It's been around 20 years since I last went Paddlefishing. The following
story may or may not be the reason that I've declined to go for so long. If
you don't know what Paddlefishing is, rest assured it is not hitting fish
with paddles to stun then harvest them.
The prehistoric looking
Paddlefish has no bones, just a cartilage tube
running the length of its
spine. They have a long paddle-shaped snout, or
rostrum that give the fish
its common name. The dense, fleshy, white meat is
both delicious and always
boneless of course. This is why they are sought
after by fisherman. Since
they are plankton eaters, they cannot be caught by
the traditional hook and
line methods. They are snagged with large treble
hooks attached to 30 lb or
higher test line, and cast by 10 foot rods, lead
into the water by a Five
ounce weight. Your opinion may vary, but that's
what I used. It's a real
testosterone blow out, let me tell ya'.
A friend of mine started taking
me to the Yellowstone River in eastern
Montana for this adventure. After
several successful yearly trips, I decided
to share the experience with my
family and brought them along. My wife's
sister lives just a few miles from
the best fishing spot for these fish that
can weigh 70-100 pounds or more on
occasion.
The best fishing seems to be at night, so I sent her and the
kids into town
to stay at her sister's while I tried to catch my limit of
two in the
moon-light. I was able to land one after a brief struggle with
the 14 MPH
river current, large fish, little to no light and a surprise log
tripping me
in spectacularly clumsy fashion. I fished straight through until
dawn and
after many hours of casting, reeling, and jerking like a madman, I
was
understandably tired and sore, so I sought refuge by sitting on my
cooler.
Inside my cooler was cans of Coke and lots of Ding-Dongs. Whenever I
would
get tired, I would simply drink a coke and pop a Ding-Dong in my
mouth. The
sugar-rush was pretty intense and lasted long enough to fish a
while
longer.
As the morning sun was warming the air and my skin, I
sat on the cooler and
began to daydream and relive the nights activities. I
had just called my
wife from my archaic cell phone and told her she could
come get me any
time. So, I waited.
Meanwhile, the beach had filled
up with more fishermen. Most casts were
flying well over 100 yards due to
the large size of the sinker. That is, all
except for the casts of this very
old gentleman directly in front of me. His
casts would go about 20 feet and
he snagged the rocks below on every cast.
It was a little painful and
pathetic to watch, but he devised a method of
breaking his line and retying
the equipment without losing his place on the
beach, as it was now
elbow-to-elbow fishermen. The only way to get a place
was if someone caught
a fish and ended up down stream to land it or someone
snapped their line
because they snagged on rocks and were unable to break
free. The old
gentleman must have been out of replacement rigs because at
one point, he
was snagged and was just pulling and pulling and not wanting
to cut his
line. Several moments went by and I lost interest in watching him
grapple
his pole. I began daydreaming once again. Or, it was a small Coke
and
Ding-Dong induced sugar comma. I'm not sure which, but CRACK.... I was
lying
flat on my back with my hands over my face wincing in pain. I had no
idea
what had happened.
Somehow by constantly pulling and yanking on the
snagged-up rig, the darn
thing came dislodged. Unfortunately the old guy was
pulling with all his
might when that happened, sending a Five ounce lead
weight rocketing out of
the shallow water leveraged by a long fishing pole
at full bend. Having only
20 Feet of line out made everything happened so
quickly, no one had time to
tell me to duck, as I was obviously only 19 feet
behind him. I took the
impact of the weight directly on my right eye. My
plastic right eye-glass
lens shattered into bits, no doubt saving my eye and
possibly my life. Yes,
there was some blood and a swarm of people above me
when I became brave
enough to let an off-duty EMT pry my hands off of my
face. Some in attendance
recalled to me how amazing of a sound the impact
had made and that it kind
of made them a little sick to their stomachs. I
apologized for their inconvenience as
I collected my thoughts and got myself
upright. The old guy that had nearly
cost me my sight was nice enough to
come ask if I was "OK" and had I seen
his sinker anywhere.
"Ya I saw
it a little bit ago, as a matter of fact" I sarcastically muttered, as I sat
there with my one lens in the eye-glass frame that covered my now
overly
bandaged face.
My wife showed up soon after and had heard of
the accident while waking from
the parking lot to the beach. Somehow, she
knew it was me before she even
got a description of the victim. If you know
me well enough, you would just
assume it was me too. I think she was most
upset at the fact that she was
now going to have to drive the 450 miles home
herself. Since I was am
legally required to wear my necessary prescription
eye-glasses while driving
a motorized vehicle.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Legend of Goat-Man Bridge
There is a certain bridge close to town that people call "Dead Dog Bridge" I
don't even want to know why it's called that, but when I was in High School we
called it "Goat-Man Bridge"
Going there to attempt scaring girls became a lame excuse for something to do besides driving around or sitting at the arcade. I wasn't the first to use the scary looking old bridge to park by and tell "Goat-Man" stories, but I enthusiastically joined the crowd and was able to come up with wildly fascinating tales of a creature that lived under the bridge that had the head of a man and the body of a goat.
Missing children, mutilated livestock, half eaten pets and the absence of any rabbits in the area were just a few of the story lines we used in our not-so-hair-rasing tales. It was great fun for quite some time, but like everything else, started to lose it's luster when we ran out of gullible girls willing to go with us. Apparently, word got around that we were pretty much full of bologna and it became a negative stigma if you were one of the lucky ones to have gone there because logic would dictate that this animal does not exist. So, my buddy decided to actually make him exist. That sounded like a great idea to me, but how?
