"Bad Excuses"

Bad excuses are handy things to have around. Unlike a coaster, WD-40, a few dollars’ cash, or a pencil, I always seem to have a bad excuse on hand any time I need one. When it comes to the outdoors and my sporting pursuits, I seem to go through them like there’s no tomorrow. Some of the more memorable situations that called for a bad excuse in recent years went something like this.

Q. Why is that stand hung so close to the road and right out in the open instead of a hundred or so yards back in that thicket where all the deer trails zigzag back and forth?

A. Trying to get to the stand back there would be way too loud and would run everything off. This way we can sneak right in there without spooking all the deer. Mainly, I didn’t want to be environmentally insensitive by leaving orange flagging all over the place.

Q. Any particular reason you don’t know your way around the property yet? We’re halfway through deer season and you’re still asking us which are the good spots and how to get to them.

A. You see, I didn’t want to get my human scent all over the place by going up and scouting the woods all summer. By keeping the pressure off the deer in the off-season, it’ll take them that much longer to go nocturnal.

Q. You’re still hunting with your wife’s .308? When are you going to get that nice new scope sighted in on your .270?

A. I want to be sure her rifle shoots alright. Yes, I know that, of the two of us, I am the only one who’s ever missed, but still. Plus that lever action can be a little tricky. I need to make sure the shells aren’t getting hung up in the receiver. And, too, I think I read somewhere that you need to let a new scope settle for at least three months after mounting it before subjecting it to the rigors of sighting it in. I couldn’t tell you where I read that, though.

Q. How in the world did you shoot only a 43 at sporting clays last week?

A. Well, I’m shooting that .20 gauge I recently bought out of the paper, and I just haven’t found the right target load for it yet. You’d think that a classic American double would handle No. 8 lead shot without a hitch, but obviously I need to invest in some fine, Italian high brass shells. I think the whole gun might need to be looked at, to be quite honest with you. It doesn’t feel balanced when I shoulder it. It’s probably the length of pull or something. Plus those cheap target loads.

Q. How come you’re always the first one back to camp after the morning hunt?

A. The loggers keep leaving the skidder and Lowboy right across the road that goes to my stand. I’m after one specific buck in that area so I don’t want to waste a trip down there until that buck’s had time to get used to all the activity and the presence of the equipment. And, plus, this morning I thought I’d overheard Jim on the radio saying he was locked out of the camp house, and since I was the closest one, I came back to let him in. I must’ve misheard him, though, because he wasn’t here when I arrived. He’s still signed out for his stand. It’s a good thing I came back because somebody left the coffee pot on, and that’s a fire hazard. I figured since I was here, I’d get the fire going, mix a drink, turn on the game and get breakfast started for everyone.

Q. How can you turkey hunt so often and never, ever kill a turkey?

A. Well, now, that’s an essay question. The answer is really a thesis on the bird itself. Turkeys can see really, really well and they hear pretty good, too. So it’s hard to fool ‘em. They’re very wary, almost paranoid. You ain’t just going to sneak up on one. And when turkey hunting, you’re asking a gobbler to go against its natural instinct by coming to a hen instead of the other way around like Mother Nature intended. Sure, I could probably level the playing field the tiniest bit by scouting the turkeys before the season opens. And maybe I could up my chances ever so slightly by getting familiar with the land so I’ll know what a gobbler’s tendencies might be after it hits the ground; but, again, I’d hate to spoil next fall’s deer hunting for the rest of you guys by traipsing through the woods and leaving my scent everywhere.

Q. Why didn’t you take that easy double on those two quail flying straight away from you through the treetops?

A. That shot looked a little low to me. Didn’t want to risk hitting the dog.

Q. Why don’t you ever shoot any of the deer you’re always coming back and telling us you saw?

A. A lot of the time, I just don’t feel like fooling with cleaning them. Plus, I like to build a fire, mix a drink, turn the game on, and get dinner started for you guys.

Feel free to incorporate any or all of these into your repertoire, although I hope you don’t need to call on them with near as much frequency as I do. If you start to run thin, don’t fret. I am constantly working on my inventory and am happy to share.



