49th 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.

Go Check Your Mailbox!  Now!!  The order forms for tickets to the 2017 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake are arriving as I write this.  If you want to join in the fun on Friday, September 15, 2017 (the third Friday in September), Go Check Your Mailbox!  If you don’t receive your order form in the next few days, email me, and I will send you an electronic copy of mine.  And as soon as you receive your form, order your tickets.  You can’t wait to do this or you may not be joining us this year.  These tickets will sell out in just weeks, and probably in just days.  The ticket order forms were late getting mailed out this year, and that means everyone is worried about getting tickets and will order their tickets the moment they receive their forms.  If you are reading this, Go Check Your Mailbox! Now!!

Last year I received several emails (107 to be exact) from guys who didn’t take my warning seriously.  One man had not missed in over twenty years, but he waited until July 1^st to place his ticket order in the mail.  He was too late.  He was lucky though because he located someone with a rare extra ticket, and we got together at the Feed to discuss the error of his ways. 

The fact is, this party sells out earlier every year.  My first year tickets were still available a few days before the event, but that was about 20 years ago.  Now it’s a sellout just a few days after the tickets become available.  Don’t hesitate to order.  Hello?  Are you listening?  Don’t hesitate to order!

If you follow the above advice, then prepare yourself for the biggest and best Wild Game Feed you will ever attend.  Food, beer, prizes, Food, games, exhibits, Food, more beer, Food, and best of all Friends (and food).  Then they serve dinner.  This is an overload of everything a Wild Game Feed should be. 

If you have any questions, check out the page AWGF FAQs.  It should answer most questions.

Okay, Go Check Your Mailbox!  Now!!

See you at the Feed!

Meat and Beer!

Annual Wild Game Feed Ticket Order Forms

They’re not here yet.  Actually, I just received word that they are expected to be mailed out in about 2 weeks, so get ready.  When the order forms arrive, order your tickets immediately.  These will sell out in just a few days, so any hesitation may cost you a long wait until next year.

Have a little patience, but be ready.  The order forms will be here soon.

See you at the Feed!

Meat and Beer!

Family Reunion

My family has dwindled down to just a few individuals, but it was once quite large, and we would have a yearly reunion where several hundred of my mother’s relatives would gather for photographs, celebrating new additions, and a time of remembering.

My mother’s mother was born in 1893 and was the last child of a very large family.  Her mother passed away when Granny was just a few months old, and her father remarried and raised another large family.  My own mother was a late child, and by the time I came along, the family was huge.

My mother’s cousin Winnie decided in the late 1950’s to have a family reunion.  Many of my grandmother’s generation were now in their 80’s, and Winnie thought it would be great to bring everyone together one last time.  Little did she know at the time, this reunion would take place every year for another 18 years before time took its toll. 

Many of my grandmother’s brothers and sisters made it past the century mark.  At the last reunion, one of her older sisters, Annie, had her photo made with her daughter, grand-daughter, great-grand-daughter, and great-great-grand-daughter.   Five generations.  Amazing.  But just as amazing was the fact that Annie’s mother/step-mother was still alive at the time, and she ultimately out-lived a number of her children.  She was well over one hundred twenty years old when she passed away.

Those reunions are long over and few, if any, of the descendents other than my two siblings and myself remember them.  The three of us gathered together a couple of years ago (as we try do every few years) and reminisced about the old reunions.  We remembered the washtubs filled with ice water and Dr. Peppers, Nehi and Grapette sodas, RC Colas, and Big Reds.  There were always piles of fried chicken, potato salads, cakes, pies, and other things, but all we could remember were the sodas and the piles of fried chicken, potato salads, cakes, and pies.  Lots of pies.  Oh, the pies! 

Even the names of everyone are fading after all these years.  The three of us could remember only about fifteen or so of our grandmother’s brothers and sisters, and no more than about ten of the descendant’s names (other than our own, of course).  We had to look on one of the ancestry sites to come up with the names.

One of my grandmother’s older brothers was John.  His wife was Gertrude.  I wrote a little bit about her and her pecan pie in “Dessert Wars.”  But she had other pies that were just as good.  This one she always brought to the reunion, and this is the recipe she wrote out for me.  After John died, she made no more pies.

Chess Pie

Mix some sugar, flour, cornmeal, and salt, and add some eggs and butter.  Cream well, and add vanilla and lemon.  Mix and pour into an unbaked pie shell.

Just like her ‘Circle X Pecan Pie’ I wrote about in “Dessert Wars,” this recipe was from a very experienced cook who worked more by habit, feel, and intuition than anything else.  Below is how I remember her making it, and I think this recipe is extremely close to hers, but no matter how hard I try, it will never be just like the ones at the reunion.

Chess Pie

    1 ¾ cups sugar                                               

    2 tablespoons all purpose flour                                

    1 tablespoon cornmeal                                           

    ¼  teaspoon salt                                              

    4 large eggs                                                   

    ½ cup melted butter                            

    1 teaspoon vanilla extract                                         

    1 teaspoon lemon extract                                       

    1 (8-inch) unbaked pie shell

Mix together the first four ingredients, and add the eggs and butter.  Cream well, and add the vanilla and lemon extracts.  Mix and pour into an unbaked pie shell.  Bake at 375F for about 45 minutes.  If the crust starts getting too brown, protect the edges with some aluminum foil.  Keep a close eye on the pie after 30 minutes.  Cool on a wire rack.

I’ve seen a few recipes for Chess Pie over the years, and most contain milk or buttermilk.  This does not and I always wondered about that.  Anyway, this is how she did it, and it was always the first pie to disappear.

Meat and Beer

This morning I was checking over my cigar collection and realized it is out of control.  (Or maybe I’m out of control.)  I made a spreadsheet of each cigar label, length, and ring gauge, and by the time I finished, I was in awe of my own collection.  Seventy-three different cigar choices totaling almost six-hundred cigars.  Even though some are better than others, there is not a bad stick in the humidor.  And I’m not finished.  More are on the way.  During an average year I smoke about 3 to 5 stogies outside of the Annual Wild Game Feed, so I guess I have a few too many.  Nah!  There’s no such thing as too many cigars.  I guess I could say the same thing about food, beer, and friends.  And these are all things adding to the fun of the Wild Game Feed.

A few years ago a friend and I were discussing the Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  We talked about the cigars we didn’t get around to smoking, the friends we didn’t have time to greet, the food we were too full to eat, and the beer we had to leave in the kegs.  It was a great discussion since it involved excesses in each category.  Too many cigars, friends, food, and beer.  Oh, I forgot about the prizes we didn’t win.  How could it get any better?  Maybe toss into the mix some games and exhibits?  Yep, they got’em.

After about 3 hours of discussing the Feed we realized we needed to go back to our lives for a while and finish this talk at a later time.  I ended the conversation with my usual goodbye phrase of “See you at the Feed,” but he replied, “Meat and Beer!”  I like that.  Soon it became a phrase he and I use with each other to say both “Hello” and “Goodbye.”

This year the 49^th Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake will be on Friday, September 15, 2017, and once again there will be too much to take in (figuratively as well as literally).  As usual I can hardly wait to indulge in the excesses of meat and beer, friends, cigars, and prizes.  I’ll leave the games to others more physically fit.  But for me, I’ll spend most of my time in or near my shelter eating and drinking and smoking and talking to anyone who stops by.  Life is good at the Feed.

See you at the Feed.

Meat and Beer!

Biggie—Year Six—Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

This has been an interesting year.  In a couple of previous posts I’ve talked about moving away from my home of 20 years, as well as Biggie’s mom also moving away.  It meant at the time the probability of never seeing Biggie again.  However, a few last moment changes in moving plans left us only 12 miles apart, and I get to have Biggie over for visits on a regular basis. 

Right now Biggie is doing one of his favorite things—he is asleep on our sofa, and I’ll let him stay there as long as he desires.  He used to take over my chair, so I gave up and started sitting on the sofa.  Now he is taking over the sofa, and I’ve been relegated back to my old chair.  This little guy is 10 years old now, and in a few months he will be 11.  His age is beginning to show, but then again, so is my age.  But this doesn’t stop us from having fun.