Though my buddy must remain anonymous, he lived outside town and actually had a goat available for his plan. He had bought an "old-man" mask for Halloween and the idea would be to put the mask on the goat and take it to the bridge and drive up with girls in the car and presto... Goat-Man lives!
As if we didn't have a tough enough time catching the goat, you should try duct tapping a rubber mask to a mean, upset, freshly captured goat. While it was still light out, we took the goat out by the bridge and tied it to a tree near an approach. The idea was to drive there in the dark, tell the girls a story, then pull into the approach as we turned around to leave. The headlights would expose Goat-Man and the girls would scream in fear. It was our best plan ever. How could anything possible go wrong?
First, it took until almost midnight to find two girls bored enough with life to go with us in my friends old regular-cab pickup. It seems some people thought our Goat-Man stories were boring and childish. I mean really, what's wrong with people? The girls were both Seniors and I was a Junior. They had no interest in us as a date, I'm sure. They just didn't have anything better to do, and that's pretty sad.
Four teens in the cab of an old pickup drove to the bridge and quickly became uncomfortable with each other. One of the girls suggested we go back to town because "This is lame guys" Good idea! He started the pickup and turned into the approach. The headlights shown brightly on the tree. NO GOAT
He was gone. The darn goat chewed through the rope and was likely miles away. My buddy's eyes were open wide and a look of horror was on his face. He had lost his dad's goat and we were now in big trouble.
All was quiet for several moments. The girls once again indicated that it was time to go. He slowly backed up and turned the truck toward town. Suddenly appearing in the headlights, was an old man's face bouncing up and down as it ran directly at the front of the vehicle. All four of us screamed simultaneously. His foot slipped off of the clutch and it killed the motor. They screamed again while he and I began to laugh as Goat-Man was now standing perfectly still, directly in front of the pickup appearing to stare in the cab. I said, "Oh no, we're out of gas" That provoked yet another scream for our amusement. It took several days to wipe the smile off my face. The girls were slightly less impressed. In fact, I'm quite sure they never spoke to either of us again.
Going there to attempt scaring girls became a lame excuse for something to do besides driving around or sitting at the arcade. I wasn't the first to use the scary looking old bridge to park by and tell "Goat-Man" stories, but I enthusiastically joined the crowd and was able to come up with wildly fascinating tales of a creature that lived under the bridge that had the head of a man and the body of a goat.
Missing children, mutilated livestock, half eaten pets and the absence of any rabbits in the area were just a few of the story lines we used in our not-so-hair-rasing tales. It was great fun for quite some time, but like everything else, started to lose it's luster when we ran out of gullible girls willing to go with us. Apparently, word got around that we were pretty much full of bologna and it became a negative stigma if you were one of the lucky ones to have gone there because logic would dictate that this animal does not exist. So, my buddy decided to actually make him exist. That sounded like a great idea to me, but how?
Though my buddy must remain anonymous, he lived outside town and actually had a goat available for his plan. He had bought an "old-man" mask for Halloween and the idea would be to put the mask on the goat and take it to the bridge and drive up with girls in the car and presto... Goat-Man lives!
As if we didn't have a tough enough time catching the goat, you should try duct tapping a rubber mask to a mean, upset, freshly captured goat. While it was still light out, we took the goat out by the bridge and tied it to a tree near an approach. The idea was to drive there in the dark, tell the girls a story, then pull into the approach as we turned around to leave. The headlights would expose Goat-Man and the girls would scream in fear. It was our best plan ever. How could anything possible go wrong?
First, it took until almost midnight to find two girls bored enough with life to go with us in my friends old regular-cab pickup. It seems some people thought our Goat-Man stories were boring and childish. I mean really, what's wrong with people? The girls were both Seniors and I was a Junior. They had no interest in us as a date, I'm sure. They just didn't have anything better to do, and that's pretty sad.
Four teens in the cab of an old pickup drove to the bridge and quickly became uncomfortable with each other. One of the girls suggested we go back to town because "This is lame guys" Good idea! He started the pickup and turned into the approach. The headlights shown brightly on the tree. NO GOAT
He was gone. The darn goat chewed through the rope and was likely miles away. My buddy's eyes were open wide and a look of horror was on his face. He had lost his dad's goat and we were now in big trouble.
All was quiet for several moments. The girls once again indicated that it was time to go. He slowly backed up and turned the truck toward town. Suddenly appearing in the headlights, was an old man's face bouncing up and down as it ran directly at the front of the vehicle. All four of us screamed simultaneously. His foot slipped off of the clutch and it killed the motor. They screamed again while he and I began to laugh as Goat-Man was now standing perfectly still, directly in front of the pickup appearing to stare in the cab. I said, "Oh no, we're out of gas" That provoked yet another scream for our amusement. It took several days to wipe the smile off my face. The girls were slightly less impressed. In fact, I'm quite sure they never spoke to either of us again.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Jeff and I Went Bear Hunting
Jeff and I went bear hunting...
North West Montana is a lovely place. Hunting, Fishing, Hiking, just about anything that can be done outdoors should be done somewhere near Browning, MT. Jeff who isn't a real hunting nut, won a trip for two to hunt the majestic Grizzly Bear in Montana from his employer, a notable fire-arms manufacturer that apparently decided he needed some excitement. His first logical choice for a partner was me of course! Likely due to the fact I told him he would be minus certain body parts if he chose anyone else.
