other forms of information will all have to be gone through, digested and dealt with. I have no scheduling deadlines for that. It'll get done when it gets done.

In His Own Words

2007-11-10T13:49:00.000-08:00

Russell M Mann
Justice of the Peace and City Judge [This letter is a direct quote]
Shelby, Montana
no date
[received 11-10-07]

I appreciated your writing on the Fish and Game Violation you received at the Montana-Alberta border this summer. [It actually says that: this summer.] I have talked to the Writing Officer and searched the law and find I have to rule in favor of the Fish and Game Department.

I understand you [r] situation and hope the State of Montana can review and bring this law up to speed as many people live long periods of time in their R.V.s and it does become their home away from home.

I know the people of Montana appreciate your coming here to Hunt, Fish and Recreate and we hope you enjoy coming here for many years.

Russell M. Mann
Justice of the Peace and City Judge

My only comment is that I'm not surprised. How do you write a law that covers all contingencies? Who is living in an RV as opposed to taking a day drive out of Great Falls for a day of hunting in an RV?

I won't travel with wingless birds. It's inconvenient and a pain in the ass, but what else can I do?
I'll cut the final wing off as I drop the bird into the frying pan.

[Be advised, it is $135.00 ticket in Montana.]

Saskatchewan Hurting

2007-11-07T05:54:00.000-08:00

I have talked about inexpensive housing in Saskatchewan and other economic conditions that exist in that Province in earlier blogs. I am now taking the time to clarify and present information gathered from more reliable sources than my previous ones, which were citizen comments.

The following quoted article is from the Leader Post, a Regina, Saskatchewan newspaper. The article is titled, "Sask. hurting despite boom."

"Despite the current economic boom, Saskatchewan's per capita disposable income is among the lowest in the country, while our personal debt is growing faster than the rest of Canada, according to the second of three provincial "check-ups" by the province's chartered accountants.

"We are in last place when it comes to personal disposable income" compared with other western provinces, Ontario and the Canadian average, said Nola Joorisity, CEO of the Chartered Accountants of Saskatchewan. "We are more than $2000 below the Canadian average."

Not only is Saskatchewan's per capita disposable income of $23,200 in 2006 well below the Canadian average of $25,624, it's grown at roughly half the rate of the national average [1.6% versus three per cent in 2006], she added.

And, following a major three-year tax reform initiative launched in 2000, personal income tax rates in Saskatchewan have remained unchanged, while Alberta and B.C. have lowered their tax rates.

"Our wages are not keeping up with everyone else's, Joorisity said. "our taxes are staying at an even or stagnant level. The two of these combine to bring our disposable income down to the lowest in those six jurisdictions we've studied."

As a result, the province should look at cutting personal income taxes, especially for lower-income earners, she said.

"The tax cuts that were made starting in the year 2000 had a positive impact on the province. They certainly made us more competitive," she said.

"But to be competitive, you have to remain competitive... The numbers would suggest that we have fallen behind for those who are at the lower income levels in our province."

"For example, she said Saskatchewan's effective tax rate [marginal tax rate plus basic personal exemptions] on annual income of $25,000 is 7.22 per cent, compared to four per cent or less in Alberta and B.C.

"The majority of the people that we're losing... are going to Alberta and B.C. So those are the provinces that we need to stay competitive with, because they're the ones that are attracting our people."

Personal indebtedness in Saskatchewan has also increased nearly seven per cent in 2006, the highest increase of the six jurisdictions studied.

Most of the growth in personal debt was consumer debt. While mortgage debt increased by 28 per cent in the last five years, consumer debt grew by 44 per cent, the report said.

"Consumer debt normally is used to buy short-term assets," Joorisity said. "Mortgage debt is used to invest in long-term assets, such as a house or condo."

On a positive note, Joorisitity said Saskatchewan still has affordable housing. In 2006, Saskatchewan residents spent 32 % of their income on housing, although rising house prices had increased that to 36.4 % by April 2007.

By contrast, Albertans were paying 42 % of income on housing in 2006, while B.C. residents paid a whopping 68%. Manitobans paid 34% of their income on shelter costs.

Between 2001 and 2006, the cost of housing rose 60% in B.C., 47% in Alberta and 46% in Manitoba. Saskatchewan saw only a 15.5% increase during the same period.

End of quote

There is a provincial election being held November 15. Unlike here in the States, candidates are only allowed to campaign for one month just prior to the election in Saskatchewan. [I find that refreshing, even if it is a pretty brief period of time.] The voters can focus on the issues, make their decisions and get on with the voting. I like the idea.

I tend to go "brain dead" and tune out during our painfully long campaign periods here in the States. A more reasonable campaign period here would save bazillions of dollars and, perhaps, just perhaps, keep the candidates on the issues and off character assassination. Wouldn't that be refreshing? It might be worth a try.

From conversations with citizens and other newspaper articles, I learned that college graduates are very hard-pressed to find jobs commensurate with their education. Repaying the cost of their education is very difficult to do if they stay in Saskatchewan, which is their #1 concern. Working at Tim Horton's and McDonald's won't feed the bull dog.

The young and the educated have been streaming out of Saskatchewan for years, and unless the governments allows more growth, there is no reason to assume this flight will stop.

It will be interesting to see what transpires after the elections on the 15th. Will Saskatchewan open up its oil and mineral resources to big-time development or continue to suppress such growth in the interest of maintaining controlled growth [which so far hasn't seemed to alleviate the economic problems that beset its citizens.]

The Jury is Still Out

2007-11-06T11:45:00.000-08:00

I received a return phone call from Russell Mann, the Judge sitting the bench in Shelby, Montana. He will decide my guilt or innocence regarding my citation for "transporting game birds without leaving a wing attached until reaching my permanent residence".

Judge Russell and I had a pleasant conversation. He asked for and listened as I verbally gave him the same reasons for considering myself not to have been in violation of the law as I had included in my letter.

In the course of the conversation, he learned for the first time, that Ron Duty, the Game Warden who actually wrote the citation had never had any contact with me other than to send me the citation. I informed Judge Mann that it had been a U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer who turned the information she gathered over to Ron Duty, who then wrote the citation on behalf of the state of Montana. Judge Mann seemed surprised. Apparently, he hadn't been aware of that fact.

When asked, Judge Mann did assure me that should his deliberations go against me, I would not be going into the data base shared by 20 states that now share information about law breakers. He also assured me that there would be no further repercussions coming from Montana. The fine would be the full extent of my punishment. I was relieved to hear this.

The Interstate Wildlife Violator Compact was formed in 1991, according to the Tucson Citizen article of November 4. Since the original six states signed the pact: [Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, Nevada, Oregon and Washington],"to protect from poachers fish and wildlife that bring in millions of tourist dollars annually", more than twenty states have joined the pact.

"I suspect that all the states in the U.S. will join at some point," said Clay Cummins, assistant chief for the Enforcement Bureau of the Idaho Department of Fish and Game.

"States in the compact share information on people who have pleaded guilty or been convicted of a crime that led to the revocation of their hunting or fishing privileges, and then other member states decide whether to also revoke that person's privileges. Each state has a representative on the compact's board, which elects a chairman."

"People are more mobile than they ever used to be," said Chairman Bob Timian, the chief game warden for North Dakota, which joined the compact in 2001. "The overall benefit is that people can't just violate in one state and say. 'Ah, I have all the rest of the states I can go hunt in illegally."

"States in the compact can issue citations to nonresidents, instead of taking them to jail. If citations are ignored, hunting and fishing privileges in the home state can be suspended."

"Nearly 17,000 poachers have lost their fishing, hunting or trapping privileges in compact states since 1998, including more than 2,800 so far this year."

"License revocations can range from one year up to a life-time for a flagrant violation."

"Big money is at stake. According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's 2006 National Survey of Fishing, Hunting and Wildlife-Associated Recreation, hunters spent $23 billion, anglers $41billion, and wildlife watchers $45 billion that year."

Judge Mann said he will consider both my verbal and written arguments and let me know what he decides.

So, the Judge, as jury, is out deliberating.

A Learning Experience

2007-11-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

I have written the following in response to having been issued a citation by the State of Montana for “the illegal transportation of game birds.” A slightly modified version of the following letter was sent to the judge in who’s jurisdiction I fell and to who’s court I owed the fine.

October 30, 2007

Your Honor:

I left Tucson July 3 and returned to Tucson Oct. 28. I'd been living in my coach for over two months when I was cited by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer at the Sweet Grass Border Station [Second Crossing] for transporting game birds without a wing still attached. It would be another two months before I returned to Tucson, my "permanent residence" as defined by Montana law.

I went to and returned from the hunting fields in my pickup truck. While in transit from the bird hunting fields to my coach, I left a wing on my birds. After boarding my coach, I prepared the birds for cooking, and that included the removal of both wings. I considered my coach to be my permanent residence for the duration of my trip.

Was I illegally transporting game birds? I think not. Had I been in my pickup truck returning from the hunting fields, or driving anywhere else in my pickup with wingless birds, I would have considered myself to be in violation of the law. In my mind, and in my opinion, I was transporting birds until I boarded my coach, and from that point on, the birds to be in my “permanent” residence.

What is a Federal U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer doing remanding me back to Montana to be cited? If she thought I was guilty, why didn't she cite me? [She wouldn't tell me.] I don't know if a Federal citation carries a stiffer fine and has more repercussions than Montana's fine, and she thought she was doing me a favor, or she didn't want to fill out the paperwork, or felt that she really wasn't operating within her legal arena. I have no idea.

This same agent and her co-workers kept me caught in their bureaucratic machinery for over two and a half hours.

This U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent [after she finished with me] had a USDA agent go through my refrigerator because she thought it was illegal for me to take hamburger into Canada which is not true.

I crossed into and out of Canada on two different occasions during my trip. The first crossing was September 8, 2007. I crossed to fish with a registered fishing guide from Cardston, Alberta. It was to be a four day trip. I would then return to Montana to hunt upland birds.

At the Sweet Grass Border Crossing, I declared and registered my shotguns [which I had been carrying in my coach since Tucson], complying with the law. I was grilled for almost an hour, being asked over and over, “If you’re going fishing, what are the shotguns for, and why are you taking them into Alberta”? I explained over and over, again, that since I left Tucson in July, I necessarily had to carry all the gear I would use throughout the entirety of my trip along with me for the length of the trip. The customs agents couldn’t quite seem to grasp that notion. It was only when a near-by agent, uninvolved in my questioning recognized the name of my guide [he knew him, personally] that my story was finally accepted and I was allowed to cross. That was my first crossing.

Upon crossing back into Montana ending my second trip into Canada, at the Raymond Station, north of Plentywood, Mt., my 40 pound bag of Purina Hi Pro dog chow, along with arm loads of food from my refrigerator, was confiscated. Most all of the food items in my refrigerator, including chicken, eggs, sausage, Hutterite breakfast links, and more was removed. This included any item even suspected of having a beef or beef by-product in it. This they did even when beef wasn't on a package's list of ingredients. My Stouffers frozen Lasagne was allowed to stay because it had been produced in the U.S [though purchased in Canada]. My Chicken Tetrazzini, having been produced in Canada, was confiscated.

I had to open the coach door for them on their departure because the two agents were too over loaded with food goods to be able to do it for themselves. I laughed. What else could I do? [The bizarre had, by this time, become surreal.]

They did offer to let me go back to the Canadian side until I'd consumed all this food. I told them I didn't think my dog and I could consume nearly 40 pounds of dry dog food in a reasonable length of time, no matter how hard we tried, and told them to get on with it.

They were embarrassed, which was the first hopeful human reaction I'd seen during either of my crossings into and out of Canada.

What seemed to me missing from all the government employees I had contact with was COMMON SENSE. [I don’t think it is allowed.]

I will pay this citation, but I do it with regret and under protest. I am not a law breaker. Quite the contrary, I am extremely interested in protecting the birds as a resource, and work hard to maintain good working relationships with land owners. I clean up after the thoughtless and will turn in anyone I see breaking the law. I highly value the privilege of being still able to hunt, both here and in Canada.

Here's the check to cover the citation. I will comply with the law, but I don't agree that it was a proper application of law in this case.

I understand that everyone in law enforcement feels the added pressure of the current world situation. They are trying to deal with terrorists and illegal immigrants, but I think, perhaps, Pogo was right after all… "I have met the enemy, and it is us."

Sincerely,

C.L. McClure, Jr.

Reactions to this letter has prompted several friends to say they would never cross the border again, and expected me to hold the same feelings.

Will I go back, in a heart beat! The fishing and hunting, alone, would warrant future trips across the Border, not to mention all the “new dirt” to explore and wonderful photographic opportunities and the wonderful people. You just have to be prepared.

You will deal with bureaucratic nonsense. It will take longer than you think it should and you will be treated, to one degree or another, poorly. You would be well served to maintain a pleasant demeanor and attitude throughout. I also recommend carrying a good book with you and allow plenty of time to execute a crossing. Be there first thing in the morning. It could turn out to be a long day.

The greater the bureaucracy, the less humanity you find. Whether that’s the nature of the beast or something that its employees foster is for each of us to decide.

Current Favorites

2007-11-01T12:28:00.000-07:00

Three best bumper stickers and/or tee shirt phrases:

1. Jesus loves you, but I'm his favorite

2. The older I get, the better I was

3. Not all who wander are lost

4. We stare because we care

Current best definition of Political Correctness:

"Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical, liberal minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

Best Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?" The girl said, "No!" And the guy lived happily ever after. He went fishing , hunting and played golf a lot and drank beer and farted whenever he wanted. The End.

Docking

2007-10-28T17:24:00.000-07:00

The Good Ship Lollipop has returned to port. I am back in Tucson. This trip is over, and I regret that it is. I'm not ready to be here in this heat. I'd much rather still be in Montana following Peso through the fields. But, I made a promise to my bride to get home before the end of October, so here I am.

There is already discussion about there, maybe, being good quail in southern New Mexico, so after some investigating, I may well be loading up the coach for another trip, albeit only a short one of a week or two, to New Mexico. I'd have Connie join me. We'd take in Carlsbad Caverns, something I have yet to do, and spend time chasing the wily Bobwhite, Gambel and Scaled quail across the painfully flat country of southern New Mexico.

I had a wonderful trip. Peso is learning his trade. I have enjoyed every minute of it. I put my cameras to good use, collecting 8 gigabytes of pictures [after culling], and will spend a great deal of time getting those organized and winnowed down to a "favorite" two or three hundred. There are many people who will receive one of these photo discs. I hope they will enjoy the photos as much as I did taking them.

I saw lots of new "dirt". I spent at least three weeks wandering around southern Saskatchewan looking for and finding Hungarian Patridge and Sharptail Grouse. I even squeezed in a couple of days as camp photographer with old friends who were on a week long goose and duck hunt north of Regina, Saskatchewan.

I met new people, made new friends, who I will maintain contact with and look forward to seeing next year when I'll do it all over again. Last year I hunted and fished Alberta for the first time. I returned to Alberta this year and it only got better. I've expanded my fishing waters and hunting grounds there, making new friends and seeing new country in the process. It's been fun.

I have been extremely fortunate to be able to spend as much time on the road as I have. Well, somebody has to do it! I've met RVers who have sold their homes living full time in coaches on the road, traveling to see what there is to see and staying where they please, for as long as they please, the tie-downs of home ownership a thing of the past. One of the last couples I talked to spend their summers plying the Great Lakes in their 37' sailboat, and have decided to spend this winter as members of the Breckenridge, Colorado ski patrol. They seem married to the sailing, but they'll be somewhere else next winter doing something different. They have made the adaptation to living on the road and wouldn't go back into a permanent structure voluntarily. Now, that's the way to live.

Our kids are up and out of the house, so we have no particular reason to be anchored in one spot. With a grandchild on the way, it remains to be seen, whether having a grandchild will act as an anchoring line or not. Momma will tell me, I'm sure. [Thank God, for airlines.]

I will take the necessary time over the next several weeks to deal with my journals and photos
while I await cooler weather. Then, it will be Peso and I pursuing quail here in Arizona and, perhaps, southern New Mexico.

On The Road, Again

2007-10-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

I Left Plentywood yesterday about 4:00pm, after a great last day in the field. I took Highway 16 straight south to Sydney, and followed it on down to Glendive, where I spent last night. I parked with 38 large 18 wheelers in a lot beside a diesel fueling depot. My bread box on wheels provides sufficient sound insulation making sleep possible, despite the fact that 1/3 of the big rigs left their engines running all night. The running of my generator to provide heat certainly wasn't going to bother any of them, which can be a problem in campgrounds with others parked just a few feet away.

While making breakfast, today, I realized that the water pump was turning on about every five minutes, not something it should have been doing. I went out and took a look at the freshwater tank and found a leak. The one-way fill valve was dripping water. After ruminating over the problem and ascertaining that I'd have to drive 120 miles out of my way to Billings to find a replacement part, I decided I could live with the leak until reaching Denver. I'll refill the tank, if need be, between here and there. No big deal. It's a slow leak.

Fifty miles down the road, in Miles City I found propane. To get it, I had to drive through down-town and under and old overpass. It had a sign giving the clearance as 11 feet, five inches. I eyeballed it on my approach and decided I could make it. I did, but not without scraping the TV antenna as I passed under it. [That will be inspected when I get home.]

At Miles City, I turned south, taking Highway 59. I took 59 south, out of Montana, and all the way to Douglas, Wyoming. Just a half hour before reaching Douglas, [where I'm spending the night], a following car waved me over and told me the fiberglass skirt covering the lower half of the back end of the coach was flapping. It was! It had torn loose on one side and was swinging about 4 feet out, away from the coach's body. I tied it in place with a length of nylon rope. That and the bad one-way water fill valve can wait until I get home to be repaired.

I stopped twice to let Peso have a run, but he was stymied both times by insidious cactus that grows only about an inch high. He can't see it in the grass and came up lame on both aborted runs. Picking the cactus out of his pads gave him something to occupy him while we spend 10 hours moving south.

