May I ?

I blinked a couple times somewhere after the ice went out of Lake Pepin in early March and what do you know, we find ourselves in the middle of May.  It’s a fine month…this May is, but I guess that’s my humble opinion.

The fifth month on our calendar gets high marks from me for several reasons. The mud of April has long since firmed up. Flowers are all popped out now, with the threat of snow and frost losing ground in our rear-view mirrors. All our farmer friends are working frantically to finish up the planting.  Some have even cut first crop hay.  We like to send  friendly waves to these workers of the land don’t we?  Except for when they pull those big planters or wagons out in front of us, on county roads when we are already running late for Junior’s spring piano recital.

May brings out in full force the local boys and girls of summer. Aluminum bats sound off here and there, as the sparse crowds cheer local heroes and heroines around the diamonds.  Charcoal grills send out aromas of sizzling burgers, brats and maybe a chicken or two turning golden and delicious, over the top of a can of brew.  Great Grandma’s potato salad recipe is being copied and served all around the tri-state area.  Some of these imposters even taste pretty good…I like mine with extra yellow mustard, and rustic chunks of a dill pickle.

May cruises along, as high school and college seniors make their way up the aisles for graduation, turning pages on this book called life. Students, parents, and teachers are getting ready to shift gears from the rat race of spring mayhem, to the more subdued and relaxing tenants of summer.

The parkas, gloves and stocking hats of winter have been pushed to the back of the closet in favor of flip-flops, shades, and sunscreen.  In no time at all, of those beach towels will make an appearance as well.

Those that want, can now head to their favorite trout stream and use hooks with barbs, and bait them with angle worms found while weeding gardens or flower beds.  It’s now ok to keep a 15-inch brown or 11-inch bookie and serve it with fresh asparagus tips or even some earthy morel mushrooms if that’s your thing.

May keeps a watchful eye as fuzzy goslings and ducklings are steered by mother hens around the Chippewa River backwaters.  They are trying to avoid toothy pike, bedding largemouth bass and the occasional snapping turtle that are all out for an unsuspecting lunch.

The forests and fields are mazes for wild turkey and pheasant chicks.  They peep and waddle through the playground decorated by sun colored wood poppies, and brilliant white bloodroot flowers. Sunsets are closer to 9 p.m. now, compared to 4 p.m. a few months back. That mother May is a damn good exterior designer. 

I think May smiles down on all of us as she makes her way towards June. I tip my hat and smile back.

-TGI

Parting Ways

Around and about mid-January, my wife Hayley proclaimed, “We need to have a spring garage sale!”

  

True enough; the kiddos have grown faster than crab grass and dandelions in a dry July.  Their wardrobes, toys, and gadgets certainly need a downsizing. Amidst rompers, princess crowns, dresses, Hello Kitty pajamas, trucks and various plastic things that ring and sing, I have decided to part with a few outdoor supplies of my own.

It would break the outdoorsman’s code to sell things that are not of high quality. It would also lead to years of ‘bad karma’ in all future hunting and fishing adventures. Be assured the following items that will be making their way from my life to someone else’s have many good trips and high memory-making potential left.

In general, I am pretty tough on my outdoor equipment.  The stocks of my shotguns are scratched from too many trips through hillside prickly ash and Tiffany Bottom buck brush. I do not take them apart enough for proper cleaning after being out in damp or snowy weather. They are hunting guns, not display guns. 

 

My fishing reels do not get oiled enough.  I try to put new monofilament on them at regular intervals.  But usually it takes snapping off a 3-pound small mouth or a 13-inch crappie at the boat to remind me to do so.

Fishing rods are in grave danger each trip out with me.  Car doors, truck topper latches, storage lockers that are 2 inches too short, and a few too many hefty hook sets over the years have been the undoing of a dozen poles or so.  Yellow labs jumping into the boat, and little, or not so little kids trying to jump out, have also claimed a few. 

Nearly all of my hunting clothes and boots, regardless of age and value, have been exiled to the garage for storage.  They were sent there by my wife; whose interior design color palate does not include any shade or form of camouflage or blaze orange. They now hang as neighbors to half-used bottles of Round Up, extra weed whipping cord, and unsharpened lawnmower blades. However, they do anxiously wait being picked for their next adventure!

Hats of mine generally have crooked brims and small holes in various places where treble hooks or game feathers have imbedded themselves. Gloves that I wear seldom match, and if they do match it won’t be for long.

The equipment that I use has had a rugged life, but a good life. It has its share of bumps, bruises, rips, tears, rust spots, and hang- ups.  But, be sure it also will leave with a fair share of great memories.

 They follow in no particular order-

My Game-Hide upland vest that carried the first pheasants of the late Belle, Hugo, and still living Murphy…whoever claims it, may you garner 100 or more flushes from roosters or grouse.  Hopefully some will offer straight away shots, rather than those dastardly left to right crossers at 70 m.p.h.

I bid farewell to some tip-ups, fishing rods and a 1-man ice shack that can no longer house the growing Ingli family.  Hopefully there will be some lunkers at the end of the lines for someone else…please take pictures and practice some catch and release. 

The portable Eagle fish locator will be able to mark schools of baitfish and drop-offs for you perhaps…much like it did 15 years ago in Canada’s Forty Mile Lake.  The day when Dave and I left with aching arms from catching so many Lakers and Northern Pike will always be on my mind.

The aging goose decoys that I will sell for 20 bucks owe me nothing more.  They will probably have a few stories to tell their new owner.  Whistling mallard wings in the darkness and soft honks from a flock of Canadians lifting off the St. Croix River still ring in my ears and echo through my soul. Hopefully a lucky water fowler will hear similar sweet sounds.  Better yet, hopefully they can share these things with a father like I have done, or a true hunting friend like Griz…I say thank you as I wave good-bye!

The list of gear is much shorter than the list of ‘kid things’ that are now propped, folded, or hung on racks throughout our garage.  If this rambling has piqued your interest, or even if it hasn’t, stop into downtown Lund and have a look for yourself.

The memories await your arrival.

-TGI