All expenses were paid, except for a hunting Guide. We had to choose a guide and pay him ourselves. I don't personally believe in hunting guides (overload of testosterone, I suppose) but Jeff insisted, claiming something about safety, concerning the issue of hunting an animal that weighs as much as a car and has a tendency to attack humans and dismember them for no other reason than to amuse themselves.
At sundown the night before the hunt, we wondered into a pub. A pub, not a bar, as you know I don't believe in those sorts of places. It seemed as if all the good guides were already booked for the opener. So, we asked around and the bartender referred us to a man in the corner booth. As we approached, the man's countenance changed from a smile, to a look of, "Oh God, OUT OF STATE BEAR HUNTERS". Jeff introduced us to Rusty. Although he didn't seem much like a guide with one eye missing and the smell of cigarette smoke and chewing tobacco both overpowered by his extreme body odor. After some pleasantries, "Rusty the guide" said he had many years experience in guiding bear hunts. He gave us his word that he could get us really close to some grizzly bears. I asked him to define "really close", and he just grinned, exposing both teeth.
Jeff was busy on his scientific calculator, figuring the average running speed of a full-grown grizzly in comparison to the average speed of a city boy climbing a tree. Oddly enough his calculator actually had a setting for "really close," so it was easy to figure our chances of survival. Rusty was slightly amused by our lack of knowledge about, well, just about everything. He said to meet him at the 7-11 store at 4am the next morning. Once there, we were enjoying a moment of fresh mountain air when a certain odor, vaguely familiar to us, began to fill the air. Rusty was heading up the street in his old brown "Rusty Mobile". I was concerned that body odor of that magnitude would cause the bears to sense danger of a human nature and flee the area that we were hunting. Rusty assured us that his "Tactical Olfactory Bear Baiting System" or TOBBS as he called his own stench, would actually lure the bears to us by tricking them into thinking a dead animal or a new trash heap was near. Who was I to argue with years of experience and only one lost organ to bear witness to his success.
The drive up the mountain was short and without incident. We walked next to a stream until we came to a meadow area that looked like God had just finished working on it. At the edge of the trees, we could already see some bears pacing around like they were getting ready for the days maimings. It didn't take long for Rusty's TOBBS to work on them. I swear on my Winchester's life that the bears actually got into a football type huddle before they broke onto groups of two and three to start making a perimeter around us. "This here's the excitin' part", Rusty whispered. Exciting? Well, I guess so. Although hearing Jeff soil his pants, isn't exactly my idea of exciting.
One large sow and a single cub had broken formation and were heading directly at us. Not being experienced bear hunters, Jeff and I bailed out. We each found a tree to scurry up like frightened squirrels. This action left Rusty without a tree or gun of his own for defense. He didn't believe carrying a gun for defense while guiding bear hunts. Or, perhaps the state didn't believe he should own a gun period, is my guess. Anyhow, he bailed out also, but in a different way. He just fell to the ground like he was dead. The bears went right past him to Jeff's tree. Jeff's screaming and shrieking like a Four year old girl seemed to have an effect on the giant grizzly sow. I think she was amused. Then, she concentrated on me. She came to my tree and stood up. I had no idea how tall these animals were until I could see the bears' paws just inches from my boots. As my life flashed before my eyes, like it does every so often on my ill-planned adventures, I thought of my wife and kids and how they would get along without me. Then, I felt it. The bear had moved to the other side of the tree and stood on a log. She reached up far enough to get her paws on one my boots. I was too scared to move. Then, I felt the two paws gripping just above my ankle. The grip tightened, and the old grizzly sow started to pull. I braced for my impending demise. She pulled again and again, but lacked the leverage to dislodge me. I could not believe the bear continued to pull my leg for quite some time, just like I'm pulling yours.
North West Montana is a lovely place. Hunting, Fishing, Hiking, just about anything that can be done outdoors should be done somewhere near Browning, MT. Jeff who isn't a real hunting nut, won a trip for two to hunt the majestic Grizzly Bear in Montana from his employer, a notable fire-arms manufacturer that apparently decided he needed some excitement. His first logical choice for a partner was me of course! Likely due to the fact I told him he would be minus certain body parts if he chose anyone else.
All expenses were paid, except for a hunting Guide. We had to choose a guide and pay him ourselves. I don't personally believe in hunting guides (overload of testosterone, I suppose) but Jeff insisted, claiming something about safety, concerning the issue of hunting an animal that weighs as much as a car and has a tendency to attack humans and dismember them for no other reason than to amuse themselves.
At sundown the night before the hunt, we wondered into a pub. A pub, not a bar, as you know I don't believe in those sorts of places. It seemed as if all the good guides were already booked for the opener. So, we asked around and the bartender referred us to a man in the corner booth. As we approached, the man's countenance changed from a smile, to a look of, "Oh God, OUT OF STATE BEAR HUNTERS". Jeff introduced us to Rusty. Although he didn't seem much like a guide with one eye missing and the smell of cigarette smoke and chewing tobacco both overpowered by his extreme body odor. After some pleasantries, "Rusty the guide" said he had many years experience in guiding bear hunts. He gave us his word that he could get us really close to some grizzly bears. I asked him to define "really close", and he just grinned, exposing both teeth.