We're parked on a quiet, peripheral and, as yet, undeveloped street on the edge of town. I'm poised to jump onto I 25 for the run into Denver in the morning. I will try to find a campground as close to Kelly's as possible and spend a day or two with her before the final push on to Tucson.

I see snow on the mountains surrounding Douglas and heard that Denver had 3" yesterday. I guess I've been dodging the onset of winter up to now. Plentywood is to have good weather through this week, but clearly, the good days are numbered. It will be extreme cold and snow soon.

I believe I'll cook up some pheasant for Peso and I for dinner. [Peso hasn't met a cooked game bird he hasn't liked. In fact, He likes them with a vengeance. I've had to take care and watch my fingers while feeding him these taste treats.

Note: I gave some thought to how often the coach has been moved since Connie and I left Tucson. On average, it has been relocated about once a week. The towed pickup truck has been used to satellite travel away from the coach. I must say that the coach has served admirably. It has been a home away from home.

Notes:

Saskatchewan has a total population less than a million people, 930,000 according to the pheasant hunter I met in Plentywood. That's about the size of metropolitan Tucson [if you don't count all the illegals. Count them, and Tucson is much larger.]

It seems the Provincial government has no interest in promoting pheasant, it not being a native species. Hunting is the second largest revenue maker in that Province to wheat and they don't bother with pheasant! Oil, gas and mining, I suspect, will take the lead in the next several years.

Saskatchewan has less disposable income, lower salaries and less expensive housing than does British Columbia, Alberta [which has ZERO provincial debt] and Manitoba, and has been losing ground for several years. And they wonder why everyone is leaving!

Apparently, the University of Saskatchewan, located in Saskatoon, has become a very highly regarded biotech and agricultural research leader. I was told they are as good as anyone in North America. Interesting.

It is my guess that the 14 year long reign of the current Saskatchewan Provincial governing party will end, the party being cast out, in the election taking place in three weeks. The people of Saskatchewan want oil and gas to be allowed to be developed. They want some of the prosperity they've seen in Alberta.l

Oil production revenues have surpassed wheat revenues in North Dakota. Coal, is far and away the #1 .

Wyoming is also big in coal production. I saw several huge mines as I came south.

Nearly Perfect

2007-10-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

After a coach breakfast of French Toast and bacon, and a short early morning conversation with Kelly Burns [Short Hairs] and Allen Mannis [Wire Hairs] I headed out to hunt. On the way, I spent a half hour fruitlessly looking for anyone open on Sunday who sold propane. [Unlike large cities, small ones come to a halt Sundays, keeping most businesses, including most restaurants closed.]

I left Plentywood, heading N.E. It took no time at all to find good looking bird habitat. I headed down a prairie trail, and once well off the highway, dropped Peso in wheat stubble for the opening run, which would allow him his potty stops and take a little energy out of him before putting him on the ground where I really expected to find birds. This done, I went to the end of the stubble field, where it bordered a field of CRP. I ran him down this line, so he could canvas both fields while running large sweeping arcs in front of me.

Peso went on point at the only piece of woody brush within eye sight. It was located right on the seam between the two fields. When I got there, huffing and puffing, I saw movement and took it for a porcupine and called Peso off. Well, always trust your dog! Out blew a young rooster. I managed to put a load of 6's into it, despite being caught off guard.

We moved less than a half mile on down the prairie trail when I pulled to a stop upon seeing old equipment buildings about a quarter mile west. The cover between the truck and the buildings was CRP with a couple of brushy areas on the way. We made it to the third island of brush without having any action. I went around one side of the brush, which was ten yards wide and forty yards long, coming to the other end with no dog in sight. I found him on hard point two thirds of the way through this brush, right in the middle of it. I took the mature rooster on the rise.

Here we were, not a half hour on the ground and we had two pheasant on two points, with two shots. The hunting gods were treating us very kindly. The swing around the buildings and back to the truck produced nothing more, so I returned to the highway and took the next road south, having seen the top edge of a long wind-row from the highway.

The wind-row ran parallel to the road, twenty yards west of our route of travel. I drove a third of its length and let Peso out, sending him down the strip of stubble that lay between the road and the wind-row. He covered 300-400 yards before I beeped him back, using the transmitter to do so. I crossed through the wind-row and sent him out into the wheat headed south, once again.

Just as he was getting birdy, a five bird pod of Sharp Tails erupted out of the stubble, four heading west and, one ill-fated character East. Dead in the air, it crashed into the wind-row, where Peso picked him up. It was 9:30 and I decided that the day couldn't get any better, so I pulled the plug and back to the parked RV we came.

While we were hunting, Sandhill Cranes, large groups of them, kept passing overhead. They are on the move South. Even Peso paused to look up at them and listen to their raucous group callings as they swirled in spiraling circles as they rode south on the 20 mph wind. They were the cap [pun intended] to a wonderfully brief morning of hunting. The skies were clear, the sun warm and the wind not so strong as to be a bother.

It will be remembered as a near perfect day, short though it was. I will finish writing this blog and go through the preparations required to get this rig on the road for home. If there is enough daylight driving time left, I will start out this afternoon, getting a leg up on what will be the run to Denver, where I will spend a day or two with Kelly [and her "Dad projects"] before continuing on to Tucson. I should make Denver in a couple of days. [This assumes I can fight the temptation to stop and hunt along the way.]

I am not ready to give up hunting, but I made a promise to be home by the end of the month. What the hell was I thinking?! It's not even cold yet!

Saturday, Oct. 20, 2007 Notes

2007-10-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

I was at the Sharp Tail lek before 7:30. It was occupied by about 40 Sharp Tail. It didn't last long. A truck came by and off they flew. I went to kill enough time for them to return. Within a mile of the lek, I found three coveys of Huns, one of which, Peso pointed. The other two were gratuitous flushes, the 20 mph wind making them very jumpy. I returned to the lek just in time to see the birds fly off again with the passing of another truck. Bummer.

Peso and I were in a trackless expanse of CRP grass nw of Plentywood when he grappled with a porcupine. The good news was it was fairly close to the truck, not a mile or two out. Also, that it wasn't an extreme case. He was, however, very agitated and not about to let me deal with them. So, it was off to Scobey, it being closer than Plentywood.

I found the vet clinic with six cars in the lot and the doors locked. Back in town [the vet is a mile out], I learned that all three vets were out for the day attending a spay and neuter clinic in another town. [Had it been a lobotomy clinic, I'd have taken and volunteered Peso to have one. This is his third porcupine encounter in two years.] So, it was back to Plentywood and Dr. Kane. He wasn't in, either, but his office girl said he'd be back in the early afternoon. I gave her my cell phone #. He'd call when he returned.

Just before 2 pm the call came. "The Dr. is in." When I arrived, a Brittany was on the table having a barbed wire tear sewn up. I chatted with the dog's owner. He's from Minnesota. Two days ago he'd been in Kane's office to have porcupine quills removed. I'd been in two days ago for a tear and today for the porcupine. We were working mirrored schedules.

I took photographs of Dr. Kane while he worked on extricating the quills. Nasty things, quills. He had to employ two sets of hemostats with many of them. One to hold the skin rigid at the base of the quill, where it entered the skin, and the other to do the actual pulling. He spent some time at it. While Peso was out, he threw in a free teeth cleaning. Nice guy.

I paid him $43 and felt like I was stealing. A teeth cleaning job, alone, back in Tucson was $125 the last time a dog of mine had it done, and that was before the new vets' pricing system had swept through the clinics.

Something else I learned at the Vet's, today. A local was in buying dog food and told Dr. Kane that he hunted just a half a day last week and his dogs found 8, count 'em, 8 porcupines. Dr. Kane commented that it is porcupine mating season, so they're all active. Try to imagine, if you will, an active porcupine. It's a contradiction in terms, isn't it?

That reminds me of a joke. Heard the one about the snail who is raped? When questioned by the police, and asked if she could identify her assailant, she paused, then, said, "I don't know, it all happened so fast."

I have a question. What the hell is a porcupine doing in the middle of an endless sea of CRP grass? I mean, what is he eating? Have porcupines suddenly become grazers? I wouldn't expect to find them in the middle of this grass any more than I'd expect to find a beaver out there.

So, with Peso having been agitated for four hours before getting seen to, and still loopy from being knocked out, I called it a day and have spent the mid afternoon writing these last two blogs.

My Alabama hunting neighbors informed me that there is a roast pig dinner being held in Antelope this evening at 6pm. I may very well go. It will probably be attended by many hunters. What an opportunity to go listen to and tell stories. I just have to be certain that I'm not the first to lie. As Glen says, "The first liar doesn't have a chance." [The next lie will be so much greater than the first, that the first liar will never be able to catch up, much less, surpass the second.]

I just heard from my Dillon, Mt. neighbor that the Last Chance Bar in Raymond does an outstanding job with its Walleye dinner. Now, I'm torn. It has been forever since I've had great Walleye.

Breakfast Chatter

2007-10-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

Randy's Diner opens at 6 am. I was there at 6:05, to find two locals already seated They were in a conversation that was going full bore, as if they had already been there for hours. When a friend of theirs walked in at 6:10, he was greeted with, "Good Afternoon, nice to finally see you."

I sat down nearby and ordered a cup of coffee and a double breakfast from the waitress. I hung on until the coffee arrived. With half a cup in me, I was able to start paying attention to the on-going conversation. [This was my second breakfast in this establishment, and the people seemed familiar from my first visit. I think they're part of the daily traffic into Randy's.

The cast of characters: First, there is Pickles. I named him Pickles because his fingers are large and swollen. They look like pickles, albeit, white ones. He is a solid man, about 70 years old, with no slack in his skin. He has a healthy, ruddy cast to his face and smiles easily. He has white hair and was wearing a baseball cap that said, "Run Hilory, Run" across the brow. The misspelling of Hillary is quickly pointed out to him, and he laughs. [Apparently, the local embroiderer isn't much for spelling.]

Mr. Green Jeans. [My name for him].He's the cook who is stealing time from the kitchen to schmooze with his friends. He's tall and long, silver haired and speaks in a quiet, smooth, grandfatherly manner, not a man in a hurry. He chews gum methodically, not too fast and not slow. I gathered that he is a former teacher, and he has that school teacher demeanor.

Pete is the youngest member of this group. He still has no white in his hair, although his hair line is on the run. He's not too tall and almost look cherubic, but not quite. He has the look of someone not yet overweight, but headed in that direction, if he's not careful. He is more vibrant and quicker to speak than the others, but Pickles is running a close second.

Shortly after my arrival, two older ladies walk in to greetings from the three mentioned above. One of them is carrying three, helium inflated balloons on long tethers made of string. She ties them to the back of a chair and she and her friend seat themselves on the opposite side of the table. The balloons are black. They are waiting for Fiona, their friend, who is turning 70 today. That makes up the cast of characters, and here are bits of the conversations that I gleaned over the next half hour.

Pickles comments, sarcastically, on Pete's hunter orange, Remington labeled baseball cap. Pete's rejoinder: "Well, since I've hit six deer with my truck, I might just as well dress like a hunter". This brings laughter and positive nods.

Then, Mr. Green Jeans starts poking fun at Pete for having taken his house dog all the way to Reserve to get it a $5.00 clip. "$50 dollars for gas to get a $5 clip." Laughter. "And you're a barber!", says Pickles. Heavy laughter all around.

The three men are in sync on the next subject, the Plentywood High School football loss of the previous evening. The verdict is that they lost because of penalties and lack of play selection. Also, because the quarterback spent most of the night on his back.

When things started to get quiet, Mr. Green Jeans and Pickles began talking about tractor models, and what model could pull what equipment with what horse power being sufficient to get it done. That piece I didn't listen in quite so closely, not knowing a thing [or caring to] about tractors.

Fiona arrives and everyone calls out, Happy Birthday, much to her embarrassment. She's laughing by the time she's taken in the black balloons and seated herself at the table with her friends. Their ensuing conversation can't be heard over the more boisterous men.

While I was interested in what I was hearing, what I realized is that these conversations represented what makes up community feelings. It is a sense of connection with the people you live with and interact with. Shared caring, and a real interest in one another.

I could have eaten in the coach the two mornings I spent eating breakfast at Randy's Diner, but I wanted to get a sense of the people of Plentywood, and I did. They are good, wholesome, conservative people. They are interested and have a sense of humor. You might say, "Well, that's to be expected", but when was the last time you got a strong sense of it in your city?

Focused Interests

2007-10-19T15:45:00.000-07:00

Six of the eight campsites, here at Plentywood's fairgrounds, are occupied, and all by hunters. There are two rigs from Alabama, one from Canada, one from California, one from Helena, Montana, besides mine. Early in the morning and late at night, we are all out with our dogs. We look like a kennel club.

I have spoken with several of the other hunters and some interesting things have come to light. The boys from Alabama have Boykin Spaniels, and a quick question verified their knowledge of Wayne from Bozeman [Bruce's friend.] In fact, the Boykins, here are from Wayne's breedings, and the owners know Wayne as a good friend. Small world, Aye! From Alabama to Plentywood, Mt. isn't as long a distance as one might think.

The Alabama boys also have a couple puppies from an accidental breeding that took place between one of Wayne's Boykins and a Short Hair. They and Wayne are looking forward to what the dogs will become as hunters. It should be interesting.

Wayne has produced outstanding Boykins and he is a very good trainer. He has won events with his dogs both near and far. They even hunt the Arizona desert for our quail and are very, very good, according to Bruce.

I had a conversation with the Helena, Mt. hunter. Bob had recently attended a Montana Game and Fish bird biologist's lecture, which had conveyed a great deal of information on each of Montana's upland birds, their habits, habitat, feeding preferences and their behavior. It sounded like something I would enjoy attending.

He, also, learned about Montana's released pheasant program. What he learned was
disconcerting. Apparently, the state releases pheasant at a cost of $10 per bird. The bad news is that these released birds suffer an eighty-five percent mortality in the first 72 hours of being released! That's a staggering number. Mortality by the first hunting season's end climbs to 95%!

The reasons given for this high mortality is that the birds have not been conditioned to survive on their own. They are uneducated to predators, can't food forage for themselves and are too ignorant to seek water. The lecturer said that, often, even just one coyote can find a group of released birds and kill very nearly all of them with no trouble due to their ignorance.

Bob thought that he and members of his Helena hunting club might approach the state for a discussion on how to better use the funds now being spent on these released birds. I think he might have a point.

Here I am, a stranger in a strange land, yet not alone, nor do I feel like a stranger. I am surrounded by hunters who share my same interests. We all are into bird dogs, birds, habitat, hunter access to land and issues regarding the managing of bird resources. It is very easy to start a conversation when I meet people. We have so much in common.

Notes:

David Dybvig is alive and well. He called me to assure me of the fact. Hello, again David.

Bruce is almost home with his new [second new] trailer. It's a 25 footer. It has a 12 foot slide-out and sports a DVD player. All you who know him, be sure to ask about it. Tell him you'd like to have him bring it to the gun club come Spring. I'm sure he'd be happy to show it off to all of us.

Just met, and I mean just two minutes ago, another hunter who hails from Dillon and Phoenix. He's a Mearns hunter. He is a fishing guide summers on the Big Hole. His name is Allan Mannis. [I have written his name here so I won't forget it.] Hunts 4 Wire Hairs.

Yesterday was a poor weather day. Today started out cloudy, but quickly turned into a full sunshine day, and just as quickly, went back to a complete overcast day as daylight disappears. There may be rain tomorrow. Not sure.

It was 28 degrees when I left at 730 this morning. There was an hoary frost covering everything. The world looked crystaline. By 9:00 the fleece came off, by 10:00 the windbreaker, leaving me to finish hunting in a tee shirt and long-sleeved cotton shirt. Peso and I had a good day and quit just after noon. We both took good naps this afternoon and I've written these last two blogs.

It's now time to cook up our dinner, which will consist of Huns and a pheasant, a dinner salad with Caesar dressing with bacon bits, mixed vegetables and coffee and cookies for dessert. Peso can hardly wait. [When I start banging pots and pans at dinner time his attention becomes focused. He knows he's about to get the good stuff.

W

Vets and Leks

2007-10-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

If the super market was my first stop, yesterday, upon arriving in Plentywood, my second was to a Veterinarian. Peso had a leg torn by barbed wire, several days ago, that I thought might need stitching.

Dr. Kane is a very nice man, He has eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, which is often, and a salt and pepper beard. I met him at the tailgate of his pickup truck, after walking myself across the road to his clinic. I asked if was a good time or a bad time to have him look at my dog. He thought it a good time, and told me to bring the dog on into his clinic. I trundled back across the road, returning with Peso on a leash. [I'd had to park the coach and towed pickup across the road, where there was sufficient room to park.]

Peso was given anesthesia by injection and was shortly out, lying on Dr. Kane's table. Dr. Kane only wrapped his foreleg to protect it and prevent Peso from licking it, while explaining that stitches wouldn't be necessary, the wound had already having started to heal. He gave Peso a wake-up shot, and we were out of there, on our way. I walked a very drunk looking dog back to the coach. He wobbled, staggered and was unable to walk a straight line. It took an hour or two before he was back to his normal self. He had a nice nap, in the mean time, in the coach.

In the course of our conversation, while he worked on Peso, I mentioned my interest in photography and Dr, Kane told me the location of a Sharp Tail lek, saying they display almost daily, year round. I said I'd take a look and have, both mornings that I've been here.

The first morning was a bad one. It was completely overcast, breezy and raining slightly. I used the opportunity [photography being no good] to see how close I could get in my truck before the birds flew at my approach. [It was about 100 yards.] That distance turned out be inconclusive, because this morning one truck didn't budge them passing just 20 yards away.

They've chosen a close-cut grass air strip as their booming grounds. Apparently, it has been used for years. All the fields near this strip are posted no hunting, so they feel reasonably safe and continue to use this spot on a daily basis.