My wife and I live just a short drive from a coffee shop overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and it is a peaceful location where one can relax and enjoy getting hyper on caffeine spiked with sugar.  The outdoor patio is a perfect place to bring a dog, and the coffee shop will serve dogs a cup of whipped cream if requested.  Biggie knows this.  And there is more.  They know Biggie and will often bring him his whipped cream BEFORE it is requested. 

We had Biggie in the car with us one day, and I mentioned getting a cup of coffee.  Biggie went crazy.  He was jumping all over us with excitement.  My idea was to go to another place closer to where we were driving, but Biggie had his own thoughts on the matter.

As I drove past the turn that would take us to the coffee shop by the ocean, Biggie started barking uncontrollably at me.  At first I didn’t understand he was telling me I missed the turn.  I pulled into the nearby place I had in mind, but Biggie was whining and refused to get out of the car.  We decided to drive around a bit more to calm him down, and as I again drove past the turn to the coffee shop by the ocean, Biggie started barking once more.  That’s when I decided to just drive on over to the coffee shop at the overlook.  Biggie’s barking stopped, but he stood on my wife’s lap with his tail wagging out of control.

When we pulled into the parking lot, Biggie was again wild with excitement.  We hooked up his leash, and he almost dragged my wife over to the patio while I made our coffee purchase and requested a cup of whipped cream for Biggie.  I looked towards the back door of the shop exiting onto the patio, and there stood Biggie with his two front paws on the door’s glass looking in at me (tail wagging, of course).  Oh, what a happy dog!  All of this was a result of simply mentioning to my wife that I wanted a cup of coffee.

Also, near where we live, and well within Biggie walking distance, is a take-out restaurant specializing in chicken wings.  The first time we brought Biggie over to our new home, we drove by this restaurant, and Biggie’s nose went into overtime sniffing.  He couldn’t see it, but he managed to calculate its location and distance from our home.  When I took him for his first walk from our home, Biggie walked straight to the restaurant.  Even though it was closed at the time, Biggie placed his paws on the door glass and started barking for them to open.

This chicken wing restaurant is a chain with many locations.  I asked his mom if he had ever been to one in the past, but she assured me he had never been to one.  Still, on each and every walk, Biggie wanted chicken wings. 

One afternoon we drove to a nearby outdoor shopping center, and while my wife was shopping, I gave Biggie a walk.  He seemed to be determined to walk the length of the mall without stopping, and when we reached the last storefront, I realized it was another of these chicken wing restaurants.  It was everything I could do to prevent him from dragging me in there.  His nose knows.

I actually would love to treat Biggie to chicken wings (sans bones of course), but he is allergic to chicken.  Bummer.  Maybe the big attraction is the desire for forbidden delicacies.  I understand this.  I love peanut butter, but I can’t have it even in small quantities.  So I guess I understand Biggie on this point.

Well, in spite of moving away, Biggie continues to be a large part of my life.  We recently had him over for a visit of several weeks, and I was glad to return him to his mom.  (The advantages of having a part-time dog.)  The problem is though, as soon as he goes home, I start to miss him.  At least he is still a part of my life.

Stub

I like to barbeque, grill, smoke, and everything else associated with outdoor cooking.  Rarely have I ever been without some form of outdoor cooking apparatus in my possession, and when that has happened, I’m not happy.  That doesn’t mean I use it every day, but when I want to cook outdoors, I want to cook outdoors.

Stub is the name of my gas grill.  No it’s not the only outdoor cooking system I own, but it is probably the most used since it is quick to fire up and slap something onto the grates.  Stub gets its name from the fact that it needs fours legs to stand upright, but one of those legs is broken off about three inches above the ground.

Stub has been with me longer than any grill I’ve owned except my first kettle grill purchased about 40 years ago.  That first one lasted almost 25 years through heavy use and abuse before I handed it over to a new owner, but only Stub has rivaled it to any degree for longevity. 

I purchased Stub all shiny and new from a major hardware store several years ago.  This particular store had sent to me a gift card, a large discount card, a card with specific dollars off if I spent over a certain amount, and a rebate from a purchase I had made earlier in the year.  And all of them could be combined.  My net cost to purchase Stub was just the sales tax and the gasoline to get there and back.  This is my kind of shopping.  Stub replaced Brownie, my previous gas grill.  I was happy to see Brownie go, but it did leave a big cooking hole in my life, so Stub was very welcome when he arrived. 

Brownie had been a rescue grill from the alley behind our apartment.  When I found him cowering beside a trash bin, he had been sadly neglected, and had suffered from an obviously abusive relationship.  I brought him into my garage and slowly brought him back to health.  A good scrubbing, several new parts, a new glass across the front (think 1980’s styling), and a new coat of paint.  Brownie was looking good, but Brownie had an attitude.  I think I know why his previous owner beat him and left him in the alley.

The first time I fired up Brownie, he was very cooperative.  He gave me perfectly cooked chicken breasts, and I could not have been more pleased.  The next time I tried to utilize his talents, he refused to light until I finally laid a flaming stick on the burner and turned on the gas for several minutes.  When he did finally light, the fireball was probably seen two counties away.

Brownie was a test of my patience, and my patience has never fully recovered.  When Brownie finally pushed me past the point of no return, I made certain no person would ever again be plagued by this sadistic monster.  Basically I disassembled every part from every other part and took those parts to different trash bins in different alleys over a period of several weeks.  Done.  Good riddance.

Last week I decided Stub had suffered enough with his broken leg.  Carefully I turned him on his side and very quickly and decisively sawed off the jagged edge of his stump.  A 2x2 and a few bolts later Stub had a peg leg.  A little black paint and he now stands proud and tall once again.  No more leaning at a frightening angle, and no more being propped up by a brick.  Stub is now keeping up with the best of them once again. 

Stub’s charcoal burning friend Smoky Roundhouse (an old kettle style grill) also got a new lease on life with a few new replacement parts.  Now each time I walk to the back yard, I can only smile at these two old timers standing side by side ready to cook up some good eats.

David’s Thick Barbeque Sauce:

I usually prefer a thin vinegar pepper sauce with most of my smoked meats (if I desire a sauce at all), but sometimes I just want something a bit sweeter and thicker, especially if the meat has been direct flame grilled.  This goes great with pork or chicken—especially chicken.

Makes about 3 pints.

1 (12-ounce) bottle commercial chili sauce

3 cups ketchup (up to 4 cups if desired)

1 (6-ounce) can tomato paste

1 cup prepared yellow mustard

¼ cup Worcestershire sauce

¼ cup cider vinegar

1/3 cup yellow mustard seeds soaked in the apple cider vinegar for 2 hours

1 tablespoon garlic powder (do not use fresh garlic)

1 tablespoon onion powder (or ¼ cup minced red onion)  

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 tablespoon fish sauce (optional, but I like it)

1 chipotle in adobo sauce, minced

1 tablespoon pure ancho chile powder

1 teaspoon chili powder

1 teaspoon smoked paprika

½ teaspoon cayenne pepper

½ teaspoon liquid smoke

¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

¼ teaspoon ground cumin

½ cup honey

1 cup firmly packed light brown sugar

Combine all ingredients except honey and brown sugar in a saucepan.  Very slowly bring the mixture to a simmer.  Remove from the heat and add in the honey and brown sugar.  Mix well.  As the sauce cools mix again three or four times.  Can be served hot, warm, or room temperature as needed.  Store in a covered container in the refrigerator up to one month.

Snakebite

Many of the experiences of my life have been just a few moments long, and as such are difficult to put into writing.  And just as many are of moderately short duration, and are very memorable, but still are difficult to put into writing.  The problem I have in writing this one is that it was of short duration; however, it has had a lifelong effect upon me.  Looking back at it is no more fun today than it was when it occurred over fifty years ago, although I do need to face my demons and come to terms with the fact that I was bitten by a snake.