Jeff was busy on his scientific calculator, figuring the average running speed of a full-grown grizzly in comparison to the average speed of a city boy climbing a tree. Oddly enough his calculator actually had a setting for "really close," so it was easy to figure our chances of survival. Rusty was slightly amused by our lack of knowledge about, well, just about everything. He said to meet him at the 7-11 store at 4am the next morning. Once there, we were enjoying a moment of fresh mountain air when a certain odor, vaguely familiar to us, began to fill the air. Rusty was heading up the street in his old brown "Rusty Mobile". I was concerned that body odor of that magnitude would cause the bears to sense danger of a human nature and flee the area that we were hunting. Rusty assured us that his "Tactical Olfactory Bear Baiting System" or TOBBS as he called his own stench, would actually lure the bears to us by tricking them into thinking a dead animal or a new trash heap was near. Who was I to argue with years of experience and only one lost organ to bear witness to his success.
The drive up the mountain was short and without incident. We walked next to a stream until we came to a meadow area that looked like God had just finished working on it. At the edge of the trees, we could already see some bears pacing around like they were getting ready for the days maimings. It didn't take long for Rusty's TOBBS to work on them. I swear on my Winchester's life that the bears actually got into a football type huddle before they broke onto groups of two and three to start making a perimeter around us. "This here's the excitin' part", Rusty whispered. Exciting? Well, I guess so. Although hearing Jeff soil his pants, isn't exactly my idea of exciting.
One large sow and a single cub had broken formation and were heading directly at us. Not being experienced bear hunters, Jeff and I bailed out. We each found a tree to scurry up like frightened squirrels. This action left Rusty without a tree or gun of his own for defense. He didn't believe carrying a gun for defense while guiding bear hunts. Or, perhaps the state didn't believe he should own a gun period, is my guess. Anyhow, he bailed out also, but in a different way. He just fell to the ground like he was dead. The bears went right past him to Jeff's tree. Jeff's screaming and shrieking like a Four year old girl seemed to have an effect on the giant grizzly sow. I think she was amused. Then, she concentrated on me. She came to my tree and stood up. I had no idea how tall these animals were until I could see the bears' paws just inches from my boots. As my life flashed before my eyes, like it does every so often on my ill-planned adventures, I thought of my wife and kids and how they would get along without me. Then, I felt it. The bear had moved to the other side of the tree and stood on a log. She reached up far enough to get her paws on one my boots. I was too scared to move. Then, I felt the two paws gripping just above my ankle. The grip tightened, and the old grizzly sow started to pull. I braced for my impending demise. She pulled again and again, but lacked the leverage to dislodge me. I could not believe the bear continued to pull my leg for quite some time, just like I'm pulling yours.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Oliver ~ Destroyer of Worlds
Oliver
You wouldn't think a simple medium sized dog could cause more trouble to a family than medium sized teenagers, but you've likely never met Oliver the dog.
My good friend ended up with a cute Four month old mixed breed puppy to fill the void of not having a family pet. To describe what breed of dog Oliver is would not be easy. My best uneducated guess would be part Basset hound, part Chupacabra with a dash of Cthulhu genetics for disposition.
His medium size is not from his genetics however. Bone structure, with limb length being the most telltale sign, points to what should be considered a small breed dog. His personal table manners and eating habits have combined to raise his Body Mass Index to a level not supported by the description "Small" Oliver should be shaped like a hot-dog. Instead, I would say he's shaped more like a double cheeseburger. But Oliver seems otherwise healthy and happy. What more can you ask?
Like all beings, we each have a dark side. A struggle we all face from time to time. My dark side is holding on to grudges and not forgiving people that I feel wronged me. I can admit it, and I don't really keep it a secret. I'll continue to work on it and maybe conquer it someday. I think Oliver's dark side is his inability to care what he eats. His family feeds him the prescribed portions of a highly rated name-brand dog food. Oliver the dog doesn't seem satisfied with that. They noticed early on, like any puppy, he would chew on things. Not only chew toys, but pretty much anything that he could open his mouth and get hold of was fair game to him.
Just chewing on things isn't really an issue that should highly concern anyone. Soon after his family noticed the constant chewing, household items began to disappear. Sometimes things would completely disappear and sometimes remnants would remain. Oliver's appetite caused him to chew up and then devour basically anything left unattended. He is also an accomplished dinner table ninja. If a morsel of food is accidentally dropped from the table, it rarely touches the floor before it is "rescued" by the silent food warrior. I've personally witnessed this. I think when a dog is that good at cleaning the floors it should be called "barkcuuming"
The following is a documented list of items Oliver actually ate. By "ate", I mean chewed, swallowed, partially digested and passed.
Any piece of paper left on the floor (size doesn't matter)
Boxes of Tic Tacs can't be put high enough to avoid his reach, but dog-breath isn't a problem now.
Parts of appliance cords. We assume he somehow unplugged them first.
All but the nose-pad of a pair of expensive and necessary prescription eyeglasses.
And entire cell phone, including the protective cover.
Fast food wrappers left in the car.
A plastic glass containing 7-up was consumed in less than a minute. No liquid was found in the area.
A leather billfold with ID, credit cards and cash. Although the family originally thought the billfold was misplaced, they later found, um, evidence.
