Anniversary

Today is the thirty-fifth annual celebration of our wedding.  Thirty-five years ago I watched as Rachael walked down the aisle toward me and our future as a married couple.  I was and am one very blessed man.

Life hasn’t always been kind, but it has always been an adventure.  We have had our share of struggles, but together we always managed to get through.  At no time have I ever doubted my decision to enter this union.

Rachael doesn’t hunt or fish.  She doesn’t make saddles, belts, purses, or dog collars, and she doesn’t go shopping in the sporting goods store.  At the same time, I don’t decorate cakes, make crafts, draw or paint, or shop in the floral departments.  However, she isn’t shy about using a hammer or saw, and I like to sew.  I enjoy accounting.  Rachael enjoys graphic arts.

We both like to read and write.  We like to cook and create.  We enjoy long drives, and antique/thrift/junk stores.  We like being with each other and discovering things.  And we’ve never run out of things to talk about.

I’m looking forward to another thirty-five years with this wonderful person.  Thank you Rachael.

Chili Controversy

In “Chili For One” I wrote about my East Texas Chili and how I came up with it, and I’ve received a lot of complaints that it isn’t a “true Texas chili.”  The idea of flavor was first and foremost when I developed this recipe, and I don’t apologize for making a chili that tastes good.  Yes, I added beans and tomatoes, and I call it a Texas Chili.  I don’t call it a True Texas Chili, but I do question what makes a “true Texas chili.”

I was born in Fort Worth, Texas.  I grew up in Texas.  I lived there 26 years before moving out of the state, but I still have family and friends in Texas.  My Texas roots can be traced back to the 1830’s through one branch of the family, the 1820’s through another branch of the family, and there is evidence a portion of my history may go back to the 1500’s.  I believe I have the background to call the chili I developed in Texas a Texas Chili.

My Texas family made chili.  Sometimes it had beans, and sometime it did not have beans.  Sometimes it had tomatoes, and sometimes it did not have tomatoes.  Sometimes it had meat, and sometimes it did not have meat.  Sometimes it was red, and sometimes it was green.  All of it was made in Texas by Texans.

I’ve eaten chili in 48 of the 50 states (I’ve missed Maine and Florida) as well as D.C., and I’ve eaten chili in Canada, Mexico, France, England, Germany, Italy, and Spain.  Some I enjoyed more than others, but every one was worth trying. 

I know about “purists.”  Most of us contain some degree of pride about one thing or another.  Chili purists are no different from Barbeque purists.  (Notice how I spelled ‘barbeque’.)  We all have our likes and dislikes.  That’s what makes for many different recipes.  The beauty of diversity is the escape from boredom and the mundane. 

I do like beanless and/or tomatoless chili as well as beaned and/or tomatoed chili.  I also like it over spaghetti.  I’ve had chili over Fritos, hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, potato salad, and green beans (again, some I enjoyed more than others), but the interesting thing is all of this was in Texas.  In one of the revered chili pots of San Antonio, I had a fantastic meatless chili with beans and tomatoes.  And it was made in the tiny restaurant of a family who were decedents of the original “Chili Queens.”

Chili seems to have originated with the ingredients on hand.  Peppers, fresh and dried, were in most kitchens, as were beans.  Tomatoes grew in many gardens alongside of onions.  Beef was plentiful, and goats were everywhere.  Goats in Texas chili??  Yes.  And good Texas chili at that.  (I’ll write about goats in Texas cuisine another time.)

All of this gets me back to where I started, if it’s not any good, it doesn’t matter if it’s a “true Texas chili,” it’s just not any good.  See “Chili For One.”

Moose

I was a bow hunter until I was almost twenty-three years old.  Since I couldn’t own a rifle until my twenty-first birthday (Texas laws at that time), and since I didn’t have an adult over twenty-one to hunt with me, I was restricted to using a bow.  But I didn’t mind.  I was considered to be good with a bow, and after I turned twenty-one and purchased my first rifle, I had the privilege of hunting in two separate seasons.  But I gave up bow hunting after an incident with some wild javalina in west Texas.

Before I retired my bow I managed to take several deer, one elk, one black bear, a bighorn sheep, who knows how many rabbits, squirrels, and other critters including fish, but the one I remember most was the moose.  I had been hoping to make this trip happen for a long time, but I had to wait on two events to come about before I could actually do it.  First I had to turn twenty-one, and second I had to be drawn for a tag.  Both occurred in the same year.

I sent in my out of state application along with my license fee and a few other fees the state of Idaho required many months before my birthday, and since I was to turn twenty-one before the start of moose season, there was no automatic rejection.  By the time the drawing was finally held, I had forgotten about it.  When the tags came in the mail I was completely surprised.

There were still a few months of waiting before the hunt could proceed, but there was also much to do.  First of all there was my job.  I had to arrange for the hunt to coincide with a business trip to the area so to minimize my use of vacation time.  Then I had to study the designated hunt area.

When I looked at the topo map of the area north and east of Coeur d’Alene where I was to hunt, I realized that it wasn’t flat land.  I was by no means out of shape at that time in my life, but I did not spend much time in the mountains where the air is a bit thinner than what I was used to.  So I started training.

The first thing was to arrange my business trips so I would have at least two free days each week to spend hiking.  If the cities I visited were in or near the mountains, so much the better.  I had an office in Denver, so this was a convenient place to be for access to the mountains, but I also had offices in New York City, Dallas, and Chicago.  So I started taking the stairs instead of the elevators.  I placed a backpack in each office, and except for Denver, I filled the packs with bricks.  I did get a few strange looks as I walked the city streets in a business suit and hiking boots while wearing a heavy backpack.  I didn’t care.

Many cities in the west were near enough to some mountains to provide a hiking or backpacking workout, and in the east are plenty of great rugged areas also.  And I made certain I was rarely far from one of these areas.  By the end of the summer I was in the best shape of my life.

Normally I would fly from city to city and rent a vehicle when I arrived, but I was also free to drive between cities if I so chose.  My home was in Fort Worth, and when I was there in August, I decided to drive my car to Denver and leave it there for a few days as I continued my travels by plane.  About two weeks later I drove from Denver to Salt Lake City, and my car stayed there a week or so.  By the middle of September, I had my car in Spokane and it was time to go hunting.  I drove to Coeur d’Alene and made it my base of operations, and then the next morning I drove into the mountains to find a campground.