I was fourteen years old and working for a summer camp west of Fort Worth.  The weeks were filled with boys learning camping and outdoor skills that only a few would ever pursue as an adult, but that most would find useful from time to time throughout their lives.  My job was to teach the proper use of axes and knives—something I had used all my short life growing up on a farm.  Just like on the farm each work day at the camp started at 4am and ended about 10pm, so I was glad when the weekends arrived and I could have fun for a couple of days (a luxury we didn’t have on the farm).

A few weekends into this, several of the staff members decided to take a day hike to a lake a few miles away, and I joined them.  We were traveling single file down a trail when the guy behind me shouted, “David, Look Out!  That snake is about to bite you!”

I seem to recall jumping straight up, turning around with a summersault twist and landing about fifteen feet away. 

“I’m sorry, David.  I meant to say ‘That snake just bit you’.”

The snake, a copperhead, was way out of place in this part of Texas.  Much too far west of where its territory was believed to be, but there it was.  One of the guys used a long stick and tossed it over the edge of a ravine nearby while the others looked after me.

Out came the snakebite kits and rusty pocketknives.  Basically they tied a couple of strings around my leg as tourniquets, cut a hole in the calf of my right leg, applied the suction cups from the kits, and tried to carry me back to camp about eight miles away.  After falling off the stretcher made out of several shirts and some tree branches a couple of times, I decided I’d rather walk.

The closest main highway was about five miles away, so I started walking to it instead of the camp.  My leg was in pain.  It wasn’t the bite that hurt, it was the tourniquets and knife cuts that was causing the discomfort.  I fashioned a crutch from a tree branch and kept walking until we reached the highway.  There one of the guys flagged down a passing pickup truck.  When we explained to the driver the situation, he drove us to the emergency room at the small hospital in the town of Mineral Wells just a few miles away.

The doctor immediately came over to examine me.  He removed the tourniquets, and the sudden rush of blood through the leg was excruciating.  I thought I was going to die right there.  I was already getting sick from the poison in my system, but this felt like a good reason to say goodbye to the world.  He cleaned out the hole in my leg and applied some kind of goop to it.  He placed a clean bandage over it and left the room while saying he needed to check something.  The doctor returned after a few minutes and let me know there was nothing more he could do for me.

Just a few minutes ago I had wanted to die, but now I had changed my mind completely on the subject.  I stared at the doctor with eyes as big as baseballs, and my mouth open wide enough for a bird to nest in.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  I just meant that you’ll be fine.  The poison will make you very sick for a few days, and it will have an effect on you for a few months, but you will live.  Just change the bandage every few hours and put this ointment on the wound until it closes up in a few weeks.”

Over time the leg healed, the dizzy feelings from the poison diminished, and I resumed my normal life.  Fifty-plus years later the scar on the leg is a bit difficult to find, and I haven’t had a dizzy spell in several years, but the fear of snakes remains.  To this day I find I cannot even visit enclosed exhibits of snakes.  Lizards also worry me some.  But I still remember how to jump straight up while turning around with a summersault twist while landing about fifteen feet away.  I’ve put that move to good use on more than one occasion.  

Sit Back and Wait

The 49^th Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake is scheduled for Friday, September 15, 2017, and nothing I can do will make it appear any sooner.  Each year the third Friday in September takes about 200 centuries to arrive.  The more I try to speed it up, the longer it takes to arrive, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.  Believe me, if I had a time machine…

The holidays are over, and my Santa season has slowed down quite a bit.  Almost immediately after the Feed is over each year I jump right into the red suit and ride the red sleigh for a few months.  I don’t have time to even think about the AWGF, and that is a good thing, otherwise the wait for the Feed would seem even longer.  But the red suit is now at the cleaners, and I have time to think. 

In the past few days I began to prep for the Feed.  I pulled out my shelters to check them over and discovered a broken leg and a rip in the top and side of one of them.  Maybe I should go back to using just one shelter—it was easier anyway.  I’m having difficulty finding quality quail eggs this year, but I’ll keep working on it.  As always, no guarantees that I’ll succeed, but I’ll try.  And I took stock of my cigars.  Uh, I think I over-bought.  Right now I have over 300 with more on order, and during the year I usually don’t smoke more than three or four apart from the Feed. 

This year I’m planning to pack a little lighter than in the past.  It’s just getting to be too much for this old man to handle, so my list of things to bring is getting an overhaul.  If I haven’t used it in the past two years, I’m not bringing it.  (The two exceptions are my small first aid kit and T.P.)  I think this will eliminate about ten to fifteen percent of the burden.  When I started going to the feed I was in my late forties, and the baggage was no problem, but now I’m in my late sixties and just walking from the parking lot to the entry booth is getting difficult.  Time to reduce the ‘stuff.’

I was actually thinking of bringing only the basics as I once did long ago, but that’s just a bit too Spartan for me.  I need a shelter, table, chair, mug, real knife fork and spoon, and my ice chest with a few bottles of cider in it.  I guess I also need to bring my cigars and pickled quail eggs (if I can make them this year), and some plastic bags to bring a few morsels home in.  Let’s see, paper towels, cigar cutter, heavy-duty paper plates and bowls (I don’t like the cardboard boats they serve the food in), barbeque sauce, mustard, cigar lighter, bottled water, and toothpicks.  I think I’m back to the full load.  So much for reducing the burden.

Well, I guess rather than try to reduce the load I’ll just start the process of obsessing over the packing procedure and modifying my checklist.  There’s nothing as frustrating as last minute packing only to discover at the Feed a few important items were forgotten such as a ticket, or cigars, or a chair.  All it takes is to forget just one essential to make for a less than perfect day.  I forgot my ticket once (once), and had to drive all the way back home (over 30 miles away) to retrieve it.  Pooh!  But I discovered the problem early and was able to get back to the Feed in time to see the start of the procedure.  I wasn’t first in line, but I didn’t miss anything either.

I hope to see everyone again this year.  Remember, when the ticket order form arrives in late May or early June, don’t hesitate to place your order, or the Feed may go on without you.

See you at the Feed.

David’s Lousy Eggs

The great poet Robert Frost published in 1916 a collection of poems titled Mountain Interval.  The first poem in the compilation is “The Road Not Taken,” and I have often read and pondered the myriad of meanings one can extract from this masterpiece.  I’m certain Mr. Frost had his own personal meaning(s) embedded within the lines, but I believe my own meanings would be significantly altered if I were to discover the true reason behind this poem.

Every day choices are made for better or for worse.  And sometimes worse isn’t so bad, it’s just not the best choice.  But then again, what is there to compare with?  If one chooses one way over another, how is that person to know if the other way would have been better or worse?

I eat; therefore, I cook.  I do not consider myself to be a great cook, and there are certain persons who have informed me my time spent in the kitchen is time wasted, but I like to cook.  I have a collection of recipes from many sources, mostly from my family or my own experiments, and usually I follow them (more or less).  My palate is not the most refined, and I must admit this is an advantage when cooking just for me.  However, I rarely get to cook just for me, so I have developed a list of “go to” recipes based upon observing the reactions from my guinea pigs guests.

Today I made scrambled eggs for myself.  Just me.  No one else.  And I did them up in David style.  Yes, I could have chosen a different road, but no, I chose the road less traveled.  Even I knew these eggs were lousy, but I licked the plate clean.  I even went back for seconds; however, seconds were not to be.  My wife discovered my afternoon snack, and she helped herself to what remained.  I didn’t know what to say.  She added salt, pepper, and my extra slice of toast to her plate and sat down to watch some television.

As she tasted the first fork full, she looked down at the plate as though it was something more akin to roadkill.  She lifted the plate to her nose and sniffed of it two or three times, and then with it at eye level, she moved some of it around with her fork.  I think she was trying to determine what was in those eggs, but she took a second bite, and a third.  Soon it was a clean plate, and she returned to the kitchen to look for more.

