THIS CHRISTMAS - DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN

This morning while going over my email I read a little poem referring to the children lost in the recent school shooting in Connecticut. My chest was instantly filled with a crushing feeling and it won't go away.

When things like this happen we are shocked. But perhaps as Canadians we are somewhat disconnected from the sheer magnitude of this monstrous act because it happened in another country. A country that unfortunately has a history of this kind of violence.

But when we think in terms of those innocent children there are no borders to this atrocity. Even soldiers in the cruelest of hateful conflicts respect the lives of little children. This crime is beyond comprehension; seemingly beneath the evil that lines the hubs of Hell itself.

This kind of occurrence sends folks spinning for answers. Gun control, school security, you name it. Perhaps all of these components have some bearing on how this murderous tragedy came to pass. But the biggest issue for me - and it should be for you - is that this incident is a signpost for our times.

There is something gravely askew in a society where children are not safe in school. Lunch box in hand and braids in their hair; they knew not what was in store for them that hateful morning.

Something - or a sequence of somethings - has caused the wheels to fall off this machine we call civilization. Who kills children? Who or what demon puts this thought in someone's head?

I don't have these answers other than this is evil at it's rock bottom. An evil that has germinated and grown like a weed in our messed-up society.

What I do know is that our world needs God now more than ever. A God that loves, reveres and protects little children.

This Christmas remember to take a moment and ponder the baby that the season is all about. God in infant form came as a remedy, or an alternative, to evil. Our world needs to get back to those things that Jesus taught. The message of love he spread along the path 2000 years ago still works. Still contains the remedy to all the evil that haunts and consumes our world.

No you and I can't fix Conneticut. But we can fix ourselves. We can clean up our community, our own backyard, by starting with our own hearts.

This Christmas do it for the children. Those children. Our children. Because this world will someday be theirs - and I want it to be a better place.

And perhaps that crushing feeling will one day not be so bad.

Is Someone Watching You?

Have you ever had the experience of feeling like you are being watched? Or that someone is very near?

I have.

I suspect the majority of outdoors people believe in God in some shape or form. The reason for this is quite simple: It is just too much of a stretch to believe that the outdoors - in all its majesty - happened by accident. The simplest form of life, springing from primordial soup in some tepid swamp, somehow brewed into human life over the course of several trillion years. Hmmm.

For me that takes way more faith than I possess. I'll stick with what I know and can feel in my bones: An intelligent creator.

No, I don't know how He did it. And there is no sense trying to figure out how and why. After all, if we accept that a being with far greater intelligence than us created our world, who are we to try and mesh the puzzle of how evolution, time, space and dinosaurs fit into the story. It just does.

I know He is there. Whether I am sitting in a tree stand; on top of a ridge somewhere; casting from a boat; or hiking a trail, He is there.

Today I will clear my thoughts for a few minutes and contemplate God. He is there. He is accessible to all of us whenever we are ready.

How To Age Deer (Hunters)

Just about every fall one or more of the mainstream hunting magazines publishes an article on how to age whitetail deer. 

Now, for the first time ever, you can read about how to age deer hunters right here on my blog! Just follow these easy steps, and you’ll be able to age the next deer hunter you see. You never know when you’re going to see a trophy.

First off, much like aging whitetail deer, it’s not as easy as you think. You can’t just go by the size of the, ahem, rack. But there are some subtle hints that delineate a 35-year-old from a 45-year old that bears some semblance to how you differentiate between a 3 1/2- and a 4 1/2-year-old buck. And because most deer hunters are male (and I don’t want to incite a riot) I’ll only write about judging the age of a male deer hunter.

Here’s the skinny on making an accurate age assessment:

Grey Hair: I’m not talking about grey hair in general, I’m specifically talking about grey facial hair. If a deer hunter has grey hair that just means he’s older than 25 or 30. But grey facial hair means you have a mature buck, probably at least 40.

Clothing: Older deer hunters are not fashion conscious (or fashion cautious). Like the one in the picture here, older deer hunters dress for warmth not fashion. Hence wool pants and the “Elmer Fudd” hat. A younger 20- to 30-year-old deer hunter pays heed to fashion trends even when in the woods.