I had never hunted moose before, nor did I know anyone who had done so.  I wasn’t opposed to using a guide, but I wanted to do this myself.  I had studied moose habitat and sort of understood that moose are where you find them.  The most likely places would be near a lake, pond, or river, but could also be just about anywhere else.  In other words, I didn’t know what I was doing.

The first three days of hunting would have been great if I had been hunting deer, bear, or elk, but I wasn’t.  I was hunting moose.  The weather was clear, the days were comfortable, and the nights were cold, and there wasn’t a moose to be found.  I hiked back to my car, and then drove back to Coeur d’Alene for a hot shower and a good cooked meal.

Just to break up the trip, I stopped into the company store in the city and visited with the store manager.  It wasn’t an official visit; I was just spending some time with a friend.  We talked about moose, needless to say, and he had a few tips.  The first was give up.  The second was to set my bow on the ground and walk about thirty yards away from it.  Third was to take a nap.  In every case a moose was certain to show up.  Thanks a lot.

The next morning I was already a few miles into the mountains when the sun came up.  My car was in a campground where I had staked a claim on an empty spot, and I was not going back to Coeur d’Alene until either I had a moose, or Sunday evening showed up.  I had two more days.

By noontime, I was already working my way back to the campground and had only a mile or so to go.  I came upon a small pond where I leaned my bow against a tree, took off my pack, and pulled out a sandwich.  The day was beautiful and warm, and I was just starting to think about quitting this hunt and going back to work.  Well I finished the sandwich, leaned back against a tree and fell asleep.

I began dreaming about the beauty of these mountains, the flowing waters I had crossed, the deer and elk I had seen, and the snorting.  Snorting?  I opened my eyes, and there was a moose.  It was just as my friend had said, give up, set down the bow, and take a nap.  I looked around for my bow and spotted it leaning against a tree about ten feet away.  Could I reach it without the moose seeing me?  Not a chance.

I eased an arrow from the quiver I had on my hip, jumped up and ran to the bow, fitted the arrow, drew back, and released.  All the while the moose was just watching.  The arrow disappeared into the chest of the moose; the moose looked down, then over at me, and then it turned and ran away.

I followed that moose about four miles before finding where it had fallen.  And it wasn’t before that moment that I realized just how big it was and how big a task it would be to get it out of there.  The four miles the moose had run was all downhill directly away from the campground where my car was.  What to do?

I decided to tag the moose, and leave a note for any passing bears that this belonged to me, and I would be back tomorrow to collect it.  I always carried some bright cloth or rope with me, so I used it to mark a trail as I worked my way back to my car.  At the campground, I loaded everything into the car and drove back to Coeur d’Alene.  It was almost dark when I checked into a motel for the night, but by seven the next morning I was at a stable ready to rent a horse.

I’m glad the old wrangler running the stable had seen this before.  One horse wasn’t enough, and one person wasn’t enough.  He was going with me.  We would take his truck and trailer with four mules.  All he would charge me was an arm and a leg.  At least he would use the moose’s arm and leg as payment.

By noon we were standing by the moose, and thankfully it hadn’t been disturbed.  The night was near freezing, and the moose had not begun to spoil.  It took both of us to gut it and quarter it.  The wrangler asked for the head to mount as a trophy, and I didn’t hesitate to give it to him.  It took all four mules to pack that beast out of there.  Back in the city, we drove straight to a butcher shop that prepared the meat for us.  I presented the tag and antlers to the Department of Fish and Game, filled out the required paperwork, and took the head back to the wrangler. 

All of this took a bit of time, and it was Tuesday afternoon before everything was completed.  I had allowed myself plenty of vacation time for the hunt, but I was hoping to have two or three days left over for some fishing.  As it was I needed to be back on the job in Spokane by Thursday, and the fishing would just have to wait for another time.

The butcher shipped the meat to my home in Texas where for months I either ate or gave away moose meat.  I was glad when it was gone, but I still wanted to go fishing in the area.  By the following summer I had my chance.

When I arrived back in Coeur d’Alene I had my fishing rod ready to go.  I took care of company business the first day I was there, and the following morning I was leaving town for the mountains.  On the way out of town, I passed by the stable where the wrangler was standing out front throwing a rope at a post.  I stopped in.  When I got out of the car, he recognized me and dragged me into his “office” to see the moose head he had mounted on the wall.  Somehow it seemed even bigger than when it was still on the moose.  Then he hung a closed sign on his door, grabbed his fishing pole, and we went fishing. 

I don’t think the old wrangler ever told me his name, but we shared a good time fishing and swapping stories that day.  I didn’t get back to Coeur d’Alene for another year, and when I did, the old man had passed on.  When I went into the stable to find him, the new wrangler gave me the news, and I was saddened by it.  I pointed up to the moose head and mentioned that he and I had pulled that moose out of the mountains almost two years ago.  The new wrangler said he had heard the story a hundred times.  That moose head had been the old man’s most prized possession.

Barbeque

One cannot be a Texan without having a close relationship with barbeque.  I don’t know the official statistics on the barbeque restaurant density as compared to the population mass, but I would not be surprised to discover that it is a ratio of 10:1 with the restaurants representing the larger number.

Fort Worth (my point of origin) was known for its stockyards, and consequently the local restaurants served a lot of beef.  Much of this beef was/is in the form of barbequed or grilled meats.  But almost anywhere in the state barbeque is readily available.

I traveled the country for several years for my employer, and I always sought out barbeque.  Most of the time I was out of Texas, so I decided to sample my way through the different approaches to preparing it in other states.  Was I ever surprised?  But I found out chicken, pork, turkey, mutton, and a few other things can also fit into a smoker, and be worth eating—usually.

To me grilling is not barbequing; however, any number of barbeque restaurants around the country use only a grill.  But to them it is barbeque.  Okay.  They just don’t know what they are missing.  I’ve been invited to homes in Texas where a weekend barbeque is just grilled hamburgers or hotdogs, so I guess the terms barbeque and grill are somewhat interchangeable, but to me there is a distinct difference.

Then there are barbeque sauces.  I’m not much of a sauce person.  When I do have it, I prefer something a bit thin with a peppery/vinegary bite to it.  Unless I’m eating barbeque from somewhere outside of Texas.  That’s when I want a thick sauce, even a sweet sauce.  Maybe I’m trying to mask the taste a little, but that doesn’t stop me from eating it.

