I Love My Job!

It's no secret that I embrace the roll of Santa Claus.  Basically, I look like the guy, so it's an easy transformation to become the character so beloved by children, malls, and department stores.

Each year there are many memorable moments as I visit in homes, corporate parties, fund raisers, special needs homes, and children everywhere.  And each year I try to remember my most treasured occurrences and narrow it down to just one or two absolute favorites.  This year isn't over for me as I write this, but already I'm overloaded with favorite moments. 

If I had to pick one favorite moment so far from this year, it would be with a five-year-old girl in front of an audience of many hundreds of family members.  (Not just her family, but families of a large group of children brought together for a Christmas pageant.)  She came up on stage to tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas, but she had a couple of questions she wanted me to answer first.  It went something like this:

            Santa:  What would you like this year?

            Child:  Santa?  I want to ask you some questions first.

            Santa:  Okay.  What are your questions?

            Child:  Which reindeer is your favorite?

            Santa:  All of them.  Santa has no favorite.

            Child:  Oh.  Well, what is your favorite cookie?

            Santa:  The round ones.  Santa likes the round ones best.

            Child:  Okaaaaay.  I see where this is going.

            Santa:  HoHoHo.

I guess you had to be there, but the audience was in stitches, and Santa almost fell out of his chair laughing.

Last year I received a photo taken of me holding my grand-niece, and I do believe it is my all-time favorite moment.  To her I've always been 'Uncle Santa', and I hope it always remains that way.

How Long is a Dog’s Memory?

I was reading an article about “scientific research” on dogs, and I wondered if such “research” was carried out by actual scientists.  The article was about a dog’s memory retention, not the things learned such as ‘fetch,’ ‘roll over,’ and ‘the sound of a can opener.’  It explored whether or not a dog could remember what happened yesterday, or last week, or last year.  The conclusion was “No,” a dog has no memory of events of the past.

I’ve shared this before, but it bears repeating.  I was walking Biggie across the street near the taco stand when a lady dropped her taco.  Biggie broke free from me and devoured that taco in just moments.  Since that day Biggie has deliberately taken me to the taco stand almost every time we go for a walk.  He hasn’t forgotten that chance taco nearly three years ago.

Biggie’s groomer was telling me today about her little dog and a forgotten hamburger in the back seat of her car.  She and her mother-in-law had stopped for burgers at a local joint and had purchased an extra to take home for her husband.  They set it in the back seat of the car, drove home, and promptly forgot all about the burger.  The next morning she got back into her car with her dog, which immediately jumped into the back seat.  The dog had never been in the back seat before, nor had it ever shown any inclination to do so.  She turned around to see what was going on just as the dog was swallowing the last bite of the forgotten burger.  Since then, the dog immediately jumps into the back seat upon entering the car.  He didn’t forget.

Not all dog memories are about food.  Over forty years ago a friend gave me his hunting dog Hubie.  My friend had purchased a lime-green and white 1956 Chevrolet Belair two or three days before moving out of town and leaving Hubie with me.  Hubie saw the car only once or twice, but he would always look closely at any 1956 Belair he saw.  If the color wasn’t right, he would quickly turn away, but if the color was correct, Hubie would go in for a closer look.  Hubie remembered. 

Geoffrey was an eight-week-old puppy when he came my way.  I had him less than a year before having to let him go to another owner, but just before his departure, I took him back to visit the people who had given him to me.  He immediately ran over to a corner of their store and tried to push aside a barrel to get behind it.  We moved the barrel and there was a dog toy, which made Geoffrey very happy.  The thing is, Geoffrey was in this store only once for an hour or so on the day I received him.  He had been given this toy on the morning of the day I received him.  His association with this toy and this store were very minimal and had occurred some ten months earlier when he was a puppy.  But he hadn’t forgotten the toy or where he had lost it.

I was discussing hunting dogs with a friend at the fishing club.  (Some fishermen are also hunters.)  He told me one of his dogs couldn’t find a downed bird on a dove hunt, but the next year they returned to the same place, and the dog immediately began to search the field for the missing bird.  It bothered the dog that he had failed to find the missing bird a year earlier.

Anyone with a dog will have at least one similar story.  I believe it is not possible to own a dog and not be aware of the mind of the dog.  Dogs (and in fact all animals) are amazing creatures.  Often I hear the phrase ‘dumb animal,’ but I am convinced all animals possess enough intelligence to survive.  And memory plays an important roll.

Can a dog remember the events of August 22, 2014, or that next Tuesday at 10am he is scheduled to visit the vet?  Probably not.  But I do question if the “scientists” who did the “research” ever owned a dog.

Old Grayback

The highest peak in Southern California is San Gorgonio Mountain.  It stands at 11,503 feet (more or less), and its peak set the baseline for the original land surveys in the area.  It usually is snowcapped throughout most, if not all, of the summer, and is a great place to hike and camp most of the year.  Most of the year—not all of the year.

After I moved from Texas to Southern California, I entered the geology program at a local college.  For several years I had been climbing around on the sides of mountains wondering about the rocks I was hanging on to.  Some were crumbly, some were solid, some had lines of other rocks running through them, some contained seashells even though they were several thousand feet above sea level.  I was curious about them.

At the end of my second quarter, several of the students decided to hike to the peak of San Gorgonio Mountain, and they invited me to join them.  They didn’t have to ask twice.  It had been a mild January, and the first two weeks of February were just more of the same.  The mountain had seen some fresh snow, but not enough to stop determined hikers.  We packed our backpacks, checked the weather forecast, and drove to a parking area high in the mountains where we could join up with the trailhead.

We had allowed for five days of hiking, and we took along enough provision for seven days.  We expected to use up three days in total, but we were all experienced enough to know that any winter hike up a mountain could involve a sudden change of plans.

The first day was quite easy.  We hit the trailhead at about 7:00am and by 1:00pm we were well above the tree line and surrounded by snow.  We had put on our snowshoes much earlier and were having no trouble with the hike, especially after we had left much of our camping gear at the Dollar Lake campground.  We each had daypacks stuffed with food, warmer clothing, emergency stuff, etc., just in case, but we weren’t anticipating any trouble.  Then again one never anticipates trouble.  Soon we had completed the hike to the summit, or what we believe was the summit since we assumed any marker was buried deep under the snow, and after an hour or so of taking in the vista, we headed back to our campsite. 

The trip to the campsite was beautiful.  Climbing the mountain was a lot of work, and we really didn’t look at much more than the trail, or what we thought was a trail, in front of us, but coming back down, we were able to follow our ascending tracks, and take time to enjoy the views.  On this particular day we could clearly see Catalina Island more than a hundred miles away.  Wow!

Back in camp, we had our dinner, and we prepared for a good night’s rest.  We were hoping to just hike around in the area on day two and have some rest and fun before returning to the trailhead and our cars on day three.  Just as we were about to crawl into the tents, Tom noticed the stars had disappeared.  In fact the clouds were gathering all around us.  Uh, this wasn’t in the weather forecast.

We guessed we were in for a cold, wet night with a little snow.  How about a lot of snow?  About two in the morning I heard a loud yell for help.  Immediately I rushed out of my tent (the process of getting out of my sleeping bag, out from under the blankets and throwing on some warm clothes somewhat negated the ‘rush,’ but I did my best).  I discovered my tent to be the only one I could see.  All of the others were buried under a mound of ever-deepening snow. 

I worked my way over to where Ray was still calling for help and pulled him out of his collapsed tent.  We gathered all we could of his belongings and moved them over to where my tent was sitting in a protected area.  I had about six inches of snow around my tent with very little on top of the awning.  I had placed my tent next to a rock outcropping where the north and east sides were completely protected from the snow and wind.  Overhead were the branches of several trees (admittedly, it’s never a good idea to place a tent where tree branches can fall, but there were no real clearings in this area), and the snow was just not coming down where I had set my tent.

Also, I had a three-man tent rather than the single-person tents everyone else had (I like some wiggle room), so I was able to move Ray in with me.  We were just getting settled down when we realized Mick, Tom, Steve, and Kevin may be in trouble and not able to call for help.  We went back out to check on them.