Physique: Any deer hunter 40 years or older is beyond his physical prime. They are also less desirable breeding stock because they lack motivation (however they tend to have  bigger wallets). Older deer hunters are generally thicker in the waste than in the chest; conversely with those under age 40. Belly size is only a generality because some young bucks sit on the couch and eat too many potato chips prior to the rut. This year expect most bucks to be a little trimmer than normal due to the lack of hockey on television. Overall, bad backs and bumpy bellies are the hallmarks of bucks over 50.

Feeding and Breeding Habits: Young deer hunters are far more apt to be up and at it prior to dawn. Older bucks often sleep in until later in the morning. But if an older buck does make an appearance prior to dawn, rest assured he will be bedded down before dusk. They can’t do both.  Older bucks feed more than they breed. It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s just that feeding is less stressful and has more predictable results. Young bucks charge all over the place like the energizer bunny but sometimes overlook low-hanging fruit. Older bucks are wiser and more experienced. There’s a good joke about a young buck and an old buck looking over a field full of feeding does... On second thought, I better not.

Up Close and Personal: The most accurate way to judge the age of a deer hunter is best done up close. Fully mature bucks have wrinkled facial skin, hair growing from their nostrils and ears, and generally more hair on their backs than on their heads. If you find an old buck with those telltale signs he’s most certainly over 50.

Finally, remember that old deer hunters generally make better pets than young bucks. What the old boys lack in enthusiasm and energy they make up in personality. They are generally more jovial and easier to please than the youngsters.

Now go ahead and use your newly acquired aging techniques and judge the old boy in this picture. Let me know your best estimate!

***

Canada's Three-dollar Coin

Did you know that Canada is developing a three-dollar coin? This is the first of its kind in the world. That's right, no other country has a three-dollar coin or bill.

Canadian researchers were assigned to come up with a currency designation that would not only be unique, but create jobs and boost the economy.

Ministry of Finance assistant Bob Billsworth came up with a solution that was indeed genius. The coin would be made of wood - thereby creating jobs and giving a much needed boost to the floundering Canadian logging industry. The material would need to be hardwood for durability and a tree that is abundant. Subsequently birch and maple are the woods of choice.

To further impact the unemployment rate, the insignia on the coin would be partially hand-hewed. 

In keeping with Canada's theme of unique indigenous animals, like the beaver on the nickel, the loon on the one-dollar coin, and the polar bear on the two-dollar coin; the three-dolar coin will bear the likeness of the majestic pileated wood pecker on one side of the coin. The wood pecker is a Canadian icon, and is a hard-working and peaceful bird. 

On the downside, administrators are concerned about the possible moniker that will be given to the three-dollar coin. As we all know, the one-dollar coin became affectionately the "loonie"; the two dollar coin, the two-nie".

Think about the possibilities: Next year when you hand the server at your favourite Canadian donut shop a five-dollar bill when you order a muffin and coffee that comes to $2.97, you'll be able to place your hand in your front pocket and say, "Hang on. I think I have a woody!"

***

Inventory Time!

Today is my birthday. Please, don't spend any more than $100 dollars on me! Actually I prefer cash so I can buy something from an outdoors' store. Also, if you get the urge to send me a sentimental e-card with butterflies and esoteric sayings - don't! (You don't want to make me get misty on you.)

I'm turning 50-something. And at this stage in life birthdays - at least for me - serve as a reminder that I need to make my life count. I need to be purposeful in both short-term and long-term goals, and how what I do fits into the big picture.

I also need to think about where I've spun my wheels in the last year doing things - or at least having my mind on things - that are really not productive. I need to think about how I need to change, or revise how I live and interact with those around me.

A very wise man once told me that it's not really the "bad" things in life that you have to watch out for; it's the "good" things. What he meant by this is that "bad" things are obvious to us and fairly easy to steer clear of. However, plans or courses of action that are "good" for us often pull us away from what is "best" for us.

Interesting eh?

He also said that as we get older we should narrow our focus to those things we are best at, and move some of the things that we are good at, to the side.

How do we figure out what we are best at? Well, we take note of what other people say we are best at; things for which we receive praise and encouragement. Rather than what we think are our strengths.

So this is what I'm doing today. Taking inventory. Perhaps I will take a walk in the woods by myself (but with my dogs) and let my mind wander - and ponder.

I think everyone should do this once in a while. It doesn't have to be on your birthday of course; and if you really screw things up on the day after your birthday, you don't have to wait another 364 days to straighten things out!

Any-hooo, enough of this baring of the soul. If I don't stop now I'll break into the chorus of "Kumbaya" - and God knows that my gift is not singing.

