"Doctor's Orders"

The CFO phoned me from our son’s pulmonologist’s office to let me know how the appointment had gone. She allowed as how the doctor was disappointed in our son’s progress, and used phrases like “respiratory rate” and “nebulizer schedule” a lot. She walked me through the continued treatment regimen and explained how the doctor was augmenting it with antibiotics and a new inhaler. Also, she admonished, no school, no physical activity, no playing outside; and he’d have to skip his classmate’s birthday party over the weekend.

“No problem,” I offered. “We can handle that.”

My assurance was followed by a brief moment of silence. Then my wife sighed and added, “There’s one more thing. You’re not going to like it. The doctor said absolutely no more fires.”

“I’m sorry,” I retorted. “It sounded like you said no more fires.” I believe I even chuckled.

“I did,” she said. “I told the doctor you wouldn’t be happy. I asked him if we could have fires after the kids have gone to bed or just not every night, and he looked at me like I was insane. He said, ‘Your son does not need to be around smoke or fire, except on Christmas Eve or other very rare occasions. Not unless his symptoms improve or he outgrows this.’ Sorry, Honey. Doctor’s orders.”

I’m sure she said something else before we got off the phone, but if you were to walk in and put a gun to my head right now, I would not be able to tell you what it was.

No more fires.

No.

More.

Fires.

Call me simple; call me odd; call me old-fashioned; even call me crotchety; but a steady, unobtrusive fire is among my greatest delights. When August rolls around, I begin thinking of that first far-off break in the weather that will justify the season’s inaugural fire. Come September, I have usually already scouted out suitable water oaks, red oaks and the occasional hickory for cutting up and splitting. I celebrate the discovery of a good piece of fat wood or lighter knot in the woods the same way a Canadian tourist rejoices over discovering a broken sand dollar on the beach. To me, one of the most appealing aromas in the world is the green, pungent scent emitted from freshly split water oak as it surrenders its moisture and begins to dry out in the rack in my garage – which takes up an entire wall.

Between opening day of rifle season in November until well into turkey season every spring, it’s a safe bet that you’ll observe sweet, aromatic smoke rolling from my chimney – even on days when my neighbors are outside in their shirtsleeves. Let them think what they will; but I don’t charge them for the seasonal redolence that wafts through their yards courtesy of my chimney.

On fall and winter days when the sun has set before most folks have left work, my contentment upon walking through the door every evening requires little more than a hug from the kids, a kiss from the CFO and building a fire.

How can I be an outdoor writer without a fire? Aren’t I duty-bound to sit in my leather chair with a bourbon in one hand and my pencil in the other while the fireplace cracks, pops and hisses beside me? I feel as though I’ve been disqualified. What would Gene Hill have done had he been prohibited from sitting beside the fire? Changed tires and checked the oil at an upstate New York service station? A fire both haunts and inspires the spirit of a writer. I have long suspected that the writer’s block I endure in the summer months every year is due not to my relative inactivity and complete lack of motivation because of the stifling heat, but from the absence of a fire in the fireplace.

The doctor’s cruel proscription came just in time for the holidays, too. Yule logs require a fireplace, for Pete’s sake. Egg nog, off-key carols and obnoxious sweaters cry out for a mantle against which to lean. Stockings aren’t hung by the dishwasher with care. Chestnuts roast on an open fire, not in the microwave (Okay, so no one has seen a wild chestnut tree or gathered up chestnuts from the woods in over a century because of the blight, but you catch my drift).

As this has all begun to sink in – only partially, mind you; I hover between denial and rebellion – I have been able to arrive at only one sure, crystal clear, irrefutable, albeit begrudged conclusion: as much as I love to enjoy a good fire on cool fall evenings and cold winter days, I absolutely, unequivocally love my son more. Which leaves only one other matter to address, if the situation doesn’t improve or should I fail to talk some sense into this doctor.

Anybody need any firewood? I have a little more than a cord stacked up in the garage and it ought to be plenty cured by now.