Socks, shoes, a half pair of jeans, digital camera, family picture hanging several feet from the floor, a hand towel, small garbage can, dresser drawer handles, homework of course, golfballs, tennis balls, baseballs, baseball glove, mitten, scarf and Christmas tree ornaments are all victims of Oliver: The destroyer of worlds. It's probably a good thing he has a short tail.
You wouldn't think a simple medium sized dog could cause more trouble to a family than medium sized teenagers, but you've likely never met Oliver the dog.
My good friend ended up with a cute Four month old mixed breed puppy to fill the void of not having a family pet. To describe what breed of dog Oliver is would not be easy. My best uneducated guess would be part Basset hound, part Chupacabra with a dash of Cthulhu genetics for disposition.
His medium size is not from his genetics however. Bone structure, with limb length being the most telltale sign, points to what should be considered a small breed dog. His personal table manners and eating habits have combined to raise his Body Mass Index to a level not supported by the description "Small" Oliver should be shaped like a hot-dog. Instead, I would say he's shaped more like a double cheeseburger. But Oliver seems otherwise healthy and happy. What more can you ask?
Like all beings, we each have a dark side. A struggle we all face from time to time. My dark side is holding on to grudges and not forgiving people that I feel wronged me. I can admit it, and I don't really keep it a secret. I'll continue to work on it and maybe conquer it someday. I think Oliver's dark side is his inability to care what he eats. His family feeds him the prescribed portions of a highly rated name-brand dog food. Oliver the dog doesn't seem satisfied with that. They noticed early on, like any puppy, he would chew on things. Not only chew toys, but pretty much anything that he could open his mouth and get hold of was fair game to him.
Just chewing on things isn't really an issue that should highly concern anyone. Soon after his family noticed the constant chewing, household items began to disappear. Sometimes things would completely disappear and sometimes remnants would remain. Oliver's appetite caused him to chew up and then devour basically anything left unattended. He is also an accomplished dinner table ninja. If a morsel of food is accidentally dropped from the table, it rarely touches the floor before it is "rescued" by the silent food warrior. I've personally witnessed this. I think when a dog is that good at cleaning the floors it should be called "barkcuuming"
The following is a documented list of items Oliver actually ate. By "ate", I mean chewed, swallowed, partially digested and passed.
Any piece of paper left on the floor (size doesn't matter)
Boxes of Tic Tacs can't be put high enough to avoid his reach, but dog-breath isn't a problem now.
Parts of appliance cords. We assume he somehow unplugged them first.
All but the nose-pad of a pair of expensive and necessary prescription eyeglasses.
And entire cell phone, including the protective cover.
Fast food wrappers left in the car.
A plastic glass containing 7-up was consumed in less than a minute. No liquid was found in the area.
A leather billfold with ID, credit cards and cash. Although the family originally thought the billfold was misplaced, they later found, um, evidence.
Socks, shoes, a half pair of jeans, digital camera, family picture hanging several feet from the floor, a hand towel, small garbage can, dresser drawer handles, homework of course, golfballs, tennis balls, baseballs, baseball glove, mitten, scarf and Christmas tree ornaments are all victims of Oliver: The destroyer of worlds. It's probably a good thing he has a short tail.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
A Kiss from Above
By 2005, I had attended 27 straight State "A" High School wrestling
tournaments. Whether it's just my own personality or an addiction, I love the
energy and feel of State tournaments, no matter the sport. Wrestling just
happens to be my favorite. Each venue has its own positive and negative traits.
By far my least favorite place to attend is the Sioux Falls Arena. They
practically strip-search you to make sure you aren't bringing in any contraband
of food, drink, gum, tic-tacs or the like. Nothing is allowed inside the arena
that the precious cash-cow of concessions can provide at an astronomically high
price. I'm not kidding. They actually shut off the water supply to the public
fountains located all over the arena. If you need a little sip of water for your
dry mouth after yelling for your team, you are going to pay $7.50 for a little
bottle of water they bought in bulk for 12.5 cents each. I've seen signs in the
bathrooms by the sinks stating that it was not potable water flowing from the
faucets. I can wash my hands with it, but not drink it? It might work as a
deterrent for some, but even I'm not that gullible.
In contrast, Rapid City is much nicer to attend as a spectator. It seems much easier to go in and out without hassle. They have much lower prices on food and drink, and an overall warmer, friendly atmosphere. Even with reserved seating, which is in the balcony, you can still go to the main floor and get close to the mat to cheer on a wrestler. In Sioux Falls you would likely be tazered by security for attempting to get near the main floor. It's an exciting thing to be that close to the action. Although, there was one time when I wish I wasn't allowed mat-side.
That year I took my daughter Kristin and son Bobby along. I don't remember what Bobby wore that first day, but I will never as long as I live forget what Kristin was wearing. She wore blue jeans and a grey hoodie. As soon as we got inside, the kids found their people and went their separate ways. I hooked up with my buddy Rob and we immediately went into expert fan mode. The referee's, coaches and athletes always seem to need our expert advice and one point or another.
At one point during the first session we moved to the far north mat because a Winner kid was getting ready to wrestle there. Rob and I walked as close to the mat as we could for better viewing. As we approached, I noticed Kristin right in front of me. She was holding a digital camera and was videoing the match that was just finishing. I thought, "She has a crush on a wrestler from another town and borrowed a camera to get pictures. I'm going to embarrass her and let her know that I caught her"
I snuck up behind her and peeked over her shoulder for a bit. She didn't notice. So I just leaned over from behind and planted a big ol' daddy kiss on the top of her head. I made a huge *MMMMMMSMOUCH sound as I did it too.