My seven-foot by seven-foot tent was quite crowded with six people in it, but we were warm.  The next morning we crawled out to a wonderland.  It took an hour or so to gather everything up and sort through it all, and we weren’t real happy with messing up the snow to do it, but just outside our camp was a scene of incredible pristine beauty.  We made our breakfast, and every one of us decided to do what we had set out to do on day two.  We rested and had fun.  And we prepared for another night in a single tent.

Somewhere around noon or a little before, several forest service rangers entered our camp.  They were a search party looking for us.  We had registered our itinerary before our outing, and even though we weren’t yet due back, they guessed we hadn’t done very well in the surprise storm.  The decision had been made to rescue us.

We were about to make lunch, so we invited the rangers to join us.  They stayed for a couple of hours sharing stories of unprepared hikers they had extracted from the mountain over the years.  But they also decided to leave us alone.  We were obviously in great shape for this adventure.

One of the things they left with us was a rescue board.  I don’t know what the thing is actually called, but it’s designed to strap someone on it and slide him or her over the snow to safety.  The rangers thought we could use it to carry our packs when we decided to hike out, but we had other uses for it.  Wahoo!!  (Or is it Woo Hoo!!)  We spent hours sliding around on that thing.  Oh, such fun!  But night came, we had our dinner, and soon we were stacked back inside my tent.  Sometime in the late afternoon of the third day we stopped in at the ranger station to register our departure from the mountain and turn in the rescue raft, or whatever it was called. 

Old Grayback, as the mountain is often called, has talked to me for many years since that trip.  My five companions and I have not seen each other since a few months afterward, but I’m certain each one of them still treasures the memories of those three days.

What Time Is It?

For some reason I am usually aware of the passage of time in small increments.  If I look at a clock at 10:30, then for the next half-hour or so I tend to know what time it is within one or two minutes.  It’s just always been this way.  Rarely do I not know approximately what time it is.  Although I sometimes wear a watch, mostly I don’t bother since looking at a clock once or twice an hour is usually sufficient.

A few years ago I was on a “cattle boat” fishing near Catalina Island.  The sun was extremely bright and I lifted my hand at arm’s length to shade my eyes for a moment just as a friend asked me what time it is.  A few minutes earlier I had noticed the time on the watch of another fisherman, so I added about six minutes and said, “It’s 1:18.”  The fisherman whose watch I looked at glanced at his watch and confirmed the time as 1:18.

My friend was a bit confused by this since he realized I wasn’t wearing a watch and I didn’t look around for one.  He made the assumption I could tell time by holding my hand in the air and looking at the sun.  When I realized how he had come to this conclusion I knew I could carry this ruse on for a long time.

“How did you do that?  You just held your hand up and looked at the sun to tell the time?”

“Yep.  That’s what I did.  It’s really simple.  Just hold your fingers horizontal and spread out a little.  Count the number of hands the sun is above the horizon with each hand representing forty-five minutes.  If the sun is two hands in the air and the sun came up at six a.m., then the time is 7:30.  If the sun is between the index and middle finger, then the time is 7:45.  A little practice and you’ll learn to divide the spaces into individual minutes.  Works every time, unless it’s cloudy, then you need to use both hands to create the illusion of a shadow on the front of your shirt and read the results upside-down.  Give it a try.”

And he tried.  And tried.  Finally he came back to me and asked me to show it to him again.  Fortunately I had recently checked the time again and knew it was about 2:20, so I held my hand up and showed him how to count the distance from the horizon to the sun, add up the 45-minute intervals, calculated the individual minutes and came up with the time.  He walked over to a man with a watch and asked the time.  The look on his face was priceless when he discovered I was right to the very minute.  For the rest of the day until the sun went down he continued to ask me the time at random intervals.  And I was always right within one minute.

After returning to the dock we went our own ways as we each headed home, but his mind was apparently dwelling on this for weeks.  I was at his house one afternoon helping him with a project when he suddenly asked me what time is was.  Fortunately he was wearing a watch and I had looked at it about fifteen minutes earlier, so I held up my hand to the sun and made my best guess.  “2:32.”

He looked at his watch, looked at me, looked at the sun, looked at his watch again.  He didn’t say a word.  I wasn’t certain if he was confused or angry.  I realized right there this game had become a quest for him to debunk, and I wasn’t about to tell him the truth.

For nearly three years he kept trying to figure out how I could tell the time by looking at the sun, and for nearly three years I gave him the same answer.  Then one day he didn’t ask.  I was prepared for the random timing of the inevitable question, but it didn’t happen.  And it didn’t happen the next few times I saw him.  Now I was worried.  Was he just observing me to see if I was cheating?  Well, just to stir the pot a little, I confided in one of his other friends what I was doing and how I did it.  Then he decided to get in on the act by doing the same thing.

We had our mutual friend completely baffled by the process.  Of course we showed him over and over how we did it, but he just couldn’t get it.  Then it happened to me. 

I had taken a day boat out onto the ocean and I heard someone ask another person the time.  I looked over there and saw a man holding his hand up towards the sun for a moment before saying, “10:19.”

For the rest of the day I watched this guy to see if I could figure out how he did it, but every time he was asked, he knew the answer.  To be honest, it has me stumped to this day.  Was he pulling the same trick I was using, or did he really tell the time by looking at the sun?

I’ll never know, but there is no way I’m giving up my secret again concerning how I did it.

Oh, wait.  I think I just did.

2015 Wild Game Feed

If grown men are allowed to cry, now is the time.  The 2015 Wild Game Feed is over, and it is not coming back for a whole long, long year.  The food is gone, the beer is gone, the cigars are ashes and stubs, the prizes have found homes, and the exhibits are packed away.  The park is clean and ready for the next group to use.  I’ve experienced this nearly twenty times and it never gets easier.  But like it or not, the waiting now begins for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed.

As usual there were too many friends and not enough time.  Too much food and not enough capacity.  Too much beer and, well, uh, not enough, uh, time.  You get it—one day just isn’t long enough.  Maybe that’s the thing that keeps us wanting more.

So now we start the countdown to next year.  Now the organizers try to exceed what they just did.  And we will let them do what is necessary to make the next Feed even better than ever.  From my personal past experience, the organizers will succeed.

Thank you to the members of the Annual Wild Game Feed.  You give us a great time, and you provide help to many charities.  Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated.  Thank you for letting us participate in the festivities and giving us an opportunity to contribute to your worthwhile causes.

8,760 long slow hours to go and counting down.

Wild Game Feed Irvine Lake 2015

I’m counting down the days.  Seventeen to go.  I’ve already packed, unpacked, repacked, changed my packing list, and started over again.  My biggest fear is over sleeping on the morning of the 2015 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  September 18, 2015 cannot arrive soon enough for me.

I’ve always arrived early, but for the last few years the line has started forming earlier than my arrival.  No big deal, but I want to spend every possible minute inside the designated area.  I do not want to waste a single minute waiting in line after the gates open.

On the other hand, the entry starts at 12 noon sharp and about 1,500 men are busy eating before 1:00pm.  Not too bad.  I know some guys who every year arrive about 12:45pm, and by 1:00pm they are busy eating.  They are willing to sacrifice 45 minutes for the privilege of sleeping a little later and not having to wait for hours in the queue.  I choose to be there early.  It may be a long wait, but waiting in line is almost like having a tailgate party before the tailgate party.  By the time the entry booth opens, quail eggs will already been consumed, cigars turned to ashes, and beverages recycled through the body.  The party before the party. 

This year I plan to take some photographs.  Every year I bring a camera, and every year I forget to use it.  It’s impossible to explain this event to anyone who hasn’t been there, and they say a picture is worth a thousand words.  I think it would still take a thousand pictures to give someone a basic idea of what the Feed is.  But I’m going to try to take some anyway for later postings.  If you see me there, remind me to use my camera.  Thanks.  I appreciate it.

Remember, if you can make it to the Feed, please stop by my shelter near the entry booth.  Old friends and new friends are all welcome.  Just come in and make yourself at home.

Birthday

HELP!!!  I’m 27 years old and trapped in a 66 year old body!  A fat, balding, out of shape 66 year old body!  What Happened???  Today is my 66^th birthday, but I don’t remember having about 30 of them, so can I subtract that 30 from the total number?  If so, that would help a lot.