My scrambled eggs were simply a cleaning of the refrigerator.  To the four jumbo eggs I added some mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, sliced sweet mini-peppers, some kind of meat in a container, a splotch of cheap store-bought salsa, some forgotten corn kernels, and a few other things that had been sitting on the shelf way too long.  I’m not really certain what was in one of those containers, but it scrambled as well as everything else.

It’s not that I necessarily like this type of eggs, but I seem to do this every two or three weeks.  Maybe that road is more traveled than I realized.

Mountain Goat

Oreamnos americanus, Rocky Mountain Goat.  Elusive, smart, hard to hunt.  Really hard to hunt.

I was visiting a friend in Fort Worth who had just received his trophy Mountain Goat head for the wall above his fireplace.  It was beautiful with its white fur (hair?), beard, and those 11-inch horns.  I stared at it all evening as he told me about his hunt in the Rocky Mountains in Canada.

I had never trophy hunted, but it was interesting to look at this beast and think about what it took to harvest it.  My friend described the hunt as a short hike to a lush green meadow where the guide pointed out which goat was to be taken.  A few days camping and enjoying the outdoors in northwest Canada and a plane flight home.  What could be easier?  I liked what I was hearing, and soon I was in contact with my friend’s guide in Terrace, B.C.  We arranged a time, and the hunt was on. 

I had business meetings in Anchorage and Juneau to attend, but as soon as the meetings were over, I flew into Terrace where I met up with “Fuzzy.”  He took one look at me, gave a low whistle, and commented that he had never seen this much fat on a lazy pig.  I had just spent a year getting into the best shape I had ever been in, but apparently it wasn’t good enough for him. We threw my baggage into the back of his truck and drove a number of miles to a ranch house where his horses were stabled.  A few hours later we were entering a camp high in the mountains where it was cold, beautiful, and late in the evening even though the sun was still well up in the sky.

The camp cook, “Stew,” tended to my horse and pack while I changed out of my business clothes and into something more suitable for hunting and camping.  Afterwards we chowed down on a hearty stew and camp biscuits with some good strong coffee.

It seems guides and camp hands are all in possession of a name that doesn’t always make sense to me—or maybe it does.  Stew’s name was Robert, but the only thing he could or would cook was stew.  I had an Apache guide once named Horace.  Horace?  Another guide was Rhonda.  One time I called him Ron, but I quickly learned not to do that again.  Flatfoot Mike did everything while running as fast as he could.  Dipper could never cross a stream without stumbling and taking a dip.  It took me a couple of days to find out why Fuzzy was called Fuzzy.   He was clean-shaven and the name didn’t fit—until I found out his last name was Knutz.

About 3am the next morning I was awakened to start the day, and by 4am we were on the trail.  My horse was named Un.  I quickly found out it was short for Unpredictable.  At times he would break into a gallop, and then stop on a dime.  No warning about the start or the stop.  He also loved to crow hop about every 15 to 20 minutes.  Joy.  Only once have I ever been tossed from a horse, and it wasn’t going to happen again, but I never quite convinced Un that his antics were useless.  Time for another crow hop.

About 6am we tied off the horses to some bushes and continued on foot.  Up.  Up.  Up.  I was beginning to remember the description my friend had given me of the lush green meadows with goats everywhere.  I vowed to get even when I got back to Fort Worth.  The narrow rocky trail soon faded to just rocks with no trail to be seen anywhere.  Up.  Up.  Up.

We hiked along the edge of a small stream.  Well, maybe it was some 80 to 100 feet below us, but we kept it on our left side and we moved forward.  Finally we stopped.  Fuzzy commented that he didn’t expect me to keep up with him, and if I had realized sooner his expectations, I might not have done so.  But too late.  We were at the hunting grounds.

For 4 hours we searched the area until finally Fuzzy saw a white speck in a shadowed crevice on a cliffside in the distance across the stream.  “Take that one.  It looks to be at least a 10-incher, and it’s only 800 yards away.”

As hard as I looked, I couldn’t see it.  “Where?” 

Fuzzy looked at me as though I was nuts.  “Right there!” 

He pointed at it, and I strained to see it but no luck.  And I was using binoculars—he wasn’t.  Finally I dialed up my scope to the full 10x and spotted it.  And it was just a spot.

“Take him Now!  You’ll never get an easy shot like this again.”

I thought about the fact that my old .30’06 had a 39-inch drop at 500 yards, and I had never dialed it in beyond that.  Just how much would the drop be at 800 yards?  Then I remembered a lesson from my 7^th grade band class, “If you haven’t practiced it, don’t try to perform it.”

When I said I’d pass on this shot, Fuzzy came uncorked.  “I thought I was guiding a Hunter!”  He also said quite a few other things as we hiked back to the horses.

Two more days we hiked back to those same grounds only to find nothing.  “I told you that was the easiest shot you’d get.  Your own fault if you don’t take down a goat.”  I still had two more days paid for, and I decided to use up all of it.  If a goat happened, it happened.  If not, oh well.

On the morning of the fourth day, about half an hour after tying off the horses, I noticed a goat slipping over the edge of the cliff just as we came into his sight.  Fuzzy didn’t see it, but he took a look over the edge and there was that goat about 25 feet straight down standing on a ledge about 1-inch wide.

There was no way to take a shot straight down, so we decided to go back downstream and cross over so we could take him from the other side.  The hike was not easy, but about 45 minutes later we drew up to where the goat should have been visible.  Slowly we crawled to the edge and looked across, but there was no goat.  We looked all up and down the area, but all we could see was an empty rock-face.

For some reason, Fuzzy decided to look straight down, and there was the goat below us again.  He had crossed over the stream just as we had done.  Well the only thing to do was to cross back to our original spot.

Again it took about 45 minutes to cross back, and again there was no goat.  Without hesitation Fuzzy looked straight down and there was the goat.  He had crossed back.

Fuzzy decided to cross back over the stream by himself, and as he worked his way across, I watched the goat cross back to the far side.  Now he was mine.  Fuzzy appeared just for a moment to let me know where he was, and then he backed away to safety as I sighted in and squeezed the trigger. 

I watched as the goat fell into a tight hole among some large boulders, and I hoped the horns were still in tact.  I started working my way to where he fell and arrived about the same time as did Fuzzy.

It took a few hours to bring the goat back to the horses, but it was worth all the effort.  The horns measured just under 11-inches, and the coat was beautiful.  Fuzzy estimated the weight to be about 240 to 250 pounds, and he said that was just about as big as they get.  “Good job.”

I was still in shock over Fuzzy’s comment when we arrived back in camp.  Stew had our stew ready, and after dinner, Fuzzy finished preparing the goat for transporting back to civilization. 

Back home I had just about finished eating the last of the goat when the mounted head arrived from the taxidermist in Terrace.  I gave it to my friend to hang beside the one he already had, and the pair made a fantastic display above his fireplace.  It was the only time I had ever taken a trophy, and I don’t expect I’ll ever do it again.  And I still haven’t gotten even with my friend for his description of the hunt, but his time is coming.

Gooney Islands

My grandmother would on occasion make her version of Coney Islands.  In reality they had more of a Tex-Mex heritage rather than a Michigan heritage, and the only real relation to a Coney Island was the hot dog in the bun.

If one has ever been to Michigan, one has most likely been exposed to the hot dog called ‘Coney Island.’  There are as many versions of this classic dog as there are versions of chili in Texas, but just like chili, there are two basic approaches.  In Texas, the chili is either red or green.  In Michigan, the Coney Island is either dry or wet.

My grandmother would stick a boiled weenie (aka wiener, frankfurter, sausage) in a bun, add some hot mustard and pickles (jalapenos) along the side, and top it with chow-chow, chili, grated cheese, and big chunks of yellow onion.  She would place eight of these into a baking dish like enchiladas side by side and slide the dish into a hot oven for a few minutes until the cheese was bubbly and brown.  Oh were these good!  But they weren’t Coney Islands.

I had business meetings in Michigan one fall, and in the city of Flint I was introduced to the wet Coney Island.  I didn’t know at that time the difference between the wet and dry versions, nor did I know the rivalries and loyalties each incurs, I just went with some of the store employees to lunch.