Autumn is the Season

Occasionally I stop and ask myself, “Why do I do this?”  This outdoor writing.  I’m not changing the world or doing something particularly meaningful.  But every now and then I am reminded by someone.  It is usually a family member, but yesterday I bumped into an old acquaintance at the mall.  He stopped to say hello and let me know how much he enjoyed my writing.  Then the answer is not so vague.  The great outdoors is magical.  And writing about it often inspires others to get off the couch and into the outdoors.  Outdoor adventure is part of who I am.  It’s the way God made me.  Why shouldn’t I help others find the same simple pleasures?

This morning is very cold.  There is frost sparkling on the fields and you can see where deer have walked very early this morning.  l stop and think that the cold is only relative.  Relative because last weekend it was 30 above and I was basking in the sun on the beach.  You wouldn’t want to do that today.  But in another month or two, zero will be a blessing.  Frost is the first harbinger of fall.  It kicks animals into high gear.  The salmon are running, the moose have begun to search for a mate.  Every other creature is searching for food in preparation for the long winter.

Autumn is my favourite time of year.  In fact it is so full of opportunities it is often difficult to decide what to do next.  You can swing a fly or lure amongst 20-pound salmon in many of our rivers, hunt grouse, or simply take a walk in the woods and soak in the smell and colours of fall.

We live in a magical place along the north shore of the largest lake on earth.  The water is clean and blue.  The insects have all but died off, and our hills are covered in orange, yellow and just a dash of red.  Leaves crunch under foot and mountain ash berries hang like grapes on the branch.

Beside my bed are several outdoor magazines.  They are full of pictures of big bucks, and the text tells you everything you need to know about bagging one.  l think about the days when I had just gotten into fly fishing.  I read scads of articles on how to catch fall steelhead on a fly.  Some were like the key to the Kingdom, so I photocopied them so I could read them over and over.  

Not only does this reading get my juices flowing, but it provides an opportunity for me to forget the sometimes unpleasant realities of life.  It is an escape of sorts.  One that is neither illegal, immoral or unhealthy.  So many people turn to unhealthy things to assuage their conscience, their predicament: how they feel that life has dealt them a poor hand of cards.  

But even if you can’t afford bus fare, you can still jump on a bike, put on a pair of shoes, or have someone push you in a wheel chair and wander off into the woods.  Hoisting a chunky salmon that has just bent your rod in half is good medicine.  So is a brace of grouse.  A harvested deer or moose is a memory that will last a lifetime.  And life is short.  Before you know it you’ll be wondering where the time went.  

So while you still can, do what brings you joy.  lf hunting and fishing is not your thing we don’t mind.  But get out and walk, take pictures, maybe have a sandwich and a thermos of tea beside a babbling brook.  Winter is long, summer is hot and sweaty, but autumn is the time when this country blooms in every way imaginable.

***

Top Ten Reasons Why We Love Dogs!

Regardless of what kind of day I’m having, my dogs can make me smile. I own two springer spaniels. They are so full of life they put the Energizer bunny to shame. Not only that, but they each have their own personality. Every dog does. And that is just one characteristic that makes dogs fun to be around.

It sounds cliche, but dogs truly are mans’ best friend. Here are my top ten reasons for why dogs are easy to love:

