"The Trip's Not Really Over Yet"

As I sit down to write this, my truck is covered in mud. Not just a little mud, mind you; but so much mud that the only part of the truck that is even remotely clean is that area of the windshield covered by the sweeping of the wipers. My truck is obnoxiously dirty. It is so filthy that everyone I pass on the road must think, “He’s not washing that thing on purpose. He wants everyone to know he’s been riding in the mud.”

You know what? They’d be right. The mud that’s caked to the sides of my truck like scales on an alligator is a souvenir of sorts. It came from rural farm roads and slick levee crossings on the Great Prairie of east Arkansas. Every time I look at my truck in its soiled condition, I am reminded of my recent inaugural duck hunting endeavor; reminded of the ducks warily surveying our blind from overhead; of Big Cypress Creek’s tea-colored waters; of the tupelo gum I hugged in the North Hole after the rice fields had frozen over; of the marvelous work of my friend’s thirteen-year-old black Lab in his final season before retirement; of the pastel sunrises that set fire to the cypress brakes below; and of the camaraderie we shared for four splendid days behind the decoys.

There was the morning I forgot my coat and a front blew through at daybreak, sending the mercury plummeting 30 degrees in 30 minutes. I sat there shivering and praying for ducks to bomb our decoy spread so some action might warm me up. Luckily, the ribbing from my friends did the trick until the ducks showed up shortly after the wind shifted. I enjoyed the best hunt of the trip with soaked-through shirtsleeves and a mild case of hypothermia.

There was the trip to Mack’s Prairie Wings in Stuttgart, necessitated by the used chest waders with boots that were two sizes too big which I’d purchased on the internet. After the mud sucked the boots and my socks right off my feet while wading back from the blind on the second morning, I decided my being frugal wasn’t worth my being miserable, and made the investment in some waders that fit. They made all the difference in the trip.

There were the errant shots, the ill-advised shots and the just plain stupid ones. For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn; until one time I did. “I got one!” What a feeling!

In some strange, silent way, as long as I don’t wash the mud off my truck, the trip’s not really over yet. I am clinging to the fond memories of my trip like the mud now clinging to my fenders and wheel wells. It took me six days to unpack my bags after returning home. The CFO was extremely patient about the large duffle, the blind bag and the shell belt that sat on her bedroom floor for almost a week. I think she realized long ago why it takes me so long to let go after a really great trip like my Arkansas duck hunt, and so she cuts me some slack. She understands me pretty well, as tough as it has been on her to gain so much knowledge about me in this respect.

I have a couple mallards and a green winged teal at the taxidermist, which I can realistically expect to get back near the latter part of 2009 or early 2010. Once they’re hung on the walls in my study, they will serve as permanent reminders of my four days spent in the finest waterfowl habitat in North America. But a year is a long time to wait. So for now I will have to settle for a muddy truck, some unpacked bags, a stack of photographs and a pile of gear not yet ready to call it quits. Trivial, yes, but they're trophy enough for now.



(c) Roger Guilian 2009

"New Neighbors"

The CFO, otherwise known as my wife, called me at work one morning and said, “Hey, I just met the folks who bought the house next door. You’re gonna love ‘em.” She went on to allow as how they are big college football fans, enjoy grilling out with the aid of ice cold adult refreshments, have a baby the same age as our youngest, and, best of all, “The husband is a big fisherman. He even has his own boat.”

Wow. A neighbor with a boat! Suddenly I wished the shrubs had been more recently manicured and that I’d pressure-washed the house this fall.

After being pinned down for a minute by my machine gun-like interrogation into what kind of boat it was, whether the husband prefers in-shore to off-shore fishing and whether he hunts (and if so, what), the CFO grumbled something less than complimentary about my being “obsessive,” and hung up the phone without divulging very much useful information about our neighbors-to-be, save the revelation that the husband owns a boat.

One of the few beneficial pieces of intelligence the CFO passed along before hanging up was a statement the wife made to her about how her husband “would just love to make a fishin’ buddy next door.” I immediately began picturing myself holding up a hawg of a redfish while being flanked by two beautiful women, a trophy in one’s hands and one of those humongous oversized checks in the other’s.

I was not necessarily proud of my excitement over learning that the new neighbors owned a boat before I’d even thought to ask their names, because I realized in an instant what that made me: there is a off-color moniker for an individual who does not possess his own boat but rather relies on the gracious and repeated invitations of one who does; a moniker I shall not employ here in your fine and fair company. Suffice it to say that the first word is “boat” and the second word rhymes with “store.” Suffice it to say also that the moniker suits me perfectly.

I immediately grabbed my calendar and began searching for open weekends in order to invite the husband up to the camp for a deer hunt. Alright, they close on the 22nd, I thought, so they ought to be in the house shortly after that. Perfect. The rut will just be getting underway when he unpacks the last box.

My fervent hope is that the husband is a fisher and not a serious hunter. In the most symbiotic of outdoor relationships, he can take me fishing and I, in turn, can take him hunting. Not only will such an arrangement feel more equitable, but it will also serve to assuage the lack of confidence I will feel the first few times we fish together. Somehow I won’t feel so much like a pest for having to ask him to repeatedly motor over to the bank in order for me to liberate my jointed shad from the trees, if in return I can look forward to having to spend hours on my hands and knees tracking his gut-shot deer or – worse – locating him after he gets himself turned around in the woods at night.

If he’s already an accomplished deer hunter as well as a fisherman, then I will just have to proselytize him to turkey hunting. In fact, I would relish spending time in the turkey woods with someone who didn’t know enough to recognize the depths of my ineptitude, and who would – through his own sheer unfamiliarity with the wild turkey – swallow hook, line and sinker my repeated excus -- er, explanations as to why we never seem to bag a gobbler. I figure it will take him at least two springs to figure it out and expose me for the fraud I am when the dogwoods bloom.

Should he turn out to be a seasoned turkey hunter in addition to an accomplished deer hunter and fisherman, then, hell, I guess I’ll just have to fill the boat with gas every time.

Back to the boat. My mind reeled. I suppose it could be your average 18 to 21 foot, deep-V, center console outboard just perfect for fishing the Bay and the Gulf. But the truth is I hope it’s a 14 or 16 foot delta boat, rigged for in-shore fishing and the occasional duck hunt (oh my God, what if he hunts ducks, too?). While I can appreciate off-shore fishing, getting beat up both ways on day-long trips out of sight of land just ain’t on my list of top ten outdoor pursuits any more. Now that I’m older and have kids, I much prefer slow, lazy mornings on a quiet stream or lake going after trout and bass.

But first thing’s first. We’ve got to get to know the new neighbors and lay the groundwork for years of friendship and dead battery jumping. A boat next door sure will make up for a lot of barking dogs, overgrown weeds and cups of sugar. So I suppose I’ll be helping to carry a lot of furniture and boxes full of crockery over the next couple of weeks. But it’s a small price to pay. Have you seen what a boat payment is these days?



(c) Roger Guilian 2008