When I looked at the two dogs I was served, I thought, “Okay, it’s sort of like my grandmother’s version.”  However, I was wrong.  This was nothing like hers.  The smooth slightly thickened sauce was reminiscent of chili, but it didn’t taste like chili.  It was definitely its own thing, and it was good.  In fact it was so good, I stuffed myself stupid on these things, and I paid the resulting price in the days before Beano.

I couldn’t leave these dogs alone.  I was in Flint for four days, and I must have consumed close to thirty Coney Islands.  When it came time to rent a car, drive to a store in Detroit, and leave behind the Coney Islands, I made certain to have a box in the front seat of my car with another dozen within easy reach.  I was convinced I couldn’t live without having a Coney Island as a traveling companion.

Then I arrived in Detroit.  My first night was spent alone in my hotel room wishing I had maintained better control of my appetite for the past few days.  The next morning I had a simple breakfast of hotel room coffee and the last two Coney Islands in my possession, and I was almost glad they were gone.

The morning meeting with the store manager and his staff went well, and about 1:00 the manager announced the lunch he had ordered was waiting for us in a nearby room.  When we opened the door to the room, the first thing I saw was a huge tray piled high with Coney Islands.  Yeah!!!  But they weren’t the same.  These were the dry version preferred in Detroit.  The sauce had a similar taste, but the texture was coarse and dry rather than wet and smooth.  It was similar to a loose meat burger, but the taste was all Coney Island.

Once again, I couldn’t stop myself.  Everyone in the room watched as I packed away four or five of these things.  And since there was a dozen or so left over, I wrapped them up for dinner and a late night snack.

Again I spent a few days living on Coney Islands, and I even put a few in my suitcase to take on the plane when I flew back to my office in Denver.  When I checked my luggage at the airport, the Skycap commented that this must have been my first trip to Detroit.  He was very familiar with the smell of Coney Islands emanating from luggage.

Back home in Texas I told my grandmother about the Coney Islands I had tasted in Michigan (I didn’t tell her how many I had tasted), and she said that is where her idea for them came from.  One of her sisters had traveled there sometime in the thirty’s and had worked for a time in a restaurant where these dogs were the top selling item on the menu.  Back in Texas they had tried to copy the idea, and her baked chilidogs were the result.

I thought I could do the same thing.  At least my grandmother’s chili dogs were on the right track.  Mine, well, a bun and a wiener were about the only thing in common with the Coney Island.  Toasted buns are a given—usually.  An all beef wiener is also a given—sometimes.  And so is mustard and/or ketchup—most of the time.  After that, all bets are off. 

Gooney Islands

Suggested toppings:

French fries with cream gravy.

Salsa.

Guacamole.

Salsa and Guacamole.

A big cheese enchilada (my favorite).

Velveeta cheese.  Lots of Velveeta cheese.  Melted.  Or not.

Fried onions, mushrooms, and peppers (hot or sweet).

Baked beans.

Sour Cream.

Sauerkraut.

Red chili.

Green chili.

Kimchee.

Hollandaise sauce.

Mac and Cheese.

Spaghetti sauce—with or without spaghetti

Any combination of the above.

Name your own.

Gooneys aren’t meant to be Coneys.  They are an artist’s palette and should be treated as such.  Even the type of buns and wieners isn’t necessarily set in stone.  The sky is the limit.

The Last Bird

The dove can humble the best of bird hunters, and since I am not the best, one can only imagine my humiliation.  But I’ve already told that story (La Paloma).  Over a period of about 20 years I hunted a number of birds including the dove, but it was the dove that had the last word.

In the ‘80’s my wife and I lived in Arizona where hunting is almost mandatory, and from time to time I took advantage of the opportunities.  It seemed to me dove were  everywhere just begging for me to shoot them, and I tried.  I really tried.  I spent a small fortune on shells for the old 20-gauge, and I believe the dove I brought home ran me between $25 and $30 apiece.  But I kept trying.

About 10 to 12 miles from where I lived were some canals providing water for the city of Phoenix, and the dove came there in large numbers all day long.  In the fall, during dove hunting season, the numbers seemed to increase.  It was a dove hunter’s paradise.  I went out regularly during each season, and I always managed to bring home a limit.  Dove was on the menu several times each week, and I didn’t care what it cost to bring them home.  I knew this would not last too many years into the future the way Phoenix was expanding.

On the last day of the season I arrived ready to fill my limit once again.  The night before I had eaten the last of the previous hunt’s birds, so this last day would provide my final taste of dove for another year.

I dropped a box of shells into my vest pocket and walked over to my favorite spot.  The sun was just up when I arrived there, and within a minute I could see dove in the distance.  Suddenly a lone dove flew in front of me about thirty yards out.  Quickly I brought up the 20-gauge and squeezed the trigger.  Click.  It might help if I loaded the shotgun first.

I noticed the dove had circled back and was crossing in front of me again as I loaded up.  As soon as I was ready, it flew back by.  Boom.  I missed.  Again it circled around.  Boom.  I missed.  And again it turned and flew in front of me.  And again, Boom.  And again I missed.  I reloaded while watching the dove sit on a branch of a Palo Verde tree about forty yards out.  It was watching me.  We played this game a few more times before I began to have flashbacks of a dove that had flown through my pattern on my first dove hunt.  (La Paloma).  This couldn’t be happening to me again.  It just couldn’t.

Several more birds began to fly by, but they were in no danger.  I couldn’t hit one if it were looking down the barrel of the shotgun while I pulled the trigger.  It didn’t take long for me to use up the entire box of shells with nothing to show for it.  I thought of the extra boxes in the car, but enough was enough.  I decided to go home.

Just as I was turning to walk away, the dove sitting in the tree flew over to within a few yards from me and landed on the ground.  It turned sideways to look at me with its right eye, and then it turned around to look at me with its left eye.  I think it was laughing.  But I walked on back to my car, got in, and drove to the skeet and trap range nearby.

I went through four trap rounds without a miss.  I used up the last of my shells on skeet with only two misses out of about twenty pulls.  I don’t get it. 

The next year I was not able to spend any time in pursuit of the dove, but the following year I was prepared.  As I got near the area, the first thing I noticed was paved roads.  Not good.  Then I noticed the construction sites.  Oh well.  I drove around for a while watching the dove still occupying the area, but the hunting was gone.  I drove out a few more miles, but it was useless.  The doves were staying near the canals, and the canals were in the construction zone.

A year later I was living in California.  I packed away the shotgun and never used it again, so I must say that the last statement about bird hunting belonged to the birds.

When Things Were Black and White

When I first entered college, money was very tight.  College was expensive, and my wallet was cheap.  I lived in the dorm on campus, but the first semester I couldn’t afford the cafeteria, so I did the best I could to survive by fishing at a nearby lake for something to eat.  I was usually successful, but not always.

During this first semester I heard that a city close by was having a skunk problem and the city council was having difficulties securing a pest control company to remedy the situation.  I found out when the next meeting of the council was, and I made certain I was there to offer my services.

I was a bow hunter, and I thought a bow would be perfect for hunting in the streets and alleys after midnight two or three times a week.  It was quiet, and I was normally very accurate with my arrow placements.  It made sense to me, but when I proposed it to the council, they snickered and showed me the door.  Oh well.

A few weeks later I was summoned to the chancellor’s office at the university.  For the life of me I couldn’t figure what I had done to deserve this, but when I arrived I was met by one of the councilmen who had refused my service offer.  It seems things weren’t smelling too good for the city, and they had reconsidered what I had proposed.

Paperwork and legalities move at a snail’s pace, and it was the beginning of my second semester before everything was in place for me to venture forth among the high-rises to hunt the critters.  I was thinking at a few dollars per skunk, this should the answer to my financial problems.  And it certainly helped.  But I soon learned the smell of money wasn’t as sweet as I had hoped.