1. Easy to please: Think about it. You feed your dog the same food 365 days of the year, yet every mealtime they wag their tales and hop around in anticipation for dehydrated chunks of lamb, chicken, rice and other mystery substances. Some joke that dog food is made from lips and eyeballs (etc.). That is probably not far from the truth. Yet your dog gobbles down their kibbles and bits like it is prime rib with gravy.
2. Low maintainance: Yes dogs take some work when they’re pups, but once they’ve completed basic training it doesn’t take much to make them love you. Let them outside in a fenced yard with a bowl of water and maybe a bone and they keep themselves entertained all day. If you say hello to them when you get home, scratch their ears and rub their bellies you are golden. Feed them a bowl of lips and eyeballs and they are good until the next day.
3. Forgiving: If you occasionally ignore your dog, or otherwise act like an ungrateful so-and-so, your dog doesn’t hold a grudge. They are ready to pick up where the relationship left off - with no baggage.
4. Forgivable: My two springers gobbled down a whole store-bought barbeque chicken and left nothing behind except the little plastic thingy that holds the legs together and a grease spot on the tile floor. I erroneously left the chicken on the counter within “nose-shot” of the dogs and left the room momentarily (silly me). Within seconds they snorfed down the chicken. When I realized what had happened, I began scolding the dogs, who were now curled up on their pillow in the corner. I was really giving them what-for until one them looked at me and belched. I couldn’t stay angry any longer.
5. Predictable: When my dogs come into the house they wag their tales and circle the perimeter of the kitchen looking for scraps. If something is lodged underneath the fridge or stove they morph into contortionists trying to get their tongue or toe nails onto the crusty. They never walk into the house and sulk about having a bad day at the office.
6. Not squeemish: Dogs will do the pre-rinse cycle on any dirty dish. In fact they love it. Bits of egg, grease, tomato sauce mixed with chocolate cake crumbs - you name it - and they will lick it clean right down to the glaze finish. Drop a glob of chili or stew in the grass or gravel, no problem, “We’ll eat it” says the dog.
7. Simple pleasures: Dogs make the most of every situation. Leave the toilet seat up? No complaints here, they’ll just have a drink on you. Have a toddler walking around smearing jam on the coffee table. “That’s awesome!” Says the dog. Even better if a toddler has an icecream cone. “Don’t mind if I do” Says the dog, as he licks the cone tactfully from behind.
8. All-season equipped: Some people buy dogs jackets, sweaters and booties, but dogs actually have all-season tires and coats - if you haven’t noticed. Is it cold outside? “I’ll wear my fur coat.” Says the dog. Is it hot outside? “I’ll wear my fur coat.” Says the dog. And etc. I think you get the drift.
9. Sleep-in or not: Unless your dog is a pup, they don’t care if you sleep-in, sleep all day, or party all night. They’re game for whatever. Want to get up at 5 a.m. take them for a walk, or better yet, for a little grouse hunting. AWESOME! Want to sleep in until 10 and read the paper in bed. AWESOME.
10. Look funny in hats or glasses: Not only do dogs look funny in glasses or hats, they let you dress them up and take pictures of them. They’ll never ask you to delete the photo. Nor will they mind if you have the photo published in a magazine!

***

UPDATE on the Action!

I guess I've been remiss in maintaining my blog. Recently I've had two people ask "What's up?" Well here's what's been up:

I've been doing some guiding on the Nipigon River. I decided to give it another try now that I'm retired - and guess what, I love it. A dozen or so years ago I guided pretty steady on the Nipigon. I had a young guy named Dave Jackson helping me as well. He operated my 14-foot Alumicraft and I the 16-foot Princecraft. We had a few good years of guiding until I figured out that I had too much on my plate. Anyhow, three weeks ago I took a couple from New York city and it was a great experience. Over the two days they caught and released several trophy brook trout and we had some of my famous stir fry meals cooked on a wok over my single-burner Peak stove. Top that off with triple-threat chocolate cake and it's like Heaven.

I also guided a father-and-son team from Minnesota last week. We fished in the mother-of-all cold fronts and didn't boat a fish. We had some hits but unfortunately the storm that flooded many homes in Thunder Bay was a biggie and all wildlife was scarce.

I have some more guiding trips scheduled in the next few weeks. Hopefully by that time my new Princecraft will arrive. After guiding the folks from NYC I decided to bite the bullet and move up to a larger Princecraft. The one I have is awesome but it's just a little cramped for fly fishing. So once the new biggie arrives I'll sell the other one. It's only a year old and a very nice boat so it should sell fairly quick.

I've also been hanging with my old highschool friend Terry Kluke from Wabigoon. He and his wife Merrill own and operate Merkel's Camp on Wabigoon Lake. I fished with Terry back in the late 90's while doing the research for my book Ontario Blue-Ribbon Fly Fishing Guide. This prompted Terry to take up fly fishing and ever since he's been flogging Wabigoon for big pike and musky. He's managed to boat a 41-inch musky. You might think that's a monster but on Wabigoon that's child's play. Musky get very big in Wabigoon Lake. Perhaps even world-record big.

This spring I invited Terry to fish with me on the Northshore for steelhead. He took me up on the offer and we had a bang-up time fishing in the snow, sleet and cold on our rivers. Terry landed a couple of steelhead so now he's hooked. I reciprocated by travelling to Wabigoon (the 'Goon as we call it) to fly fish for post-spawn pike. I caught one in the "40-inch class" (actually a 39-incher that we tried to stretch an inch but it was too slimy) and also a chunky 37.