I’ve never really observed my birthdays unless someone else just wanted to make a big deal out of it.  And as a result, I’ve often not known my actual age unless I did some math, but in recent years, people have started reminding me of my age.  Why do they do that?  If I don’t really care about it, why should they?  I guess I’ve managed to survive longer that they wanted me to.  Maybe that’s the answer to my question.  Sorry.  I plan to be here for many more years, so get used to it.

Birthdays are a bit odd to me.  I could never understand why someone would want to celebrate the march to the end by ticking off the years.  I had rather enjoy life and count the memories instead of the years.  And I have a lot of memories.  If you the reader have examined my previous writings, you will probably agree with me that I’ve had many great (and not so great) experiences, and I’m planning to add many more.

I was talking to a gentleman recently at the Long Beach Casting Club about the idea of counting memories instead of years, and he said to me, “If a person can’t count memories, all that is left is to count the years.”

My reply was, “Everyone has memories, just think about them.  Focus on where this journey has taken you and where you still want to go.  The years don’t matter.  It’s the journey that counts.”  And I really do mean that.  Every day is borrowed time, so I can choose to enjoy each one, or I can waste my time worrying about how few days may be left.

Today is just another day for me, but several restaurants have decided I need to experience a free (or discounted) meal to celebrate my birthday, so I will indulge a few of them.  My wife and I, along with the neighbor’s dog Biggie, will find the restaurants with a dog friendly patio, and we will share a good time.  We will make new memories, and within a few days we will have forgotten completely that the memories were made on my birthday.

Service with a Smile

Service is a relative term.  Car service, room service, military service, tea service, religious service, food service—many kinds of service, but it’s all relative.  What exactly does service mean anyway? 

I once took my car to have a new battery installed.  When they told me it was ready, I looked over the paperwork and discovered I had received an oil change, new wiper blades, and new brake light bulbs—but no new battery.  When I complained, they told me I needed to make another appointment for the battery since I used up all my service time on these other things.  Well my car needed the things they did to it, but I still needed a battery.  I went somewhere else because I wasn’t happy with the service.

I like waffles, so while in Atlanta decided to have my breakfast at a locally famous café with a reputation for good waffles.  When I received my order, I received pancakes.  Although I like pancakes, I was on a waffle hunt, so I sent them back to be replaced.  The waiter thought I was being picky and managed to tell everyone in the place his feelings about me.  When he finally brought my waffles to me, they were the original pancakes but they had spent some time in the waffle maker.  Actually a lot of time.  A lot of time.  As I was leaving, he shouted, “If you don’t like the service, don’t come back!”  I didn’t.

When dining in a rather upscale restaurant in another city I traveled to, my waiter wasn’t the most highly trained, and he was also in a bad mood.  Grumpy would be an understatement.  Maybe surly would be a better description.  When I was being seated another gentleman was also being seated at a table a few feet away.  The waiter first went to him and then to me to take our orders.  Later he brought out a tray and served the man at the nearby table.  A few bites into his meal he realized he had received the wrong order and informed the waiter.  The waiter stood looking at the man’s plate for a few moments, before picking it up and placing it before me.  Hmm…  I left with the other gentleman, and we enjoyed a great evening dining at a nearby tavern where the service was supurb.

I was having a business dinner with a few of the company’s managers at a very posh restaurant in a major city when suddenly the dim lights dimmed even more, and a spotlight focused on the maitre d’.  One of the highlights of this restaurant was the presentation of flaming shish kabobs on silver swords.  The maitre d’ whirled and twirled these flaming swords as he was escorted to the diner’s table by a bevy of aproned waiters.  Very impressive except for the fact that every whirl and every twirl was lobbing a chunk of lamb or onion or other vegetable into a flaming arc across the dining room.  The problem went unnoticed by the maitre d’ until it was time to remove the morsels from the swords to the diner’s plate.  The replacement dinner was made with much less fanfare.  One of the pieces of lamb landed on our table, but the manager to my left was faster with his fork than I was.  He said it was good. 

Recently I had an afternoon lunch with some of my friends at a Chinese all-you-can-stand-to-eat buffet.  Believe me, it was nothing special, and it was also not busy, which was the main reason we went there.  In fact we were the only ones there.  We wanted to just spend some time talking and catching up on things.  We had a good time just being with each other, and we also each made an occasional trip to the buffet tables to search in vain for something good to eat, but we usually just settled for a few bites of what ever we were standing closest to.  One of the guys, Charlie, somehow got hooked on the cheap canned chocolate pudding and went back time and again for more.  And then our time was up.  We didn’t set any particular time to leave, but the manager did.  Apparently we were allotted two hours to complete our meal and get out.  Suddenly the manager was standing at the end of our table shouting “TIME UP!  TWO HOUR!  TIME UP!”  I think Charlie summed it up perfectly when he said, “Thank God!  I don’t think I could stand any more of this chocolate pudding.”

Sometimes the best service comes when least expected.  Rachael and I had been married about a year and were living in a small town about 60 miles east of Los Angeles.  One evening we decided to have dinner at one of the local Italian restaurants.  We drove around the old building a couple of times checking it out.  The two dogs on the back porch next to the screen door to the kitchen didn’t win any points, but we could see the inside and it looked spotless.  So we went in (the front door).

It was good Italian food, but it was not great Italian food.  We enjoyed our meal and were about to leave when the owner came up to us with coffee and dessert.  Suddenly we were his special guests, and we were treated like royalty.  When it was finally necessary for us to leave, Rocco the owner refused payment.

About a week later we were driving by the restaurant with our still fresh memories, and to our dismay the building was gone.  Bulldozers had destroyed it to make room for a fast food chain restaurant specializing in heat-lamp burgers.

I’ve never forgotten the service that evening, and to this day I use it to compare all other restaurant service.  Rocco was already well past retirement age when we were there over 35 years ago, so I’m certain he is no longer with us.  But wherever he is, someone is getting great service.

Irvine Lake 2015 Wild Game Feed

Seventy Days and Counting Down to the 47^th Annual Wild Game Feed.  Friday, September 18, 2015 is still too far away for me, but it will arrive when it arrives, and there is nothing I can do to speed up the process.  (Still—10 whole weeks?  That’s like watching the clock on the last day of the school year when I was a kid.)

Today I was counting the jars of pickled quail eggs on my shelf, and it looks as though it’s going to be a thin year.  Thirty-one jars and no time to make more.  Last year I brought forty-seven and ran out, so for those persons wanting to give’em a try, stop by my shelter early.  Since this is not a part of the AWGF, but just something I do on my own, each year’s supply can vary according to the availability of the eggs and just how much energy I have left to pickle them.

It’s easy to locate me.  My shelter is always just a few feet away from the main ticket entry, and I’m usually there, at the ticket entry, or finding something to eat.  Just look for the old fat man with long white hair and beard.  Most likely that will be me, although there may be another one or two who match that description.  If I’m not at my shelter or the ticket entry, just help yourself to some eggs.  Should the flavor you want to try not be opened, just open it.  You’ll save someone else the trouble of doing it.

Also, I usually have some cigars to swap around.  Most years I have several different brands and styles, and this year will be no exception.  Some are better than others, but none are bad or cheap.  Last year I even swapped a Gurka Centurian for a Swisher Sweet.  I don’t care.  I just want everyone I meet to enjoy the AWGF as much as I do.

If you’re an old-timer at this shindig, then you know the drill.  Eat, drink, eat, drink—not necessarily in that order.  If this is your first time, well, it will take you about two minutes to figure it out.  Just start with eat, then go to drink.  Try this a few times, and then switch up the order.  You’ll get the hang of it in a hurry.

Every year I’m asked the same questions by first timers—“What should I bring?”  The simple answer is “Yourself” and of course your ticket.  After that it’s just a matter of how much you want to haul in and keep track of. 

There are certain “basics” I always bring.  A chair, a mug (big), a shelter, a table, and a metal knife, fork, and spoon (I hate plastic utensils).  Sometimes I bring an ice chest with a few of my favorites in it, and I always bring cigars, although you can buy them there at a reasonable price.  The quail eggs usually happen, but aren’t guaranteed.  Oh, and I tend to bring along a few plastic bags in case I want to take home some of the good eats the AWGF provides.

The main thing is just to be there, and you are always welcome at my shelter whether or not I’m there.  And before I forget it, the Feed opens at Noon, but the line forms a few hours early.  I used to show up about 10am and be first in line.  That was years ago.  Last year I arrived at 7:30am and about fifty or sixty men were already in line.  Just sayin’.  If you do come very early, make certain you have a chair or it will be a long morning.

