"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
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
posted by Days Afield Host | 6:32 PM
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