Once Terry and I got together the wheels in our 50-something brains started to churn. In fact smoke came out of our ears and other orifices as ideas started popping up. We talked about a fishing show, perhaps even our own outdoor show. Between the two of us there is a lot of outdoor knowledge floating around in our brains. But realistically a fishing show is a full-time calling so the next best thing is to appear as a guest on a fishing show. So I contacted Colin McKeown, producer of The New Fly Fisher. I appeared on the show about 10- to 15-years ago (the 90's are all a blur now) and I've kept in touch with Colin ever since. I also write for The New Fly Fisher magazine (e-zine) which basically replaced The Canadian Fly Fisher, which I also wrote for. In any event, Colin is coming tomorrow (June 05) to start filming at Merkel's Camp. I'm heading there later today and we'll be filming all week. It's exciting! Terry has been going like a two-headed cat in a cream can getting his camp all cleaned up. I heard he even painted all of his cabins. The man's a dynamo.

Once I get back from the show I'll be heading up to Makokibatan Lodge (Ma-coke-i-bat-an) on the Ogoki River to do some guiding for Wilderness North. I'll be guiding some fly anglers for brook trout and big pike. So at least I'll have lots to write about in the next month or so.

On a final note, my website is being redone by GoDaddy. I have to write the text and send them pictures when the dust settles from all the action.

On a final note, if you enjoy reading this blog I'd love to hear from you. I think you can leave a comment even if you're not a Google account holder. That would be nice because blogs are a shot in the dark as far as knowing if anyone gets any benefit from your work. I may be moving this blog over to my website once it's complete. But you'll hear more on that later. In the mean time - tight lines!

CAMOUFLAGE

Nary a day goes by without me wearing some kind of camouflage clothing. I love it! But apparently in Northern Ontario it's some kind of fashion faux pas.

I like to think that I'm a bit of an individual. I don't worry about trends to much. I strive to "be me". Many years ago I started sporting a goatee beard - long before it became a fashion trend. I suspect I was one of the pioneers that started it all.

Now it seems I'm starting a fashion trend with my camo clothing. Although it certainly has been an uphill battle. I take a lot of ribbing for my camouflage. I think that is wrong. In fact I think it's unconstitutional. I may even call Prime Minister Stephen Harper on this. I wonder if he owns any camouflage? He should.

I also wonder why Don Cherry doesn't wear a camouflage suit on Hockey Night in Canada. He's always supportive of our troops. Why not wear a camo suit? Perhaps the CBC has an aversion to camouflage as well. This is wrong I tell you! There, now I have two phone calls to make on the camo front.

A few years ago I bought a 4-in-1 Columbia camo duck hunting jacket. I used it for deer and moose hunting. It was regular $300 on sale for $149. Heck of a deal. The jacket was a little big (being a 2XL) but it was awesome.

Shortly after I bought this jacket I put it on as our family was heading out to church. My daughter Erin, blocked me at the door and announced, "Dad! You can't wear that jacket to church. It's totally hick!" For some reason I took the jacket off and wore something else. (Sometimes Dads need to heed fashion warnings from their daughters.) But once I got to church I started to ruminate on the subject of camouflage. "Does the Lord not see you if you're wearing camouflage in church?" I wondered. "Does he not see you as one of his precious children?" "Is there an Old Testament teaching on the wearing of camouflage?" "Did Jesus rebuke one of the disciples for wearing camo sandals?"

Get this: The Thunder Bay Police Service (where I spent 30-years of my life) has a rule on the books that outlaws the wearing of camouflage clothing by non-uniformed civilian members. In this regulation camouflage is lumped in with "ripped and/or excessively worn and/or dirty clothing" and "clothing that is revealing and not business-like" (unless you're a stripper). (Comment in parenthesis added by me.)

This is institutional harassment I say! My Carhartt camouflage jeans are worth more than a pair of Dockers! What depths has this once noble institution fallen to in my absence?

Not too long after buying that jacket, Columbia came out with a 3-in-1 Omni Heat camouflage big game parka. I had to have one. I was ordering one for my son for our upcoming moose hunting trip and well, the deal was so good I thought I might as well get one too. It is awesome. I got mine in "Timber Wolf" camouflage. I sometimes wish I would have got it in "Horn Mesa" like my son's jacket. But the name "Timber Wolf" suits me.