If you have any questions, just email me at fineleatherart@yahoo.com .  I may not have the answers for you, but I can usually find out.

Remember, this event is really for charities.  It’s easy to forget that with all the fun going on, but any monies spent on raffles go to great causes, so be generous and enjoy the day knowing you are helping this organization help others.

La Paloma

The dove is never an easy bird to hunt.  I say that after losing a bet with a friend over 40 years ago.  Hank and I were not much for bird hunting, but we did do a little.  He and I had both hunted ducks and quail, and he had hunted dove, but I had not.  I was decent with a shotgun, although I wasn’t great, and I had discovered there are differences in shooting skeet, trap, and live birds, but birds are birds—right? 

Over the years I had run many boxes of shells through the old bolt-action twenty-gauge I had inherited from my grandfather, and I thought there were no birds that could fly through the pattern that gun made.  Hank bet me some small change that the dove could do it.  No Way!  But Hank insisted it could be done, so I took that bet, and we went dove hunting.

My cousin’s family had some property in west Texas where the doves were plentiful in the fall.  One particular stock tank must have had the right flavor of water, because the dove population would always be rather dense for two or three hundred yards around it.  I didn’t remember ever hearing of anyone hunting these birds here before, so I thought it would be a perfect place to test Hank’s theory and take his money from him.  I didn’t think about the fact that the cost of the gasoline just to get there was several times the amount of the bet.  Sometimes cost doesn’t matter when money is involved.

As we were driving from Fort Worth to the ranch, I decided to make a second bet.  I told Hank I could take the limit of birds (I think it was fifteen) with one box of shells and have several left over for the next hunt.  I drove from Mineral Wells to Abilene before he stopped laughing, and we were past Odessa before the snickering subsided.  Come to think of it, his big grin never did go away.

When we arrived at the ranch, my cousin was waiting on us.  I had talked to him for permission to hunt the property, but I didn’t expect to see him at the ranch.  However, there he was, and he was planning on joining in on the hunt.  When he found out about the bet, he sided with Hank.

“I’ll double Hank’s bet.  Shooting dove is like shooting a hole in a cloud.  It can be done, but it ain’t easy.”

Two against one.  Great.  I’ve seen dove fly, so why are they supposed to be so hard to hit?  Both of these guys know my hunting ability, yet they think I’m going to have a difficult time filling my limit.  They should know better.

We were up very early the next morning, and by first gray light we were near the stock tank awaiting the sun’s rays.  Just before the first long shadows appeared we began to see flights of white wing dove, and we were ready.

All three of us let go at about the same instant.  The double boom of Hank’s Ithaca twelve and the rhythmic pounding of Vern’s Browning pump along with the unsteady popping of my little Mossberg 185d made the morning sound like a war zone.  And the dove fell.  We gathered our first round of birds and settled in for three more rounds before the flights became more sporadic.  Hank and Vern had their limits and I had one more to go to fill my bag, but that one proved to be my undoing.

By now the birds were flying alone, and every shot could be judged on its own merit.  No more of the ‘two birds with one shot’ scenario.  I had to make this work.  I had just seven shells left in my pocket, and I had to go back with 1) my limit, and 2) several shells left over.  I wish I had sneaked in a few extras, but I was just too confident.

I wasted two or three shots on cross flights about thirty yards out.  Another shot followed a bird as he flew from behind me, over my head, and in front of me, but he was just too fast for the pellets.  And then it happened.  I loaded my last three shells, two in the magazine and one in the chamber.  In the distance was a dove flying straight toward me.  When the bird was about forty-five yards away, I pulled the trigger and immediately chambered the second round.  Again I pulled the trigger, and the last round went into the chamber.  And I fired again.  I had seen that dove fly right through the oncoming shot three times, and then it flew over my head and away to the nearby hills.

I paid my bets, and I took a lot of ribbing, but later on I discovered the real quality of my friends.  I never heard about my humiliation after that day—not from Hank or Vern or anyone else for that matter.  They never said a word about it to another person.  And I learned a valuable lesson.

47th Annual Wild Game Feed

New Post on July 8, 2019.  51st Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 30, 2018.  50th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 23, 2017.  49th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 1, 2016.  48th Annual Wild Game Feed.

Okay.  It’s that time of year when anticipation just isn’t enough to keep me satisfied.  I need the real thing, and I need it NOW!  But like everyone else, I have to wait a little longer for the 2015 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  It’s not going to happen until the third Friday in September.  That means September 18, 2015.

Today my ticket order form arrived in the mail, and it is already filled out, sealed in an envelope, and ready to drop in the mail (as soon as I post this).  No hesitation allowed.  I talk to people every year who waited a couple of weeks to return their order form only to find discover this grand feast is sold out.  If you’ve got an order form send it in immediately or plan on waiting another year.

The AWGF is absolutely the best event of its type I have ever attended.  The food doesn’t end until the sun goes down.  Even then I manage to take a bit home to enjoy another day.  And it’s a bottomless beer mug event.  This is a dream come true—too much beer and too much food all in one place.  One of the things I always laugh about each year is how we stuff ourselves on appetizers of wild game sausages, chili, buffalo ribs, frog legs, clams, salmon, halibut, gumbo, spit roasted pig, quail, game hen, crawfish, tamales, and a bunch of other stuff like corn on the cob, quail, chucker, and calimari, only to have dinner served.  And who can pass up stacks of venison, buffalo, antelope, caribou, elk, boar, alligator, ostrich, duck, sea bass, and who knows what else.  Of course, it’s all washed down with more beer (or soda—your choice).

On top of that there are events, exhibits, and raffles.  Events have included a Sportsman’s Challenge in Target Shooting, Casting, and Archery.  Exhibits have included a large display by Safari Club International, and Live Birds of Prey.  Raffles are endless, and special raffles have included cars, motorcycles, and hunting dogs.  Grand prizes usually include shotguns, rifles, rods and reels, big screen televisions, and barbecues, as well as high-end hunting and fishing equipment.  And for those needing something else to do, how about some volleyball or horseshoes.

For the 1,500 or so men (stag only and 21 or older) who gather together for this event, there is a strange bonding.  We all become instant friends, and we remain friends whether or not we ever met at the Feed.  Over the years, I’ve encountered men under various circumstances outside of the Feed and the subject of the AWGF came up.  Since we had both attended in the past, there was a sudden understanding between us that only friends can have.  And that is the point.  No matter who we are, or where we came from, the Feed unites us as friends.  Just recently I encountered a gentleman who had moved out of the area and had not been able to attend in more than 25 years.  We have almost nothing in common other than past attendance, but we became instant friends.  And he plans to be there this coming September.

All of this is great fun, but it is for charities this event exists.  Many charitable organizations benefit from the monies raised by the Annual Wild Game Feed.  I know the ticket is a bit pricey, but it’s worth every penny and then some.  Hope to see you there.

Memorandum

Recently I opened an old reference book I used for many years while working as an accountant.  An inserted page fell out and many old memories returned.

About twenty-five or thirty years ago I was working for a small company where the owner was, uh, well, not my favorite person.  The hours were long and most were without compensation.  Breaks of any kind were not allowed.  Speaking to another employee was a firing offence.  And DO NOT be caught on the phone, even if one’s job was to answer the phone.  Fortunately the owner was usually not in the office. 

I developed a good working relationship with the owner of a vendor company, and began to realize she understood full well the circumstances where I was employed.  One day she asked me if I had already received my daily beating.  I laughed, but the thought stayed with me.  After a few days had passed, I had a very slow afternoon and wrote the following memorandum.  After sharing it with the vendor company owner, I tucked a copy away in my reference book where it remained all these years.  I didn’t forget about the memorandum I wrote, I just forgot about where I had placed it. 

In another job I was required to make sales and deliver product to various customers around the city.  In several offices, backrooms, break rooms, and work areas belonging to these customers, I encountered copies of the memorandum I had shared with the vendor at my previous company.  I occasionally wondered if any company had ever actually adopted it.

M E M O R A N D U M

TO:  ALL EMPLOYEES

FROM:  MANAGEMENT

RE:  COMPANY BEATINGS

Management has listened to your complaints about the company beating policy and has decided several changes to the policy are in order.