The reality is barbeque is where you find it.  Everyone has a regional preference, me included, but I’ll never turn down some else’s preference, especially if they are buying.  And by opening myself to other barbeque sources, I can say what my preferences are based on knowledge rather than regional pride.

With this said, my preference for barbeque is the central Texas style.  There is something called the Barbeque Trail around Austin, and this is a great place to start if one wants good central Texas barbeque.  There are, however, many places that are not listed on the Barbeque Trail, and I have yet to find one that should be avoided.  Then again, never in my travels have I found a barbeque restaurant to avoid, although some may not be my preference, but as I said, barbeque is where you find it.

When I am having a barbeque at my own home, I tend to make brisket.  When I was growing up, the brisket was a cheap cut of beef, and easy to find, and it has a very beefy flavor.  But brisket isn’t the only thing I’ll put on the rack.  Sausages, pork, chicken, turkey, venison, even beans or mac and cheese have been known to spend time in my smoker.  But I’ll take a good smoked brisket before just about anything else.  Here is one of the many ways I handle brisket.  Warning:  It’s not fast food.

Smoked Brisket

    1 whole beef brisket (10 to 12 pounds), untrimmed

    ¼ cup balsamic vinegar

    ½ cup coarse salt

    ½ cup coarse ground black pepper

    ½ cup ancho chile powder

Score the exposed fat on the brisket with a sharp knife to make a ½-inch crosshatch pattern.  Using a pastry brush, apply the balsamic vinegar to the fat, covering evenly.  Cover the brisket with plastic wrap and set it in the refrigerator for 1 to 2 hours.

Mix together the salt, ground pepper, and chile powder to make a rub.  Remove the brisket from the refrigerator, uncover, and pat the dry rub onto all surfaces of the meat and fat.  If there is any left over, just apply to the fat.  Recover and place back into the refrigerator overnight.

Early (very early) the next morning, remove the brisket from the refrigerator and allow it to come to room temperature while preparing the smoker with an oak and/or pecan wood fire.  (Alternatively, prepare a charcoal fire and add oak and/or pecan chunks that have been soaked in water about 1 hour.  Replenish the wood chunks each time additional charcoal is added to the smoker.)  When the smoker has reached about 225F, unwrap the brisket and place on the grill rack, fat side up, as far from the heat source as possible.  Maintain a temperature of 220F to 230F for about 8 to 9 hours.  Remove the brisket, wrap in aluminum foil, and place back into the smoker for another 3 to 4 hours, maintaining the 220F to 230F temperature.

Again remove the brisket from the smoker, unwrap and separate the top and bottom layers.  Rewrap the individual layers in foil and return the top layer to the smoker for an additional 2 hours allowing the fire to die down.  The bottom layer should remain wrapped in foil, and wrapped again in a thick towel, and allowed to rest at room temperature about 30 to 45 minutes before slicing and serving.

When the remaining top portion of the brisket is finished, remove from the smoker, wrap in a thick towel, and allow to rest about ½ hour before unwrapping, thinly slicing across the grain and serving.

Enough said.  Time to eat.

Biggie

I decided some 30 years ago I would never again own a dog, and true to my word, I still do not own a dog, but I have a dog—a part-time dog.  Our neighbor has a dog that my wife walks every day.  Biggie is a white dog.  After that, who know what he is?  He appears to have a mix of Bichon, Poodle, Shizu, and Dachshund.  His curly white coat looks like wool (sheep dog?).  He is very low to the ground and very, very long.  And he has a checkered past.

Our neighbor’s mother found him as a pup in Mexico a few years ago.  She was visiting in Juarez when someone asked her if she wanted a “genuine French poodle.”  No one was fooling anyone, but she took him anyway.  When she passed away, the dog was passed to various family members in Texas and New Mexico, but it wasn't working out for anyone.  There was even some talk of sending him to the pound.  Finally our neighbor brought him to her home in California.

It’s been an interesting year.  At first Biggie was untrusting and aggressive, but patience (not mine) and attention (not mine) began to turn him around, and I really give my wife credit for this.  I wanted nothing to do with another dog.  But he was a dog, and I can’t resist a dog.

Biggie definitely belongs to our neighbor first and foremost.  My wife is number two on the list, and I am at the bottom of the pecking order, but I don’t mind.  I get to enjoy him, and then he goes to someone else.  I know he is not mine and never will be, and I like this.  I get the best of having a dog around, and at the same time I don’t have to clean up after him (but I do), I don’t have to walk him (but I do), I don’t have to feed him (but I do), and I don’t have to pay the vet bills (and I don’t).

Yes, this is the way to have a dog.  Even though it took me over half a century to figure it out, I finally got it right.

Watermelon Run

Kids will be kids.  For me, well I was a kid, and my friends were kids.  And although we were kids, not everything was our fault.  Some things are genetic, some things are learned, some things just happened.  In every case, it started long before we were born.  At least that’s how we justified it.

I like to think it started with Marco Polo.  His insatiable desire to travel brought people in contact with far away places and gave them a yearning to visit those places.  Christopher Columbus was one of those people on whom the Marco Polo Effect was strong, but unlike Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus traveled west.  This was the catalyst that began countless travels by people of all means across the ocean between Europe and America.  Some of these people stayed in America and started the process of traveling to the west across the continent.  Needless to say, the methods of travel were rather slow, and eventually this led to the invention of trains.  (I know this is a big step forward in time, but trains are essential to this story).  Traveling by train created more desire to travel and, therefore, the need for more trains.

The Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, known as the M.K.T., or just the Katy, built a small concrete dam across Fossil Creek in the early 1900’s.  It was just an impoundment to provide water for the steam locomotives traveling in and out of Fort Worth, but it quickly became a swimming hole.  I know this because my grandmother remembered swimming there when she was a child.  Forward a few years, and my friends and I discovered it.

When Rick, Ron, Mike, and I found the dam it had long since been forgotten.  To the south, about sixty yards away, the railroad tracks were still in use, but an oak woods had grown up hiding the water from view.  To the north was a cane break running a mile or so to both the east and west.  It was our private swimming hole.

The woods became our campground, and in the summers we would spend the night there two or three times.  During the hot summer days we would play in the water for hours.  We tied a rope to a big tree limb to swing out over the water and drop in just like we had seen in some movie.  We tried to make a slide out of some old sheet metal, but the rust wasn’t very slippery.  We had a great time there for several years.  Oh, and we never brought swimsuits.