I took pictures of 24 birds on this grass air strip with my long lens this morning. To get really good shots, I'd have to camo up and be within 50-75 feet of the birds, and to do that, I'd need a real blind. As it was, in my truck 150 away, I knew the birds were aware of me as I hung out the window using my camera. I was able to get pictures of the birds in their lek setting. This was the airstrip, the 1000 pound prairie grass bails, and the two galvanized buildings, one with a wind sock. Until the large, round grass bails are moved, this emergency air strip will continue to be unuseable.

I took the opportunity to watch the birds through binoculars for 45 minutes. At that point, a large grain truck rumbled by and the birds flew several hundred yards into the neighboring wheat stubble. I was able to continue to observe them feeding. I could hear them clucking to each other as they slowly moved along, feeding as they went. It was a thrill.

I'd always wanted to see a lek and now I have. Perhaps, the day will come when I can do some close-in photography. That would be an even bigger thrill.

Who Knew?

2007-10-17T19:19:00.000-07:00

I crossed back into the good old U.S. of A., today, north if Plentywood, Montana. When approaching this border crossing from the Canadian side, you're going through the Port at Regway; when you are going north from the American side, you're going through Port of Raymond. Well, of course you are! Sense a turf thing, here?

Anyway, I hit the border pulling up to the U.S. Customs window, and in 30 seconds, two agents were raiding my refrigerator. They confiscated my eggs, sausage, chicken, Hutterite made stuffed German links and, after reading the labels on my Purina Dog Chow and Stouffer's frozen Lasagne, took only all forty pounds of dog chow. They left the Stouffer's because it had actually been produced in the U.S., unlike the dog chow, which was produced in Canada.

Well, I never! I guess the next time I cross into Canada, I'll ask on the American side, what all I can't bring back. I could have [and would have been allowed to] turn back into Canada and tried to eat all this food, but chose not to. [I mean, I do have my dignity!]

Even had I bothered to check on the way into Canada, the U.S. boys still would have confiscated my eggs, because they were just put on the list of no no's. Damn, who knew?

Needless to say, my first stop in Plentywood was at the local super market.

Both agents were uncomfortable at the amount of confiscated goods they took. Hell, I had to open the door for the first over laden fellow. Then, one came back with a garbage can on wheels for the dog food. [I was told my a man who had his campfire wood, all $5.99 worth purchased at a 7-11 in Great Falls, Mt. confiscated when he entered Canada. It seems the Canadians are trying to control the spread of Dutch Elm disease. Hell, I was about 15 when the Dutch Elm trees along my street were taken down. It just goes to show you how far behind the Canadians are. Again, who knew?

Revisiting the Nest

2007-10-17T16:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday, Oct. 14, I made the run from Swift Current to Govin, Saskatchewan, a distance of about 200 miles. I went to join Fay and Richard Trow, who arrived Saturday night to begin a week of goose and duck hunting. [Fay is a high school classmate, Richard, his son.]

When I arrived, I found that they were a party of five. Three of their friends had come up with them. There was Ronny Alberts and Paul, a father and son team and Lowell Overton. Ronny, I assumed to be retired. His son, Paul, is a builder. Both are stoic, quiet men. Neither of them could be accused of being a "Chatty Kathy", but they were pleasant to talk to one on one.

Lowell is a very pleasant, a white-haired and bearded man, with the size to be the perfect Santa Claus. All he needed was the uniform. Nice people all, and before I left, I had the opportunity to have at least a short chat with each of them.

I was hunting from this same base, Govin, with Fay when he brought Richard up for his very first Canadian goose and duck hunt. Richard was about 16 [I think.] After a morning of goose hunting, using our home-made blinds of 20' lengths of 5' high, 4" square mesh sheep fencing, we always went into town for a overly large, often piggish breakfast. We'd try to take a nap before going out for a late afternoon duck pothole shoot.

A note on our blinds: We wove hand-cut willows vertically through a 20' piece of fencing, creating our own blinds. The fence was backed with a piece of dark brown canvas, making the blind a solid, camouflaged shield. We pushed four piece of 1/2" construction rebar into the ground and, wrapping fence material around them, overlapped the ends, creating a rectangular enclosure. Each blind was able to house two hunters. We made as many blinds as we had hunters, divided by two.

We were up, then and now, at 0 dark 30, which for goose hunting means 4:00 am. It's necessary. It takes time to drive to your yesterday scouted field, set up the blinds and put out the decoys. It also takes considerable time to drive your vehicles as far from your decoy spread as you are willing to walk back. A half mile is common.

It had been a long time since I'd seen Richard. He is now married. He has a two year old son and a six month old daughter. Where has the time gone?

At the time, I realized that his first pothole shoot should best be left as a father-son experience, and I left on foot to find my own pothole. I remember having one of my the finest duck shoots ever. I shot a limit of full-bodied, full colored male Mallards. I had a ball, and still vividly can recall that shoot. Rejoining Fay and Richard as night fell, was another story. By the time I left my pot hole, I realized that I'd made a mistake. Full dark fell quickly. It was a moonless night and I had a long way to walk. I'd still be out there, lugging those 7 Drakes, had Fay not turned on his vehicle's high beams as a beacon for me to follow back to him.

We both laugh when that hunt gets mentioned. Even Richard. His father made him place each decoy out in the soft-bottomed pothole, rather than throw them out. He had to retrieve them, as well, at the end of the shoot. As I walked away at the beginning of their afternoon together, I heard Fay saying, "Richard, I did it, and you're going to do it. It's how you learn".
At the time, Richard wasn't very happy with his father. Now, he joins in the laughter.

I spent my field time the last two days with them, the last two days, taking pictures. I didn't carry a gun. I was engrossed in trying to make things and people photo worthy. I was constantly asking one of them to turn this way, turn that way, lift your head, etc. Hopefully, they will have forgotten all that when I am able to send them a CD of them and their hunt. It was fun and challenging for me.

My return to Keith Much's, Nest, was both a trip to the past and a trip to the creation of new memories.

Notes:

I found my only two Sharp Tail Grouse, not in the field with the dog, but on a dirt track as I returned to town late one evening. They allowed me to drive within 10 yards of them, where I used my long lens to get some reasonably good shots in the low light. I enjoyed the irony of it. I couldn't find them when hunting for them. I had to stumble on them quite by accident. But I was ready with the camera!

I shot two Shoveler ducks for Peso. We hunted our way to a pond, where the Mallards and Pintails made hasty flights to elsewhere upon our approach. The Shovelers [about as dumb as the name implies] circled by me twice, where I took one with each pass.] Peso made two water retrieves. Sweet! He loves ducks. Driving around, when he sees a body of water with ducks or geese on it, he gets to quivering, something fierce.

I took pictures of a Snow Goose mass rising. They came up from wheat stubble. When you see an uncountable number of geese get up, it is impressive, no matter how many times you've seen it. It is truly eye candy to an out doorsman.

The farmers in the Govin area, if not all of Saskatchewan, are in serious financial trouble trying to make a living as farmers. How bad is it? One of Fay's friends didn't bother to plant his fields, figuring it wouldn't pay to do so. He tried to rent his fields to anyone willing to farm them, and had no takers. He stayed alive this year by selling 90 acres. It's the $6 wheat 25 years ago, and wheat is currently selling for not much more than that. The farmers, as Fay said, are working for the government. They're making nothing for themselves.

Happy Feet

2007-10-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

Today's last covey find was mine, not Peso's. Back when I started hunting quail in Arizona, I always hunted with a partner. At the end of any given hunting day, it always seemed that one of us or the other was in the right place at the right time more often than the other. One guy would be closer to the covey rises and have more singles come up near him than the other. He was the one who always seemed to be at the point of the action.

I coined a phrase that describes my previous description of being in the right place at the right time: Happy Feet. The hunter getting all the action was said to have had Happy Feet that day.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and in Alberta and Saskatchewan that means no hunting. I'm taking this off day to join friends from Minnesota in Govin, Sask., which is north of Regina. I'll spend two or three days with them. While they goose and duck hunt I'll be taking pictures of their shoots and looking for Huns during the rest of the daylight hours.

I will more than likely be out of cell service. That means no computer as well as a dead phone. I'll resurface about midweek as I head back south to Montana.

Ramblings

2007-10-13T04:20:00.000-07:00

Peso is happy. After all, I promptly got up when he awakened me at 4:30 this morning to let him out. Having finished his business, he immediately returned to the coach, ate a goodly amount of dog food and promptly went back to sleep. He left me sitting here here bleary-eyed unable to go back to sleep, the lucky sod. Further sleep is not an option at this time. I'll require a nap later to get through the day.

Early morning food is hard to face, but we all need sustenance. I have found a way to get it. I make up a batch of gruel. [That's Bruce's term for his breakfast, which is usually oatmeal.] I use his term, but with a slightly different approach to the food part. I take breakfast cereal, the flaked variety, and throw it into the blender, add milk, a cup of mixed fruit, some nuts, if handy, and anything else that lacks a twist top [I have no hand strength early] that's within reach and set the growler settings to puree. Even though still largely unconscious, I can manage to drink this blended liquid concoction. It gives my body what it needs without me having to actually deal with food in the normal manner.

Blendered gruel also has the added benefit of being extremely fast to put together and to ingest. Blend it and drink it. Simple, clean, fast and healthy, Lots of fiber, milk, fruit, all the good stuff.

Many people are only able to manage a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, heading off to work without having had breakfast. We all know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right? Until recently, I used to be one of those who regularly thumbed their nose at that and went without breakfast. No more.

Yesterday, I spent an hour conversing with two Canadians in the sporting goods store where I went to buy shotgun shells.

A quick aside: Have you any idea what hockey gear goes for? I saw skates, a high-end brand, the best, but still... price, $665.00! Talk about a cutting edge! $150 would provide reasonable skates. Gloves were $80 and so on. It just occurred to me that I have no idea what a good hockey stick is worth. I'll have to find out. I was told a hockey player can be outfitted with good, adaquate gear for right about $700. A ski outfitting costs an arm and a leg, why shouldn't hockey?

One of the two men at the store was an older gentleman, rather large, a reserved man slow to warm up to the conversation, but active once his comfort temperature had been reached. Jim, the second man, probably in his mid 30's, wearing rimless glasses, a man who demonstrated that he followed both local and international news and finances. Both these men were traveled. We talked about their time in Europe, Cabo San Lucas and San Diego, just to mention a few.

Once started and comfortable with each other, the conversation revealed our opinions on the different subjects that came up. For instance, the older man was appalled and embarrassed by the fact that only 52% of the provincial population had turned out for the last general election. I'm not sure, but I think we Americans would be delighted with such a high turn out.

I mentioned that we Americans would like to see the war in Iraq go away. I didn't offer an opinion as to how to accomplish that because I don't know how we're going to accomplish it, short of just packing up and leaving. If we do that in the next couple of years, we are guaranteed to have failed in our efforts to put a functioning political infrastructure in place over there, not to mention a functioning cival infrastructure. [It may be impossible to accomplish, but I certainly can't see it happening in the short term. We're bucking 2000 years of history. Why we thought we could do what hasn't been done in that time by the indigenous people comes across as either totally naive or pretty arrogant on our part.

I feel as though the U.S.has become Brer Rabbit stuck in the tar pit. "The more you struggle wid it, the stucker you git". I do agree with several friends, who were both career military men, that it was a huge mistake to get involved on the ground over there. Bomb the hell out of selected targets that are considered to be a threat, but leave these people to be their fractious selves, acting out their tribal squabbles as they have down through time. [ I assume it's our government's concern for mid eastern oil that has us where we are today.]

Jim, the younger man observed that "most Americans don't seem to be very interested in their national politics,". Speaking for myself, I said that I was pretty much disgusted with our politicians and feeling pretty impotent in terms of being able to impact national policies.

I think those clowns within the Beltway should be made to live under the same rules, regulations and health care system as the rest of us. It might actually do some good. I think politicians in general are into the power and influence brokering and live for the ego filling thrill that comes with their ability to have such influence. They sure as hell don't do it for the pay that comes with the job [although they can cash in once out of office.] Nor do I believe that an altruist can survive political realities beyond the ward level of a small town government. The deal making and power brokering starts early and only escalates the closer one gets to Washington D.C. By the time a politician enters the national stage, I'll bet he wouldn't recognize his original political portrait, nor the reason why he was motivated to enter public service.

Both these sporting goods store raconteurs, and other Canadians I've talked to, are enjoying the fact that the Canadian dollar has come back to par with the U.S. dollar. They all knew that it's been more than forty years since this has happened. Our goods and services are now much more affordable than say, five years ago, when the Loonie was only worth 72 cents American. They have all told me they feel as though shopping in the States is now considered a bargain. And who can blame them after years of paying a premium for U.S. goods and services.

Jim, was curious about our housing markets. When I explained that the bubble had burst and that many were losing their homes, like any good capitalist, he wondered if this might not be the time to step in and buy some property. I told him that I'm sure there were selective opportunities for that, but you'd better still have very deep pockets. After all, it's not like home prices have fallen 50%.

Looking out the window, I see that it is raining again, some of the 40% chance of rain we're expected to get today. Drat! It could become another Mudder, or it may be that I'll have to hang out at Tim Horton's and not hunt today.

Tim Horton's is the Canadian version of Dunkin Donuts that also serves a limited number of sandwiches. It also provides that ephemeral, magical touch that makes Starbucks so successful, atmosphere.

It isn't just for the donuts and coffee that people go to Tim's. The atmosphere of the place is a key ingredient to the chain's success. It's a place to meet, see your friends and linger chatting while having a sweet and a cup of coffee [waistline be damned]. It's comfortable and people enjoy being there. It can't be for their donuts, which I consider to be a grade or two below supermarket fare and the sandwiches they serve can be found in any one of 50 different places in a medium sized U.S. city. It's the combination of the food and the atmophere, and it's offered by no one else up here.

Tim Horton's is a Canadian phenomenon. I find myself heading there just about every day for a donut and a cup of coffee when I could just sit in my coach and have both. It provides a break in coach time, gives me something to do, and is a place to go.

I learned that both Saskatchewan and Alberta are major polluters, which surprised me. How, I asked and was told that both provinces have very large coal fired electrical generating plants, which fill the air with their exhausts. Interesting. Just last week, I learned that Calgary provides 75% of its energy requirements through renewable sources. I saw wind powered generators in huge numbers in southern Alberta and quite a few here in Saskatchewan, so far. The Canadians seem to be pursuing wind powered generators with a vengeance.

Saskatchewan is in the process of developing its natural resources at a greater rate than in the past. Gas and oil immediately come to mind, but there is also a great deal of mining going on in the northern parts of the province. I was told that Saskatoon is having a boom, home prices rising very rapidly, to astronomical levels, even.

Saskatoon is the major hub for northern Saskatchewan. One look at a map explains why. It is the northern most and most centrally located city in the province. The activity there, I'm told, is dramatic. Oil and gas and mining service companies, suppliers etc. are there and expanding. Housing is going up as fast as it can be built. Northern workers get out of the "bush" not wanting to live out there. Saskatoon is the place to go. It is acting almost like a boom town.

If there is inexpensive housing available here in Saskatchewan [ as I wrote in an earlier blog] it really must be limited to the small, out of the way, rural towns and hamlets. The larger cities seem to be on a growth path. Swift Current is projected to be the booming city of 24,650 souls by 2026. Prepare yourselves.

A New Best Friend

2007-10-12T19:36:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I took delivery of a new shotgun. It is an Arrieta 20 gage, custom ordered to my specifications from Italy. When I picked it up in Great Falls, I only bought two boxes of shells, which I quickly went through. For reasons that defy understanding [especially by me], when I quickly went through those shells, I just went back to using my 12 gage Jeffery. Well, today, I took the time to run down 20 gage shells here in Swift Current. Their $13/box price didn't deter me for more than a nano second. I bought four.

What a joy this gun is. It is a 30" barreled side by side, with a round action receiver. It fits my hand much more comfortably while carrying it than the more common square actioned standard. It has my personal measurements built into the stock, making me more accurate with it than I'm used to. I even had side clips added for aesthetic reasons. It's a beauty.

I had been shooting #8's with the Jeffery and had realized that I often needed larger shot given the distance the Huns were getting up. I had only "tickled" more than a few of them. I employed the Arrietta today with # 6's and could tell the difference immediately. If I could get even one pellet into the body, the bird was coming down. [Peso handled the long distance hit cripples and runners.]

I'll tell you how impressive this gun is. Bruce likes it a lot. He liked its balance, pointability, its construction, wood fit, checkering, its light weight, its jeweled interior parts and the case hardening job. He has admiration for the whole package. That's an endorsement!

I wanted to share my delight with this gun with the rest of you. We all have a favorite gun. I now have my latest "favorite gun", and its fast becoming my latest, new best friend.

Hunt Smarter, Not Longer

2007-10-12T18:05:00.000-07:00

This will be a recap of the last two days hunting. I've already written how yesterday ended. Here's the rest of the story. But, before I have to consult my journal to tell you about yesterday, let me do today. That I can still remember.

I waited until 4:00 o'clock before leaving the RV park, Peso needing the rest. He also needed a little time to let the two tears, one on either elbow scab over. [Apparently he hit a strand of barbed wire yesterday at full tilt creating the quarter sized tears.]

To determine which way to go today, I tossed my Saskatchewan map in the air, giving it a spin, as I let go. The result was my choice of hunting direction, Northwest. [It's all very scientific, as you can see.] I drove six miles west of Swift Current and headed north on Highway 32. At the first opportunity, I went west and started looking for likely Hun habitat.

I'd made up my mind to change my tactics somewhat. Before today, when I hit a likely looking piece of dirt, I would drop the dog, grab my gun and camera and start walking the property. Often times I'd get engrossed in photographic opportunities, while letting Peso check out the area. Well, that was poor management on my part for two reasons. One, if there were no birds, Peso would continue running, expending unnecessary amounts of energy and, secondly, more than once, when I realized I hadn't seen him for awhile, I'd find him on point. THAT, made me feel a tad bit guilty. Dog that he is, he'd patiently wait for me to get my head unstuck and get my ass involved in his birds.