I had the expenses of using my old car and hiring a driver to patrol the streets while I sat on the hood of the car with bow and arrow ready.  It worked like a charm.  Each time we went in search of Pepé we managed to quickly fill the big ice chest I carried in the trunk of my car.  After expenses for the driver and gasoline, I was actually earning a decent amount of money.  But there was another cost.

The one thing I didn’t fully prepare for was the one thing that makes a skunk a skunk.  No matter how tightly that ice chest lid was closed, the skunks it contained smelled like the skunks it contained, and eventually so did my car.  To top it off, I could deliver the skunks to an animal control compound only once each week, meaning the skunks stayed in the ice chest (without ice) far too long.

Slowly my classmates at the college began to sit in small groups as far from me as they could.  I noticed the professors would open windows in the room even if it was raining or cold outside.  And my roommate in the dorm starting spending nights “studying” with a friend in another room.

The end came when one night I walked over to retrieve a skunk, and I didn’t see its friend in the shadows.  It was the only time I got sprayed, but it was one time too many for my compatriots at the college.  At least the semester was almost over, and the skunk project was ending anyway.  The smell of money was not as I had expected, and I didn’t pursue the skunks in future semesters.  But those times of black and white made certain I no longer had to fish to eat.

2016 Wild Game Feed

To the members of the Annual Wild Game Feed—Thank You!  You outdid yourself again this year and provided us with the biggest and best Wild Game Feed ever.  Every year I ask myself if you have reached the apex of perfection, but you always follow it up with something bigger and better.  Thank You!

And to everyone that attended—Thank You!  Without you the Annual Wild Game Feed would be nothing.  I’m always impressed that almost 1,500 men from all corners of society can get together for fun, food, and beer (not necessarily in that order) and not get into trouble.  This is one of the many reasons I return every year.  Thank You!

Well, it’s over for another year, and I’m already preparing for it to come back again.  Over the next twelve months I’ll pack and repack everything several times and enjoy thinking about the good times of the past while anticipating the good times of the future.  I know I’ve said this before, but I would like to do this more than once each year, but too much of a good thing is not a good thing.  So I’ll wait, and I’ll wait because those few short hours are worth the wait.  Next year I’ll see my friends again, and we’ll enjoy every moment of the Feed while forgetting all about the long year of waiting for it to arrive.

Checklist for 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed

Are you ready for some fun?  I know I am.  The Feed is coming up quickly—or slowly depending upon your point of view.  If you have been there before, it can’t come fast enough.  Right?  As for me, I started preparing as soon as I got home from last year’s Feed.

If you have read my page on AWGF FAQs (Annual Wild Game Feed Frequently Asked Questions), then you already understand the basic procedure is 1) buy a ticket, 2) don’t lose the ticket, 3) bring the ticket with you to the feed, and 4) have more fun than you can stand.  But I’ve been thinking the most asked question after “How can I get a ticket?” is the question “What do I bring?”

The answer to the question of what to bring is highly subjective.  As I’ve stated in the AWGF FAQs the simple answer is to bring yourself and your ticket, but honestly, few people stop with just those two essentials.  Also I hear every year at the Feed from guys who forgot to bring something they really wanted to bring.  Oh, I completely understand this one.  The first year I was there they ran out of toilet paper.  The next year I forgot to bring my own, and they ran out again.  Both times it cost me a t-shirt.  Enough said.

For the last ten or fifteen years, the afore-mentioned problem has not been a problem, but T.P. is on my checklist anyway.  In fact I started making my checklist before I attended the third time, and each year I tweak my list a little bit as needed.  Best thing I ever did.  I use this list to pack my car (half a dozen times or more during the year) before leaving for the Feed, and I use it again to make certain I’m bringing everything back home.  Actually I didn’t start doing the exit checklist until about the sixth or seventh year when I realized the following day I had forgotten my ice chest.  Fortunately the next year it was returned to me (it pays to put some form of identification on your possessions).

To this end I decided to share my checklist with you in hopes it will inspire you to make your own—and use it.  I’ve listed everything by groups in order of the importance to me; your order will probably be much different, as will be the items on your list.

David’s Annual Wild Game Feed Checklist

Group 1:  Me, Ticket, Chair(s), Cigars with Cutter and Lighter, Quail Eggs, Table(s), Shelter, Beer Mug, Hat, Sunscreen, Sunglasses, Sharp Pocket Knife, Bottle Opener, Toothpicks, Dental Floss, A Few Bandages, Light Jacket, Insulated Lunch Bag.

Group 2:  Toilet Paper, Paper Towels and/or Napkins, Heavy Duty Paper Plates, Disposable Table Cloths, Metal Knife/Fork/Spoon, Ice Chest and Ice, Cider, Cloth Hand Towels.

Group 3:  Waste Basket, Trash Bags, Bottled Water, 1 Gallon Zip-Type Plastic Bags, Sharpie, Inexpensive Plastic Containers with Lids, Small Plastic Cups or Bowls, Plastic Spoons.

Group 4:  Condiments, Cutting Board, Camera, Knife Sharpener, Plastic Pitcher, Hand Truck, Real Glasses for any Scotch (Bourbon, Rum, Rye, etc.) that comes my way (even though my doctor tells me to abstain).

Okay, Group 1) has an insulated lunch bag.  Why?  Because I walk with a cane, and the lunch bag becomes an extra hand for carrying food back to my shelter.  I started doing this out of necessity, but I quickly discovered I could also carry a lot more food than anyone else.  Less time in line, more time eating.

As you can see, my list is probably much different from your list.  Some of these things on my list are for giving out samples of the quail eggs, and some are for bringing a few things home with me.  Some things are just in the way unless I happen to need them, and then nothing else will do (such as T.P.).

There are still a few days remaining before the Feed, so you have plenty of time to make your list.  Take your time and think about each item you add to it.  Nothing says you have to arrive with more than yourself and your ticket, but a few extras can add to comfort.  If you still forget something, just add it to your list for next year.  And remember, it may be necessary to pack your vehicle a couple of times just to get the hang of it.  I’ve met more than one person who managed to bring everything they wanted only to find out they couldn’t get it all back into their car to go home. 

Just remember what’s really important here, bring yourself, your ticket, and have fun.  All else is optional.

See you at the Feed.

The Motorcycle

The perfect vehicle for joining together both transportation and recreation is the motorcycle.  Back in the 1960’s a friend inherited a motorcycle shop from an uncle and he asked me to help him with some cleanup around there in exchange for one of the bikes.  It had been closed for about two years due to his uncle’s illness, and things were a mess, but we were both excited about eventually hitting the road for some fun.

The store was oddly shaped and we commented to each other more than once that it seemed much smaller on the inside than it looked on the outside.  One afternoon as we were talking about it, we decided to actually measure the building.  We were in for a surprise.  The northeast wall of the building was about eight feet shorter on the inside than the outside wall.  It didn’t take us long to determine there was a wall hiding a room on the other side.

Edd and I made quick work of opening a hole in that wall, and on the other side we discovered eight 1939 Harley’s with sidecars still in crates.  They were all painted a military grayish/greenish/brownish and looked as though they may have been surplus stock, or possibly “diverted” stock.  Either way, they were in the room we had discovered.  We took serial numbers and contacted Harley-Davidson and the United States Army, but no record of their existence could be found.  A bit of paperwork later, and Edd was the owner of seven of these machines, and I was the owner of the eighth one.

Oh, the work.  Restoring these vintage bikes wasn’t easy, but it was worth it.  Learning to ride one wasn’t easy either, but it was worth it.  Luckily for us, there were a number of ex-servicemen still around who had experience with some of the odd features of these rare motorcycles.

Over the next few years I did some trading around of motorcycles starting with trading the Harley for an Indian Chief (plus some cash).  The Indian was traded away for something else (also with some cash), and eventually I ended up with an almost new Harley (and a lot of cash). 