It didn’t take us long to discover that the cane break was only some ten or fifteen yards deep.  We made a trail through it each year, (it grew back rather quickly), and on the far side our trail came out about ten yards from a bob-war (barbed wire) fence.  On the other side of that fence was property belonging to a watermelon farmer.  A swimming hole, big watermelons, and kids.  It was a match made in heaven.

At first we talked about taking just one watermelon.  Who was going to miss it?  Who was the watermelon farmer anyway?  And where was he?  After we returned home a lot of questions were asked and we discovered the name of the person with the title to the watermelons.  It was Farmer West!  Oh, no!  He was notorious for making life miserable for anyone found on his property, or so the rumors went.  At the same time it was said he would give anything he owned to anyone who asked.  But he lived several miles away, and who would miss one watermelon?

It was late August and hot.  The four of us decided it was time to try our hand at “borrowing” a watermelon.  We believed the justification for “borrowing” was in repayment by planting the remaining seeds.  We arrived at the swimming hole, stripped down and swam across.  On the other side we worked our way through the cane break trail and stopped in horror just as we reached the fence.  The watermelons were gone!  Every one had been harvested and were all now beyond reach.

We climbed through the fence and walked out to the lone big oak tree about fifty yards away looking everywhere for a forgotten melon, but Farmer West did not leave a single one behind.  We went back to the swimming hole where we cooled off and made our plans for next summer.

To any kid a school year is a long time, but it didn’t compare to the following summer while we were watching the watermelons grow.  School was out during the last week of May, and by June 1^st, we were at the swimming hole building a new path through the cane break.  We were ready to feast on our first watermelon that afternoon, but we discovered that the watermelons were not much bigger than softballs at this time.

The only distraction we had that summer was in family vacations and summer camps, otherwise the march of time would have been unbearable.  By the end of July all vacations and camps were over, and the first watermelons were starting to ripen.  And we were back at the swimming hole.

All four of us had a sense of adventure, and it quickly became evident that each one of us had to have our own melon.  We sat at the edge of the cane break and surveyed the farm as far as we could see in every direction looking for Farmer West, and when we determined it was safe, we climbed through the fence and each picked out a melon and snapped it free from its vine.  Back to the swimming hole we ran with our prizes.

We tossed the melons into the water and let them float and cool off as we did the same for about two hours.  Then we each broke open our melon by whacking them with some thick oak sticks, and we feasted.  Needless to say one watermelon was enough to feed all four of us, and we had considerable left over.  The remains we carried away from our swimming hole to a place we would normally not visit, and this area became our compost heap.

We had about four weeks of watermelon harvesting before Farmer West began his harvest.  But it was a great four weeks, and we weren’t tired of watermelon by the time the feast came to an end for the year.  Again we returned to school, and again we waited for the melons to grow the following summer.  And again we had a watermelon banquet.  The third year started out no differently.

We were now about twelve years old, and we could now carry away the bigger melons.  For three weeks we did just that.  The biggest and best watermelons could be found floating in the water three or four times each week, and by now there was very little left over.  Sometimes it was necessary to do a second harvest in a single day. 

Farmer West wasn’t a blind man.  A quick inspection of the southeast corner of his farm was all he needed to figure out what was going on with his watermelons.  And anyone could follow our trail through the cane break

It was the last week of August, and we were hoping to get in one more raid on the watermelon patch before the harvest began.  We started out about mid-morning riding our bicycles the two or three miles up the old gravel road to where we could turn off onto a dirt path that brought us to the railroad tracks.  By the time we got to our swimming hole, we were hot and ready for watermelon.

We stripped off the shorts, t-shirts, and tennis shoes and dived into the water.  Immediately we came out the other side and ran into the cane break.  As usual, we stopped at the opening to our trail and examined the field for any sign of movement.  When we determined the coast was clear we ran to the fence and climbed through.  We each picked out our melon and were just about to head back to the swimming hole when we heard the voice.

“Boys, you know all you have to do is ask and I’d give you all the melons you could eat.”

We froze.  Turning slowly towards the voice we could see the error of our surveying technique.  We forgot about the lone big oak tree.  And there was Farmer West stepping out from behind it with his double-barreled shotgun.

“I don’t like it when people don’t ask.”

We took off running, each of us hanging onto his watermelon.  As we ran, we drew closer together as our destination was the one place where the fence was wide enough to crawl through.  When we got to the fence, Farmer West fired off both barrels of the shotgun at the four shiny hineys scrambling to get away.  All four of us felt the sting.  I ran into the fence slicing my watermelon in half on the wire.  Mike dropped his in the opening where it broke into a slippery mess for us to crawl through.  Somehow both Ron and Rick got through the fence with their melons in tact.  And we ran through the cane break.

We realized we weren’t dead, so we examined each other for buckshot wounds, but all we could find were whelps and blisters, mostly across the middle third of our backsides.  We figured we were lucky.  The two remaining watermelons were tossed into the water and we jumped in afterward.  That’s when we realized we were not so lucky.  The blisters and whelps were caused by rock salt, and the water did nothing to ease the pain.  Salt water in a wound is not fun, especially when the wounds are located across one’s backside.  We climbed out of the water on the wooded side of the swimming hole in tears but to the sound of laughter.  Standing there where we had entered the water was Farmer West.

“Boys, I’m harvesting tomorrow, but next year come see me and we’ll work this out.  No kid should be deprived of a watermelon.”  He looked down at the melons floating in the water.  “Or two.”  Farmer West looked at the swimming hole for a few moments, and then he commented that it was just like he remembered it.  With that he disappeared back into the cane break.

We were uncomfortable for more than a few days.  It hurt to sit, stand, walk, or move in any manner, but not one of us let on to our families what had happened.  We endured the pain until it went away.  I had red spots for months where the rock salt had embedded under my skin, and I’m sure the others did also.  But we didn’t talk about it.  There wasn’t anything to say about it.

It was a normal long school year, and when it was over we weren’t in any hurry to go back to the swimming hole.  About the end of July, my grandmother asked me if I wanted a ride to Farmer West’s house.  I gave her a sideways glance to discover she was giving me a sideways glance.  Then she told me about the swimming hole, the cane break, and stealing watermelons, but it wasn’t me she was referring to.  It seems Farmer West’s grandfather was also known as Farmer West.

