The Hunt

I would like to say at the outset, I do not suffer from blood lust, particularly when it comes to deer. In my youth, I hunted like the character Will Muny in the movie Unforgiven. I shot nearly everything that walked, crawled or flew. Now, I am all murdered out. The thought of killing a deer, or any game for that matter, immediately brings to mind the unmaking of the beast. Then, my conscience reminds me of the delicious and inexpensive meats available at my local Costco. Such thoughts can sap anyone’s enthusiasm for harvesting fresh meat.

We arose early Sunday morning. I cooked a hot breakfast to sustain us through the day. Had I known what was in store, I might have dipped into something a bit stronger, say crack cocaine. We made the drive to the ranch (In these parts, they say “Rainch.”), arriving an hour before dawn. (I took a photo of the Somervell County Courthouse at about 0530!) We silently donned rifles, binoculars, skinning knives, pistols, hats, grenades, MP3 players and other paraphernalia necessary for our primitive adventure. Then, dressed as Redneck insurgents, we trudged through the darkness toward our hunting stands. After six weeks of rain, the earth squished as we walked.

Climbing into a ten-foot tall, wobbly and leaning deer stand in the pitch darkness is no mean feat. If I fell, I would land in the center of a collection of sharp, explosive gear and on top of a cactus. No good could come of that. We reached our perches without incident and began the long wait for Bambi’s father.

As I waited, I discovered my stand was next to the tree home to fifty thousand starving mosquitoes. Batting at them took my mind off the fact that one leg of my stand was sinking into the earth a little faster than the other two. If the list increased, I would eventually topple onto that earth.

No deer were available for shooting. We decided to visit a few local sites, including an old (1886) Norwegian church, St. Olaf’s Kirk. We stretched our legs and I took a few photos. Once refreshed, we returned to the hunt. Still, there were no deer. Part of me was disappointed, maybe insulted, the deer did not show. The rest of me was glad I would not be field dressing a carcass in the mud. I could live with that.

When we had enough empty silence, we walked back to the truck. Deer hunting without deer is very boring and even a little stressful. I found myself thinking “C’mon, you. Show up!” At the truck, we disarmed, disrobed and disinfected ourselves back to civilian configuration. Now, all we needed to do was drive home to hot showers, warm meals and early-to-bed. It was going to be a perfect day, after all.

When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.

It turned out we were a tad short on fear. I nudged the Toyota toward the gate and the hard surface road just beyond. After a hundred feet, I felt a sinking sensation and the truck seemed to get closer to the earth. Much closer. We were stuck. We were within sight of safety and solid earth less than 100 feet away. Reflexively, I gunned the engine. No progress. I slammed the transmission into reverse and revved the engine. The truck moved inches. Then I slammed the shifter into second gear and crushed the accelerator to the floor. We gained inches. A nearby debris pile provided wood, which we stuffed under the tires.

Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.

After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.

Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!

First, some important announcements:


On December 6, 2009, I shall exhibit a collection of amazing photographs here:

Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council

204 River North Boulevard

Stephenville, Texas 76401

(254) 965-6190


The open house will occur between 1:00 and 5:00 pm, CST. Mention my name, and admission is free. Do not be left out. There is still time to buy a cheap airline ticket, if needed. Stephenville is 80 miles south of Ft. Worth, Texas on U.S. Hwy 377. I am looking forward to seeing you there. (Bring your checkbook and an assortment of credit cards.)

As long as you are planning a trip to Stephenville, you might be interested in arriving early to enjoy THE MOSCOW BALLET’s performance on November 19. I can hardly believe it myself. General Admission Tickets are $20. I have long admired Stephenville, but I never expected this level of cultural achievement. I am impressed. If you attend, you will be impressed, too. You will also save a fortune in airfare not having to fly to Moscow to see the ballet, or to the Louvre to see my photographs!

Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth!

I had the good fortune to travel to Ft. Worth on Halloween for “Trick or Treating” with all four grandchildren. It was a blast. The eldest g’child is four, so trudging a block or two in costume was real work for all of them. Trudging that same distance while carrying one or two superheroes or princesses was more work than I remember, too. The weather cooperated. Temperatures were mild, there was no wind and the clear sky sported an enormous full moon. It was perfect for the task-at-hand.