(c) Roger Guilian 2008

"Dear Santa,"

Ah, Christmas. That magical time of year when sugarplums dance, chestnuts roast on open fires (even though the American Chestnut tree all but vanished due to a crippling blight a century ago), and well-intentioned drunks come a’ wassailing along, usually right as the kids are going to bed.

Truly a season of wonderment and celebration, Christmas is a time when the biggest of dreams get dreamed and the most whimsical of wishes get wished. With the holiday season careening toward us faster than Ol’ Saint Nick barreling downhill on his sleigh full of goodies, my thoughts turn to my own wish list. And while it’s been a long time since I’ve written Santa a letter, here goes.

Dear Santa, I wish I wasn’t such a poor excuse for an outdoorsman. I have enjoyed enough success in my pursuit of game to be accepted as a sportsman, yes, but I am far from accomplished. I occupy a seemingly permanent spot somewhere between “expert hunter” and “blindly lucky,” and one that is admittedly closer to the latter’s end of the spectrum than the former’s. Most of the time, I hit what I’m aiming at, unless it has feathers. But that’s about the extent of my expertise.

I wish I knew how to fish better. I don’t get to do too much fishing, which is evident to all in attendance the few times I actually get to wet a line. I am perfectly capable of operating most standard reels, although I prefer spinning reels to baitcasters; the humiliation of becoming seasick after twenty minutes of focusing on a tangled web of monofilament four inches in front of my face being just too much to bear.

One afternoon a few years back, a friend and I hit his lake for a few hours after hunting turkeys all morning. After a lull in the action we decided it was time to switch lures, and I proudly announced I could set my own Texas-rig. A few minutes later I sheepishly handed the rod to my friend who completed the elementary procedure for me. Santa, I just know that if I fished more, I would become more knowledgeable and better at it. As it stands now, however, my knowledge of baits and lures is on a first grade level, and still I am struggling to keep up with the rest of the class. So maybe a fiberglass delta boat wouldn’t be too much to ask.

I wish I was proficient at tying knots. That looks like about the most helpful skill in all the outdoors. There’s nothing the right knot can’t secure, whether it’s a bowline or a ladder stand. I’m a pro at tying a cleat hitch; but I have learned that the cleat hitch doesn’t work in every application. For instance, a cleat hitch won’t do diddly-squat to tie a boat to a piling. To get an idea of what it looks like when I try to tie a bowline to a piling, please see the foregoing reference to the tangled web of fishing line.

I wish when I sharpened my knives on a stone, my knives would actually turn out to be sharper. This is something I cannot understand. I have acquired numerous stones, all reputedly intended for sharpening knives. I use the correct oil, I apply the recommended angle, and I use the correct stroke and direction. Unfailingly, however, my knives are at best only marginally sharper than they were before my wrist cramped up after 15 minutes of sharpening. Whose lap do I have to sit on in order to get a sharper skinning knife?

When will I find a successful turkey hunt under my Christmas tree? Because of my debilitating compulsion to hunt turkeys the “right way,” I refuse to sit over chufa in the afternoon waiting to ambush one. Taking credit for sitting down over a chufa patch at 3:30 in the afternoon and killing a turkey is sort of like buying a tuna steak off the dock and then regaling your dinner guests with tales of how long you battled the fish before finally hauling it through the tuna door. It just ain’t right. I don’t skulk behind decoys or use pop-up ground blinds, either. And I don’t shoot them off the limb, although I have been tempted. Doesn’t this qualify as having been “nice” all year instead of “naughty?”

Well, the stockings are hung by the chimney with care and I’ve given up hoping to hold on to my hair. When my children are nestled all snug in their beds, visions of rattletraps and sheepshanks and plastic worms and razor sharp skinning knives will dance in my head. But, Santa, above all else, can you please bring me a stupid two year old gobbler as a confidence builder this year? Thanks. I’ll leave out the milk and cookies for you.



(c) Roger Guilian 2008