Pirogue

I spent a lot of time in Louisiana working for the company I was tied to for several years.  I had to visit stores in Shreveport, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Lake Charles enough that the hotels I frequented not only knew me on a first name basis, but they also let me keep some clothing in a suitcase in their offices so I would have clean clothes available when I arrived after already spending a week or two on the road.

The Louisiana stores weren’t any more or less important than any of the other stores I visited throughout the United States and Canada, but I simply enjoyed the people, the lifestyle, and the food a bit more than some of the other places.  Especially the food.  The Creole/Cajun flavors are almost impossible to duplicate outside of Creole/Cajun country.

I never cease to be amazed at how people find ways to put food on the table.  Admittedly some methods are more difficult than others, but few are more interesting than in Louisiana.  I traveled on a shrimp boat for a few days just to see how it was done.  I won’t do that again.  They made me work, and it wasn’t much fun.  I also went out on an oyster trawler (at least that’s what I think they called it), and again they made me work.  I quit going out on the boats after that.

Crawfish farms were found in some areas where rice was raised part of the year.  After the rice was harvested crawfish were turned loose in the flooded fields to eat the stubble and multiply, which they seem to do with great efficiency.  Once I participated in a boucherie where a number of pigs and hogs were transformed into hams, ribs, pork chops, and sausages.  What an experience.

I grew up in rural Fort Worth where farming and all that goes with it had been in my family for generations.  When we prepared an animal for the table, it was just preparing an animal for the table.  But in Louisiana such occurrences were not just for the purpose of eating.  It was an excuse for a party; however, in Louisiana just getting up in the morning was an excuse for a party.  And invariably someone would bring an accordion.

By the time I arrived at the boucherie at the designated hour of 6:00am, the party had already been underway for hours.  The pigs, hogs, a few chickens, a steer, a few thousand crawfish, and several beaver like critters (I think they were called Nutria) were all in cages, pens, boxes, or buckets.  Water was boiling in big pots, and portable cook stoves were everywhere.  Pies were already coming out of the oven in the house, and breakfast was almost over.  At least I got there in time for breakfast.

The details of the day aren’t important, but it was a party that had happened on this very weekend for more than a hundred years, and no one in town missed it.  The music was non-stop, the dancing was spontaneous, and the beer was flowing.  Barbeques were filled with every animal named above, and smoke houses were filled with hams and sausages.  By the end of the day, little of the cooked food was left, but everyone went home with a supply of meat that would be further processed to individual preferences.  And that was just the first of two days.

On one trip to Lake Charles, I had some down time available from my job, and I was invited to go fishing.  Great!  I like to fish.  I went to purchase a license, but I was told that no license was needed where we were going.  Hmm.  So I grabbed my ever-present fishing pole from my car, but I was told to put it back.  Where we were going no fishing pole was needed.  Hmm.  Well, I was ready to go, but I was told that where we were going we needed to wait until after dark.  Hmmm…

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure about going on this adventure.  Something about this smelled a bit, well, fishy.  I was, however, caught in a situation I did not wish to exacerbate.  The people that invited me were the store manager and his assistant whose help I needed to promote a new store policy among the employees.  Not that it was a bad change, but in some stores any change was usually unwelcome even if it made life a bit easier.  So I waited until the store closed that evening, and I went fishing.

We got into an ancient battered pickup truck with a bunch of old junk piled in the bed and drove out of the small town toward some destination in the distance.  I know we left the road at some point and drove into the trees, and after a few twists and turns with the lights off, the truck stopped and we got out.

I was handed a flashlight with a red plastic covering over the lens, and I followed one of the two men into the swamp.  It was so dark I couldn’t tell which one I was following and which one was following me.  And the red light flashlight didn’t provide any help.

After some thirty hours (it was probably about five minutes, but the bugs…) we came to the edge of some water.  One of the men shuffled aside some brush, or maybe it was an old piece of carpet, and pulled out a hollowed out log and pushed it into the water.  I was told to get in.

One of the men (the assistant manager) walked to the front of the log, I crawled to the center, and the manager stepped onto the back end of it.  And they pushed off into the water with a long pole.  I was not happy.  I have a rather poor sense of balance, and I’m kneeling in a hollow log with the water level just an inch or two from coming over the edge, and there is a man bouncing around on each end of this thing.

We poled around for a short while (to me it was an eternity) and finally stopped while the man in front hooked a big chunk of meat on a giant treble hook tied to a rope.  He threw this out into the swamp and slowly dragged it back.  He did this a few times, then we moved on another seventy-five feet or so, and he tossed it out again.  After we had moved several times, we had a strike.

I didn’t know at first what had taken the bait, but I assumed it was an alligator since I could see quite a few eyes glowing in the very marginal moonlight.  But after a wild sleigh ride—more accurately a wild pirogue ride—a very large catfish was brought up beside the small boat.  Suddenly I saw just how we were going to deal with this big fish.  The assistant manager pulled out a pistol and fired a few shots into it.  Then we poled our way back to the edge of the swamp.  We pulled the fish up on the ground, stowed away the pirogue, cut the fish into three pieces and carried them back to the truck.

The next day nothing was said at the store about the fishing trip, but behind the store, a large grill was set up, and the employees were having catfish for lunch.  And someone brought along an accordion.

Mac 'n Cheese

Last year a friend of mine passed away.  He had had a long battle with cancer, and he didn’t win.  He had been instrumental in starting a monthly luncheon at our casting club, so a number of friends gathered together to have a luncheon to remember him.  It was a simple affair and very appropriate for his memory, and that day I found out macaroni and cheese was one of his favorite foods.  Now each time I have mac ‘n cheese I think of Burt.

I don’t care what you call it—Cheese and Pasta, Cheesey Pasta, Pasta Casserole, Macaroni and Cheese—it’s still just Mac ‘n Cheese.  But the ways it can be assembled is endless, and I’ve yet to find one I don’t like (although there were some I questioned).  There is something about pasta and cheese that borderlines perfection.  It can be as simple as two or three ingredients and a few minutes worth of work, or as complicated as working a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded in the dark.

I grew up eating the stuff out of the box, and I still like it, and I don’t apologize for liking it.  But sometimes I get out the Rubik’s Cube and a blindfold and turn off the lights in the kitchen.  That’s how I came up with the recipe for Pasta Medley with Five Cheeses, Oysters, and Caramelized Shallots.