She turned around, but it wasn't Kristin. The blood flow to my face was instant. I was in shock at first and then said, "Oh God, I thought you were my daughter, I'm sooo sorry. Oh my, you look just like her from behind. No, I mean..."
I looked over at Rob, whose face was also red from laughing so hard, then back to the girl. She just rolled her eyes, turned around and didn't say a thing. I quickly left the building and ran to the adjacent motel. I changed clothes, put contacts in and donned a baseball cap as to not be identified by what I was sure would be a platoon of police waiting for me at the arena.
Apparently, there was a student manager from Milbank with the exact same hair, height, hoodie and jeans as Kristin. Milbank was nice enough to place their fan section right next to Winner's the entire time. Every hour or so, I would see that girl talking to someone and pointing at me. I'm sure they had quite a nickname for me by the end of the tournament.
In contrast, Rapid City is much nicer to attend as a spectator. It seems much easier to go in and out without hassle. They have much lower prices on food and drink, and an overall warmer, friendly atmosphere. Even with reserved seating, which is in the balcony, you can still go to the main floor and get close to the mat to cheer on a wrestler. In Sioux Falls you would likely be tazered by security for attempting to get near the main floor. It's an exciting thing to be that close to the action. Although, there was one time when I wish I wasn't allowed mat-side.
That year I took my daughter Kristin and son Bobby along. I don't remember what Bobby wore that first day, but I will never as long as I live forget what Kristin was wearing. She wore blue jeans and a grey hoodie. As soon as we got inside, the kids found their people and went their separate ways. I hooked up with my buddy Rob and we immediately went into expert fan mode. The referee's, coaches and athletes always seem to need our expert advice and one point or another.
At one point during the first session we moved to the far north mat because a Winner kid was getting ready to wrestle there. Rob and I walked as close to the mat as we could for better viewing. As we approached, I noticed Kristin right in front of me. She was holding a digital camera and was videoing the match that was just finishing. I thought, "She has a crush on a wrestler from another town and borrowed a camera to get pictures. I'm going to embarrass her and let her know that I caught her"
I snuck up behind her and peeked over her shoulder for a bit. She didn't notice. So I just leaned over from behind and planted a big ol' daddy kiss on the top of her head. I made a huge *MMMMMMSMOUCH sound as I did it too.
She turned around, but it wasn't Kristin. The blood flow to my face was instant. I was in shock at first and then said, "Oh God, I thought you were my daughter, I'm sooo sorry. Oh my, you look just like her from behind. No, I mean..."
I looked over at Rob, whose face was also red from laughing so hard, then back to the girl. She just rolled her eyes, turned around and didn't say a thing. I quickly left the building and ran to the adjacent motel. I changed clothes, put contacts in and donned a baseball cap as to not be identified by what I was sure would be a platoon of police waiting for me at the arena.
Apparently, there was a student manager from Milbank with the exact same hair, height, hoodie and jeans as Kristin. Milbank was nice enough to place their fan section right next to Winner's the entire time. Every hour or so, I would see that girl talking to someone and pointing at me. I'm sure they had quite a nickname for me by the end of the tournament.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Marks Cold Foot
Another goose hunting season is upon us! It's not a particularly demanding
sport. Over the years I've mastered the art of lazy goose hunting. Most hunters
scout, set up decoy spreads, wake up at 3:00am and other such nonsense. I simply
sit behind a tree and wait for geese to fly over with no particular concern of
success. It wasn't always that way. My first few years of hunting geese were a
study in lumpishness. I remember an instance of hunting futility many years ago
when one of my hunting buddies and I had quite a laugh at another buddy's
expense.
First, there is Jerry. He is a rather diminuative guy at barely Five foot tall. His main pleasure in life is making fun of people. What he lacks in size he can easily make up in insults. I'm 5'8" and back then I weighed a good 250 pounds. Then, there is Mark. He is 7'1" or as he likes to say, "Six foot-Thriteen inches" He's the nicest guy you will ever meet, but not maybe the most motivated person around. So basically, our group was composed of a grizzly bear, the Jolly Green Giant and Sprout.
If success is measured by hours spent hunting, then we were the most successful group in history. If success is measured by how many geese are taken per season, then not so much. First, Jerry refused to remove his blaze orange stocking cap for two seasons. He was convinced that all non-human animals are colorblind and would not notice his big orange head. Mark's size didn't exactly make him ergonomic when it came to hiding in blinds we made out of tumbleweeds. Usually, Marks white, size 18 sneaker was sticking out of the blind and tipping off the flock above to our presence. Eventually, Jerry misplaced his orange hat and our success began to improve. I want to go on record as saying there is no hard evidence connecting me with the disappearance of that hat. Then, when Mark found a pair of brown boots that fit him, our success increased even more. But, that didn't happen until after the infamous "cold-foot" incident.
It was a particularly cold day. We spent most of the morning driving around. We would see a flock of geese come off the lake and try to anticipate their flight path. Jerry would let us out of the car to jump in the ditch and wait for the geese to fly over. It wasn't working. Every five minutes a new flock would rise off the lake. Every five minutes we would jump in the car and go to another ditch to watch the geese fly somewhere other than where we were. It's just the way we did it back then. Brilliant!