So, in two short hours, by the fortunes of good Karma, a little luck and, perhaps a modicum of experience brought to bear, we found birds on three of the six places I stopped. We were two for two until I picked the third stop for its photographic potential, not its bird potential and, sure enough, Peso found no birds. I wisely put him back in the truck, then went to photographing the lovely [that's a British term, I think] old, distinguished barn and two-story house.

The house held a treasure. In the kitchen, there still stood and old enamel-clad wood burning stove with all its parts. It was in quite good condition. The enamel was light blue. The stove was beautiful. It had been made in St. Louis, who knows when.

Another stop held more old buildings. I thought there was a 50/50 chance of there being birds, but it was not to be. This place had thin wheat stubble around it, not the confidence building thick stuff. I've decided that any stubble thin enough for me to see the ground through it out to about 40 yards is worth skipping. [Would any self respecting Hun feel comfortable in cover so thin? I think not.]

The last covey Peso found [if it was a covey of Huns and not a Sharp Tail or two] he pointed in a wind row quite close to an old house. His tail was moving just enough to make me think he had a critter in the brambles, not birds. [When Peso gets a nose full of something other than birds, he flags. That is, his tail moves somewhat, and is not rigid.] I have never found him on birds when his tail had any activity to it until today. I heard what I am reasonably certain were birds exit the far side of this wind row. I caught no sight of the birds exit, nor did I hear the characteristic cackle of Huns or the clucking sounds of Sharp Tail. I'm not sure what he had, and the slight tail movement adds to the mystery.

That concluded today's short hunt. We had covered all of 30 miles round trip

Yesterday, I went East 25 miles to Herbert, Sask., taking Highway 1 before turning south. The long and the short of it was that we found five coveys, moving three of them twice, for a total of eight. This in three hours. We also found a couple of square miles that held two or three rather large shallow prairie lakes. The wheat fields around these lakes were laden with Snow Geese, bazillions of them. [A bazillion is a larger number than a kabillion, for those of you who don't know.] I managed a couple of good pictures of their lift-off from wheat.

We found the Huns both in the wheat stubble butted up against a vast acreage of cattle browse, and in the browse itself. The strange thing is that the cattle weren't grazing prairie grass, as I would have expected, but rather some brushy plant about mid-thigh high. Awful stuff. I don't know if cattle actually ate it or what may have grown on the ground amongst this woody brush.

The flushes made in the wheat resulted in about 50% of the coveys flying into the cattle browse and 50% flying a goodly distance to land back in stubble. On my last foray into this brush, I lost Peso, who it turned out was holding a covey under a point. I learned this when, not being able to see him for too long a time, I fired off a round and a covey jumped up and flew. I was standing on a fence post and saw the birds go and saw Peso as he left the area where the birds had come up.

Washhouse Antics

2007-10-12T11:08:00.000-07:00

Peso and I returned from our time in the field after dark, yesterday. It had rained the previous night and until noon. The slip-and-slide show was the order of travel down lesser farm roads. [I'll be spending some Loonies getting the mud off and out of my truck.] Peso's feet looked like collapsed pots, thrown awry by an out of balance potter's wheel. By the time we got in, I realized there was only one way to deal with his clay encased lower extremities.

I sneaked him into the wash house, where I found the showers too small to use to clean him up. Going to plan B, I fetched a very large plastic bowl and filled it with warm water. I made him stand with his front feet in the bowl while I rubbed, scraped, massaged and tugged at the clay that encased his toes, pads, his entire feet.

It worked, but by the time I had completed the job on both front and back feet, my work was just getting started. The wash house floor was literally awash in a chocolate soup of dissolved mud and clay. In the course of cleaning his feet, Peso had managed to spill at least three bowls of water.

I put Peso in the coach and returned with a bath towel in hand. By the time no evidence of our cleaning episode was still discernible, I was wringing wet. You see, the lights were fixed to a ten minute timer, which was also switched to a forced air, very high BTU heater. I'm sure if you've just stepped out of a shower, all this heat is appreciated, but when you spend twenty minutes crawling around the floor on you hands and knees, still wearing clothing to withstand the wind and cool temperatures, it's less than delightful, trust me. But, it was worth it.

Well, we got away with it. Had we been caught when the wash house looked its worst, I think we'd have been banned from every campground wash house in western Canada. Had I caught me, I would have banned me! That being said, I see no way to deal with dried-on clay, other than dissolving it, and warm water is much more palatable to a tired worn-out dog than near freezing temperature water. After an initial moment or two of fighting it, Peso quickly acquiesced to the soothing warm water. Next time, maybe I'll take myself, Peso and the truck to the car wash. Peso seems to be pretty adaptable. I just wonder...

Gleanings From Today's Foray

2007-10-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

Stout winds bend you over going into them and make you walk like a loose-jointed drunk when going with them. They can be stride stretchers or stride crimpers, depending which way you're heading.

I thought the wind was doing much more than 40 mph, a farmer corrected me. He said, "When it's blowing 60 mph [what I thought it was doing], the gravel jumps around on my driveway." Yikes!

I saw several old, old wooden buildings literally vibrating in today's wind. I saw wooden roof shingles flapping up and down. No wonder all the nails in these old buildings roofs all stick half way out of the wood. Roofs here bristle nails.

Farmers crop yields are subject to frost, lack of rain, untimely rain, hail and drying winds. The farmer I was learning this from has lost an entire pea crop to a high wind in hot summer temperatures. Said peas can have all the moisture sucked out of them and turn white in 24 hours. I think farmers might just as well go to Vegas. There, the odds are closer to 50/50.

Today's $6/bushel wheat is the same price they got back in the early 80's. The difference? Then, a combine cost $50,000; today $3000,000. Chemicals and fertilizers aren't going down in price, either. No wonder farmers are dropping like flies.

Had lunch at Heidi's Hamburger House and Chinese Restaurant in Kyle, Sask. It seats 12. A man there told me he's seen empty semis' tires, on the windward side, come off the ground when a severe wind gust hits the truck. Yikes!, again.

I actually met another bird hunter today. It was at Heidi's. I saw his footwear. He was wearing Wind River rubber moccasins! He told me where I could find them. We never talked birds or dogs. Saw the crate in his truck, though. He has a small dog, probably a Brittainy. Only room for one in that crate. I hope he doesn't get stuck. [The joke is: "Know why a Brittainy owner should always have two dogs? If he gets stuck, he can throw one under each rear tire."] That's bird dog humor, folks.

Found a small stream in the middle of nowhere. It has big Brook Trout in it. "How is that possible? It gets above 90 degrees up here in the summer', I exclaimed. I was told the water comes from a natural spring, straight up out of the ground, and is very cold. It was stocked with Brookies by the Sask. Game and Fish. It flows several miles before dumping into another creek. It's a "Prairie Wonder", is all I can say.

Huns coming up, wheeling on 40 plus mph winds can put a severe crick in your neck. I know, I have one.

I had to tighten my ball cap so tight, to keep it on my head in the wind, that I got a bad headache. I still had to run and fetch it several times today.

My truck is not air tight. It whistles, groans, and makes wrenching sounds in a severe cross wind. It also likes to shimmy. It's like all four tires are horribly out of balance.

The wind also taught me when enough is enough. I gave up and quit hunting about 1:30. I was starting to turn white [like the summer peas] and Peso was toast.

Saskatchewan is Calling

2007-10-08T06:06:00.000-07:00

In the last 100 years, Saskatchewan has gone from 84% rural to 36% rural, and for close to 20 years Alberta, with its booming oil and gas field development, has been pulling Saskatchewan residents west. Add to that, Saskatchewan's Socialist Provincial government, high taxes and Crown Corporations [government owned corporations] it's not difficult to understand the human flight out of the province.

Well, things are starting to change, though slowly. I understand that there is an election coming along later this month that may well see a change in the ruling party. A change in party would open the door for less restrictive government regulations and taxes for both business and the individual. Secondly, the provincial government is actually negotiating with the large oil companies to develop Saskatchewan's extensive oil and gas reserves. [I get the sense that Saskatchewan's citizens want in on the economic prosperity they've seen exploding in Alberta,]

That brings me to the two articles I read in yesterday's Calgary newspaper, "Quality of Life Comes First" and "Peaceful Pangman, Today's Haven". Both extol the virtues of small town living and the low cost of housing and land.

Here's what grabbed my full attention. There is a town [unnamed] that will sell you a building lot for $1 if you'll build a house within two years. A couple from B.C., fleeing crime infested Van- couver, bought a 1200 sq. ft. bungalow, that needed work, for $13,500. A jim Cusak bought 26o acres and a modest farm house for $14,000. [The articles makes it unclear whether the land was part of the $14,000 or not. The point is rural areas are enticing.

Clearly, there are opportunities in Saskatchewan's rural areas for those not dependent upon having to work. I may well stop at a realtor's office tomorrow [today is Canada's Thanksgiving, a national holiday] and ask some questions.

Prices have just started to creep up in Saskatchewan. Now would be a very good time to invest in land, a home, preferably both, before the economy gets fully charged by the upcoming expansion of the gas and oil fields. A well chosen rural patch of dirt with a house on it might just be the perfect recreational and hunting base to own, and at very affordable prices. It seems to be well worth checking out.

Snippets

2007-10-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

Went to Wal Mart yesterday, here in Medicine Hat. It was so crowded, I thought I'd arrived for the Grand Opening. Not so. They'd been open 10 years. Two pair of blue jeans, $25. That sure beats the $600 pair I saw in Needless Markup [Nieman Marcus] in suburban St. Louis last January. Does Aberfrombie and Crotch sell any real mens clothing anymore?

Robert Duval was recently quoted as saying that Alberta cowboys are better than any in Hollywood. Well, duh! Are we Surprised?

State of the art laundromat washing machines are the nuts! They take less soap, hold more clothes, and do a better job of cleaning in less time than old top loaders. [Some things you can only learn on the road.]

The entire male population of a student dormitory at the University of Alberta came down with Scurvy. True. They lived an entire school year on beer and Kraft instant Macaroni and Cheese. Same article: A smart student [ apparently, he lived elsewhere] took the monthly stipend sent by his parents and rat-holed it. He got a job and paid his own expenses for 4 years. When he graduated, he bought himself an Audi sportscar on the money from mom and dad. [I hope he thanked his parents.]

Hockey sticks take up way to much shelf space here in Canada. One Canadian was actually surprised to hear that I thought both Football and Baseball were far more popular in the States than Hockey. Hell, women's volleyball is probably more popular than hockey.

Acclimation

2007-10-06T19:48:00.000-07:00

I've become acclimated to the Good Ship Lollipop. We have come to a rudimentary sort of understanding. I do my best not to drive off with the slide-outs extended, gear and loose items properly stored and all systems shut off that need to be shut off before moving. There will always be the occasional surprise. Long-terms RVers have told me that there are always surprises. It comes with the territory, they say. Ok, I can accept that.

After two days of cold, rainy weather and parking in "the bush" slide-outs in, having to conserve water, propane and fuel, I'm here to tell you that I like being in a campground that has all the hook-ups. I think it's actually less expensive to pay for the hook ups in a campground than use up my propane and diesel fuel running systems out in the bush. Both the cold and future high heat of the southwest require the expenditure of lots of fuel to provide acceptable levels of comfort.

I am in Red Cliff, just a stone's throw from Medicine Hat, "camping" in luxury. I have the thermostat set at 70, can use all the water I care to, and run every light on the rig without fear of dead batteries. Life is grand. Just two days of 50 degree interior temps, cramped quarters [no slide-outs] and the constant fear of blowing through my supply of propane are forgotten. Hooked up, I can leave the hot water heater on all day if I want. Sweet!

With tomorrow a no hunting day in Alberta, I thought I'd go ahead and take care of some domestic projects. The first being to scrape a layer of mud, dirt and dust out of the coach. I started this afternoon.

It took less than fifteen minutes to choke the vacuum cleaner on a hair ball. I took another twenty minutes to clear the hair ball and clean the filter to get the thing running again. [I thought I'd lost it permanently, but it came back strong.] It took another hour to make a dent in the amount of dirt on board.

It's so toasty on board that I'm wearing a tee shirt, shorts and flip-flops! What can I say. I've acclimated. It's going down to freezing again tonight and I couldn't care less. Let it come. I'm ready. Now, what would I like to pop into the microwave for dinner?

BUSTED ! Bad Luck

2007-10-06T07:47:00.000-07:00

Warning! The people that own the property on the northeast corner of Highway 885 and Township Road 104 are private property freaks. [This is 11 miles west of Seven Persons and about a mile south down Highway 885.]

I had stopped to hunt and photograph an abandoned farmstead. Unknown to me at the time was the fact that there was an occupied home 1/4 mile behind this property, over the slight rise in the ground. I didn't know their house was back there. I hadn't seen it from the highway. I only became aware of it when I crowned out walking through the old buildings, and by then it was too late. About the time I saw it, a pickup truck pulled up next to my truck, which was parked on the highway-side, on the entry apron.

I was photographing the place when I heard a truck slow down and pull in next to mine. Peso was out of sight hunting the far side of the wind rows. The truck left and I watched it reappear to the south of me heading towards the house. I could flee like a thief or hold my ground. I held my ground continuing to take pictures. [In hindsight, perhaps I should have sprinted to the truck, put my gun and dog away and appeared to be just a photographer. But that would have been dishonest, and I can't sprint worth a damn anymore. I'd probably have hurt myself.]

The pick up was soon back carrying two people. Dad and son stepped out at the fence and waited for me to come over. Then the lecture. There was going to be no charming my way out of out of this. Father and son were hard core, reciting me regulations, penalties and making thinly veiled threats. All I could do was acknowledge my guilt and say I'd be on my way immediately. [The only bright spot was that I had finished photographing the place as they pulled in.]

Rural folks network. They talk to each other at breakfast in the local cafes, they get on their cell phones, they talk to each other in person. This duo would certainly be putting the word out about the law breaker bearing Arizona plates. It was time to give up and leave the area entirely. The only other option was to drive 40 miles to Foremost, get a county landowners map, beg, borrow or steal a phone book and begin calling land owners for permission to hunt.

Therein lies a major problem. It is painfully difficult to actually make contact with landowners. They can be anywhere except at home, and cell phone numbers aren't in the phone book. Many of them are already wintering, ironically, in Yuma or Mesa. [I spoke with a gas station attendant and was informed that Yuma is this area's favorite wintering spot.] The owners can be out working on their land, in town shopping, fixing equipment, or a thousand other places, but not next to the house phone. The odds of actually making phone contact with them is very slim. Given a week's planning, a guy could call nights and line up as many places as possible, but if you don't know the land, you're going for a pig in a poke. Better just to go down the road, and a fair distance at that.

The bad luck is that had I been able to hunt yesterday, this property would have been the last, not the first property, I'd have hit. [I had 18 places marked on my map.] Due to the rain and the fact that I'd moved up to Seven Persons, I started out this morning working the string of properties in reverse order. Now, that is bad luck!

In all my years of hunting, this is only the second land owner who was this strident and intractable about his property rights. He's the grouch that I don't mind meeting occasionally. [But, I hope it's a long time before my next one.]

Evangelical Breakfast

2007-10-06T03:57:00.000-07:00

When your dog attacks your feet at 3:00 am, you have no choice. You get up, dress and take him outside, where he proceeds to drag me around until his business is completed. Then, I have to quash his desire to start hunting and return him to the coach. [The attack normally occurs closer to 5:oo o'clock.] Now, I'm not one who can fall back asleep, so I started breakfast. Reading would follow, since it's too dark to do anything else. I could clean the coach, but what's the point, it will be mud laden by day's end anyway. I'm of a mind to treat is as I have my truck all these years of hunting. Take it in at the end of the season and pay whatever the pros want to charge to clean it. Doing it on a more regular basis seems futile to me.

The air is so moisture laden that I can make smoke rings just using exhaled air, something you can't do in Arizona's dry climate. I lit two burners on the gas stove, one for cooking the bacon, followed by French toast, and the other for coffee water. This cooking heat would hopefully take the edge off the 45 degree temperature in the coach, so it would be unnecessary to fire up the generator. [Propane being the precious commodity it is, it is not to be squandered.]

I've become accustomed to wearing heavy clothing from the moment I arise to deal with the cool temperatures that are the daily fare up here this time of year. I don't begrudge the cool weather. The cooler it is the better. Peso can operate longer in the field without getting exhausted. And as Gene Hill so aptly said, "If you get cold while hunting, all you have to do is walk a little faster".

I bought extra thick cut bacon at Premium Sausage Co. yesterday and could hardly wait. Bacon and French toast made with raisin bread covered in Blueberry syrup was plenty of motivation to get the day started.

It was an Evangelical breakfast for two reasons: one, it was damn good, heavenly, even, and it was cooked in the parking lot of an Evangelical Church parking lot. The Pastor took pity on me when he found me parked on a city street and offered his church's parking lot as a place for me to park. Nice guy.

With the meal completed and dishes done, I gathered my hunting gear, made sure I had plenty of water for both Peso and I to get through the day and sat down with my latest book to await daylight. Peso and I anticipate a great day in the field with so many choice places to hunt.

Seven Persons Premium Sausage

2007-10-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon a jewel late this afternoon. I found the Premium Sausage company in Seven Persons, Alberta. I decided that Etzicom wasn't the place to be if the rain turned to ice, so I bailed after sitting there for three hours. [I didn't want to have to kill however much time it might take waiting for the thaw to come in that hamlet.] The town had nothing to offer beyond neat street signs and a couple of strange road signs. So, down the road I went.

I went north in the steady rain up Highway 885, heading for Highway 3 and Medicine Hat. I had no reason to be in a hurry. I scanned the countryside as I drove, marking every likely Hun-holding piece of land on my map. Well, in 30 miles I had 20 x's on the map. There were at least a dozen more maybes that didn't get an x. Tomorrow, I'll unhook my truck and backtrack and visit those sites. Get ready, Peso!