The T-or-T took place in my daughter’s neighborhood. I was encouraged to see swarms of small children in every sort of costume covering the streets. Residents went all out, too. My favorite house offered an ice chest filled with frosty refreshments for the weary parent on the front lawn. Several adults in my party took full advantage of the hospitality. In fact, there was a considerable delay getting to the next house as I recall. Many homeowners set up shop on the porch (they have those in Ft. Worth, Texas) and doled out treats from there. Jack-o-Lanterns, scary spiders with webs, skeletons and witches decorated almost every home. What fun! My son costumed as “Old Ben” from Star Wars. His son, Augie, made a great Pad wan (Apprentice). William became a muscular Spiderman, his current greatest hero while his sister, Sophia, was a heartbreakingly sweet princess. Me? I got into the spirit of the evening as Groot Vader, Lord of the Fifth. Wait, wasn’t that supposed to be Lord of the Sith? Oh well.  Maybe next year.

Once we returned to my daughter’s house, I was able to sample some of the evening’s loot. It is just as good as I remember it. My son-in-law broke out a large flask of “back medicine,” passing it around among the list of casualties. Soon, the wounded were feeling chipper enough to return home, but not so chipper as to need a cab.    We quit while we were ahead.

I can hardly wait for next year!

La Reunion

On Saturday morning, last, I drove to the bucolic village of Fairy, Texas to attend a family reunion. I rarely attend these festivals. I made an exception this time.

In my youth, such gatherings were a bewildering parade of old people who I never saw in my life. “That’s my great uncle Wilbur.” My father might say, pointing to a wizened old coot across the room. There were hundreds of strangers around the room. Then there were all those unfamiliar children. I knew some of them. The older ones delighted in torturing my contemporaries and me. The younger ones might leak bodily fluids on the unwary relative. It was my privilege to leak something all over my cousin Buddy when I was quite small. He has never recovered from the indignity. I saw my chance and I took it. (That's him, dozing in his chair.)

This reunion was different. My father had eight brothers and sisters. Dad is gone now and only his youngest and oldest sisters remain. Evelyn, the eldest, is past her mid nineties and headed for the century mark. “Baby sister,” Quata, is an attractive, cheerful and ageless woman. They are our family treasures. One tier back, my generation is now old coots. While the ravages of time have spared me, I am sorry to report my cousins are paunchy, gray bearded, rheumy-eyed old men. (It is my blog. If you have another opinion, get your own blog and publish it. :) )

There were several high points at this reunion. First, there were hundreds of attendees. I admit to feeling satisfaction when someone pointed in my direction and explained who I was to a youngster. (A youngster is almost anybody or anything under the age of 50. It is a sliding scale.) Meanwhile, the kid was undoubtedly eyeing an attractive stranger of the opposite sex, hoping they were unrelated and could not care less about the old coot across the room.

The second high point was enjoying the respect afforded to us codgers. A girl brought me a chair. Someone shuttled iced tea to my table without my asking. Another entertained me with conversation. It was a happy visit, but I wondered if she was working on a merit badge for Girl Scouts. Everyone under the age of 80 treated my generation with respect bordering on trepidation. Apparently, our reputations precede us.

The video recording of the newly ancient telling stories about growing up, being young, foolish, and rearing families of our own was the best. Each of us took a turn sitting in front of a video camera, babbling about our childhood adventures and life with our parents. It was touching and hilarious. Naturally, when my turn came, I went completely blank, except for claiming I was adopted. I might have gotten away with it if my aunts had not shouted their objections. On the drive home, stories flooded into my mind. Perhaps I will share a few of them here in coming weeks. As on tape, I shall clean them up a bit in the telling.

I will save a few for next year, too.

Nature Trail Revealed!

For several weeks, I have threatened to photograph the little nature trail that bisects my neighborhood. Since I first thought of it, the trail has seldom been above water. Half the circuit was dry this morning and I set out, camera around neck, to capture as much of the natural beauty as possible.

A pair of extravagant berry bushes mark the trailhead. I do not know their names. Fred and Ethyl, maybe? They are a welcoming sight year round. If you have an idea what they are, let me know.

Immediately beyond, the trail curves hard left to parallel the local creek. Recently, it has been a navigable waterway, but has subsided to being full of water. The water has been fifteen to twenty feet higher in recent weeks and observant readers might find traces of debris in the trees and shrubs in these photos. At the curve, the trail is about forty feet above the creek.