One day I was riding the motorcycle to work when I realized I needed to sell the bike and make a car my main form of transportation.  I was making the transition from westbound Interstate Loop 820 to southbound I35W on the north side of Fort Worth, and I was high on the long curving overpass when I spotted a skunk up ahead.  I moved to the left, and so did the skunk.  I moved to the right, and so did the skunk.  I moved back to the left, and so did the skunk.  Finally I just held on and ran over the skunk.  I really didn’t have much choice in the matter.  I returned home to let my employer know I wouldn’t be coming in for a couple of days, as I needed to get rid of a certain odor. 

While the odor eventually disappeared from my body (I threw my clothes away), the motorcycle was a different story altogether.  Each time I tried to ride it, as it warmed up the smell of skunk returned.  I completely dissembled the bike and washed each individual part in tomato juice and baking soda, but after reassembling my very clean bike, the odor returned just as strong as ever.

I advertised the motorcycle in a local newspaper, and went through a long list of potential buyers before I found one who didn’t mind the smell.  In fact, he liked it.  He was a biker from a nearby club (don’t ask), and his handle was “Skunk.”  Perfect.  I saw Skunk riding that bike a few times over the next few years, and once I saw it parked outside a store I was entering.  As I walked by it, there was no doubt who owned it.  It had been over three years, but the smell was still there. 

When I was preparing to leave Texas to move to California, Skunk stopped by my home just to chat.  I hadn’t spoken to him since the day he purchased my bike, so I thought it was unusual for him to show up at my door, but there he was.  He said he was getting married in a couple of months, and he was inviting me to the wedding.  He told me that bike had changed his life.  I didn’t ask details, but I went to the wedding. 

And what a wedding it was.  Everything was black and/or white.  Nothing smelled good.  Nothing.  And the happy couple rode off on that same smelly motorcycle leaving behind a trail anyone could follow, if they were brave enough.

I’ve stayed almost exclusively with cars ever since.

Biggie--Transitioning

Recently my wife and I moved away from our home of over 20 years.  Our neighbor (Biggie’s ‘Mom’) also moved away a few weeks later.  I didn’t think we would have Biggie in our lives any more, and I was absolutely heartbroken over that thought; however, things are not as bad as I originally thought they would be. 

Since moving we have had Biggie here several times for a few days at a time.  He has easily transitioned to being transported between the two homes for extended stays at each.  I’m not fond of his absence for several weeks at a time, but this is better than not having him at all.  I’ll take it.

A few days ago his mom sent us a short video of Biggie in his new digs, and it made me very happy to see him having fun.  I wish I were there, although this is the next best thing.

Irvine Lake 2016 Wild Game Feed

Ten More Weeks.  Ten more LONG weeks.  Seventy eternities (a.k.a. Days) until the next Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  I feel like I’m about to explode!  I’m not trying to speed up my life, but I do wish for the Feed to hurry up and get here.

I’m wondering if I’m the only person already packed?  Has anybody already packed, unpacked, and repacked?  Several times?  I have.  And I will most likely do it again.  Several times.

If you are reading this thinking “Maybe I should order a ticket and give this a try,” you are probably too late for this year.  Maybe not, but don’t get your hopes up.  This shindig sells out quickly.  If you did get your order placed in back in June and received your ticket, but this is your first time to go, please read my page AWGF FAQs.  It’s a tab near the top of this page.  It may answer some of your questions, but if it doesn’t do it for you, just email me at fineleatherart@yahoo.com .  I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve been going there for two decades.  I’ve learned a few things the hard way so you don’t have to.  In fact, if anyone has anything to add to my FAQ list, let me know.  Like I said, I don’t have all the answers.

The Annual Wild Game Feed is the biggest and best Feed I’ve ever encountered in my many years on this earth.  I’ve been to about 25 to 30 of these game feed events outside of this one, and most were pretty good.  Good food, good people, good prizes—but none even compare to the Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  Not One!   This is as good as it gets.  You don’t get just a plate served to you with three or four different meats, you get as many plates (paper trays) as you want, and you can go back as many times as you want.  The meat selection is HUGE, and you may not get around to sampling everything before you are too full to move.  Then they serve dinner.

On top of the food, the beer is a bottomless keg.  Just drink responsibly.  You still have to drive home, remember?  And the prizes are unbelievable.  Just look at what’s listed on your order form, and realize ‘That’s not even close to all of it.’  And don’t forget the events and exhibits.  There is just too much to take it all in, and after nearly twenty years, I still haven’t gotten around to everything.

If you go this year, stop by my shelter and chat a while.  I usually bring along a few extra cigars and some pickled quail eggs just to share.

See you at the Feed.

West Coast Barbeque

Sitting around waiting for the 48^th Annual Wild Game Feed to roll around on the third Friday in September has started me thinking about barbeque.  The AWGF serves some good stuff, and although it isn’t Texas barbeque, it’s good enough to make me want to be first in line to get served.

I’ve mentioned many times before that barbeque is where you find it.  I’ve also mentioned regional preferences.  I’ve been surprised many times by what people call barbeque, but I’ve enjoyed sampling my way through the many style and approaches to cooking meat and veggies.  The one thing I just can’t wrap myself around is barbequed tofu, although it does seem to be popular in California.  Maybe popular isn’t the right word.  I probably should have said it is not considered unusual in California.  Then again, it’s California.

The west coast includes three states, Washington, Oregon, and California, but what I’m looking at here is the lower half of the state of California from Paso Robles at the north end to San Diego in the south.

I live in Los Angeles and have spent more than thirty years in the Southern California area.  Many things brought me here, and many things keep me here.  Although it is not Texas, it is a great place to live, but the barbeque is just not my preference.

Santa Maria, near the central coast and a bit south of Paso Robles, is the place where everyone points when they speak of California barbeque.  I find it to taste like juicy, smoky grit.  But many people swear it’s the best barbeque in the nation.  Okay.  I’ll leave it to them.  It’s not often I’ll walk away from barbeque, but this is one of those times.  Even a tuna fish sandwich sounds better to me than that stuff.

Every town in California has its barbeque place, and many have several of them.  I have tried out any number of these eateries, and I’m struck by the sameness of the flavors.  Some are labeled as ‘real Southern barbeque,’ ‘real Texas barbeque,’ ‘real Memphis barbeque,’ etc., but they are all about the same.  As long as they don’t call themselves ‘Santa Maria barbeque’ I find them enjoyable enough, but not exciting.

I’ve spoken with many of the restaurant owners and realized they are just making the best of the ingredients available.  Most started out with good intentions and with experience in the style they desire to emulate, but the local ingredients in one part of the country are not the same as the local ingredients in another part of the country. 

And then there are the local laws governing restaurants.  Barbeque has to be handled differently in each city and town, and counties have their own set of laws, not to mention the state regulations.  Smoke is not allowed to fill the air in some areas, and gas and electric sealed smokers are substituted with only moderate success.  In some areas, smoke must be in liquid form, and barbeque must be oven cooked.

Well, I do understand why pollution control is necessary, but something’s lost when something’s gained, and in this case that which is lost is flavor.  Some of the places really try hard to produce a good product, and I’m not faulting the effort, nor am I faulting the knowledge and abilities of the people.  Given the right ingredients, many of these restaurants could be producing very good stuff.

This makes me think that California needs to rethink barbeque.  First things first—Santa Maria barbeque.  The only thing wrong here is the wood ash that gets all over everything.  Most of it is grilled directly over a bed of coals with chunks of red oak burning on it.  The wood pops and sputters spraying the meat with junk.  Maybe it’s the characteristic of the red oak, but whatever flavor the smoke may add is negated by the ash and wood bits imbedded in the meat.  Just simply smoking in an offset box would make a huge difference.  If the meat is to be grilled directly over the fire, just increase the cooking grate by a few extra inches above the fire.  It will take a little longer to cook, but it will taste less like eating hot wet sand.  (I’m sure going to hear about this one.)  Then again, it wouldn’t be Santa Maria barbeque.

There are a few barbeque societies represented out here.  I have managed to go to a number of the contests they have put together, and I found some very good barbeque.  Some of the top crews own or work at barbeque restaurants, so why isn’t the restaurant’s food as good as the food at the cook-off?  Maybe if they put the same effort into the restaurant as they do the competition…, or am I just getting back to the laws governing the restaurants?