1.     Merit beatings will be eliminated; however, random beatings will be increased in order to create a more even distribution among all workers.

2.     Weekly beatings will now be alphabetically rather than by seniority.

3.     Any employee who misses the weekly beating must make up for the missed beating with two beatings on personal time.

4.     All employees must submit to beatings both before and after filing any complaint.

5.     New job applicants will be test beaten.  Any applicant failing the test will be beaten until satisfactory results are achieved.

6.     Voluntary beatings must now be by appointment only.  Friends and other non-employees will no longer be allowed to participate.

7.     Any employee failing to comply with the new beating policy will be beaten.

8.     The improvement of morale at work may result in fewer beatings, although they will not be eliminated in order to serve as a reminder of what happens when morale is low.

Please continue to express your concerns to management.  We pride ourselves in our ability to respond to our employees’ needs.

Hawaii

One of the world’s great vacation destinations is Hawaii.  Or so I am told.  Paris, London, Barcelona, Madrid, Rome, Florence, Athens, Amsterdam, well, I’ve been to a few more than these cities on business trips, and I also was able to take time to enjoy my visits to those wonderful places.  But Hawaii?  Oh, well.

The company where I worked for so many years usually brought the Hawaii managers to Los Angeles for our twice-yearly business meetings.  It was just more convenient and cost effective for them to come to me rather than for me to visit them.  In Los Angeles, I could simply bring a lot of managers together for fewer meetings and save a lot of time.  Actually I could save about four days of time, and my time was very valuable to both my company and to me.

This arrangement worked well for several years until I decided I wanted to see Hawaii.  I knew I would have limited time to spend in the islands, about four days maximum, so it was necessary to be as efficient as possible, but still, I thought I could get in some sightseeing.  However, it was not to be.

I was in Chicago 24 hours before the meetings were to begin in Hawaii, but the time difference between Honolulu and Chicago gave me a bit more time to play with, so I thought I was safe even though I was cutting it a bit close.

I drove to O’Hare International where a company jet was to fly me to LAX in Los Angeles.  From there, I would take a commercial jet to Honolulu International.  I planned to grab a taxi to a hotel and get a couple of hours rest before meeting with all the gathered managers at the company store in Honolulu the following morning and afternoon.  Then I could take about two days for myself and see what I could see.  But the company jet had a few in-flight problems forcing us to land in Denver.

Denver’s Stapleton airport that evening was not the busiest place I had ever been.  In fact, there were no flights out to Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego, or just about anywhere else until about 5am the next morning.  I didn’t have much choice but to wait.  I did manage to get my fight from Los Angeles to Honolulu changed, although it meant I would need to fly coach instead of business class.  I’m a big guy, so the thought of a long flight in coach was not appealing; however, I needed to get to Honolulu.

I purchased my ticket for the next flight to Los Angeles, but when it came time to board, I was bumped.  I had to wait until about 10:20am for the next flight.  Bumped again.  I did get on the next plane, but my rescheduled flight from Los Angeles was already in the air without me.

At LAX I discovered the flights to Hawaii were every other day in this off-season of early May.  So I had a long layover.  The managers awaiting me were notified of the situation, and we made the best of it.

Finally I arrived in Honolulu.  I walked down the steps to the tarmac where I was greeted by a dog looking for a fight.  Just where he came from was anyone’s guess, but he decided he didn’t like my left leg very much.  A couple of airport workers pulled him off of me, but my suit pants were shredded, and the leg needed some medical attention.

I was taken into the terminal where a staff nurse examined my leg, cleaned it up, and applied about a pound and a half of bandages.  Good enough.  I had a meeting to get to. 

As I walked out of the First-Aid office, I heard my name over the airport speakers.  It was one of the managers I was to see that afternoon.  He was waiting for me in a nearby room.  I walked into the room to find every manager ready for a meeting.

“We just got word from Chicago that you need to be on the next plane out.  It leaves in about seven hours, so we decided to meet here and get it over with."

About seven hours later I was bound for San Diego where I would transfer to a flight to Chicago.  Best Hawaiian trip I ever had.

Hump Day

Today is Hump Day.  We are half the way there.  Okay, it’s Friday, but I’m not talking about getting through the week, I’m talking about getting through the year.  No this is not June 21^st, it’s the Third Friday in March.  That means we are halfway through the year to the Third Friday in September—the 47^th Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.

 A full year is an extremely long time to wait for the Wild Game Feed.  Really long.  Lo-o-o-o-o-ng!  And the closer it get, the longer it seems we have to wait.  When it finally arrives, it’s over wa-a-a-a-a-ay too fast.  Then we have to wait again.

I like the anticipation of the Feed’s arrival.  Throughout the year I set aside time to examine the various items I plan to bring and to make certain all is ready for the big day.  That means examining the cigar supply, checking on the pickled quail eggs, re-supplying my box of ‘stuff’ (things I bring along just because), and looking over the condition of my pop-up shelter.  I don’t do this every week, just once or twice a month.

Last year someone asked me if I spend all my time thinking about the Feed, and the answer is ‘No.’ I do think about it a lot, but not for the reasons one may assume.  Yes, it is a lot of unique fun.  The food is great, the games are great, the exhibits are great.  What I really miss though are the friends I have made over the years.  While I enjoy everything about the Feed, if I had to pick my favorite part, it’s the friendship of this group of men.

I wouldn’t mind doing this two or three times during the year, but I think the organizers would balk.  After all, they are the ones who do all the work and have to think about it every day.  To me they are heros.  An event of this size is no small feat.  So I guess I’ll settle for just once a year, and I’ll be glad to wait while they create the best Wild Game Feed anywhere.

Biggie—Year Four

There is nothing like owning a dog, except maybe taking care of someone else’s dog.  Nothing in life prepared me for having a part-time dog, or for the bonding I could have with an animal that isn’t mine to keep.  But there he is.  Right now he is asleep on his bed just beside my chair.  I’m looking down at him and thinking, “He needs a haircut.”

Oh, boy.  When it comes time to groom Biggie, it always begins with a major struggle and ends with a happy dog.  I believe many dog owners know what I am talking about.  For Biggie there is a fear of water, and consequently a fear of a bath.  Somehow, someway, he knows when he is going to get a bath, and he immediately bolts under the bed at the very center near the headboard where he can’t be reached from either side.  And almost nothing will coax him out from there.

For a long time trickery was our greatest asset.  Biggie likes to get treats, and he responds to the rustle of a bag in the kitchen instantly.  Just open the refrigerator door and he is there.  Open a pantry door and he appears underfoot as if by magic.  All of these were used effectively to lure him from under the bed at bath time, until recently.  Now if he suspects a bath is in order, not even a meaty beef rib bone will draw him out.  

Once he is in the bath, he enjoys getting attention and a massage.  And afterward he loves the blowdryer.  When everything is done, he runs up to anyone around to show off how fluffy and soft he is.  And soft he is.  Like a cloud.  Needless to say, this gets him a lot of petting, and he is one very happy dog.

The haircut is a different story.  He just doesn’t like a haircut no matter how you slice it.  It takes both Rachael and me to control most of him during the process.  The rest is done by use of a muzzle.  I really don’t like muzzling Biggie, but I really don’t like getting bit either.  Little dog, big bite.  He will tolerate trimming his body hair to some degree, but legs are a different story—and paws are a book of their own.  (We’re not even going into the art and science of nail trimming.)  When it comes to trimming his face, the muzzle has to come off, and then only my wife can get the job done.  Let me tell you, I hate giving him a haircut more than he hates receiving it.  When it comes to haircut time, I want to crawl under the bed.  If I could manage that, not even a meaty beef rib bone could draw me out.

I like having a dog, and having a part-time dog is perfect for me.  Sometimes I feel as though he is over here a bit too much, but when he is with his owner, I miss him—usually.  The advantage to sharing a dog is being able to go somewhere without worrying if he is okay—usually.

I just looked back down at Biggie sleeping beside me, and again I thought, “He needs a haircut.”  Maybe we will go for a ride in the car instead.