I love my Columbia Omni-Heat Timber Wolf camouflage jacket. I mostly wear the inside jacket and not the outer rain-proof shell. The inside jacket is very "cool" yet warm. Recently a friend of mine saw me in a green wool hunting jacket. He commented on liking the jacket adding, "You can't wear camouflage all the time." This comment haunts me. "Why not?" I ask. "Why can't I wear a camo jacket  'All the time'?"

Recently I wore my camo pants and camo Columbia jacket to a dentist appointment. As the dental assistant sat me in the chair and hung up my coat she said rather smartly, "Were you hunting?" She then gave me a sly smile. This is classic Northern Ontario for you. You can wear a ball hat while eating at the table in a fine restaurant, drive a jacked-up 4X4 that gets 2-miles to the gallon, but wear camouflage and it's an outrage. Is this not a perversion of priorities? Is this not a travesty to companies who sell camouflage clothing? Very HIGH QUALITY clothing I might add!

No, I will keep wearing camouflage. I am true to the camouflage cause. (As I write this I am wearing a camouflage long-sleeve pull-over, a pair of blue plaid pyjama pants (commando style), and fuzzy sheep-skin slippers. And look DARN GOOD too! I think I'll zip to the corner store dressed like this...)

Any-hooo. That's my rant on camouflage. Wear it with pride. Wear it anywhere you like. At least while it's still legal.

This Happened By Accident?

A few days ago I was sitting in my cabin sipping hot black coffee at daybreak. I was looking out my window towards Lake Superior watching two pairs of ducks paddle around. The males were white with black heads and the females were kind of drab brown. For no apparent reason, one of the male ducks took off suddenly and flew in a large circle around the bay just skimming the water's surface. He was flying so fast he covered perhaps a kilometre or more in a few seconds. Faster and more maneuverable than any man-made machine could possibly fly. At the end of the flight he whistled by my cabin perhaps at a final altitude of 20-feet or so. He then made a final circle and landed beside the female duck as if to say, "Did you see that Babe!" "I can really fly. I'd also make a great daddy - if you're interested."

I took another sip from my coffee and reached for my laptop. Just then I noticed a small spider rappelling down a single strand of web preparing to land on the table. The spider had descended from one of the rafters on the ceiling. I made no attempt to squash this spider. Rather I marvelled at it's amazing ability to manufacture it's own rope, as needed, and rappel effortlessly down to the kitchen table. It would be like me doing the same thing from the top of the CN Tower - which certainly has been done by several of my former SWAT colleagues across the province. Only they had to bring their own rope, folded neatly into a bag worn on their thigh. I don't know of any SWAT guys that can fabricate a rope inside their body and dispense it out their butt as needed.

It is at times like this - when I marvel at nature - that I am confident there is an intelligent Creator. Some people believe all of this happened by accident. I think believing that creation, with all of it's amazing complexities, happened through evolution and accident, takes far more faith than believing in a God that created all things.

Many people get tripped up on the details. The seven-day creation story being one of the stumbling blocks. But if you think outside the box for a minute, what is a day to a timeless God? Could God have created the world as we know it with all of it's complexities in seven, billion-year days? Why not?

Don't cut the rope because it doesn't fit into your intelligence bag. Believing in God means that you have to admit that some things are beyond your level of security clearance. Try acknowledging that if there is indeed a God - then he's probably a lot smarter than you are, and you'll never comprehend how things came into being. Or at what point does the galaxy end, and so on.

Ghosts Along the Shore: A Short Story

Calvin wiped the blood from his eyes and focused on his surroundings, taking all things into consideration before drawing any conclusion.  First he saw the large black numbers on the fuselage veiled in a fog of black smoke with a protruding tail faintly visible above the wreckage, marking the highest point on the flat, endless tundra.  Then he noticed the upturned moss and soil skewered by shards of twisted metal and the fresh elongated gouge in the black earth now filling slowly with water.  Granular cubes of glass lay all over his jacket, up his sleeves and inside his shirt against his skin; while boxes – both intact and split open at the seams – lay at his feet, and farther towards the wreckage gear was strewn all about on the mossy, green surface.  He detected the smell of burnt plastic, gas and outboard oil mixed with the damp, sweet smell of peat, and faintly, as the wind shifted ever so subtly, he could pick up a faint odor that reminded him of scorched pork on a flaming barbeque.  It was an odd smell that he couldn't quite place that came and left wistfully as the breeze off the coast twisted along the ground.  It wasn't carried by what you'd call an offshore wind, but by the dancing gust one encounters when sitting around a campfire at night, where the smoke eventually gets you regardless of where you place your chair.  In this manner the strange odor came and left; his nostrils strained curiously in order to focus and understand it, and between periodic wafts he mused about its origin, and finally, with a degree of morbid realization, he concluded it was the smell of burning flesh – likely the Cree pilot or one of the guides.  