Pasta Medley with Five Cheeses, Oysters, and Caramelized Shallots

Makes 24 servings

    6 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for baking dish       

    6 slices bacon                                                 

    4 1/2 cups sliced, large shallots                               

    8 cups fresh spinach, washed, stemmed, and coarsely chopped    

    24 to 30 jumbo pasta shells                                    

    8 ounces small spiral pasta (rotini)                           

    8 ounces miniature cheese ravioli or tortellini                

    12 ounces penne pasta or elbow macaroni                  

    1 1/2 cups half and half, or more if needed                    

    1/3 cup heavy cream                                            

    3 teaspoons hot sauce (such as Tapatio)                        

    1 1/2 cups (packed) coarsely grated Gouda cheese or Edam cheese

    1 1/2 cups (packed) coarsely grated extra-sharp cheddar cheese 

    2 tablespoons all purpose flour                                

    1/4 cup Pernod or Herbsaint                                           

    24 shucked medium oysters, reserve liquor for another use      

    2 cups (packed) coarsely grated Monterey Jack cheese           

    2 cups crumbled soft fresh goat cheese or shredded mozzarella  

    2 cups medium cheddar cheese                                   
    2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley or chervil          

    1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh tarragon                     

    Coarsely ground black pepper                                   
    1 1/2 cups Japanese panko                                      

Note:  The volume of the pasta medley varies according to the brand of pasta used.  If more pasta is needed, add about 4 ounces of small to medium size shell pasta.

Preheat oven to 400°F.  Butter two 9x13x2-inch glass or ceramic baking dishes.  Melt 1 tablespoon butter in heavy large skillet over medium-high heat and add bacon slices.  Cook until crispy; remove from skillet, and drain on paper towels.  Without draining the skillet, add the spinach (in batches if necessary) and sauté until wilted, about 3 minutes.  Remove spinach and set aside in a small bowl.  Add remaining butter to the skillet, then add shallots; sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Cover and cook 5 minutes, stirring often.  Reduce heat to medium.  Cook, covered, until shallots are deep brown, stirring often, about 6 to 8 minutes.

Meanwhile, cook jumbo pasta shells in large saucepan of boiling water until just tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and place in a large bowl.  Reserve pan.

In the same pan (or another), cook spiral pasta in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and place in a separate bowl from the pasta shells.

In the same pan (or another), cook ravioli or tortellini in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and mix together with the spiral pasta.

In the same pan (or another), cook penne or elbow macaroni in boiling water just until tender but firm to bite, stirring occasionally; drain well and mix together with spiral pasta, and ravioli or tortellini.

Bring half and half, cream, and hot sauce to barely a simmer in same saucepan over medium heat.  Toss the Gouda cheese and the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and flour in medium bowl to coat; add to half and half mixture.  Whisk in Pernod and continue whisking until sauce is smooth and just returns to simmer, about 3 to 4 minutes.  If sauce is too thick, add more half and half by tablespoonfuls up to 1/2 cup.  Mix into a large bowl with the combined pastas leaving the jumbo shells aside.  Season with salt and pepper.

Divide the pasta mixture into 4 parts, and spread 1 part of the pasta mixture evenly in each of the prepared dishes.  Stuff 1 oyster in each jumbo pasta shell and place a single layer of the stuffed jumbo shells into each dish (spaced evenly, 12 to each dish), then distribute the sautéed spinach evenly into each dish.  Top with the Monterrey Jack cheese working some of the cheese into each of the jumbo shells with the oyster. Then spoon remaining pasta mixture over the oysters, spinich, and cheese.  Top evenly with shallots, finely crumbled bacon bits, then the goat cheese, the medium cheddar cheese, and the parsley and tarragon.  Sprinkle with coarsely ground black pepper to taste, then top evenly with panko.  Bake until heated through, about 18 to 20 minutes.  If needed, place in broiler for 1 to 2 minutes to lightly brown the top.  Remove from oven and place on a wire rack for 10 minutes.  Serve hot.  Serving size approximately 3 inches by 3 inches including 1 oyster.

Rockefeller never had it so good.

Note:  If the oysters are to be omitted, just leave them out and change the Gouda to a smoked Gouda or smoked cheddar.

Horseshoe Meadows

The Brookie Bash was actually the second fishing event I went on sponsored by the Long Beach Casting Club.  The first was a local trip to the San Gabriel River near Los Angeles.  But the Brookie Bash was not local, and I believe I was the only beginner in the group of fly fisherpersons.

Traveling north on highway 395 from Los Angeles to Mammoth Lakes, I took a break in the town of Lone Pine.  I like this town.  I’ve traveled through it many times over the years, and I always stop to gaze at Mt. Whitney to the west.  On occasion I’ve driven the Whitney Portal Road to its terminus just to enjoy the views of the giant mountain.  But on this occasion I drove only a few miles before turning back to finish my journey to Mammoth Lakes.  However, this time I noticed a road leading off to the south called Horseshoe Meadows Road.

I don’t know why this stuck in my head, but it did.  I didn’t know anything about Horseshoe Meadows, nor did I care.  Anyway, I needed to finish my drive, find the condo the club had rented, and get on with the Brookie Bash.  I was on a mission to catch and release all five of the trout species found in the area—golden, rainbow, brown, cutthroat, and brookie—and I needed to stay focused.

At the condo I found out that several people had stopped at places along the journey from Los Angeles to fish for golden trout.  Kennedy Meadows was the most utilized location, but there were others as well.  One place everyone seemed to know about, although no one stopped there on this trip, was Horseshoe Meadows.  I decided that if I had time, I would stop there on the way home to see what it was about.

The Brookie Bash was great fun, but all too soon it was over, and on the final morning I reluctantly packed the car to drive home.  When I stopped in Lone Pine for my Mt. Whitney break, I realized I was several hours ahead of schedule, so the drive to Horseshoe Meadows was on. 

The drive was a bit longer than I had expected.  At first it was a relatively straight road with a gentle rise, but then it made a sharp turn to the right and the switchbacks began.  “Onward and upward” as the saying goes.  It was a good road, but there was no room for error, and there were no guardrails.  I didn’t keep track of the miles, but I would guess it to be about twenty-five from bottom to top.  And probably the same back down if one could stay on the road.