Super Bowl XLIX

Last week was the Annual Super Bowl Gathering at the Long Beach Casting Club.  I look forward to it every year, but not for the game.  I’m not much of a football person, but I do enjoy trying to figure it out each year.  I’m told there is strategy involved, but all I see is a bunch of men pounding each other over a fat cigar shaped ball.  My main reason for participating in the gathering is the food.  These men really know their way around a kitchen.  The measurement of a Super Bowl party is not the game being played, but the food on the table.  That’s the real superbowl.

Each year we get together about an hour or two before the game and watch some golf tournament.  None of us play golf, but none of us are interested in the pre-game stuff either.  Actually we don’t even watch the golf.  All we do is talk about fishing.  After all, that is what our club is about.  We are fly-fishermen, and that is what we do.  Even during the game our attention is more focused on fishing or food instead of who has the ball and what they are doing with it.

This year, I must admit, I found the last few minutes of the game quite interesting.  Ecstasy, agony, ecstasy, agony.  Winning, losing, winning, losing.  Quite an ending.  I just wish I understood what happened.

Oh, well.  Maybe I’ll bother to learn the game before next year, but I don’t know if I’ll have the time.  There is much fishing to be accomplished.  

Hacked!

In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for a few weeks, I’ve been busy as Santa.  It was a very long season with many visits and events, and only a few hours off.  I think I’ve got the best job in the world.

Also, I write many months ahead of posting, and I had over thirty finished stories ready to place into the blog.  I stored them on a portable hard drive with two other portable hard drives used as backups, but on December 3^rd I plugged in my backups and main storage units, turned on my computer and watched as my mouse pointer began to move rapidly on its own.  I realized someone was remotely accessing my computer, so I switched off my internet (an external switch on the front of my computer), and I shut down my computer.  A reboot without the internet activated quickly revealed both my backups to be erased and overwritten with a single huge file, and my main storage drive was about two-thirds erased.  All of my stories, and most of my research data were simply gone.  I took the drives to a recovery specialist only to be told a few days later nothing could be recovered on the backups, and the only thing they could recover on the main storage drive were files of photos of purses and wallets, none of which were mine.

It may take me a while to get more stories posted, but bear with me as I try to rebuild.  I don’t seem to run out of stories, but it takes me a while to get them into print.

Thanks,

David

Bear

In the early morning hours of a wet, windy day, I realized I needed to make that trip everyone has to make in the morning after waking up.  I was high up in the Uncompahgre Wilderness area in southwestern Colorado, and even though it was the middle of July, it was quite cold in addition to being wet and windy.  Oh, did I mention the early morning hours were well before any hint of daylight had arrived.

I crawled out of my sleeping bag, tossed aside the blanket lying over the bag, and I pulled on my moccasins.  I figured my long johns were just fine for the short trip I needed, and besides, I wasn’t planning on doing much before returning to the tent.  The tent had an inner zipper and a tie down flap over it, neither of which I bothered to close while making my run to the nearest tree.

I was delayed only a few moments before making my return journey of about 30 feet, but when I returned to my tent, it had a new occupant.  It seems a rather fuzzy brown critter about my size had decided my blanket and sleeping bag inside the tent was much better than the cold rain outside.

I’ve encountered bears any number of times over the years, but I never had one decide to sleep in my tent before.  Once in New Mexico I had a bear climb up a tree and jump out from one of the branches to catch my food bag while falling to the ground.  I let him keep it.  I had a bear sitting with his back against my car door when I returned from a pit stop along the side of a road in eastern Tennessee.  I yelled at it and threw a stick its direction, and it just wandered off.  While fishing in the mountains above San Bernardino, California, I looked up to see a bear on the other side of the stream about the same time he saw me.  Each of us just backed away.  At least another dozen times bears have entered my realm of awareness, but never before had I faced a situation like this.

I considered beating on the sides of the tent with a stick and yelling at it, but I decided that having a tent between me and an angry bear wasn’t enough of a barrier.  I considered lighting a fire and trying to smoke it out, but 1) my lighter was in my pants pocket in the tent, and 2) it was raining.  I resigned myself to waiting it out.  Then I began to wonder just how late does a bear sleep?

It stopped raining just at dawn, and within minutes the sky cleared and the temperature dropped to the point I could see some ice forming in places.  I was huddled against a tree with a thick layer of pine needles and grass piled over as much of me as I could manage. It didn’t keep me dry, but it helped retain some heat in my body.  Actually, it wasn’t too bad, except for being wet, cold, and miserable.

I had placed my tent near the west end of the small clearing so the sun would strike it as quickly as it made appearance, and within minutes of the arrival of the first rays of light, the bear came out of the tent dragging my blanket with him.  I watched as the bear returned to the tent to retrieve my sleeping bag, which he laid alongside of the blanket.  Then he stretched out over the two items, and went back to sleep in the sun.  Great!

I waited for a few hours until the bear awakened and wandered off into the woods to do what bears do in the woods before I crawled out of my nest of pine needles.  I was only a few minutes getting cleaned up, dressed, packed and into my backpack ready for the trail when I heard a snort behind me.  I turned to see the bear again.  This time he was looking a bit confused.  Where was the shelter?  And where was that warm bedding?  And who was this person with the big hump on his back?

The bear turned around and disappeared back into the woods, leaving me with just a memory.  But what a memory.

Lazy Day Beef Ribs

I like beef ribs a little more than pork ribs.  Trust me, I will never turn down pork ribs, but give me a choice and I will take the beef.  This is mainly due to growing up with more beef than pork available on the dinner table (not that there was ever very much of either one).

Mostly dinner beef consisted of hamburger, but occasionally (every few months) whole cuts appeared on the plate.  Steak wasn’t common, and I assume it was because I was a kid, and the best cuts went to the adults.  The first time I had steak I believe I was 8 or 9 years old.  My parents started talking about it a week or so ahead of the dinner when I was to get my first taste of it, and they extolled the virtues of the steak in great excess.  I couldn’t figure this out, but I guessed it must be something out of this world.

I came into the house on Saturday evening expecting my first steak dinner, but the smell from the kitchen worried me a lot.  My first thought was that something had rotted in the trash.  Soon my mother came out of the kitchen and noticed me sitting on the sofa reading.

“The steaks will be ready in a few minutes.  Go get washed up for dinner.”

Everyone gathered at the table and I was handed a plate with my steak on it.  I didn’t remember any piece of beef looking like this before.  It was sort of fried and covered with onions and gravy.  And the smell!  Ugh!  But I took a bite.  That was the worst thing I had ever put into my mouth.  I couldn’t eat it.  Needless to say I was in trouble.  I could either eat it or go to bed early and hungry.  I went to bed.

About a year or so later we visited some family friends and steaks were on the grill.  As soon as I heard we were having steaks, I wanted to go home.  Oh, how I wanted to go home.  I didn’t care what anyone thought about my actions, I wasn’t going to eat that steak, and I was going home.

Well, I was forced under threat of a major whipping to stay and eat that steak.  And to my surprise, it looked good, it smelled good, and it tasted good.  What happened?

Later that evening I commented about the difference in the steaks.  I heard some grumbling from my parents but little else.  The next day I was told that what the friends had served was actually liver and not steak.  Well I decided I liked liver.

A few months later, we went to a restaurant where liver was on the menu, and I ordered it.  I remember the waitress giving me a strange look, and I remember my parents looking at each other as though something was dreadfully wrong, but no one stopped me from placing my order.  And when the liver came to the table, I was horrified.  They made a mistake, I didn’t want steak, I wanted liver, and I wasn’t going to settle for anything else.

Finally the truth came out.  My parents had thought I would eat the liver if they called it steak.  They didn’t expect to go somewhere where an actual steak would be served to me, and when it happened at the home of the friends, they weren’t certain of what to say or do, so they let me believe the steak was liver.  Then I ordered the liver at the restaurant.  Well, it was time to fess up.

I didn’t trust them for a long time because of this, and I didn’t eat steak for a long time either.  By the time I was an adult, my tastes had changed a bit, and I was now including liver in my diet every 15 or 20 years, and steak was something I found I could enjoy more regularly, but for most of my teen years, I stayed away from either of them.  Beef, for me, meant brisket, roasts, hamburger, or ribs. 

The beef rib is a Texas favorite, but honestly, it takes a lot of work to do it up right.  Not to mention the time.  Granted, it’s worth it, but sometimes I’m busy, and I don’t have the time to fuss with the fire and smoker all day.  My goal was to have tasty beef ribs without making a mockery of the Texas classic, so I went another direction, and the results are outstanding.  And they cannot be compared to the barbequed version.  They stand on their own.