But, I digress. This blog is about the Premium Sausage company. I pulled off highway 3 in Seven Persons, right in front of this wonderful meat company. Serendipity put me there. I went in and immediately remembered the feel of old shops in Wisconsin. The German shops that I'd visited occasionally as a kid had the same smell, and German accented voices. [Wisconsin is known for its Mom and Pop cheese shops, but you can also find German family owned meat markets, here and there.]

The sights, smells and German accent immediately brought back these childhood memories. I spent some little time in this shop buying half a dozen meat items. I asked permission to take inside pictures and was granted enthusiastic permission. I had a ball. Coach dining is going to be great the next couple of days.

This is one person who thinks Seven Persons is a neat place.

What a Croc !

2007-10-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

I'm wearing new footwear. My hunting boots no longer work. My feet are going south, despite having been fitted for ineffectual inserts by an orthopedic specialist. I replaced a worn pair of boots last year and still found no relief with a new pair of my old stand-bys.

While in Alberta last Fall, I bought and rejected a couple pairs of boots without finding comfort. Finally, in a pair of Canadian made rubber moccasins came bliss. [Not so with the three pair of moccasins wasting time in my closet.] Well, those puppies finally gave up the ghost last week when both of them split across the top. They not only gave the "open door policy" to whatever I was walking through [mostly wheat chaff and stubble], but the open creases caused blisters. It was clearly time to find a replacement.

Talking to a campground hostess, the subject of footwear came up. Don't ask me how, I haven't a clue, but it did. She claimed to have solved her back and hip problems with what she had on her feet. Sounded worth a shot. I bought a pair of Crocs the next day.

We all know Crocs. They are those goofy wedge toed monstrosities that everyone is wearing. I u usually see lime green, candy apple red, or Welches bright purple. I think they even come in puce. They have holes punched throughout, and some have no backs on them, making them look like some sort of perversion of the sandal.

I bought a pair of two-tones. No holes. The bottom is army green with black, three lace uppers. They are still ugly with that strange front end wedge but, they are comfortable. I have been in them tramping through the wheat for a week and so far, so good.

I quizzed the sales lady and learned that they come to us from the geeks of Golden, Colorado. They are made of a resin, not rubber, and they cushion your weight very nicely. The campground hostess swore that she'd been in hers for a year of daily wear before the heels started to wear. Now, that was an endorsement!

So, I've become a convert. But, please, let's try to tone down the colors we buy. It's embarrassing to see everybody participating in the current Mall Fad Culture that says anything goes, the more outlandish, the better. Does everything we buy have to be an outrageous fashion statement and a declaration of how hip we are?

Etzicom

2007-10-05T09:05:00.000-07:00

I made 15 miles and two bird drops before the expected bad weather closed in. The Crowsnest is expecting up to 5" of snow and I may be looking at freezing rain before day's end. At a guess, I'd say I'm currently 150 miles east of the Crowsnest and the Rocky Mountains.

It was 0 degrees outside when I awoke this morning at 5:00, to an inside temperature of 45. I fired up the generator and the furnace. After letting the dog out and having breakfast, myself, I started east again as daylight tried to assert itself through the low, solid overcast.

Peso found birds on the first drop, pointing and holding them while I marched quick- time a couple hundred yards, only to blow the rise as I did yesterday's first covey. [I don't know if it's due to too much or too little wake-up coffee.] He did a great follow-up job and I sent a sailer on down the line. We found it together, its landing gear all shot up. It had dropped into waist deep grass along a bar ditch. By keeping him in close and working the ditch, Peso eventually smelled it. I'd have never found it by myself. Good doggy!

I'm parked on the outskirts of Etzicom, a town so small that the number of buildings doesn't qualify as a collection of buildings. I've hunted wind rows bigger than this place. It is intriguing, though. I've taken a picture of a sign I still don't understand. It reads:

This Road
is Banned
75%
Year Round

Now, what the hell does that mean?

Despite its very small size, Etzicome's street signs are works of metal art. I've taken pictures of one of them, and were it not for the rain, I would take a walk and record more of them. They state the street name and are topped by metal figures. The one I took a picture of is a corner sign showing two streets. One says 885 [for the highway] and the other says Condon Ave. There is a female figure atop the 885 sign who appears to running full-tilt away from the Condom, er , excuse me, Condon sign. Atop the Condon Ave. sign is a very tall windmill.

I've just restored the inside heat up to 65 degrees from 50. These old fingers are now working better. Peso looks to need some time off. He stepped into a badger hole all full speed yesterday, taking a rather spectacular header. I think he strained his right rear leg, lthough he appeared fine this morning on his opening two runs. I see that he is now favoring it quite a bit. This rain may be a blessing. I won't be quite so tempted to hunt him. He deserves whatever time he needs to heal.

Bruce called from Malta, Mt. He's with friends crouched ready to chase pheasant tomorrow around the Bedoin NWR. I may or may not hook up with him in Scobey late next week. It all depends how far east I get, the weather, and how long it takes before I drop back down into the States. Bruce left Alberta a week ago today to hunt with Roger, Gary, " da boys". "Da boys" have returned to Tucson, and Bruce has hooked up with other friends.

Knowing what I'll be doing even two days out would I assume I actually have a plan and am following it. I don't. I've found plans to be restrictive. They cause me to miss too much. I find that if I just follow my nose interesting things happen. I do random very well, much to the consternation of anyone traveling with me.

I have enjoyed traveling by myself since I first did a 30 day solo run to Montana with two dogs about ten years ago. Between working a dog[s], taking photographs and keeping a journal, there is a great deal to keep me busy. I find traveling hunting companions to be totally focused on the bird hunting [as they should be], and they chafe a bit when I go off on photographic tangents. I can hardly blame them. What could possibly be more boring than watching someone spend time with his face stuck in a camera, when they could be hunting, instead? Everyone does seem to enjoy the CD's Connie and I put together at the end of my trips. They just don't want to have to be there while it's being created. I can't blame them.

Having been on the road since the beginning of July without television and newspapers, I've come to appreciate the lack of brain numbing pap of television and the psychic irritation that comes from reading nothing by bad, negative news or hearing it on TV. I don't miss either, not even for a second. When I have time, I read.

Out and active as I am, I have lost 17 pounds without trying. I'm afraid the day will come when, through lack of activity, we will become slugs. Think of Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars as an example of what can happen to us without adequate exercise.

I read a copy of last Sunday's Calgary Sun. I tore out an article pertaining to their housing market, and think I'll share what it says. [Alberta's economy has been super heated for the past several years, principally due to the high price of oil, which Alberta has in huge supply trapped in its oil-sands. Alberta developing it as fast as it can.]

The article is titled: "House prices drop $10K in Calgary". That was the fourth decline in a row for home prices. Inventories have jumped while home sales have slumped. The median price of homes fell to $420,500, down from $430,000 in August. Despite these drops, home prices are still higher than they were 12 months earlier, almost 10% higher. The average house price in September was recorded at $470,888, down slightly from the August average price of $485,914. [Add to this the fast rising value of the Looney, [Canadian dollar] and you have to wonder if inflation might be about to rear its ugly head.]

Given the weather, I'll have time to cook up a gourmet lunch. No PBJ's on the fly, today.

Typical Day

2007-10-04T18:32:00.000-07:00

I spent last night parked beside a couple of grain storage bins, next to endless wheat stubble, just east of the town of Wrentham. Wrentham is located on Highway 61 southeast of Lethbridge, Alberta. It is probably too small a town to show up on an atlas, as most towns in Alberta are. Other than Calgary, Edmonton and Lethbridge, you have to look hard to find a city larger than 5 or 10,000 people unless you are looking at a map printed in Alberta, which makes towns of 500 people appear large. [That was one of the first things I learned up here, don't expect services and retail outlets in these small towns that appear as Large Type map designations.

I left the Crowsnest fairly late yesterday and spent time filling the water tank, dumping the holding tanks and finding a source of propane. I actually started east after noon. The Crowsnest is an area or region on the east slope of the Rockies where the Trans Canadian Highway 3 takes traffic through the Rockies on into British Columbia. I was actually parked at Lundbreck Falls ten miles east of the pass.

Lundbreck Falls campground is very nice. The Crowsnest River runs next to the campground and has a wonderfully scenic water falls a short walk upstream. There is superb trout fishing within easy walking distance of this park. The Fall colors were in full flare, making the stay there very enjoyable, right up until the power to all the campsites was turned off Oct. 1 with no notice given. I deduced when the camp host disappeared, travel trailer and all, that it would now by dry camping only if I chose to continue to stay there. They had no dump station or water. I moved.

I spent several hours of two afternoons photographing feeding trout from a vantage point up on a steep stream-side bluff. To be able to clearly see the feeding fish take both surface and submerged food was fascinating. I think I may have a couple of wall-hanger pictures for my photo efforts.

This morning my intent was to hunt my way east. I was pulled off that course almost immediately. I saw two signs before 9:00 that changed my plans. The first was a sign asking drivers to please not run over the abundant rattlesnakes. [This was just outside of Foremost, a town further east on Highway 61.] I took a photograph of that sign. Another mile down the road, I saw a sign giving directions to Pictures-On-Stone Provincial Park.

I gave up going east and headed south toward this park. On the way, I stopped at every good looking Hun hunting property. Progress was slow and, as it turned out, painful in the embarrassing sense of the word.

Peso found and pointed a covey of Huns out in the wheat and I promptly walked in and missed with both barrels. The dog deserved far better. He had done his job to perfection. I was perfect, too, perfectly horrible. I was startled when the birds got up so close to me, something you don't normally get with Huns. I couldn't get the eyes to focus, was all fumble-thumbs and forgot that ones feet can be moved to set up the shot. [It's hell getting older, realizing that the eyes and reflexes and nerves are starting to go.] Thankfully, I took a clean double and made the shot on a single this afternoon over two very nice points.

This wasn't my first mistake of the day. On the first drop, I let Peso loose before I had prepared myself. He was on point two minutes after I released him, and there I stood empty handed, gun and ammo bags still locked up in the back of my pickup. By the time I was finally ready, it was too late. As I'm fumbling with keys, I'm watching Peso relocate, which he did three times. This told me that the birds were trying to evade him by running. Well, the birds eventually panicked and starting popping up, and there I was still rooting around in the back of my truck.

Then came the next mistake. I left Peso in the coach, heading off to a vantage point from which to take a picture of the coach and towed truck. Well, we'd just finished hunting this property and Peso could only believe that I was going off to hunt without him. I had left the driver's window open with only a screen between Peso and freedom. You can guess the rest.

The driver's side window now matches the passenger door screen. Both look like they've been attacked by a ravenous shark. I take solace in the fact that, with several frosts already having occurred, mosquitoes are no longer an issue. My rig is starting to look like it might be owned by "trailer trash".

I spent almost five hours at Pictures-On-Stone Provincial Park. It's beautiful. It is situated in the Milk River bottoms. What makes it so unique is the eroded sandstone that lines both sides of the coulee through which the river flows. There are many unique and very photographic formations in this sea of water and wind eroded sandstone. The river bottom trees are in their full Fall glory adding color to the earth-toned sandstone. It really is a beautiful place. There is a campground in the park. It's well worth a couple day stay.

This park is located just across the international border north of the Sweet Grass Hills. From the U.S. it can be reached by crossing north of Great Falls on I 15 and driving east of Milk River, Alberta on Highway 501. I'd guess the trip could be made from Great Falls, Mt. in 5-6 hours. It can also be reached by crossing the border at Whitlash, Mt. This crossing on the north side of the Sweet Grass Hills, but isn't open 24-7 and requires running 60 miles of gravel road.

I was back in Foremost by 6:00PM. I found my truck battery to be dead. Thirteen hour on "accessory", which is necessary while towing the truck, was too much for the battery. I got a jump at the grocery store in a nano second from a "hearty partyer" in a pickup truck, who was still trying to get sober from his last night's heavy drinking. Canadians, I've learned, love their alcohol. I left the truck running in neutral to recharge the battery while I found a place to park the coach for the night. I'll let it run for an hour, which should be enough to recharge the battery completely. And here I am writing this blog.

Peso is fed. [I fed him cooked Huns. He deserved them more than I did.] I ate a Chicken Pot Pie and a casserole dish.

I got a call from a friend in Minnesota and may now be heading north of Regina, Saskatchewan to join him and his son for a day or two of goose and duck hunting. I will search for Huns and Sharp Tail on the way over, making this one long day's drive into a 3-5 day bird seeking operation.

Canadian Hoots

2007-09-28T17:55:00.001-07:00

My hunting travels in Canada and Montana have put me in contact with several Hutterite Colonies [the Hoots]. I've enjoyed the conversations I've had with the their members as I seek permission to hunt. I have had a couple of rather lengthy discussions with members of one particular colony and got a tiny glimpse of colony organization and operation. [ Last year I found and read a book written by a young female colony member, which shed some light on life growing up as a child in a colony It was an illuminating read.] Each time I have contact, I learn more. Getting the occasional peek into their way of life has proved fascinating and educational.

Colonies are made up of a particular strain of Mennonites. Each colony is approximately 80 members strong. When sufficient land acquisition and population surplus permits, a new Colony is established. The colony I recently spent time on, went from just wheat fields to a completed colony in just under five years, start to finish. At first glance, that doesn't sound like much. Housing 80 people isn't that difficult, is it? Well, a completed colony not only houses its members, it has constructed and/or put into place everything required to make the colony [for all intents and purposes] completely independent from the world. They have built machine shops, equipment repair facilities, and back-up electrical supply and distribution systems for the entire colony. They have established a dairy herd, a herd of beef, a water supply and purification system that would embarrass most public municipalities. They have a school for their children's education. They raise their own vegetables and raise their own meat. They raise pigs and chickens, turkey, too. You can find a colony from miles away. A colony, with its numerous buildings, numerous grain storage buildings, machine shops, barns, barracks, large gardens, wind rows, and more equipment than Rommel had, you know you're looking at a Hoot colony.

The colony I spent time on even allowed giant wind turbines to be erected on their property, for a price. That price was one tower's electrical production to go to the colony for every ten turbines erected. I'm sure I have left out any number of things the colony propvides for itself, but, hopefully, you are getting the picture.

Irronically, they are a marvel of independence in a world where growing interdependence is the norm. [Go to National Geographic's archives on line and dig up its story on the Hoots written 10-15 years ago for more info and pictures. When that story was written, there were 1100 Hutterite colonies spread around southern Saskatchewan, southern Alberta and Montana. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to how many exist today, but I'm sure the increase in numbers would't surprise me. These are an industrious, hard working and focused group of people.

These folks are not throw-backs to the non mechanized age like the Amish. They are up-to-the-minute, ultra modern farmers who employ state-of-the art technology and information to raise wheat, principally, and to operate as efficiently as possible. Culturally, socially and educationally, they follow their religious and cultural heritage. I know little or nothing about their religion and very little about their culture. Hopefully, with more reading and exposure, that light will come on.

All colony members have their specific area of responsibility, and all work diligently for the colony. The colony is directed by a limited council, or by a single headman. It is far from a democracy. Members have job expertise and focus. They appear to be very good at what they do, which is wheat farming, for the most part. [I was told by a colony headman that a colony in Montana has become the game processing center for the central part of the state, "turning a very nice profit". This is the first non farming, off-colony related activity I've heard of.]

Today, both America and Canada are starved for young workers, and even more for young, trained technicians. The Hoots have no such problems. I was told that a boy [to cite one example] of 14 was assigned to a specific truck and a specific combine to become the expert mechanic of and for these two vehicles, and to be soley responsible for them. Under the watchful, teaching eye of the head equipment mechanic, this boy of 14, in a matter of a couple years will be able to do all that is necessary to maintain these two pieces of equipment. He will even be able to make replacement parts from scratch in the colony's metal fabricating plant if it is required.

Apparently, every young person in the colony comes under the tutelage and guidance of a senior member and learns to become an expert in their own right at whatever job it is they undertake or are assigned to. No going to tech schools for these kids. They learn on the job, starting at an age when too many of our children are being driven to the Mall to hang with their friends.

I have been surprised to learn that Canada is starved for young workers. Lethbridge, a town of 100,000 has 4000 jobs that go wanting for lack of bodies to fill them. The reason given was that some years ago, it was culturally and socially decided that every young person should be afforded the opportunity of a college education, which quickly became the norm. Today, Canada can't fill many entry level jobs because young peoples' expectations run so high. Canada lacks qualified technicians because that type of work is no longer deemed acceptable by too many young [and their parents.] Does this sound familiar?

The Hutterite colony life style is far from democratic, thus unpalatable to many, but there are methods of operating and teaching that we could study to our advantage. We could save billions at the Federal level, if we could find a way to employ their mentoring system.

Oh, I rather enjoyed hunting on their properties, too. A couple of times, we had teenaged Hoots in tow, following us around asking questions about the dogs, the birds, and the guns. These kids had inquiring minds. They asked thoughtful questions. I enjoyed my time with them.

Trade Offs

2007-09-28T16:13:00.001-07:00

Trade offs are a part of life. I'm making them almost daily while on the road up here in Canada. For instance, I can stay in a beautiful campground along side a picturesque, trout filled stream, but in making that choice, I have to give up cell phone reception and online use of the computer. So far, being beside the Crowsnest River at the foot of the Canadian Rockies has won hands down.

Yesterday afternoon and for several hours this morning, all I did was photograph along this river. In the late afternoon light, from 25 feet up a sheer bluff, I was able to observe and photograph trout feeding in a deep pool. Several hundred pictures later, I may actually have a couple that are worthy of the wall. It was interesting watching them take both submerged food and to watch them rise, breaking the surface as they took surface fare. The trade off? I couldn't fish for them while choosing to photograph them. Tomorrow, I'll video tape them, and then, I hope to catch a few of them.