(c) Roger Guilian 2010

"The Application"

Every year when hunting season rolls around, I have to leave myself little reminders to purchase my hunting license. These usually consist of yellow sticky notes affixed to the coffee maker, the refrigerator, the telephone, a kitchen cupboard door or two, and the dashboard in my truck. Inevitably, however, I always seem to put it off until the last minute. October always seems so far off when the heat index hovers around a-hundred-ten; it’s easy to be lulled into a sense of having plenty of time to renew my license.

If you hunt doves or ducks or any other migratory bird that falls under the auspices of the federal Migratory Bird Act, you are no doubt familiar with the Harvest Information Program stamp that is required on all hunting licenses in order to lawfully hunt migratory birds. This HIP designation is free-of-charge, but is nonetheless extremely important to the government. They want to collect data, you see, about every hunter’s harvest of migratory birds, so they can set bag limits and season dates.

At the time one acquires the HIP stamp, a series of questions is asked about the hunter’s prior year’s success in the field, which must be answered before the stamp will issue. I have never heard of anyone being sworn-in prior to answering these questions. Nor am I aware of any mechanism by which respondents are hooked up to lie detectors or injected with truth serum before answering, to ensure the veracity of their responses and thereby guarantee the accuracy of the data collected. Hence, I suspect that the process of collecting harvest information from hunters who are completely unfettered in their self-described exploits is incurably flawed, and no doubt creates the potential for some truly obscene boasting and embellishment.

Some of us, on the other hand, dare not embellish. We know all too well that we can’t pull it off. I’ve read that when a man lies, his face betrays him. The eyes twitch or the lip curls up or the temples pulsate or something like that. You can rest assured that if I were to spin a yarn about my exploits in the duck blind or dove stand, the man behind the counter at the sporting goods store would sniff out my fib in a heartbeat. And since we’re talking about federal legislation here, I don’t want to find out what the punishment might be for skewing the data with a trumped-up tale of triumph in the field. For me and others who lie as poorly as we shoot, it’s best to keep it honest.

True to form, one year I renewed my hunting license just as the first dove split was opening in the South Zone. I’m not necessarily saying that I was standing at the counter in full camouflage while my truck idled outside, but if you were to write in to this magazine and say you had video evidence of such, no one would write you an open letter in response calling you a bloody liar. As the license renewal process reached the point where I indicated I would need to participate in the Harvest Information Program, the conversation between the man behind the counter and me went like this:

“Will you hunt migratory birds this season?”

“Yes. In about half-an-hour.”

“Did you hunt migratory birds last season?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Alright. Let’s go over the birds you hunted. Did you hunt ducks last year?”

“I did.”

“How many ducks did you kill?”

“I’m not really sure. I only hunted two days. It couldn’t have been that many because on the second day, the guide let his retriever sleep in after watching me shoot the first day.”

“We’ll say between one and ten. Okay, did you hunt geese last year?”

“No, but I’m thinking of taking it up. I could have one whale of a goose hunt out behind my house. They’re everywhere.”

“No geese. How about doves? Did you hunt doves last year?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Did pretty well, too, actually.”

“How well? Did you kill more than thirty?”

“Oh. No. Is that really the cut-off?”

“One-to-thirty on the doves, then. Alright, woodcock.”

“Do we have any woodcock around here?”

“No woodcock. How about coot and snipe?”

“You mean pouldeau? No. And everybody knows snipe don’t exist. They’re like unicorns.”

“Right. Okay, last one. Did you hunt either rails or gallinules last season?”

“What the heck are rails and gallinules?”

“Did. Not. Hunt. Okay, you’re all set.”

“Wait a minute. That’s it? You didn’t ask me about quail.”

“Sir?”

“Quail. Aren’t you going to ask me about quail? I hunted quail last year. I’m actually a pretty good shot on quail – as long as they’re flying straight away from me. Go ahead: ask me how many quail I killed.”

“Quail are not a migratory bird, sir. They’re not part of the Program. Will you be needing anything else?”

Needless to say, the migratory bird population is in no danger of dipping below sustainable numbers because of me.