The trail continues along the flood plain, rising and falling as much as fifty feet. The upgrades test the intrepid cyclist’s heart and will. The downgrades provide breath-restoring relief and high-speed excitement. Local wildlife includes a snowy heron who has grown accustomed to my presence. The little bugger did not show this morning. Maybe he’s camera shy.

Autumn colors are only beginning to emerge.  The continuous rains of the last month have rejuvenated the plant life, leaving them reluctant to go to sleep for the winter.  Sumack is one of the most flamboyant autumn plants.  Even these are muted, but still impressive to my eye.  See below.  I'll check in on it again next week, weather permitting.


The air was cool, dry and on the move (15 mph) when I hit the trail.  It was bracing!   Hauling a camera is the perfect excuse to pedal at a leisurely pace, avoiding the unsightly gasping and sweating that usually accompanies these outings.  I may take the camera from now on!

About two miles along, I discovered a stand of trees I've never noticed before. Yes, that's hard to believe, but they seem to have appeared from nowhere.  Odder, they are growing right next to the site of the raging torrent and they are more than twenty feet tall.  Maybe they're some sort of alien mutant trees trying to blend in until they take over the planet. (I wish them all the luck in the world. They can have my part.)

At the halfway mark, I discovered the spillway is under water.  Still.  Since it is also the bridge to the rest of the trail, I was stopped.  Nature teaches patience, darn her anyway. Perhaps tomorrow...

I expect the colors will get better and the light will continue to gain that pale golden hue that accompanies autumn.  If the rains forebear, there are many beautiful images waiting for someone to notice them.  I would be pleased if it were me.

I will share what I find in future posts.  I hope you enjoy these views even half as much as I.  I can still smell the wild scented air and feel tthe cool breezes on my cheek even now.  What could be better than a morning in autumn?  I am one lucky guy.

The Seven League Boots

Seven League Boots are mythological footwear presented to a pilgrim by a magical being. When worn, the boots touch the ground only once every seven leagues, enabling the pilgrim to cover vast distances on a quest.  I am told seven leagues (21 miles) is the distance the King's messengers rode between stops for fresh mounts, food and rest.  Since they were on horseback, their boots were said to touch the ground only once in seven leagues.

Recently, I found a pair of “Wellingtons” in my closet. I have not worn or seen them in years. They are plain, brown leather boots. They are not tall or fancy or anything beyond well made. They may be thirty years old. Frankly, they looked like Hell. The leather was heavily scuffed and polish was nonexistent. I hauled them to the elderly man in my neighborhood who cares for leather goods. [Except saddles] He does excellent work and I left the boots with him.

When I returned a few days later, the old man presented the boots and began to apologize. He pointed to various places that did not gleam as glass. As he pointed out the various defects, he explained there was nothing he could do to repair them short of re-dyeing the entire pair.

My mind wandered with each landmark. The worst gouges were the result of the time I turned-over a Harley in an unexpected curve. An ambulance came to see me as I lay in a watery ditch beside the road. When I looked up, I asked, “Are you an angel?” Lucky, it was an EMT from the local fire department – and he was straight. Whew.

Another scar reminded me of the time, when felling a tree, a large trunk rolled across my foot and tried to climb my leg. My right foot was purple up to the knee for four weeks. The boot survived.
There were many scars and blemishes on those boots. Some were identifiable. Others just looked like miscellaneous gunshots, animal bites and excrement stains – hardly worth note.

In the end, I thanked the old man and left a generous gratuity. Those boots and I earned every one of those defects through taking chances and pursuing adventures, the sweetest part of life. I will not be re-dying them. I shall keep them just as they are and hope to record one or two more adventures before they bury me – with my boots on. After all, we old boots have a magical bond.

Silent Auction

The Senate Finance Committee voted out a health care reform package today. It has been a long time coming. I expect many weeks will pass before something substantive, and probably disastrous, becomes the law of the land. Why does it take so long? I have puzzled over this question for weeks and I think I have the answer.

Of all the mistakes the Congress might make, rushing to pass legislation before they know who the high bidders are is not one of them. Imagine the embarrassment if a Senator agreed to support provisions favorable to Lobbyist A only to meet Lobbyist B in the hallway with an even larger sack of campaign contributions, better inside investment advice and a more luxurious travel plan. I mean, the Senator would appear foolish in the presence of all his colleagues. As citizens of the various states, we would not want our representatives to lose face in the Congress, would we? Of course we wouldn’t.