At one sharp turn there were a number of hang gliders waiting to launch, so I stopped to watch for a few minutes.  I put hang gliding in the same bucket as bungee jumping, skydiving, bull riding, and noodling.  Interesting to watch, but not for me to do.  One of the individuals awaiting her turn to jump off the mountain came over to my car and told me I was late, and where was my gear?  Then she noticed that I probably weighed more than any three of them combined, and she realized most likely I wasn’t there to hang glide.

I finished the drive to the campground at the meadows, and there I saw some people returning to their vehicles after some fly-fishing.  So I walked over and asked how they did.  “The golden are hungry” was the basic reply, so I grabbed my 5-weight (all I owned at the time) and journeyed into the meadow. 

This stream was three to five feet wide at the most, but it was full of trout.  I could see them, but this meant they could also see me.  So I slowly made my way upstream about fifteen feet from the water’s edge.  I had a #16 elk hair caddis still tied on my line from my last fish, so I tried it.  I flipped it into the water and the water churned as several of the little golden fish leaped for it at the same time.  I brought out a beautiful six-inch long golden trout.  I stepped up to the water’s edge and released it and threw the caddis back to the same place and pulled out another small golden.  There was nothing to this.  I spent about an hour and a half walking along the small stream pulling out fish at will, until it was time for me to hit the road.

It couldn’t have been a better ending to a perfect fishing trip.  But then there was the return to Lone Pine back down the switchbacks.  This time I was on the outer edge of the road looking down instead of the inner edge against the mountain.  Where are the guardrails when you need them?  Actually I didn’t need them to keep me on the road; I needed them more as a security blanket than anything else.  Forty-five minutes up the road, and two hours back down.  I wasn’t going to take the shortcut.

The hang gliders were gone, but there were several cars and trucks parked along the side of the road.  I’m sure they figured out some way to retrieve them.  At the bottom of the switchbacks I stopped to look back up the road, and I decided I would definitely be back.

Catfish

As a Texan by birth, the two fish of choice are catfish and bass.  Yes, there are other fish in the waters, but catfish and bass are the real reasons a Texan fishes.  I personally never really cared what I caught as long as it had fins, until I learned to scuba dive. 

I had a long running contest with a friend where one would issue a challenge, and the other would accept or forfeit.  Oh, and there was a sizeable bet along with this contest.  The rules were relatively simple.  If one refused, the contest was over.  If both participated to completion, the contest went on to another challenge.  It went on for years, and through it I learned among other things to kayak, mountain climb, scuba dive, and sky dive.  Ultimately I lost the contest on the sky dive, but that’s another story.

Hank and I had just returned from a kayak adventure in the Grand Canyon when he challenged me to learn scuba diving.  It sounded interesting, plus there was that big ten-dollar bet I didn’t wish to loose, not to mention bragging rights.  We headed to a sporting goods store to find out about the process, and in a couple of weeks we were sitting in a small class learning the process and safety guidelines.  Soon we were in wet suits in a tank learning to breath underwater.  And soon after that we were certified, which ended this round of the challenge.

We had gone on several lake dives in the certification process, and we had found that it was very interesting as long as the waters were not too murky.  One week in the late summer I mentioned to Hank that I would like to dive at a lake west of Fort Worth known as Possum Kingdom.  He agreed that it would be fun, and off we went. 

We arrived near the dam area and realized the water was a bit dark, but we suited up anyway and jumped in.  It was more than dark, it was black.  I had no idea where Hank was and had no hope of finding him.  Just then I felt a bump, and I turned my light in that direction expecting to see Hank.  All I saw were two eyes about eighteen inches apart and one big mouth—one very big mouth.  The catfish swam by me and its head was out of sight before its tail came into view.  I shot straight up out of the water and ran to shore about four feet above the waves.  By the time I had stripped out of the wet suit, I knew I was coming back next week with a boat and some heavy fishing gear.

Hank couldn’t join me for the catfish hunt the next week, so I went alone.  I hooked up the biggest boat in the collection of fishing boats at my grandparents lake home, borrowed my Uncle Sam’s big saltwater rod and reel, bought a few huge hooks, and drove back to Possum Kingdom.  I stopped on the way to fill the cooler with sodas, ice, and a couple of fresh chickens.  After arriving and launching the boat, I motored out onto the lake about where I had encountered the giant catfish, tied on one of the big hooks to that heavy saltwater outfit, and skewered half of one of those chickens onto the hook.  Into the water it went.  And I waited. 

Two hours went by, and I noticed a small boat drifting about 50 yards away with an older man and a young boy in it fishing.  I had fun watching them realizing that the boy’s grandpa was teaching him how to fish.  I could hear some of the conversation they were having and was reminded of some of the things my Uncle Sam had taught me about fishing in the past few years.  Sam was a very good fisherman, and for about two years he taught me everything he could before he suddenly quit fishing.  I never really understood why he quit, but I had grown to really enjoy our outings together, and listening to the conversation in the other boat brought back those memories.

Then the boy got a strike—a hard strike.  He pulled hard, but the fish pulled harder.  Back and forth they went for about half a minute, then the boy was pulled overboard.  I retrieved my line as fast as I could, but before I could start my motor, the boy popped up to the surface.  This is the reason for a lifejacket.  His grandpa pulled him back into the boat, and I powered over to them anyway to see if they needed any help.

The boy was wet but just fine otherwise.  He was upset about losing the fish and his rod and reel, but he had tried to hang onto it as long as he could.  It took some work to convince him that it would be easier to replace the rod and reel than him.  Still he was mad about losing the fish.  In some ways I can’t blame him for that one.  As they headed back up the lake to their launch, I went back to fishing.  I know the boy hooked that big catfish, or one of its cousins.  I replaced the chicken half with a fresh one and I waited.  And I waited. 

 
I made it back to Possum Kingdom only a handful of times over the next 3 years, and I never did catch that catfish.  Oh, I caught many catfish, just not that catfish.  I didn’t lose interest in catching other fish, I simply wanted that fish.  But it was never to be.  Sometimes I wonder just how big that fish really was.  The mind plays tricks on perception when in a strange environment, and that catfish may have been a little smaller than I remember.  Still, I remember that mouth—that very big mouth.