Just then a column of thick black smoke swept over him from behind where he lay on the moss and slowly this column lay down over his head and enveloped him.  He choked and coughed heavily and tried to move away from the smoke, but his legs failed to bend at the knees when he lifted his torso off the ground in order to move.  The smoke lifted as quick as it came, and as his choking subsided he drew in a deep breath.  He looked down towards his boots and inspected the length of both legs.  All seemed fine.  No debris seemed to be in the way.  He lifted his torso again and tried to roll over onto his side, but a piercing pain drove through his back and halted his movements.  It was a pain like he'd never experienced before.  He lay back on his elbows gasping in anguish and looked, once again, at his feet and legs.  He picked up a length of aircraft aluminium that lay beside him and began touching his legs with this piece of twisted metal.  He could feel nothing.  He tapped and scraped both of his legs systematically with the sharp end of the aluminium and found no feeling from his thighs down to his toes.  He dropped the metal and slumped back – his head nestled in a clump of moss-covered earth, arms splayed listlessly to his sides – and a hollow sense of defeat swept over him in a crushing wave.  

Suddenly his quiet remorse was shattered by a piercing scream.  He looked to his extreme right, and from under the remains of a seat and a portion of the aircraft floor appeared John pushing the portions of wreckage away with his stiffened arms and breathing heavily.  John paused, then gasped, and let out a second piercing scream that lasted longer than the first but tapered off as his lungs voided of air.  

“John!  John!”  Called Calvin, timing his shout after the second scream.  “Calm down, calm down.”

“My legs are broken.”  Cried John, who screamed some more.

“Don't move – try and stay still.”  Said Calvin.

John screamed again, this time not as loud and as long.  

“John, the bears.  Remember the bears.”

“I don't give a shit about the bears.  Let them kill me if they like!”  Cried John.

“You don't mean that.”

John said nothing and reached for his legs, face grimacing, groaning sickly.

“John, you must be strong.  They will come and rescue us, you'll see.  We must stay alive for our families back home.”

“I have no family.”  John screamed again.  This time a weak cry ended with sobbing.  “The pain... aaaggghhh!”

“Lay still and be quiet John.  The bears will see the tail of the plane soon enough.  Don't encourage them.”

“Aaaggghhh!”  John screamed again.  

“You must be quiet.”

“Aaaggghhh!”  

“Shut up!”  Calvin snapped, loosing some patience.

“Aaaggghhh!”

“Shut up you fool – shut up!”  The yelling seemed to strain Calvin's back so he lay his head down and rested, shaking his head back and forth in quiet despair.

Some time passed without the screaming and Calvin lay still, worried that subtle movements might catch John's attention and cause him to cry out some more.  The sky was blue with a few round greyish-white clouds and the temperature seemed pleasant enough, given the circumstances, and Calvin mused that if the plane had not crashed it would have been a spectacular day for some trout fishing on the Sutton.  He thought about those tide pools near the coast with the clear water and the green leafy weeds swaying in the current like the dress of a Hawaiian dancer – and sultry too like the hips of a beautiful woman – and the eager trout that eased in and out of sight between the waving weeds and the hollows in the sand, and how the trout would come and gather near his feet when he shifted them on the bottom causing a conical vortex of silt for them to feed in.  They were smart yet dumb, Calvin pondered.  They would partake of the opportunity to feed on the scuds and other insect life that were kicked loose by his boots, but lacked discernment in their choice of foods once he cast out a fly – as poor an imitation of real trout food an artificial fly seems to be. 