The Executive branch has been active, too. The President’s recent selection as a Nobel Laureate has caused the sound of laughter to ring in the halls of my home. Okay, it was my laughter and it may have been maniacal, but this is a priceless image. Imagine a racecar driver, who after driving 200 feet, pulls over and receives a trophy. Someone throws a spray of roses into the cockpit and a beautiful woman leans in for a big kiss. Several magnums (magnae?) of Champagne spew in celebration. Half the crowd goes wild with glee. The other half gapes in stunned disbelief. The driver sheepishly accepts the prize while wondering if he should rejoin the race or slink home in victory.

Please note: I do not believe the Nobel Prize fiasco is the President’s fault, at least not directly. George Will said it best on “George Stephanopoulos.” He said, “This award would destroy the Nobel Committee’s reputation for seriousness, if only they had a reputation for seriousness.” That is as close to a direct quote as I can create.


With thrills and chills like this in life, Halloween is beginning to look like just another day.

Hill Country Epilogue

It was Friday morning, September 25. I was happily tapping away at my keyboard. I forget what was so important, but I was engrossed in the effort. As the morning wore on, I became increasingly agitated. Something was just not right. I ran through my checklist of potential problems and found nothing amiss. I tried my best to continue, but it became more difficult as time passed.


I looked at the clock.  It showed straight up noon. As I stared, I could not help seeing out the window a few feet away. “Odd,” I thought, “I don’t see any rain…” My thought process automatically raced to “why isn’t it raining?” I got out of my chair and peered through the glass. Hmm.

The sky was clear blue. The lawn was deep green and dry. I rushed to the front door and stepped out. 75-degree temperatures and the mildest of breezes greeted me. Sunshine, long a scarce commodity in my neighborhood, warmed my neck and face. I realized I had been wasting my life and a beautiful day indoors when I should have been out in the sunshine and fresh air. Work? “I don’t need no steenking work,” I thought. I ran to my closet and grabbed the basics. Helmet? Check. Armored Jacket? Got it. Gloves? Boots? Yes, yes, yes.

In ten minutes, my motorcycle sat poised in the driveway, idling quietly. In fifteen, I was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine the way God intended, from the saddle of my bike. “Today,” I thought to myself, “I shall redeem that rain dance I enjoyed over the Labor Day Weekend!” I took the sharp-turning back road south toward Hillsboro. From Hillsboro, S.H. 22 retraced my path to the west. In bright daylight, this was an entirely new adventure. Traffic was light as I turned onto the small highway. I opened the throttle a bit, producing a satisfying growl from the V-4 engine and a delightful breeze on my face. Wow. I swooped and banked along the highway. Green pastures, picturesque structures and fat livestock streamed by. The fragrance was more like spring than autumn. I soaked it in through every pore.

Eventually, I reached Meridian, Texas and turned onto Highway 144 toward Walnut Springs. “The Springs” is a sleepy little village. Industry is limited to a couple of beer stations and some antique shops. I have seen it in worse condition. Just beyond the town, I reached Farm Road 203. I save this little shortcut for times I need to get away from it all and do something stimulating at the same time. It is a narrow road with many low hills and enough curves to satisfy any motorcyclist craving excitement.

I plunged ahead, relishing the scenery and the road. There was no traffic. Since the little road is at most ten miles long, I wanted to go slow to enjoy it as long as I could. My evil side wanted me to speed up to enjoy the road as much as I could. As in life, Evil often makes the more compelling argument. I sped onward, leaning the bike steeply into switchback turns and enjoying weightlessness at the peak of small hills. It was wonderful.

Then, I turned hard into a blind curve. Committed to a line through the curve, I was surprised to see a large pickup truck approaching me from the other direction. He was in my lane, cutting the corner. I could do little. Judging by the size of the truck driver’s eyes, he felt similar anxiety. I shut the throttle and began braking, gently. (You try braking gently when your blood is diluted with adrenalin.) I saw the driver pull hard over on his steering wheel and I tightened my line through the curve as much as I dared. In a heartbeat, we brushed past each other, a foot of empty air separating us. I was alive! No, really, I survived and I was alive. The survival part was a surprise. Feeling my heart pound with gratitude reminded me I might have something left to do in this life after all. After that, the remainder of the ride was completely boring. I am good with that.

I shall keep a sharp lookout for my life's greater purpose in future. I might also be more circumspect when I feel the urge to frolic on a twisty back road.

Until next time!