Another trade off is traveling with others. Traveling with your wife will not be part of this discussion. Traveling [generically speaking] with one of "da boys" will. I traveled with Whitey for ten days, had him on board sharing the coach with me. I found it to be a very pleasant and enjoyable experience. [He got the pull-out couch and may hold another opinion.] We were hunting birds in Montana, with three days of excellent trout fishing in Alberta with a good Canadian friend, thrown in. Those t en days went by way too fast.

Now, as much as I enjoyed Whitey's company, there were trade offs. I did no journaling for the ten days he was on board. We were too busy hunting or fishing, or making meals, or telling lies and jokes. Was it worth it? I'd put him on board again in a heart beat. The journaling could wait.

The choice of camp grounds up here in Canada [and I suspect, everywhere else] present trade offs beyond just having or not having cell and wi-fi connections. Campgrounds come in several flavors. Some have all the hookups, power, water and sewer. Some have power, but no sewer water. [That would be my current situation]. And some have nothing, nada, zippo, just the ground to park your rig on. You pay a daily fee commensurate with the services provided and based on location. Obviously, high demand areas can charge more than those starving for visitors. In the States, the full hook-up places can be as high as $32/night. I've hidden in amongst the 18 wheelers at fueling depots to avoid such heavy rates. Here, in Canada, where everything is more expensive than below the border, I'm paying about $25/day on average for full hook-ups. Bruce has paid as little as $7/night. No hook ups.

An aside: The sin tax is in full affect in Canada. A pack of cigarettes cost $11.30 to $11.70, depending where you buy them. I know, I'm still stupidly buying them. The graphic warnings about the health hazards of smoking that you find on the packages is something to see. They very from pack to pack, so you get to see lots. On one pack was a picture of a pregnant woman with the line, "Cigarettes kill babies". Another pack had a picture of a diseased heart, and the one I'm currently working my way through, says the following: "Each year, the equivalent of a small city dies from tobacco use". Then, it goes on to show that there are 510 murders per year, 1900 alcohol related deaths, 2,900 car accident deaths, 3,900 suicides, and 45,000 deaths due to the use of tobacco in Canada annually. I'm collecting the packs [which are stupid, rectangular boxes, which are easy to confuse top from bottom, leading you to open the wrong end, and they crush too easily, and....

Another trade off. I traveled with Bruce for exactly one week before he decided to get back to Montana and the upcoming pheasant opener. We had a good time. We camped near each other, shared meals, yet had our privacy for evenings and mornings before hunting. Worked great. We even spent our days together sharing his truck [it's bigger than mine] while we ran around chasing Huns. The only drawback or trade off [if it could be called one at all] is that we had to operate "by committee" in deciding when and where to hunt. For the most part, no problem.

That's all the further I'm going with this blog. I'm afraid my computer battery will die before I can post this. You see, I'm sitting just off the highway, three or four miles from my campground where I get a wi-fi signal. It's just another one of those trade offs I've made, good location at the price of connection to the rest of the world. Not a bad trade off, aye?

You're Americans, Aye ?

2007-09-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

It was 5:00 PM and I was preparing to spend the night in Great Falls before heading out the following morning to hunt alone along the "High Line", when I received a phone call that would change my plans.

I'd put Whitey on a plane for home in the morning, extricated my coach and towed truck from the short term parking lot trap. That required me to unhitch my truck and still drive over two curbs to escape [long story], refueled the coach with diesel, propane and fresh water, done a week's worth of laundry, restocked the fridge, shoveled most of the field hunting dirt out of the coach and was preparing to spend the night [free] lost among a sea of 18 wheelers behind the "big rig" fueling depot when the call came in.

Ryan Doolittle from southern Alberta called. He is a friend of Matt Ende, a friend of mine from Edmonton. Matt had told Ryan to give me a call since we shared an interest in hunting birds and pointing dogs. That's how I met Ryan, an incoming cold call, and that's how I ended up in Alberta less than 12 hours later.

When I got off the cell phone with Ryan, I called Bruce and said, "Get up here, we're going to Canada". At the time, Bruce was down on the Missouri trout fishing, getting acquainted with his brand spanking new 18' trailer. It didn't take long to convince him to join me for a trip north of the border, especially after I described the bird hunting I'd experienced over the previous nine days in Montana.

We zoomed through the Border with little delay [that means in less than an hour] and were all settled into a perfectly lovely riverside park filled with cottonwood trees by dinner time. Ryan was to meet us at 8:00 AM the following morning to take us bird hunting. The rest is history!

After a first day of best manners and deferential treatment all around, we three were asshole buddies from then on. Ryan has an outstanding young Short Hair and a very fine Irish Setter. He knows his dogs, breedings, etc. He and Bruce spent an evening talking dogs, breeds, breeding lines until I was numb. All I want to know is, "Does the dog hunt" and I'm a happy camper. I'm glad someone is concerned with the lineage aspect of dogdom, and equally glad that it doesn't have to be me.

The first day in the field, Ryan took us to Provincial lease pasture land. We found birds, and walked some in the doing. When he arrived the second morning, I told him that, today, I'd teach him how to hunt Huns. You'd thought I'd slapped him. I was joking, but had to spend a few minutes making that clear to him. Employing my eyeballs-peeled-for-likely-looking-bird habitat, shoot-and-scoot method I prefer, off into the farming country we went.

Well, here we are after five days of hunting. It's Sunday, Sept. 23rd and we are all resting, Bruce, myself and our three dogs. Ryan is off with friends hunting Ruffed Grouse in the foothills of the Rockies. The law prohibits hunting on Sundays in Alberta. It's just as well. We do need the rest. The hunting has been very good and provided absolutely marvelous experience for Peso and Jeb, the two young dogs. I'm going to leave it at that.

I picked up my new Arrietta 20 ga. s/s in Great Falls after its custom manufacture in Europe and importation to Scottsdale, and shipping to Great Falls. I had it shipped to a sporting goods store and picked it up there. It is a beautiful shotgun. Bruce even thinks it's very very nice.
I killed the first three birds I swung on with that gun and only found that the second barrel doesn't fire on the fourth bird I attempted and missed with the first shot, requiring a second.

Bruce has had the gun apart on my dining table and has determined that the "whatevers" aren't synchronously timed properly. He didn't bring his entire gun smithing set of tools with him, so I'll have to wait for the full operation of this gun until we return home. Even with just one working barrel, it is a charmer. This is the first shotgun I've ordered from the manufacturer with my stock dimensions and preferences. I have 30" bbls. and sideclips, two features you wouldn't commonly find on a smaller gage field gun. A 20 gage with 30" bbls that impresses Bruce is something. It goes up like my Jeffery and is well balanced between the hands. To you non hunter readers, I'm sure I'm losing you at this point, so I'll cease and desist.

Bruce and I and the rested dogs will be back out in the field tomorrow and Tuesday before making the run to Scobey, Montana to meet up with Roger Gibbs and his crew of 5. We want to spend a couple of evenings telling our lies with these guys, remembering that "The first liar doesn't have a chance".

Trust me, we will not have anywhere near the birds in Montana that we have already seen here in Alberta,but it isn't only about the birds. Or, is it?

Ishkabibble

2007-09-23T12:57:00.000-07:00

Whitey Kuebler, Ted Wiedemann and I, after our comical border crossing, went to southwestern Alberta to meet a friend of ours, Don Jensen, who acted as our guide for three days of superlative trout fishing. We fished two rivers, the Ishkabibble and the Sparnfarkler. The Ishkabibble we fished the first and third day. It was and is a spectacular fishery. The trout are all wild, [no stockers] and heavy-bodied fighters ranging from "dinks" of 12-14" to "slabs" over 25".

The Sparnfarkler was an outstanding stream as well. The fish didn't run as large as those in the Ishkabibble, but the scenery and setting made this river one I wouldn't pass up for the world. This was principally Cutthroat fishing, and what beautiful fish they were. I wouldn't have been overly surprised if Jeremiah Johnson appeared around the next bend in this river, or stepped out of the trees to ask how the fishing was. It lies in the mountains, down in a narrow deep cut ravine. Magnificent.

For those of you who fly fish, suffice it to say that we used 2 X tippet directly from the fly line down through our dropper flies on our nymphing rigs. No leaders at all. Even with this heavy line, both Whitey and I were broken off by large, extremely active fish more than once or twice. The only experience I've had that could compare to this was fishing in Alaska. I've never been fortunate enough to see fish such as these in the U.S.

I did manage to run some video tape and take some still pictures that will eventually make their way into my blog site, but it will have to wait until after I've returned to Tucson. My Canon EOS program that downloaded my photos into the computer was consumed by the Adobe Photo program on the computer. It literally usurped the Canon program and, once the pictures were down loaded into Adobe files, became unreachable. I have stopped putting pictures into the computer and have rather down loaded them into a portable device, my back-up system.

I will be buying a Macintosh when I get home. They are purportedly great with graphics and more user friendly. Connie's admonition of being unable to help should I need assistance no longer intimidates. A Macintosh couldn't be any worse or more difficult to use than an IBM style computer. It just ain't possible.

[Don't bother trying to find the Ishkabibble and Sparnfarkler rivers in your atlas. They won't be there. I've chosen not to provide the actual river names to protect the rivers from the over fishing that would certainly take place if one fisherman got wind of their true names. It would be the death knell for these rivers. Neither could withstand heavy fishing pressure.]

It's Small

2007-09-16T21:42:00.000-07:00

I just left Chester, Montana after a five day stint bird hunting the area. I have been going in and out of Chester for almost 25 years, yet this town perched up on Highway 2, "The High Line" , never ceases to amaze me. This visit was no different. The people are so friendly that you seek them out in hopes they'll have a minute or two to talk to you. And did I mention how small Chester is?

Chester is so small, that if you want live bait, minnows to be exact, you have to go to the dry cleaners. They are sold nowhere else. However, if you want night crawlers, you'd have to go to Mikes. Mike own the town's largest grocery store and is the only source of night crawlers.

Chester is so small that only here can your Friday night dinner out in the Grand Bar and Restaurant [the only restaurant in town] be interrupted by an invasion of Hutterites , who suddenly appear to sell you fresh fruits and vegetables from their colony's gardens. They marched into the dining room with their cardboard boxes of fresh garden produce working table to table trying to making sales as they worked the room.

Chester is so small that if you forget your laundry detergent, you can drive all the way across town and back in under two minutes.

Chester is so small that if you start three clothes washers at the same time, you'll flood the floor of the entire laundromat. [Thankfully, there is a well used, long handled squeegee standing available for the clean up.]

Chester is so small that if you walk out of the Grand Bar and Restaurant without you "doggie bag", Rita or Cinda will be standing at the door with your "doggie bag" held at arm's length waiting for you when you walk back through the door.

And to top it all off, T.J., the owner of the MX Motel has brought a limousine to Chester. And a long way he brought it. He drove it to Chester from Anchorage, Alaska. Said he purchased it right and would now be able to provide limousine service for weddings, graduations. proms, etc.
The folks of Chester should feel grateful. T.J. went a long way to provide them a "big town" service.

Chester is so small that five minutes after meeting someone, [if it's Friday night], you"ll be asked if you'd like to join the "Texas Hold 'em" game going on down the street at the Road House Bar.

Chester is so small that five minutes after meeting octaganarian Swede Jacobson, we were getting a tour of his home, which was on the market. It's a two bedroom house with an 18 X 30' garage. The whole shebang is for sale for the princely sum of $45,000.

Chester is so small that... Well, you get the picture. If one were to stay in this lovely little town for a couple of weeks. who knows what all you could see and learn.

2007-09-12T06:06:00.000-07:00

Whitey, Ted and I are departing Alberta this morning for Montana to reengage Huns. We have just completed three days of outstanding fly fishing

Third Time's the Charm

2007-09-09T05:22:00.000-07:00

Whitey and I had an interesting border crossing. We arrived at the Canadian border half an hour earlier than did Ted, who had to run his borrowed dog into the Shelby to be vaccinated against Rabies. We were already in the building and in line at the gun registration counter when he arrived. Ted was not only out of the building, but was ensconced in his motel room in Cardston, Alberta 60 miles away before we even got out of the building. In their turn, we had become hostages of both the Canadian and American Customs bureaucracy.

The tone of our passage through the border may have been set when I arrived in front of the Canadian gun registration officer wearing an orange baseball cap that displayed "Don't Shoot Asshole" across the face of the crown. [I did remove it when I realized I had it on, but it may have been too late to change the bad luck which was about to envelope us like a black cloud and hover over us for more than the next two and a half hours.]

To put it succinctly, everything that could come to question came to be questioned. Before we made it out of there, we had a U.S. Federal Fish and Wildlife agent rooting through our refrigerator, we had game birds confiscated, had our frozen hamburger questioned by an U.S.D.A. agent, we had to cross the border three times before both Customs services were satisfied, and we had our gun registration questioned when a computer check revealed that Whitey's shotgun at one time had been "recovered" [as in recovered after having been stolen].

At one point, nobody official could decide what to do with our wingless game birds. We couldn't put them in a trash can, although the Fed. Fish and Wildlife officer actually did that until she realized that she was breaking the law: "wanton waste of game." I tried to give the birds to a couple standing next to us at the counter. That idea died when the agent said, "No, now they'll be in violation, transporting birds without a wing attached." I offered to BBQ them in the parking lot and we'd all enjoy them, eliminating the official consternation of what to do with them. About that point, Whitey said, "Hey, folks, we're just trying to make lemonade out of lemons." Officialdom saw no humor in that statement, when all we were trying to do was stay light-hearted rather than become irate at the bureaucratic mishandling we'd been subjected to for the last two hours.

They wanted me to fill out export papers, sending me to Canada with birds that would put me in violation of Canadian law, until I pointed that small fact out to them. And so it went, from one fiasco to the next.

Whitey and I kept a sense of humor through it all. Had we allowed ourselves to lose our tempers, who knows what might have happened. We might still be dealing with the bureaucrats, wearing handcuffs. As it was, they stayed friendly, we stayed friendly and we were smiling as we finally said our farewells and left.

Ted was the only one who who was upset when we didn't show up in Cardston right behind him. He said he became bored waiting for us. The poor man!

P.S. It's now October 29, 2007. I have returned home only to find a citation issued by the Montana Game and Fish Department sitting in my pile of mail.

The young, inexperienced and totally lacking in common sense U.S. Fish and Wildlife female agent that made the big deal of having game birds in my coach without a wing left on, finally, dealt with "the situation" [me having birds with no wings attached] by not dealing with it. She send paperwork that recorded my infraction to the Montana Game and Fish Department, to have that organization pass judgement on me, rather than step up and represent her own organization.

Here is the central point and issue of this whole mess. The law states that a person must leave a wing on any and all game birds until that bird is deposited in the hunter's permanent residence. Well, my permanent residence was my motor home. It would have been my pull-trailer, or the back of my station wagon had I been living out of one.

This agent failed to grasp that fact. In her mind, my permanent residence is in Tucson, Az. If that were true, it would be illegal for me to take more than a single bag limit of birds, because to eat them while still away from home would necessarily require removing the wings to cook them, which would put me in violation of the law. See how stupid this gets?

This young lady is woefully short on experience understanding of the laws she so stridently seeks to enforce. My permanent residence was my coach, where I'd been living and eating for two months before my run-in with here, and would continue to be my home for another two months until I actually walked in the door of my house in Tucson.

I have put in a call to the assigned game warden in Shelby, Mt. He should call me back and this ticket should go away after a short conversation. We'll see.

Three Day Highlights

2007-09-04T06:17:00.001-07:00

Peso and I have been in the field for three days, both of us doing our best to find birds. We have had only partial success. We've seen numerous coveys of Hungarian Partridge and the odd Sharp Tailed Grouse but, usually at a distance. There has been a great deal of early flushing by the birds. They have been rather spooky. I think I've come to understand why. Daytime temperatures have gone to 95 or higher and the air contains absolutely no moisture. This makes for lousy scenting conditions. Then, there is the rather stiff breeze that blows. Add thin cover, both the wheat stubble and CRP grass, and you have the conditions that produce birds that are very skittish, prone to fly well before you and your dog can approach very close. Things will improve somewhat when the temperature goes down in another couple of weeks. Also, it would be smart for me to move further east where I've been told more moisture has fallen.

But, I am not disappointed. I'd like Peso to have more favorable conditions, but there have been many pluses. Peso and I are learning to work together and understanding each other better with each day afield. And we're both seeing new country and meeting locals.

I have met two farmers that have been a true pleasure to become acquainted with, Frank Zel and Lyle Benjamin. Frank is the older of the two. He is a quiet man, lean, well leathered and slow talking. I chatted with him for 30 minutes, liking him immediately. He has traveled over seas and testified in front of Congress. He is an informed person. Despite the sign on his front porch that declares "Trespassers will be shot, and survivors shot again", he couldn't have been nicer or more gracious. He gave me the run of his property. All he seemed to want in return was a little conversation. Over the years, I have learned that people of the land are somewhat isolated, and they love nothing more than the opportunity to talk to those from out of the area. I think we both enjoyed meeting each other.

Lyle Benjamin is a young farmer with a young family. I met him and his 1 1/2 year old son when he came out to see who was running around in his bar ditch. I had followed a road that ended in his driveway and turned around, intending to leave the area, only to have a covey of birds jump up just down the road from his home. Well, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to let Peso work them and was walking Peso back to my truck when he pulled up. I apologise, Lyle for not seeking permission first, but time was of the essence. Lyle and I had a wonderful conversation covering more ground and subjects in 30 minutes than you can imagine. He is a hunter himself. He even teaches Hunters Safety and clearly enjoys it.

I enjoy meeting the locals while I hunt as much as anything. These interchanges provide me a peak into the lives they lead and their activities. In these two people, I get a glimpse into the life of a wheat farmer. Without these people contacts, I would pass through the land doing my own thing missing so much. They add breadth and depth to my hunting experiences. And, simply put, it is fun to meet nice people. I always learn from them and enjoy myself immensely.