Santa Caught Fly-Fishing on the San Gabriel River

Once again Santa has made the news.  This time he was caught fly-fishing on the West Fork of the San Gabriel River for Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing and was given coverage in the Fisheries Resource Volunteer Corp newsletter.  FRVC is a group of volunteers working to protect the fisheries in our national forests.

The link is http://frvc.net/newsletter-archives .  The pdf. file is FRVC Newsletter 2012-1 pdf . 

Pig Hunt

I was never an avid hunter, but I did enjoy it, and I always found it difficult to walk away from an opportunity.  Fishing was my first love, but the outdoors has always had a loud voice in my ears, and given a choice of hunting or nothing, I would definitely go hunting. 

My first real hunt was when I was sixteen years old.  I had a deer tag, but since I had no adult to go with me, I was limited to the use of a bow and arrow.  Texas laws at that time prevented me from owning a firearm of any kind until I reached twenty-one, although I could use one if someone over twenty-one was supervising.  I didn’t have that luxury, and I didn’t mind.  I was very good on a target up to sixty yards with the bow, but I had never been tested with a hunting situation other than a few rabbits.

My bow was three-piece takedown recurve with a seventy-pound pull.  I had six cedar-shafted arrows with a four-blade hunting tip on each one, and I loaded these into my hip quiver.  I had secured permission to hunt on some property about an hour outside of Fort Worth, and I drove my old car (yes, I was sixteen, but things were a bit different in the mid-sixties) to the gate and let my self in.  The dirt road disappeared into the trees, but I just parked out of site of the main road, grabbed my bow, strapped on my quiver, and started into the woods.

I followed the road for about two hundred yards, and then I moved into the trees.  It was a bit difficult to walk quietly on the fallen leaves of the oak trees, but I was taking my time and moving as slowly as I could while searching for a deer.  This process took me about sixty yards in an hour and a half, but I saw a deer between the trees about forty-five to fifty yards ahead.  It was a fat forked horn whitetail, and it had no idea I was around.

I slowly brought up my bow, drew back, held my breath, and released.  The twang of the bowstring seemed as loud as any rifle shot I had ever heard, but the deer simply looked up for a moment, and then went back to browsing.  I had missed.  I rarely missed a target center at that distance, but I missed the deer.  So I did it again, and again, and again.  The deer by now was fidgeting and soon began to wander off.

I stood still for about five more minutes and another deer walked up to almost the same place.  I brought my bow up again, drew back, and released.  Nothing.  So I did it one last time.  That was the sixth release.  I was baffled that I could not bring down a deer.  I walked back to the car.

I broke down my bow and put it into its case.  Then I took off my quiver, and to my surprise, all six arrows were still there.  It took me a while before I realized that I had simply been strumming that bow like a harp.  I never put an arrow to the string before making my draw.

I was too confused to go back into the woods that day, although I did return the following week and brought home a nice fat whitetail.  It took me several years before I talked about this event with anyone, but I did discover I wasn’t the first to do something like this.  It even has a name—buck fever.

A few years later I somehow managed to turn twenty-one, and I bought my first rifle and followed up quickly with a hunting pistol.  But I found that I still preferred the bow in most circumstances, and that was my weapon of choice when I was invited on a pig hunt.

The west Texas javalina is a mean pig.  They tend to not take kindly to strangers shooting at them and are known to take umbrage with even the smallest disturbance to their lifestyle.  And they smell bad.  I don’t mean they have a poor sense of smell, I mean they stink.

An old high school friend of mine called me one day and asked if I would be interested in going out to his family property in west Texas to hunt pig.  He and his dad were going, and if I could get a few days off work, they would be glad to have me join them.  I had some vacation time coming, and no plans, so the trip was arranged, and in a couple of weeks we were looking for pig.

I brought the rifle, pistol, and bow with me for the hunt, but I chose to use the bow.  As an afterthought I strapped on the pistol, and by sunup the first day, we were several miles back on the property.  The three of us were walking and watching for any movement that would betray the pig’s presence, but by mid-morning, we had not seen anything.

We walked up to a small hill, and I took the left side while my friend and his dad turned to the right.  It wasn’t a big hill, maybe fifty or sixty feet high, but it was about half a mile long and maybe a quarter mile wide.  I walked about five hundred yards and stopped near a small tree of sorts to take a break when I spotted a pig.  It was feeding on a prickly pear no more than thirty yards from me, and he hadn’t seen me.

I loaded an arrow (something I had learned to do several years earlier), brought up my bow, drew back, and released.  The twang of the bowstring startled the pig and it moved just before the arrow arrived.  Instead of a heart/lung shot, I clipped its ear.  And it didn’t like it.

That javalina turned to look at me, opened its mouth and squealed the most obnoxious noise I had ever heard.  And it was answered by many similar voices.  I looked at the low rise in the near distance and saw many dark quickly moving objects.  I was in trouble.  I grabbed another arrow and brought down the pig that started the problem, and then I looked at the only place I could take refuge—that low tree of sorts beside me.

The juniper tree was no more than ten feet high and had no real trunk, but I climbed in and up as high as I could.  My feet were about five feet from the ground, but there was no way to climb higher.  Then they arrived, and they were mad.  I unloaded my .357 carefully and deliberately making each shot count.  I reloaded with my last six rounds and brought down another six pigs.  Now I was stuck.  The pigs were madder than ever, and they were starting to chew the lower limbs of the tree.  I’m not certain how long I was in that tree before I saw the first pig fall over just before hearing the sound of the rifle, but I was already seeing my life flash in front of my eyes.

My friends unloaded their rifles into the pigs, reloaded and unloaded again before the pigs ran away.  They had heard my pistol and knew I wouldn’t be firing it unless I was in trouble, so they came running.  I climbed down from the tree and waded through the twenty-six dead pigs.  One look at the base of the tree told me that I had only a few minutes left before the pigs would have eaten through it.  Never again would I hunt with a bow, and never again would I short myself on ammunition.

Four years later they invited me to go back to hunt for more pig, but I had no desire to put myself back in that position, so I declined.  Later that summer, I learned that the pigs killed my friend’s dad on that trip.  I never learned the details, but it didn’t matter.  My friend was devastated by the loss; however, he understood the risk that was taken, and the last time I saw him, he was going hunting.

Javalinas are not something I hunt anymore; in fact, the only thing I hunt now is fish.  But pigs, deer, bear, or fish, it’s still a sport of man verses nature, and sometimes nature wins.