Jerry had a 1979 Monte Carlo. It was a two-door car and no one wanted to sit in back. It was too difficult to get in and out of quickly.
Using standard "shotgun" rules, I always got the front seat. Mark, all seven foot of him, would have to navigate the lone passenger side door and folding front seat in order to get in back. His feet were understandably cold that day. Mark had his basketball shoes again. They looked warm to me. Maybe it was just the size that fooled me.
Mark's incessant complaining about his frozen feet was becoming unbearable. It was nearly impossible to enjoy my hot chocolate and music on the radio with Mark back there belly-aching about his stupid feet, and how Jerry should turn up the heater, and how he should get to sit in front, and how we should share the hot chocolate with him and what not. Without warning there was a short period of silence. Just as I was beginning to enjoy it, I heard what I thought was Mark reacting to an attack by an animal that had stowed away in the car without us knowing. My first thought was, "Is Mark dying?" This wouldn't be good if he was. Something like that could ruin the whole hunting trip.
"STOP THE CAR!, STOP THE CAR! I CAN'T FEEL MY FOOT!!!", Mark yelled. Jerry stopped the car. Mark jumped out and was clumsily hopping around on one leg as if that would get warm blood back into his now numb foot.
When Jerry and I finally composed ourselves enough to quit laughing, we noticed Mark was not laughing at all.
This is the type of thing that Jerry loves. In the future he will always have a comeback for anything that Mark says. He has used the "Stop the car" quote many times in many situations to embarrass Mark. It was funny at the time it happened and I can't fully explain why. Decades later, I still wonder what "STOPPING THE CAR" has to do with not feeling your foot. I guess it will just remain one of those mysteries that I can't understand. In fact as I grow older, I am often reminded the more you understand the world around you, the less pleasant it can appear. Unless, you have something to look forward to. In my case, another goose hunting season with Jerry and Mark.
First, there is Jerry. He is a rather diminuative guy at barely Five foot tall. His main pleasure in life is making fun of people. What he lacks in size he can easily make up in insults. I'm 5'8" and back then I weighed a good 250 pounds. Then, there is Mark. He is 7'1" or as he likes to say, "Six foot-Thriteen inches" He's the nicest guy you will ever meet, but not maybe the most motivated person around. So basically, our group was composed of a grizzly bear, the Jolly Green Giant and Sprout.
If success is measured by hours spent hunting, then we were the most successful group in history. If success is measured by how many geese are taken per season, then not so much. First, Jerry refused to remove his blaze orange stocking cap for two seasons. He was convinced that all non-human animals are colorblind and would not notice his big orange head. Mark's size didn't exactly make him ergonomic when it came to hiding in blinds we made out of tumbleweeds. Usually, Marks white, size 18 sneaker was sticking out of the blind and tipping off the flock above to our presence. Eventually, Jerry misplaced his orange hat and our success began to improve. I want to go on record as saying there is no hard evidence connecting me with the disappearance of that hat. Then, when Mark found a pair of brown boots that fit him, our success increased even more. But, that didn't happen until after the infamous "cold-foot" incident.
It was a particularly cold day. We spent most of the morning driving around. We would see a flock of geese come off the lake and try to anticipate their flight path. Jerry would let us out of the car to jump in the ditch and wait for the geese to fly over. It wasn't working. Every five minutes a new flock would rise off the lake. Every five minutes we would jump in the car and go to another ditch to watch the geese fly somewhere other than where we were. It's just the way we did it back then. Brilliant!
Jerry had a 1979 Monte Carlo. It was a two-door car and no one wanted to sit in back. It was too difficult to get in and out of quickly.
Using standard "shotgun" rules, I always got the front seat. Mark, all seven foot of him, would have to navigate the lone passenger side door and folding front seat in order to get in back. His feet were understandably cold that day. Mark had his basketball shoes again. They looked warm to me. Maybe it was just the size that fooled me.
Mark's incessant complaining about his frozen feet was becoming unbearable. It was nearly impossible to enjoy my hot chocolate and music on the radio with Mark back there belly-aching about his stupid feet, and how Jerry should turn up the heater, and how he should get to sit in front, and how we should share the hot chocolate with him and what not. Without warning there was a short period of silence. Just as I was beginning to enjoy it, I heard what I thought was Mark reacting to an attack by an animal that had stowed away in the car without us knowing. My first thought was, "Is Mark dying?" This wouldn't be good if he was. Something like that could ruin the whole hunting trip.
"STOP THE CAR!, STOP THE CAR! I CAN'T FEEL MY FOOT!!!", Mark yelled. Jerry stopped the car. Mark jumped out and was clumsily hopping around on one leg as if that would get warm blood back into his now numb foot.
When Jerry and I finally composed ourselves enough to quit laughing, we noticed Mark was not laughing at all.
This is the type of thing that Jerry loves. In the future he will always have a comeback for anything that Mark says. He has used the "Stop the car" quote many times in many situations to embarrass Mark. It was funny at the time it happened and I can't fully explain why. Decades later, I still wonder what "STOPPING THE CAR" has to do with not feeling your foot. I guess it will just remain one of those mysteries that I can't understand. In fact as I grow older, I am often reminded the more you understand the world around you, the less pleasant it can appear. Unless, you have something to look forward to. In my case, another goose hunting season with Jerry and Mark.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
She Screamed for Icecream
One bad decision can lead to another and amplify it's impact exponentially
when done with my kind of precision. This can make certain situations more
memorable than others. Take for instance my recent trip to the convenience store
to pick up my fresh made pizza order. I arrived long before the pizza was done,
as this is my normal mode of operation. I was patiently standing by for any sign
of the delicious bacon-cheeseburger pizza that would begin to peek out of the
503 degree conveyer oven. I believe I was the only customer in the store at the
time.