A billboard on the outskirts of Rudyard, Montana proclaims that it has a population of 28 and one old grouch. I even enjoy meeting a grouch once in a while.

Tips Up!

2007-09-03T20:22:00.001-07:00

I had an unusual deer encounter this morning. Looking for likely areas to hunt, I came upon a water hole in the middle of this area's endless expanse of wheat and quickly decided to walk it with Peso. We had gone almost all the way around this acre and a half field pond, which was tear-dropped shaped with an elongated water inlet tail, when a very nice buck appeared as if from the ground and bounded off across the wheat. "Neat", I thought to myself, a close up view of a buck in his prime.

As I was about to cut across the tail end of the pond's feeder creek, I saw a full set of antlers suspended on the top of green brush. I actually thought, "How can they sit up in the brush like that unsupported?" Then, they moved. At less than twenty yards, the buck under that magnificent rack bolted out of the brush and off across the wheat. I'd never been that close to a live wild buck before, nor seen such a sight as those antlers seemingly floating on the brush.

Curious to see just how high the brush was that he'd been standing in , I walked over an stood on what had been this buck's bed. The brush was just less than chest high on me. At that moment, the third buck, also with a magnificent rack, jumped up less than a dozen feet from me and bounded off across the wheat. I stood there just a little awe struck.

Apparently, these three bucks really didn't want to leave their hiding place, and only my very close proximity forced the issue. Had I not seen the floating rack and investigated, Peso and I would have walked right by these three bucks, no more than 30 or 40 yards away.

[Rather than have my fellow hunters think my dog possess no nose at all, let me affirm that he does. Him not smelling the deer is just another indication of how terribly dry this country is. It doesn't take but one or two runs in the morning before I see that he's overheating, and we all know what that means... the nose is the first victim of high heat.

Expect the Unexpected

2007-09-02T14:35:00.000-07:00

I happened upon a Great Horned Owl this morning while out hunting. I found it on the ground, legs askew and panting, its posture reminding me of a young baby precariously sitting up by itself.

While wondering what could be wrong with it, I ran for my camera and long lens. After taking a number of photographs, I began moving around it, taking pictures as I went. My concentration was suddenly shattered by the one sound that grabs your full and immediate attention, the buzzing of an agitated rattlesnake. I thanked him for the warning, gave my heart a couple seconds to adjust itself, and proceeded to photograph him, too.

My guess is that the owl attacked the snake, thinking to make a meal of it, and ended up bitten for his efforts. The owl definitely looked the worse for wear, while the Prairie Rattler appeared unscathed. I've come to expect the unexpected, and this encounter will be added to my ever growing list of interesting encounters while out and about.

First Contact

2007-08-31T15:59:00.001-07:00

Ten miles north of Great Falls, rolling towards Shelby, I couldn't stand it and pulled the coach off the freeway, grabbed Peso and put him in a classic Hun setting. I figured the old adage is correct: "Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today", even if the season starts tomorrow. [I carried no gun.]

I had seen a classic Hun setting from my elevated coach seat and thought, what the hell, go for it.
I leashed Peso until I'd walked within 100 yards of where I expected the birds to be, then released him. The covey of 8 came up wild twice, the first time as Peso dove into a pond to cool himself, and the second time when Peso got within forty yards of the covey, which was on a hillside above him. I had to leash him and walk him back to the truck after his twenty minutes on the ground. The thermometer is supposed to hit one degree less than the record. How uncool, is that? It's 95 degrees of uncool.

The soil up here is powdery dry, the CRP grass thin and the unirrigated wheat is also thin. I will be out the door before daylight ready to drop Peso at first light to defeat the heat. With nights only going down to 60 degrees, his time on the ground will have to be limited. I expect that I'll be done hunting by 8:00, if I'm smart.

I've just finished stashing the fly rods, chest waders and boots. The rods are tucked under the back seat and the items necessary to hunt and provide for the dog are now within reach when I drop the tailgate. Fill the truck gas tank, and I believe I'm ready to go. Peso certainly is. Tomorrow we go live!

It's the Little Things

2007-08-30T21:33:00.000-07:00

I spent the past several days working my way from Walden, in north-central Colorado, to Great Falls, Montana. It has been interesting. Things have occurred along the way, most of them good.

I circumnavigated Flaming Gorge Reservoir, south of Rock Springs, Wyoming. It is a 180 drive. I drooled over the fishing opportunities. It was a shame I lacked the time to fish it. I dropped into the local fly fishing shop grabbing phone numbers and fishing and RV camping information. The Green is going onto my "gotta do" list.

During this circumnavigation, I dropped Peso for an exercise run in an area that held only sage brush for as far as the eye can see. In short order, he saw it all. He all but disappeared on the horizon in all four directions before the need for water overcame his intoxication to run in this stuff. Best guess? I'd say he covered ten miles of ground in 2 1/2 nanoseconds.

I spent a night in Boulder, Wyoming which is located on the western front of the Wind River Mountain Range, just 10 miles south of Pinedale. The entire range is designated wilderness area, all of it being part of the Jim Bridger Wilderness. It oozes trout streams and trout filled lakes. It's another "gotta do".

From there, I passed through Teton National Park, Yellowstone National Park and followed the Madison River north until I eventually picked up I 15 at Helena, Montana, which I took on into Great Falls, Montana. An entire summer could easily be devoted to the fishing and photographing of the area between Pinedale, Wyoming and West Yellowstone.

I didn't have the time to stop. to fish and photograph. The Upland bird hunting season opener was only two days away. I was barely able to grab information from fly shops, chambers of commerce and information offices.

Those were all the good things that occurred during the run from Rock Springs, Wyoming to Great Falls, Montana.

Then, there were the little things like....going to a Great Falls sporting store to arrange the shipping in of a new gun, only to find that the requisite store's FFL [Federal Firearms License] was controlled by just one woman, who may or may not be in next Tuesday. I found another gun shop, only to find that the entire staff of the Scottsdale business had closed their store early to go shoot. [The secretary ratted them out.]

Then, there was the opening of my bedroom slide-out into a telephone pole.

Then, there was thwe water tank caper. I found myself standing in the shower with a handful of shampoo with no water. I had forgotten to open the refill water valve.

Yesterday, a helpful Teton Park Ranger advised me that there was plenty of room to turn my 60' rig around at the end of the gravel side road I'd taken, only to find that I had to traverse a muddy, water filled hole in the road that had two 6" logs laid in it providing a bottom of sorts. I managed the coach through that, only to end up with the front of my RV nose to nose with a tree and my trailing truck perpendicular to the coach, the whole rig locked up having no where to go in the turn around.

[The coach served admirably as an all terrain vehicle when it negotiated the log covered puddle. It did, however, take me twenty minutes to refill all the cabinets and refrigerator of their far-flung contents. Peso settled down and became himself again after only an hour or two.]

I haven't mentioned the brakes locking up on the towed truck, or my leaving the lights on on in my truck, killing the battery when I needed it most, or my running for 100 miles with my towed truck's motor running to insure that I wouldn't find the battery dead again when I stopped.

Yes, it's the little things that make RVing intresting.

I passed up two national parks and the Wind River Range to get north for the upland bird opener, which is going to take place in 90 plus degree heat! Brilliant thinking, Sandy,

Aahh, it's the little things.

Regression to the Mean

2007-08-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I fished. Ryan Herbert, a guide from North Park Anglers in Walden, Co. and I hit the North Platte River by 8 am. I lost the use of my fly rod before getting out of the parking area when the rear window of my camper shell fell on it. Ryan carried several rods, thank goodness. I used one of his for the day.

We walked into an outrageously pretty canyon and started fishing a very nice, boulder-strewn rapids that had several nice runs in it. We spent nearly the entire fishing day covering little more than several hundred yards of water from where we started fishing. I caught some very nice fish.

The water we fished contains only wild fish, no stockers and there is a difference, a substantial difference. Stocked fish lack the fight and strength of wild trout. Even a 12-14 inch wild fish give s you a pull and requires a little finesse to land when they are hooked in fast water. I caught three species of trout, Rainbow, Brown and Cut-bow. Ryan was delighted to see me get the grand slam. Trust me, I was delighted as well. I was surprised at there average size. I caught several in the 18" range and lost several more that were larger.

Nymphing was the order of the day. I was a little surprised to have Ryan say I didn't have to go lighter than #4 tippet. I used a two nymph dropper set-up, with the higher and larger nymph having a tungston bead head. This heavier-than-lead material allowed me to fish the deep runs, without having to weight-up with additional lead shot.

I am not an accomplished fly fisherman. I missed more strikes than I would care to admit in the course of the day. Although Ryan was complementary regarding my abilities, I felt frustrated at times. My line management skills could certainly use improvement. I intend to begin spending more time fly fishing so, perhaps, I can get where I would like to be, skill-wise. Not being able to get the line to do what you want it to do can be and is frustrating at times.

I had Ryan do some fishing so I could observe his technique. I learned a couple of things that I can put to use. One thing he did, which helped when the wind was blowing, was to use a single haul on the forward cast to help get the line get down through the wind and onto the intended target spot more easily and with better control. It reduces the affects of wind on your line. The other technique improvement I took to heart, was how to manage big, up stream line mends when dealing with some real current.

I always make it a point to have my guides fish a little. There is always something to glean from their fishing techniques while I watch them. You also get to pick their brains all day while you're out there. You never know what you'll learn. It's always been interesting and educational when I've employed a guide. I can't say I've ever been out with one who I wouldn't willingly go out with a second time.

I thank my good judgment in having made the decision to spend a week attending the West Yellowstone Fly Fishing School twenty some odd years ago. I didn't learn everything one needs to know to be a consunmate fisherman, but I did get what I consider to be an essential overview of fly fishing. I learned the basics of reading water, understanding the basic requirements of trout regarding cover, food, and holding water, a rudimentary understanding of aquatic insects' life cycles, and had drilled into me until it was indelibly printed into my brain, that a drag-free float is essential, if you want to catch fish. The second law I learned was that when nymphing, you have to get down to the fish by using whatever amount of weight the conditions call for. Often, negative fishing results are due to you not getting the fly low enough in the water column, down to the fish.

On the way out of the canyon, I fished a riffle that Ryan said is a great evening dry fly spot. He was right, Nymphing the riffle produced no takes at all, except one, but it was a beauty and unusual. A very nice Brown Trout actually tried to take the strike indicator on my line, having ignored two plump nymphs. Both Ryan and I saw the fish. It exposed itself in the very shallow water from front lip past its dorsal fin when it surfaced to take what it thought was a big bug.

At least as interesting was the true whale we found as we stood on the bank planning how to approach and fish this riffle. Looking into to the water just to our right, Ryan saw what we agreed was a 25" trout lying in three feet of water up against a weed bed. I dropped a leach pattern vertically on his nose to no avail. Monster fish! It was a great day on the water.

I fly fish for many reasons, but the one reason I mention to anyone who asks is: "I have never been on an ugly trout stream." Days the fish don't bite, or you are all fumble-thumbed, or whatever else may be denying you fish, you always have a lovely setting to enjoy. Many a time, I have put down the rod and just taken in the scenery. Like people who march off through the woods for miles just to be out there, I can enjoy myself on a trout stream whether or not I'm fishing successfully. Want to see beautiful country, find a trout stream and you'll be there.

That was yesterday. Today, I did domestic chores and basically took it easy. I read for hours and took an afternoon nap, slowing down and catching up a little. I took the coach into town to fill up the propane tank, the fresh water tank and to dump the holding tanks.

I stopped by the post office to send my 24-105 mm lens in to Canon's service repair center. I dropped it in the river yesterday. I had put it inside my shirt, being too impatient to put it back in my backpack, where it belonged and went on fishing. Another lesson learned.

I'm going to miss that lens. There is now a gaping hole in my lens coverage. I have my 10-22 and my 100-400, but nothing to cover the middle range. Bummer. If, miraculously, it is sent to the house repaired within thirteen days, Whitey, who is flying up to join me on the 5th, can bring it up with him. I'm not holding out much hope.

Neither of the other two smaller digital cameras that went in the water have yet been returned, either, Yes, two others! One went into the salt water of Christmas Island, and its so-called water proof replacement died when I was thrown out of a drift boat on the Animas River recently.

Talk about a regression to the mean. I have broken three fly rods, drown two digital cameras and one lens, all in the last couple of months. I had gone twenty five years without a problem with a fly rod or a camera until now.

A final note: While doing laundry in town this morning. I met a couple [also doing laundry] who have made living without a house, an art. In their mid to late seventies, they have been living in a 26' pull trailer for almost five years, and they have it down to a parsimonious science.

They are able to go 21 days before necessity requires them to go into town. They redefine the word frugal, especially when it comes to water, electricity and propane use. They get more time out of a 6 gallon tank of propane than I could have dreamed possible. They are frugal. Almost never do they turn on heat, and then only for minutes first thing in the morning. They must cook with wood. They are huge devotees of the state and national forest system where they have to pay nothing to camp. The story goes on. Use your imagination, then ask yourself if you could live as they do. And, the kicker is, they absolutely love it and are doing it by choice, not from necessity.

P.S. I will be adding pictures to the last couple of blogs when Connie talks me through the process on making it happen!

Walden, Colorado- Moose Country

2007-08-20T10:51:00.001-07:00

I've been in Walden the past three days, driving Jackson County and the Cameron Pass area seeking moose to photograph. I've had some luck. Last night I found the granddaddy of all moose, a huge, massively antlered bull. He was obliging enough to feed and bed down within reach of my 100-400mm lens. I took lots of pictures of him and the FIVE other moose and one spike elk that filtered into the meadow over the course of my time with Mr. Big.

There were two female moose, one calf and two younger males all feeding within a couple hundred yards of each other. The spike elk held to the far side of the meadow. Perhaps, sharing is not common between the two species. Or, faced with half a dozen human observers, the elk may just have been more reticent than the moose to venture out in the open. The female moose, and this one male, seem to be inured to the presence of people. I have approached or been approached by females, even one with a calf, quite closely. The males were another story. The very few I'd seen were anxious to remove themselves from view, post haste,- with the exception of this one large bull.

This animal appeared to be favoring its right fore leg, which made me consider that it might not only be injured, but rather old as well. The rack on this animal held 14 points on one side and 13 points on the other. I could have curled up with a book within the spread of these antlers. I have no idea what all the points signify, but clearly it means something, I'll have to inquire and see if I can find out. And to think that the Alaskan males can grow to be 600 pounds heavier than those found here in the lower 48 states. That's a significant difference.

The large bull's left antler had a broad white streak down the of outside curve and several of the left side tines were also white. I deduced that the scraping to remove the velvet from his rack had begun. It is a magnificent animal.

The area of heaviest moose sightings lies about five miles east of Cameron Pass, along the length of Long Draw Road. Long Draw Road starts at Highway 14, and winds through the Colorado State Forest State Park for ten miles, dead-ending at a very large reservoir. There are camp grounds, a couple of small lakes and a half dozen very nice open willow laden meadows along this road, each seemingly more inviting for moose than the last.

I now have several hundred pictures of moose to wade through to pick the best of the best. I have shots of single females, single calves, momma and child, single males, though few, and several shots of three or four moose caught in the same frame. All in all, it was well worth the three days of dawn-to-dark searching.

Walden took a day or two to fully appreciate. It and its location. It is a town of 267 residents, but does provide the essentials, including three or four small lodgings, three cafes and a fly fishing shop. [ I am going out with a fishing guide tomorrow.] The Illinois, Michigan, Canadian, North Platte are only a few of the streams that flow through this area. There seems to be a multitude of tiny streams that converge and become another named creek or river until just a couple of major name streams leave the north end of the county. This entire area's streams flow north, an unusual and rare circumstance found for rivers. The North Platte and the Colorado River are birthed here.

I drove a self-guided auto tour through the Arapahoe National Wildlife Refuge just a few miles from town. This refuge supports 300 different species of wildlife from Hawks to voles. I was most interested in the Antelope, prairie dogs, white pelicans and blue herons. I also took the self guided auto tour through a producing gas and oil field. Signs explained multiple land use, all in politically correct, acceptable language.

There is and has been quite a bit of history in the area. The fur trade brought in the first users of the area, followed by gold seekers, coal miners, gas and oil well drillers and, finally came the railroad. Today, gas and oil and coal production are still on-going, but tourism must be important.

This high sage brush covered flat also holds many large cattle ranches. Hay fields and cattle are ubiquitous. And like green, full-bodied ribbons, solid belts of willows follow each of the many streams that weave their way through this country. With some frequency, moose are often seen in these willow belts that encase the length of the streams out in this open country. In fact, my tomorrow's guide said a large male moose was seen within just a few hundred yards of downtown Walden last evening. [And here I've been putting 150 per day on my truck searching for them.]

Yesterday's hot air balloon festival was canceled due to impending thunderstorms and high winds. [It has rained almost daily in the afternoon since I arrived in Denver. ] The balloonists float over the pass to Steamboat Springs, which is 50 miles away. That would have been nice to see and photograph. I also found out that there is a dog trial going on. The RV park where the participants are supposedly staying was empty when I went by at 8 am this morning. The office was vacant and locked, too. I will try to find out the when and where this trialing is going on in another hour or two. I also found out that Sage Grouse abound in the area and have a public accessible Spring Lek and display area.

Here in the high sage brush filled flats, it was only after I drove the Arapahoe National Wildlife Refuge, found just a few miles out of town, and traveled the local highways and county roads to see all the willow shrouded streams that contain trout, that I began to appreciate Walden's diversity. The wetlands out in this seemingly empty sage country is rather extensive.

I have been letting Peso run free in the sage brush. He can cover ground right out to the horizon! I have placed the E collar [the new politically correct name for a shock collar] on him to maintain contact. He responds very well to just the slightest low charge tap. The three weeks he spent with Chad Smith this Spring is paying dividends. By the time I put him on his first birds Sept. 1, I am certain he will handle with poise and panache. He really is a very good dog, from breeding, to desire, and he has an extraordinary nose. He's very biddable and eager to please. I'm a lucky man.