Lazy Day Beef Ribs

Serves 4 two times.  Or 1 eight times.

    3 dried ancho chiles, stemmed and seeded

    3 dried Guajillo chiles, stemmed and seeded

    1 chipotle chile in adobo sauce, stemmed and seeded

    2 tablespoons adobo sauce

    2 ½ cups water

    1 yellow onion, peeled and quartered

    4 cloves garlic, chopped

    2 tablespoons dark honey

    Juice of 1 lime

    8 big meaty beef short ribs, trimmed of excess fat

    1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil

    1 tablespoon coffee crystals

    1 cup beef broth

Rinse the chiles (except chipotle) under cold running water, and then place in a medium bowl.  Cover with boiling water and soak until softened, about 30 minutes; drain saving the liquid in another bowl. Transfer all of the chiles to a blender with the onion, garlic, chipotles with sauce, honey, lime juice, and about 1 tsp salt and puree until smooth.

Pat ribs dry and season with 2 teaspoons salt and 2 teaspoons pepper. Heat oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers, then brown ribs in batches, turning occasionally, about 5 to 8 minutes per batch. Transfer when browned to large (6 quart) slow cooker. 

Very carefully add chile purée to the fat in the skillet and cook over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, for about 5 minutes. Add the reserved chile soaking liquid, coffee crystals, and beef broth, and bring to a slow boil.  Reduce the chile broth by about one quarter of its original volume, and then slowly pour over ribs (liquid should come about halfway up sides of meat).

Turn the slow cooker on High and cover with the lid.  Go do something else for about 5 to 6 hours.  Or turn the slow cooker on low and do something else for 10 to 12 hours.  Either way, when ready to serve, remove the ribs from the cooker to a platter and keep warm.  Skim the fat from the pot juices and reduce in a saucepan on the stove.

Serve over some mashed potatoes, rice, polenta, or grits.  Add a couple of big cheese enchiladas on the side and this meal will be hard to beat.

I’ve noticed these ribs are better on the day after making them, and better still after waiting another day.  Better than liver any day.

Prairie Chicken

Nebraska is a big wide-open state with endless vistas of corn and wheat interspersed with houses, barns, and windmills.  Actually there is much more to it than that, but farming is the dominant perception one has while driving through the state.

I had to visit a company store in Kearney where one of the department managers was an old high school friend.  Actually he went to a different high school from me, but we lived near each other, and soon became friends.  It seems his family was from near Kearney and had a rather large farm they tended, but for about four years mom and the kids moved to Fort Worth to take care of a sick relative.  I lost track of Barney just after graduation when his family moved away.  When I met him again, it was at the store in Kearney, to which his family had returned.

We spent the evening discussing old times, and it wasn’t long before he invited me to his family farm for a visit.  He mentioned hunting prairie chicken if I could make it there in the next few weeks.  Hunt??  Is a four-pound canary fat??  Yes!  I will be there!

I went on to a number of other company stores in the central plains before I could arrange to return to Kearney, but in a couple of weeks I was back and ready for prairie chicken.  I drove to Barn’s family farm where he and I went over our plans.  Well, actually he went over the plans.  I just listened.  I was quite surprised that this hunt was not with shotguns, but with cameras.

I didn’t quite know what to think.  I had never thought of hunting without some kind of a weapon, and I couldn’t understand the purpose, but I had my camera with me, and I was willing to give it a try.

That evening, just as the sun was disappearing, we were sitting outside on his front porch, and I could hear the strangest noise in the distance.  It sounded something like a “boom” or a prolonged “thump.”  “That’s the chicken we’re looking for.”  Barn told me the place we were going before sunrise would be filled with that noise.

Well, okay.  I can’t say I was enthused.  I really wanted to taste some prairie chicken, but my friend was certain I would enjoy using a camera on these birds. 

By 4am the next morning we were in his Jeep driving to the far end of the farm where a large area was still untouched prairie grasslands.  We stopped and hiked about a quarter of a mile to a place where that booming sound could be heard very close by.  Here we sat down and waited, but we didn’t wait long.  As the sky quickly grew light, the prairie chickens begin to gather. 

For about 3 hours I was treated to a ritual the likes of which I had never before witnessed.  It was a mating ritual where the male prairie chickens would dance, jump, vault, spread their plumage, and in general put on a display designed to attract a female prairie chicken.  The booming was almost non-stop among the male birds, and the females were gathered around watching.  Sometimes a female bird would join in with a male and soon the new couple would disappear into the prairie grass to do their prairie chicken stuff in private.

I watched with my mouth hanging open until a fly flew in.  After that I remembered what I was there for.  I picked up my camera and started taking pictures.  I believe I burned through every roll of film I had with me that day.  Most of the photos were bad, but a handful were very good by my amateur standards, and I enjoyed looking at them and bringing back the memories for several years.

I never had another opportunity to hunt prairie chicken either with a camera or a shotgun, and it’s just as well.  Like so many of our wild game in North America, the numbers are dwindling and careful management is necessary for the species’ survival. 

I won’t say whether hunting or fishing is right or wrong, but a camera can provide great satisfaction to a hunter or fisherman.  I haven’t hunted for many years now, but that is mostly due to physical abilities.  And even if I could hunt today, it would most likely be with a camera.  As for fishing, I catch and release, and when I can remember to bring a camera along, I photograph my catch.

My prairie chicken hunt was in 1972.  I like to think there are many more birds today just because I used a camera rather than my shotgun back then.

A Man of Few Words

I’ve known quiet people in my life, but one stands out as unique.  Most quiet people have a voice, and when they speak, they really have something to say.  Small talk is worthless to them, but they are not without a sense of humor and will occasionally participate in a joke or good story.  However…

Late in the spring one year I was in the town of Rutland, Vermont to meet with the manager of the small store my company had there.  I never quite figured out the culture of the area, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.  Some years later someone told me the harder I tried to figure it out, the worse the divide would become.  The best way to function was to keep one’s mouth shut and just watch.  Meanwhile, I was working hard at having a conversation with Josiah.

I arrived at the store and asked to see the manager.  The employee raised an eyebrow, looked me up and down, and then pointed toward a corner of the store.  I walked over to the corner where two men were looking at a few sheets of paper.  I asked if one of them was the store manager.  Both nodded ‘yes.’  I introduced myself to both of them, and one motioned me to follow him.

Walking through the store to the manager’s office, I realized no one was talking.  There were sales personnel waiting on customers, but not a word was being uttered.  The store was so quiet it felt almost strange.  Once in the office Josiah sat down behind his desk and looked over at me until I began to squirm.  Finally I sat down, reached into my briefcase for some papers, and handed them to him.  He looked them over, signed them, and handed them back to me.  Then he got up and walked out of the office.  Not a word had been spoken.

I sat there for a few moments wondering what I should do next before he walked back in with two fishing rods and a tackle box.  He reached into his wallet, pulled out his fishing license and pointed at it with his eyebrows raised.  I reached into my wallet, shuffled through about thirty fishing licenses from various states until I found the one for Vermont.  I lifted it up, pointed at it, and raised my eyebrows.  Josiah smiled.  We walked out to his truck, climbed in and drove a few miles to the east to a place called Kent Pond.

We were both still dressed in suits as we fished along the dam and from along the shore of this small impoundment, but we weren’t alone.  I saw four or five other fishermen wearing suits or at least upscale casual during our four or five hours at the water’s edge.  The fish we caught were pumpkin seed and largemouth bass, and after we cleaned them, Josiah wrapped them in newspaper and placed them in an empty cooler.  From there we drove to a nearby house where he disappeared inside with the cooler for a few minutes.  Soon he was back in the truck and we were driving back to the store.  Silence reigned supreme.  There was not a word about the fish, the fishing, the weather, business—anything.  I wondered if this man could even speak at all.

Back in Josiah’s office, he picked up a few papers from his desk and handed them to me to look at.  On top was a newspaper comic strip of ‘Barney Google’ and below it was one of ‘Li’l Abner.’  Underneath that was a stack of blank typing paper.  I looked at these for a while, and then handed them back.  He nodded in approval, and then got up and showed me the door.

I drove back up to Montpelier where I was staying at a motel. And I’ve wondered ever since what happened. 