Fate changes with every heartbeat, blink or decision we make like the wind changes speed and direction for reasons most of us don't understand. I wasn't thinking about fate or repercussions or anything but pizza when the young father and his two children came into the store that night. I noticed the father of the two precious youngsters head directly to the men's room, leaving the two kids somewhat unattended. The boy was about seven or eight years old. He went directly to the gum/baseball card area and was quickly entranced within it's power. The little girl was five. She had to be five. There is a certain look all five year olds have. It is unmistakable, undeniable and inarguable. She was five. Probably bored from riding in a car for some time, the little girl was peering upward and focusing on nothing in particular when she turned to walk up the same aisle as me. I was facing the goodie machines. You know, the soda fountain, freezy machine, coffee pots and oh yes, the ice-cream machine.
She strolled along the aisle carefree and humming an unpublished concerto. But, all that changed as she neared me. She looked to her right and instantly radar locked on the ice-cream machine. I wondered for a moment what the attraction was. As I looked closer at the machine, the answer became quite clear. A smile came to me as I noticed there was a two to three inch ice cream stalactite hanging from the dispenser nozzle. With little hesitation she reached out to obtain the small hanging treat. At the precise moment her index finger made contact with the ice cream, the compressor that runs the cooling system of the machine kicked on with a violent roar. She reacted with a quick tensing and small jump back. Thinking she may be responsible for breaking something or setting off some type of ice-cream machine theft alarm, she snapped her head to the left, looked directly at me with eyes wide and jaw dropped. I could have looked away and left well enough alone, but no....not me. I looked at her, then at the machine, then back at her and said in an authoritative and accusing tone, "What did you do?"
See, I think I'm a really funny guy. That was supposed to be a really funny thing. I simply failed to consider my audience. The next few seconds were those kind where you wish you had a rewind button to hit. First, there was a small inward breath, then a large lung filling gasp followed by a second of silence. A moment like that can seem to last a long time when you know the next thing that happens will be very, very bad.
At first I thought the sound I heard was an ambulance siren at full screech. Unfortunately, it was not. During mid-scream, I became aware that I was alone in an aisle with a young girl screaming her head off within five feet of me. I also knew it probably wouldn't look good to any amateur child protection advocates that may have just stumbled into the store. Not knowing what to do, I simply ran. Not perhaps the best quick decision I've made in my life. As it turns out, there just isn't any law against being stupid or being a jerk to a little kid. I'd like to see it stay that way for the next "funny thing" I decide to do.
Fate changes with every heartbeat, blink or decision we make like the wind changes speed and direction for reasons most of us don't understand. I wasn't thinking about fate or repercussions or anything but pizza when the young father and his two children came into the store that night. I noticed the father of the two precious youngsters head directly to the men's room, leaving the two kids somewhat unattended. The boy was about seven or eight years old. He went directly to the gum/baseball card area and was quickly entranced within it's power. The little girl was five. She had to be five. There is a certain look all five year olds have. It is unmistakable, undeniable and inarguable. She was five. Probably bored from riding in a car for some time, the little girl was peering upward and focusing on nothing in particular when she turned to walk up the same aisle as me. I was facing the goodie machines. You know, the soda fountain, freezy machine, coffee pots and oh yes, the ice-cream machine.
She strolled along the aisle carefree and humming an unpublished concerto. But, all that changed as she neared me. She looked to her right and instantly radar locked on the ice-cream machine. I wondered for a moment what the attraction was. As I looked closer at the machine, the answer became quite clear. A smile came to me as I noticed there was a two to three inch ice cream stalactite hanging from the dispenser nozzle. With little hesitation she reached out to obtain the small hanging treat. At the precise moment her index finger made contact with the ice cream, the compressor that runs the cooling system of the machine kicked on with a violent roar. She reacted with a quick tensing and small jump back. Thinking she may be responsible for breaking something or setting off some type of ice-cream machine theft alarm, she snapped her head to the left, looked directly at me with eyes wide and jaw dropped. I could have looked away and left well enough alone, but no....not me. I looked at her, then at the machine, then back at her and said in an authoritative and accusing tone, "What did you do?"
See, I think I'm a really funny guy. That was supposed to be a really funny thing. I simply failed to consider my audience. The next few seconds were those kind where you wish you had a rewind button to hit. First, there was a small inward breath, then a large lung filling gasp followed by a second of silence. A moment like that can seem to last a long time when you know the next thing that happens will be very, very bad.
At first I thought the sound I heard was an ambulance siren at full screech. Unfortunately, it was not. During mid-scream, I became aware that I was alone in an aisle with a young girl screaming her head off within five feet of me. I also knew it probably wouldn't look good to any amateur child protection advocates that may have just stumbled into the store. Not knowing what to do, I simply ran. Not perhaps the best quick decision I've made in my life. As it turns out, there just isn't any law against being stupid or being a jerk to a little kid. I'd like to see it stay that way for the next "funny thing" I decide to do.
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