It is time for lunch and a nap before deciding whether to fish one of the local lakes or search for more moose.

Note: It remains to be seen if Walden is the best location to park the RV. The North Park KOA Campground on Hwy. 14, east of Gould may be closer to the best moose watching habitat and good fishing. After tomorrow's guided fishing, I'll know even better. But while the KOA has the hook-ups, it cost $34/day, while the very large pull-off I'm currently occupying just north of Walden, next to the willow-lined Michigan River, has not only been quiet and free of people, it is free. It costs me nothing. Nada. Sweet! And, being without hook-ups is affording me the opportunity to see how long I can last with my on-board water supply. I have a generator to provide lights and electricity so, no problem there. I like this RVing.

Sandy

Taking a Poudre

2007-08-17T13:19:00.000-07:00

Connie flew home Tues. the 14. I made the short run north just beyond Fort Collins, Co., taking a camp site at the K.O.A. campground at the junction of Highway 14 and 287. From here it is a straight shot up the La Cache le Poudre River to the top of the Rockies. [and beyond]. Highway 14 follows the river up and over the Continental Divide.

Leaving the RV coach down low, Thursday, I ran an exploratory trip up the river in my truck eyeballing the river, sticking my nose in here and there, seeking information from the forest service personnel, and generally getting a sense of the area before deciding what to focus on in the realm of fishing and photography. Before coming back down to the coach, I stopped in at Trap Lake 55 miles up the river to see if I couldn't find the moose that I'd been told about by the forest service people.

This is what I learned from the forest service folks: about the local moose. Twenty four Shiras Moose were introduced in the willow bottoms on the upper edge of the Illinois River in North Park. The population has grown to over 600. The tiny town of Walden claims to be the "Moose Viewing Capital of Colorado". There is even a Moose Visitor Center that caters to the wildlife enthusiasts.

The Algonquian Indians gave the moose its name, which means eater of twigs. Willows are their favorite food, but they also eat aspen, fir and aquatic vegetation. Moose feed on young twigs, buds, bark and the leaves of woody plants. North Park has an abundance of moose food.

Some of the better areas in North Park for moose viewing include the State Forest State Park, the South fork of the Michigan River, Arapahoe Wildlife Refuge, Snyder Creek and Willow Creek on both sides of Colorado Highway 125, the Illinois River southeast of Rand and Jack Creek.

I spent two evenings at Trap Lake photographing moose. The first evening felt like I'd hit the mother-lode. I had one adult female eating vegetation 30 yards off shore, while her calf and another female fed along the shore line. I had the long lens going taking lots of pictures.

My photo session ended when momma came out of the water, and accompanied by her calf, came directly at me and walked by no more than twenty feet away. I was video taping at the time thinking I might be be taping my own demise if momma chose to stomp me into a pulp. My verbal plea to this mother of all moose of "Oh, shit, Momma that's definatly close enough, thank you very much" is recorded just before I dropped the video camera to put a mere sapling between me and this extremely large animal. I don't pucker easily at wildlife, but the sheer size of this twig eater had me puckered. I'd heard all the stories about mother moose temper tantrums and how protective they can be of their young. She and her calf ambled on past me turning off into the woods, leaving me to find my composure. [I almost needed to check my shorts.]

Thursday I made the drive up the river stopping off to fish at five locations spread over 25 miles of water. I caught Brooke Trout at all but one stop. The stop that I came up dry on was located in the "catch-and-release only" segment of the river. Sounds right, doesn't it, to come up dry in the premier water stretch of river? I tried different nymph combinations and even threw a couple of dry flies, all to no avail.

At 5:00 pm I ceased fishing and headed for Trap Lake and another photo session. No moose were in or on the shores of the lake, but I did find the mother and calf pair in the woods. I took photos and video of them for more than an hour, until the light failed. I was able to walk within 20 feet of this pair. I won't presume that I can expect such latitude from the next moose I encounter.

Today, Friday, I stayed in camp and did household chores for several hours before heading back toward Ft. Collins where I could pick up a Wi-Fi signal to write this blog and make cell phone calls. This I wanted to do before heading up and over Cameron Pass to Walden, where I will spend a couple of days incommunicado photographing as many moose as I can find. It's not often you get the opportunity to see moose, and I'd like to take full advantage.

I'm parked in a strip-mall parking lot writing this blog with a heavily overcast sky deciding whether or not to let the rain fall. If I leave now, I should be able to make Walden before nightfall. Driving this RV with a truck in-tow after dark in the mountains full of game is not something I prefer to do. Last night on the trip out of the mountains, I had to brake for two different deer and one black bear so, I best get on with it.

It's a Process

2007-08-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

The last day of fly fishing the on the Big Thompson River east of Estes Park.

First, we have the snarled line to deal with. Notice the ducks that have joined Connie. You can't see it in the photo, but her reel is under water behind her while she works on untangling her line. [She's still closer to the beginning of the learning curve than the end of it so, I didn't say too much about it. I think I'll keep the good reels packed away a little longer.]

Then, all her "chuck and duck" practicing with a double nymph setup pays off. She has success! She catches a wild trout in this fast moving water, which presented some problems. It was really nice to see her catch a fish on her last day with me before flying home to Tucson. She was justifiably proud and delighted.

There is No Fair in Fishing

2007-08-12T20:31:00.000-07:00

Ok,
So yes, this is Sandy's blog, but I just had to say this. I'm trying my hardest to "chuck and duck", Sandy's version of flicking the line and fly into the water, and unfortunately I need lots of practice. Sandy ambles over to show me how to do it and yup, you guessed it. He catches the fish on my rod. Now I ask is this fair? We will attack it again tomorrow before I head out to Tucson on Tuesday.
Connie

Touri Americanus Abound

2007-08-12T04:43:00.000-07:00

While walking the dog early this morning, a phrase popped into my head that I hadn't thought of in years. The phrase is Touri Americanus abound. It was a phrase used by a fellow college freshman many years ago whenever he saw behavior that confused, confounded or irritated him. He, apparently, saw it often because he invoked it almost daily.

The last few days I have seen such behavior rather frequently and have even participated in it myself. Here in Estes Park, everyone but the few residents are tourists. We're all from somewhere else, here to enjoy Rocky Mountain National Park, see this magnificent country and, of course, its wildlife. And, in doing so, we often act like the tourists we are.

Every time I get in my truck I see erratic behavior. There are the rubber-necks, who force following vehicles to stand on their brakes when they see just about any form of wild life. With complete disregard for others on the road, they suddenly slow down, stop or pull almost all the way off the road to gape at the animals. Then, there are the drivers who can't make a decision, the wafflers. They waffle back and forth trying to decide whether or not to make a turn, whether to turn right or left, and whether or not to stop in the middle of the road to consult a map. Many do. You probably recognize the type. After all they abound, are found everywhere, and are for the most part Americans.

Then there are the pedestrian touri Americanus. They must believe God is entirely on their side, for they neither look left or right when walking across busy roads and streets and when entering and exiting stores. They blithely and blindly creep up and down the sidewalks, usually in groups of four or more, chatting away with no awareness of their fellow tourists. They often create bottle necks at store fronts, in doorways and on street corners. If you want to hear how the corn crop is doing in Iowa or Nebraska, just sidle up to one or two of these wandering groups and you'll be sure to hear within a minute or two.

This tourist behavior is so endemic, it even seems to affect the local wildlife of Estes Park. Just last evening I saw two very nice bucks in velvet and one young wanna be meandering undecidedly back and forth across a main thoroughfare before deciding the slope of a hillside, not the middle of the road, was the preferable place to graze. While they crossed and re-crossed the road, I put on my long lens and parked the car, which almost caused a problem in itself. Driving with one's knee in traffic is not really the safest way to do things, but it does leave one's hands free to change lenses. I have become rather good at it, despite Connie's gasping, chest grabbing antics whenever she sees me doing it. I was parked and ready to photograph these deer when they finally settled down on the hill side, and I was able to get some rather good photographs because I was ready. But, in doing so, I was exhibiting the type of tourist behavior that I'm writing about. I guess we're all guilty of it from time to time.

My standing along side the road creates its own problems. People seeing me peering intently into the back of my camera prompts the inquisitive to slow down to see what I am shooting. Were I not there, the vast majority of travelers would drive right on by never noticing the wildlife.

Wildlife is not readily visible, given its natural coloring. The animals blend in with the surroundings so well that they often go unnoticed. One must be consciously looking to catch sight of these animals. A dead elk lying beside the road gave stark testimony to that fact.

The toll on wildlife in the national forests and national parks in North America is truly appalling. Tens of thousands die annually. It's a staggering number! Most of these animals are not even seen until the poor driver finds them wrapped incongruously around the front of his vehicle. For many, it's their first up close and personal encounter with wildlife. It's a shame that it happens so frequently.

Yes, Touri Americanus abound, and sadly, I don't think they [we] are ever going to completely disappear despite the best efforts made to educate the public to be careful.

Rare Air, Indeed

2007-08-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

We are parked in Estes Park, just feet from a wonderful little trout stream. We are only a short walk from Estes Park's shopping area and a plethora of fine eating establishments. Elk were walking by within twenty feet of the coach less than an hour after we made our hookups, while we were still settling in.

We were off to see Rocky Mountain National Park this morning, immediately after obtaining a steaming cup of coffee and pastries from a nearby bakery. As we started up hill on the Trail Ridge Road, things started going down hill for me.

Estes Park is at 7,500', give or take a foot, and everything else in Rocky Mountain National Park is considerably higher. When we hit the Fall River Park entrance, a sign greeted us with the stated fact that 50% of visitors to Rocky Mountain National Park suffer from altitude sickness, to one degree or another. I was clearly one. I was already suffering more than 1 degree of altitude sickness symptoms and was wondering how many more degrees of it I would be dealing with before we finished the day.

The Trail Ridge Road is the longest stretch of road, at the highest average elevation, in the country. Its highest point is 11,796', and averages an altitude not too much lower than that for many miles. And, here I was still below 8,000 feet with a headache reminiscent of a bad hang-over and a noticeably elevated respiratory rate. [I'd had the same altitude adjustment problem for the first week in Durango at 7,200'.] I decided to let Connie drive, thinking I'd just catch my breath, so-to-speak, and spell her behind the wheel for the return trip.

Yes, the return trip! Once you pass the Alpine Visitor Center and go on toward Grand Lake, there is no way back except to retrace your route short of making a Herculean drive all the way down to I 70, proceeding east and coming back north well east of the park. When I realized this fact, my respiration rate went up another notch.

With Connie driving, and me resting my eyes in the passenger seat, she made the hour and a half long drive up to the Alpine Visitor's Center. This facility appears to be perched on the top of the world. The views of the vistas from there immediately reminded me of the vistas we had taken in in Denali National Park in Alaska just a couple of years ago.

It is difficult to describe such large scale, but once you have seen it, you know what I mean. It was hard to absorb the vistas from the visitor's center, the scale is just so large and the distances so long. The sheer magnitude of it all overwhelms the senses very quickly. Everyone who has stood on the rim of the Grand Canyon, I think, would agree that the mind just shuts down after exposure to such large scaled vistas, and several return trips are required to adjust and to be able to deal with such large palettes.

Well, Connie and I took advantage of the available parking at the Visitor's Center and walked from one magnificent view to the next until we were both suffering sensory overload. We discussed options and chose to return to Estes Park. We decided not to proceed further into the park and be faced with the return drive. I was fully in favor of dropping back to the level where trees could at least grow.

Despite the headache and general malaise I felt due to the altitude , I very much enjoyed getting up into the Alpine Zone of Rocky National Park. It is a somewhat stark, thinly clad , yet beautiful ecosystem. By definition, being that high, means you are looking down at most mountain peaks, all the forested slopes and virtually all lakes. It is a place from which to see the true beauty that is the Rockies. It's a place of rare air, literally and figuratively.

`

Dog at Large

2007-08-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

A forty five year old father of two sons, while waiting for a the conclusion of his purchase of a .22 caliber rifle for older son's 12th birthday, was surprised to see two squad cars come to a screeching halt in the sporting goods store's parking lot with all lights blazing. Through the door came four deputies, asking if there was a Jeff Sievert on the premises. There was, and as Jeff identified himself, he was grabbed and pinioned by two of the deputies, while a third put him in handcuffs. They hauled him out of the store and into a squad car and drove off, leaving the occupants of the sporting goods store stunned.

Jeff spent the night in the county jail. Morning came and Jeff was released. He didn't know why he had suddenly been released anymore than he understood why he had been locked up.

As he exited the building, he was met by his wife. When he hadn't returned from errand running the previous afternoon, through the evening and all night, and hadn't answered his cell phone, she had become concerned enough to call the Sheriff's department to report his strange and sudden disappearance.

Kamie was informed that her husband was in jail. ''Why", she asked? "Dog at Large" came the reply.

A warrant had been issued because a fine hadn't been paid. Her house dog had been picked up running loose and the fine never mailed to the authorities.

Friends, keep your pets close! You don't want to be charged with "Dog at Large" and go through what Jeff experienced.

This is a true story. It popped into my head early this morning as I walked my dog along a trail in the Sand Creek urban green belt, here in the Denver area. An elderly stroller going in the opposite direction, who was quite unhappy to see my dog, told me that I'd have hell to pay if a park ranger found me with a dog. Apparently, parts of the Sand Creek green belt prohibit pets, bicycles and horses. It's walking folk only, and if this lady is any judge of the local attitude, something to pay attention to.

I left the area quickly, getting back to the dogs allowed area. I did not want to become the first on my block to have been charged with "Dog at Large".

Serendipity

2007-08-07T15:38:00.000-07:00

A serendipitous meeting today provided the critical mass necessary to get me over the hump and onto the web as a blogger. The catalyst for this move was Chris McKenzie. I met Chris when he joined me in a field of sun flowers. I was standing waist deep in them taking photographs when Chris waded in to take pictures of his own. Our exits from the field coincided and we had a chat before climbing into our respective vehicles to leave.

Chris is a full-fledged chef working in two major Denver hotels, one as a food chef and the other as a pastry chef. He's also an outdoors enthusiast and a fisherman. Gotta be a great, guy, right? I extend to him a heart felt thank you. Chris, you provided the final nudge, and here I am writing my first entry. It was our serendipitous meeting that tipped the scales.

I would also like to give a hearty thank you to Dr. G., whose relentless pressure for the past several years did, finally, have his desired effect. He will be delighted to hear that I've finally succumbed. In fact, I'm sure of it. Don't gloat, David. You, friends and family have been suggesting that I get aboard. I'm aboard, and I now hope that I don't disappoint.

Okay, on to the business of this blog, reporting my travels northwards from Tucson to southern Canada and all that happens on the way. Connie, my wife and I, and Peso, my year old English Setter, are currently RV parked in metropolitan Denver about to head out to Estes Park and the fishing of central Colorado.

This morning I had the front end of our 36' motor coach aligned in the hope that it will tame this beast. The Good Ship Lollipop has liked to use the entire road when traveling over 60 mph. With the front end aligned, I'm hopeful that we can now share the road with others as good road neighbors. Connie's frayed nerves will appreciate the rest, trust me. This follows by just two days my having an extra leaf spring added to each rear spring package on my Toyota Tundra. This stopped incessant bottoming-out incidents. I think we now have our vehicles mechanically prepared to insure good operation throughout the remainder of the trip

We are parked at Denver Meadows, a RV park adjacent to the 225 Freeway in Aurora, an eastern suburb of Denver. To mask the ambient noise of this freeway traffic, we run the A/C system aboard the coach 24/7. Our western border is formed by a small stream, which I've learned, is part of a Denver greenbelt that runs a considerable distance to the north and south of our location. I walk Peso along this creek, and over the course of the last three days, have discovered a fair amount of wildlife to be living along its course. This stream, its trees and the grass borders leading down to the creek teach me something each day. So far, I have discovered deer, geese, muskrats, Cattle Egrets, White and Blue Herons, Green Back Herons, Kingfishers, with more to be discovered, I'm sure.

The point I'd like to make is that from an initial negative assessment of this park's location, I have come to realize and learn that wildlife and urban areas can be compatible. I have found Colorado, with its outdoor ethic, to be vastly further along in its efforts to provide urban area green belts and parks than other states, including Arizona.

My god, the parks! I drove by a city park designed to be used for team sports, hiking, picnicking and other citizen activities to be vastly superior to anything provided in Phoenix or Tucson, and four or five times the size. Clearly, the citizens of Colorado have much to be proud of. Yes, Denver is sprawling in all directions, but it is doing it with a plan that includes parks and green belts with amazing results. I even found very nice bucks, in velvet, inhabiting an area of natural grass and trees that couldn't have been larger than thirty acres next to a wrecking yard and a miniature golf course.
On a walk this evening along another green belt, I found signs that stated the green belt had been made possible through Colorado State Lottery profits. A second sign said that rolled back sales tax monies had also contributed to the making of this green belt. I was able to walk an eight foot wide concrete side-walk along the edge of this land left natural. Very nice, and something all of Denver's citizens can utilize.

We spent a couple of hours in the recently open Bass Pro Outdoor World retail store today. The interior of the building must be nearly the size of our four acre lot back home. It is a mega store like Cabela's, Super K Marts, Walmarts etc. It's stunning with its aquariums, animal mounts that adorn the entrance, walls and provided displays sprinkled throughout the store. "Big boxes" seem to be becoming ubiquitous, and it's not hard to see their popularity. They provide one stop shopping on a grand scale. Despite some public sentiment against them, they are becoming the norm in the very large regional malls being built out here in the west. What's not to like about a store in which you can pick up a cup of Starbucks coffee and have lunch in a fine restaurant before meandering through the fine gun room or picking out that new lightweight tent you've always wanted? A quick glance into the fishing department left me stunned. I saw more fishing rods and reel brands in one place than I knew existed! The mall that contains this store is so large that walking it is out of the question. One drives from one super sized store to the next. The mall sits on what was Denver's Stapleton airport. BIG!