(c) Roger Guilian 2010

"Etchings"

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you have an affinity for outdoor pursuits. As such, you probably appreciate sporting and wildlife art, just as I do. In fact your wife, like mine, probably gave up trying to keep the steady stream of duck, dog and turkey prints that inevitably accompany you home from DU and NWTF banquets off the walls years ago (“You’d better not come home with any more hunting prints!”). Mine was successful in halting their advance after she lost just one room in our home, which she now bitterly refers to as the “man room.”

Being the discerning sportsman that you are, you’re probably familiar with the sporting art of Brett James Smith. If you aren’t, you should be. His paintings (I can afford only prints) are not only lifelike, but take on a personal, introspective feel. One of his more famous works which you’ve probably seen hanging in a deer camp or your dentist’s office is a painting entitled Bad Angle Buck, II, which depicts a hapless hunter in an elevated blind watching the buck of a lifetime escape from behind the hunter’s off-shoulder. Smith’s duck hunting and upland bird paintings are nothing short of brilliant also.

In addition to his paintings, Smith has assembled a prolific collection of outdoor etchings. In fact, Smith is arguably as well known for his etchings as he is his paintings. I marvel at how his small, mostly two-toned etchings capture so much action, fluidity and feeling. Yet they exude the shared emotions of outdoorsmen in a subtle, quiet manner at the same time.

I have long wondered where Smith gets the inspiration for his etchings. Do they depict his personal experiences, those of his friends’ or simply his imagination?

Suffice it to say I will never be the subject of one of Mr. Smith’s collectible etchings or water colors. He won’t be releasing any future works showcasing me with my Parker side-by-side leading a low, crossing dove just right, or flushing a covey of quail over a world champion German shorthair.

I don’t think there’s much of a market for an etching depicting a frantic fisherman, alone in a Lund aluminum boat on glacier lake in Canada, a hundred yards from shore, desperately trying to outrace the surge of 55-degree water which is pouring in over the transom. I’m not sure how the etching would illustrate the top of the motor just beneath the surface of the water, or the panic on the pilot’s face, but such detail would certainly add drama to the piece. It could be called Don’t Try To Run Water Out Of A Boat When You Don’t Know What You’re Doing Or You Might Sink The Boat And Drown In A Nameless Lake 1,600 Miles From Home. Luckily, the guy made it ashore and lived to write about it.

There’s not too much understated romanticism in the image of a deer hunter crawling around on his hands and knees scouring the leaves for a blood trail. So that might not work for an etching, either. Nor would a rendition of a duck hunter sitting in a blind trying to get mud out of the muzzle of his shotgun while his buddies – who know how to walk across a rice field levee without toppling forward into the muck – take down a few drake mallards.

What about the lonely image of a stubborn Labrador retriever walking thirty feet in front of his “master” and going about his business as he pleases, entirely indifferent to the repeated grunts of, “Heel! Stay!” and “Bad dog!”?

Or consider the heart-wrenching scene where a less-than-modestly successful turkey hunter has just called up a mature gobbler to within thirty-or-so steps, at which point the bird strutted and gobbled and put on a real show, before the hunter – his heart and his memory overflowing with the pageantry of the spectacle – pulls the trigger and walks over to the flopping bird. Only to have the bird get up and run off through the briars just when the hunter bends down to pick it up by its feet! How does an etching’s metal and acid and ink capture that heartbreak? I’m not sure whether an etching is capable of communicating such pain but if anyone has the talent to do so, it’s Mr. Smith.

The possibilities are endless I suppose. The shorthaired pointer’s backward glance full of incredulity and scorn at the hunter who can’t seem to hit the broad side of a barn. The turkey hunter who has spent all morning pursuing a gobbling tom, right up to a property line; added emphasis could be placed by showing the strutting tom out in the open on the other side. The splash of water created by a seven-pound bass plummeting back to safety after wriggling free from the astonished fisherman’s hook.

Outdoor communicators, whether we be artists or writers, rely heavily on our personal experiences for inspiration. Thankfully for Mr. Smith and his fans, he clearly doesn’t get his inspiration from the likes of me.



(c) Roger Guilian 2010