Well, I won’t be the one to fix the problem.  The best I can do is to make my own, but I must admit, it’s not the same as when I made barbeque in Texas.  Maybe it’s the weather.  I don’t know.  I just miss good barbeque.

With all of this negative, there is still some positive about the barbeque found in California.  Seafood is often found on grills instead of beef, chicken, or pork.  While it isn’t my approach to barbeque, it can be very good eating.  A large fresh fish stuffed with some seasonings and placed on an indirect heat grill along side of some oysters on the half shell and some fresh veggies is both delicious and healthy. 

I know this sounds like a broken record, but I really am open to different approaches to barbeque.  It just needs to taste good.

Where is the Annual Wild Game Feed when you need it most?

48th 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.

For several days I’ve been in a panic about receiving my order form for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake.  Usually I receive it in late May, but I moved this year, and I have been worried my change of address was lost.  However, today my fears were banished. 

It’s that time!  My ticket order form has arrived for the 2016 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake!  Today I placed my order for tickets in the mail, and the waiting has officially started for Friday, September 16, 2016.  If you plan on attending this year, mail your order form NOW!!  If you choose to hesitate, then plan on waiting another year.  After all, this is the biggest and best Wild Game Feed you will ever attend.  EVER!!  And it will be sold out in just a few short weeks.

I’ve been going to this event for nearly twenty years, and every year is better than the year before.  I don’t know how the organizers do it, but each year is an improvement on perfection.  As always it is a stag event (men only) and age 21 or over, and it’s all you can eat, and all the beer you can drink.  Prizes are unbelievable and numerous, and it’s all to raise money for charities. 

If you have been to the AWGF before, then you know what I am talking about.  If you’ve never been, then it’s about time you learned what I’m talking about.  You will not be disappointed except for one thing—the day is too short.  Yes, we are all tired at the end of the day, but I’ve never met anyone who wanted it to be over.

At the Feed everyone is a friend.  Last year I spoke with a guy who had lived a rather rough life, much of it behind bars.  He came to the Feed with his close friend—the judge who had twice placed him behind those bars.  Friends.  Simple as that.  But no matter who you meet, you are meeting an instant friend.  No one is greater or lesser than anyone else.  And that is a huge part of the fun.  Everyone is there just to enjoy the day.

Every year I bring along some things to just give away.  Usually it is pickled quail eggs, cigars, and a few bottles of cider (I’ve always preferred cider over beer, but that doesn’t mean I will turn down beer).  And I’m not alone in giving.  Some of the best Scotch I’ve ever tasted was at the Feed.  The same with cigars.  Wow!  One of the guys handed me a puro from the Canary Island of La Palma.  As good a cigar as I’ve ever had.  Sharing.  What a concept.

Of course, the food is not to be ignored.  The appetizers are in endless supply, and just when you’ve eaten way too much, dinner is served.  My favorite appetizer is always the gumbo, quail, fish, chili, tamales (the goat tamales last year were outstanding), wild boar tacos, buffalo ribs, game sausages, clams, frog legs, turkey nuts, calamari, crawfish, and…well…just about anything they serve.  As for dinner, I lost track long ago.  It’s all good.

I don’t want to forget to mention the exhibits, games, and competitions.  There is just an overload of excitement available.  Every corner of this park is filled with something to enjoy.  In nearly twenty years, I’ve never met anyone who mentioned being bored at the Feed.

Again, if you received a ticket order form, send it in immediately or you may miss out.  Every year I receive emails from people who waited a couple of weeks to mail off their form and didn’t get a ticket.  THEY WILL SELL OUT QUICKLY, and that’s no joke.  I purchase my ticket like everyone else, and each year I receive many requests for tickets, but I have only my own, and I don’t expect to give it up easily.  Once in a great while someone will write me with an extra ticket available, but don’t count on it.  Just order your ticket today, and you shouldn’t have a problem receiving it. 

I know the tickets are not cheap, but neither are the costs associated with organizing the AWGF.  Just be aware, the organization putting on this event is made entirely of volunteers.  It is for your enjoyment and for the support of charities they do this; however, such an event is worth every penny spent.  I know you will not be disappointed.

Be certain to check out my new AWGF FAQs page.

Where Is My Order Form?

I’m beginning to panic.  I don’t like waiting for my order form to arrive for the Annual Wild Game Feed in Irvine each year.  And this year it’s a bit late arriving.  My lack of patience is growing fast.

Actually I moved a few months ago, and I’m worried my form won’t catch up with me.  I placed a forwarding address with the Post Office—twice.   I sent the new address to the AWGF home office.  I even sent the new address to the Idaho location that processes the mailing of the tickets.  Nothing.  I’ve even contacted my contacts with the AWGF.  Still nothing.  I can’t even find out if the forms have been sent out.

PLEASE SEND ME AN ORDER FORM!!

If anyone reading this has received his order form, would you please send me an electronic copy?  Just scan the front and back and send it as an attachment to fineleatherart@yahoo.com .  I’ll be sure to buy you a beer at the Feed. 

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m ready for the big event.  My shelter is standing beside my tables and chairs.  My quail eggs are all pickled and stacked in their boxes.  My cigars are packed in their travel humidors.  And my wife is ready to kick me out if I don’t stop talking about it.  If you’ve been there before, then you know what I am talking about, and you know why I’m worried about that order form.

For many years I’ve mailed out (both snail mail and email) copies of the form I’ve received, and I know of about 70 men who attend each year because of this, not to mention the ones they have influenced.  Now it’s my turn to beg.  So if the pickled quail eggs are to arrive this year, please, someone, send me an order form.

Sleep, or Lack Thereof

A few days ago someone came to my front door and knocked.  I jumped out of bed, slipped into some jeans and opened the door to find a neighbor waiting for me.

“Did I wake you?  I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay.  I can always go back to sleep.”

“But it’s after noon.”

That’s when I realized I’ve given up on any regular sleep schedule.

“I know, but I was up late last night.”  I don’t think he believed me.

For years I rarely slept more than a few hours a week as I traveled almost non-stop for a company.  And for years after that it was difficult for me to sleep more than three or four hours a night, just because I didn’t know how to do it.  Finally I reached a five to six hour per night average, and there it stayed for about thirty years.  Then things changed.

For some reason I started staying up late at night to work on projects, or read, or watch the television, etc.  Then I would sleep a couple of hours and get up again to do some more of whatever I had been doing before sleeping.  After a few months, I began to stay up longer and sleep later until I found myself getting up to start the day somewhere between 11am and 1pm.

Once upon a time I had no problem being at a fishing hole at sunrise.  If someone said we need to be somewhere by 4am to start our hike to someplace, I was there at 3:30am.  I never minded getting up very early to do something outdoors, even if it meant I could not go to bed the night before.  No big deal.

Times have changed, and so have I.  Recently I thought about walking across the street to catch some sunrise surf fishing.  I came closer to making it there at sunset.  I don’t completely understand this.  I really like to fish, I just don’t like keeping a time schedule.  But I decided to get my act together and do something about it.

On Wednesday last week, I gathered my surf fly fishing gear together and put it into the car so I could drive to my favorite surf fishing spot on the peninsula about a mile from where I live.  Wednesday evening I went to bed early and slept straight through until 5am.  At that time I got up, put on my clothes, fixed a little breakfast, sat down at my computer to check overnight emails, and dozed off until 10:30.

I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.  Nor is it the second, third, or twenty-fifth.  Well, I left everything in the trunk of the car, and tomorrow I’m trying again.  This time I’m really going to do it.  No more excuses.

Follow up:  It’s 11:15am.  Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.  I’ve rescheduled my outing to next Tuesday.

*******

I wrote this a few months ago with all intents to go fishing on Tuesday.  Oh, well.  Since then I moved several miles away, and I’ve been exploring new areas for fishing.  Many great possibilities are within a short drive from my home.  Now, if I could just get up in the morning.