2014 Wild Game Feed

It’s over for another year.  Words cannot express my agony of waiting for it to happen again.  I know time passes, and the Feed will return next year on the third Friday of September, but no matter how I look at it, it’s still a year away.

Each year begins, at least for me, on the day following the Annual Wild Game Feed in Irvine, CA.  And it ends when the sun goes down on the Feed.  Yes, I do have a life the rest of the year, and it is very full, but rarely does a day go by when I fail to think about the next Feed.

If you have never been to this event before, you have missed a great time.  Tickets are not necessarily easy to obtain, but if you can do so, this event will be like nothing you’ve ever attended.  The order form for the tickets usually makes an appearance in May (more or less), and the tickets are quickly sold out.  If you get the opportunity to order tickets, don’t hesitate even one day or you may miss out.

Thanks to everyone who came by my shelter for a visit and some quail eggs.  You made it so much fun for me again this year that I wish we could do this year around.  To my new friends, it was great to meet you, and to my returning friends, thanks for coming back.  We’ll see each other again next year.

This year’s Annual Wild Game Feed was unbelievable.  And every one I have attended I could say the same thing about.  I’ve watched it grow from five or six hundred attendees to about fifteen hundred.  And with each passing year, the events and demos have grown.  And with each passing year, it just gets better.

I have nothing but praise for the organizers of this giant fundraiser.  They work hard to provide an outstanding time for the participants, and they raise a lot of money for charities.  I hope they take a few days to rest before starting to work on next year’s Feed.

Fly Shop

I grew up in fishing country, Texas to be exact.  Every hardware store in the state sold fishing equipment, and some even sold a few tools and nails.  My personal favorite was Buddies Hardware, which was really no more than an extension of Buddies Grocery Store.  The reasons I preferred it were relatively simple.  First because it was just a few blocks from my home, and second because I could get food and bait at the same time. 

Over time stores began to appear specializing in sporting goods, but most carried only the most basic fishing supplies.  But then again, this was Texas, and serious fishing was done with just basic equipment.  The simpler the better.  I don’t recall when the hardware stores began to drop the line of fishing gear in favor of such mundane items as hammers and screwdrivers, but over time I realized that a major change had taken place.

I’ve fished with a tree branch, trimmed of excess leaves and twigs, attached to kite string tied to a bent nail with a worm from the garden stuck on it.  For a float, I used one of the excess twigs trimmed from the tree branch.  And it worked.  Sometimes I didn’t even use the tree branch.  But my grandfather had a more novel approach to fishing.

Papa had a small boat he had nailed together from old lumber he had around the farm.  It weighed about 10,000 pounds as far as I was concerned, but he was able to load it into the back end of his 1938 Ford Coupe and tie it so it wouldn’t fall out onto the road again.  We would drive to one of the nearby stock tanks (a man-made watering hole for cattle and coyotes) and go fishing.

Once we had the boat in the middle of the tank, he would unbox his “fishing gear.”  It was an old crank box telephone with two long bare wires coming out of the back.  He would throw one wire over each side of the boat into the water and give the box a few fast cranks.  Over the next 30 or 40 seconds fish would float to the surface and we could pick the biggest ones to take home for dinner.  This was fishing at its best.

One day Papa came home with a store-bought boat.  It may have been 3^rd or 4^th hand, but at one time it was store bought.  The boat was a 10 foot jon boat, and it was a thing of beauty.  While it was still heavy to me, I could actually load it into the back of the old car by myself, but Papa still insisted on tying it down himself.  It didn’t take long for us to try it out.

We drove out to a rather large stock tank on a friend’s property a few miles away and launched the boat.  We climbed in, rowed to the middle and tossed over the wires.  In his usual manner, Papa gave the old telephone a few quick cranks, but it was only momentum that created all cranks after one.  We realized a little too late that electricity, water, and a metal jon boat do not go well together.  In a vain attempt to remedy the situation, he tried to uncrank it, which produced the same effect.

The fish floated to the surface as they always did, but this time we just looked at them with compassion.  We saw any number of potential dinner options, but we were just too, um, stunned to take advantage of the situation.  By the time we could gather our wits about us, the fish had recovered enough to swim back to the bottom of the tank.  Our only choice now was to crank the telephone again or just go home.

It was a long five miles home.  We carried the jon boat over to where the old wooden boat lay and set it along side the old craft.  And we stood there looking at the two boats for several minutes before putting away the telephone on its shelf in the nearby barn.

We never spoke to each other about the lesson learned that day, much less to anyone else for many years.  Actually he passed away without ever saying anything about it at all.  The jon boat simply disappeared one day, and the old wooden boat rotted beyond repair from lack of use.  The lesson I learned from it was to go back to what I knew best, a string, some kind of a float such as a cork, a hook, and a worm.  This brings me back to the evolution of the sporting goods store. 

           

When the hardware stores began to decline from their glory days as the place to buy fishing equipment, the sporting goods stores started carrying more fishing items.  The problem I had with these stores was that no one there knew anything about fishing. 

The stores carried backpacks and camping equipment.  I could understand this since fishing could occasionally involve some hiking and quite often a few nights of camping.  I could understand the football equipment, the baseball equipment, and even the basketball equipment.  I definitely could understand the hunting equipment.  I could not understand the skiing equipment, especially in Texas.  I could not understand the specialized clothes that everyone seemed to need to ski, hunt, or fish.  I could not understand why the people working the store knew everything about skiing and nothing about anything else.

The fisherman was now on his own.  No longer could he go to local hardware store and find out where the fish were biting.  No longer could he ask for a specific size of hook and get it.  No longer could fishing stories be swapped with someone who had been there and let the big one get away.  The sporting goods stores were just a big cold place with little to offer the traditional Texas fisherman.

It didn’t take long for someone to realize the problem.  I began to see something called Tackle Stores pop up around the state.  These were much better than the sporting goods stores in that the people running them did know something about fishing, and the product line was all about fishing, but the personal relationship once developed in the local hardware store was missing.  Still it was better than nothing.

I fished for many years under the guidance of these sporting goods stores and tackle stores, largely having to figure things out for myself.  When I took up fly-fishing, I assumed that little would change in the situation.  There is, however, something I was not expecting to find—The Fly Shop.

They don’t sell nails, hammers, lumber, or chain.  They don’t have 16 year olds expounding the virtues of snowboards.  They don’t have footballs, baseballs, or basketballs.  They sell fishing equipment, albeit very specialized equipment.  This is the dream I lost when the hardware stores started selling nails, hammers, lumber, and chain. 

I was directed to one of the few remaining fly fishing stores in Southern California by the fly fishers I met at the Long Beach Casting Club.  Actually, they told me of 5 or 6 stores, but only one was near to my home, so I went there.  I walked in the door and just stood there blocking the aisle for about one minute.  That’s how long it took for someone to offer to help me.  I don’t believe I’ve had anyone offer to help me with fishing equipment in 30 years or more.  Not only was this person willing to help, but he also actually fished on a regular basis.  I walked into the store expecting nothing.  I walked out of the store having had all my dreams fulfilled.  Well, most of them.  Some we don’t talk about.

I have since been to many fly-fishing stores.  They range from sophisticated operations to small one-person shops, but in each and every one I can expect and get personal attention by someone who knows what they are talking about.  Well, at least they know more than me.  But I have never met anyone working such a store that doesn’t fly fish.  The person may be happy, grumpy, tired, bored, or something else altogether, but they all speak with some knowledge.  They know the best rivers and lakes in the area, and where to fish on them, and what to fish with.  They know all the secrets of the local area and often far beyond its borders.  They know I’m not there just to buy some flies or leaders or other trinkets, although they gladly take my money for them, they know I’m there to pick their brains about fishing.  And they give freely of their knowledge.

I’ve been a fly fisherman for just a short amount of time, but during this brief adventure, no fewer than four store closures have come to my attention with many others obviously struggling.  Can the fishing community afford to allow the Fly Shops go the way of the old Hardware Stores?  I think not.  Yes, there are many tackle shops around, and they are decidedly better than the ones of 30 or 40 years ago, but few have much in the way of fly-fishing equipment.  While fly-fishing is probably not going away anytime soon, the local suppliers may need to turn to nails, hammers, lumber, and chain to keep their doors open.