He thought about those weeds again waving in the current, and how they made him think of a golden field of wheat bristling in the wind on a small knoll out back of his father's farm in Saskatchewan.  And the girl from Biggar whose blonde hair blew and waved in the wind just like the wheat, and about her lips and how he kissed them on that same knoll.  She was beautiful.  Tall and sultry with high cheek bones and full red lips; ice-blue cat eyes and long eye lashes; a few faint freckles on her nicely shaped nose and on her cheeks – that flushed pink in the wind – and a voice that was just faintly raspy and deep.  He could almost smell her now as he remembered that feeling he once had for her.  That strange love-sick feeling that lives hollow in your stomach and makes your hands cold and nervous, and how his hands felt so good on her sides and how he could feel her breathe and how lovely she looked in that sundress, and how perfect she seemed, and how pure his thoughts for her seemed to be.  He missed her now.  She would have given him comfort.  But something had happened not long after that time in the wheat field that told him her intentions were not as pure as his, and that he was being entranced by her wavy hips and the smell of her hair and the softness of her lips, and he failed to see what lied beneath that outward beauty.  This seemed to be one of his faults.  He was enchanted by the appearance and aroma of things without discerning their deeper, inner motives.  All things considered, he was much like a trout when it came to such things.

Just then he lifted his head to check on John and saw that he was lying still and not making any noise.  He wondered if he was dead, but he saw his arm move subtly like someone asleep and dreaming.  He took this opportunity to inspect his surroundings.  To his left he saw his daypack, durable blue nylon with black straps – seemingly unscathed by the unfortunate chain of the morning's events.  He reached for the closest strap but it lay a few inches beyond his grasp.  He picked up the aluminium shaft, bent the tapered, sharpened end to form a make-shift hook, and then held it out with his left hand and tugged the pack closer until he could get it into his grasp.  He opened the top flap and undid the drawstring closure and began to pull out the contents.  All the small and insignificant things seemed strangely special now as he arranged them carefully on the ground beside his body.  A squirt-top water bottle reminded him of his thirst – something he hadn't yet thought about – and the water seemed sweet and cheerful as he squeezed the bottle and showered his tongue with the heavenly liquid.  He sprayed his face and moved his head in a circular fashion like he was standing in the shower and then stopped abruptly, closing the bottle and placing it back in the daypack.  Water would be a rare commodity considering he could no longer use his legs.  The next item that caught his eye was the brown wrappings of a chocolate bar with the small white print on the back listing the ingredients.  He picked up the bar and read the ingredients: milk chocolate, peanuts, sugar, corn syrup, hydrolyzed soy protein, and so on.  He split the wrapper, peeled it back carefully and took a reasonable bite.  He chewed it thoroughly, crunched the peanuts lovingly with his molars, and contemplated the mixture of wonderful flavours and considered what significance the hydrolyzed soy protein played in the whole scheme of things.  He looked at the daypack, pulled out the water bottle and washed the bite down with a conservative splash of water and then returned it, and the chocolate bar, to the daypack.

To his right he viewed the butt-end of an olive canvass gun case protruding from an uprooted clump of green moss.  It was within reach – as awkward as it may have been – and he was able to gingerly pull the gun and case to his lap with a minimum of back discomfort.  He unzipped the case and drew out the rifle, examining curiously the weathered stock, pale-blue and pitted steel bolt, rusted barrel, abbreviated fore end, and antiquated sights.  He lifted and pulled back the bolt, stiff and gritty, eyed the empty breech and peered through the empty magazine housing.  He then lifted up the gun case by the nose and shook it, dumping the magazine heavy onto his dull left thigh.  Looking at the top of the magazine he counted three, silver-tipped .303 cartridges.  He pressed down on the top cartridge testing the spring, which recoiled acceptably albeit with gritty reluctance.  Calvin placed the magazine into the rifle, snapped it securely in place with a blow from the heel of his right hand; then chambered a round and shouldered the weapon, lowering his right eye to the rear sight.  He shook his head grimly: it was a lame excuse for a firearm.  

“You've found the gun.”  Said John.

“Yes.”  Replied Calvin.  Disappointed that John had awakened.

“Good.”  Said John, who groaned and whimpered as he ran his hands gingerly towards his aching thighs.  “Now you can shoot me.”

“Shoot you?”

“Yes.  Shoot me.  I'll lay still and you can shoot me through the head.  I'd rather die quick than lay here and die slowly of pain.”

“I can't do that.  You'll live.  You must lay still and suffer quietly.”  

“I hate suffering.” Said John.  

“Everyone must suffer, John.  We all have a cross to bear.”

“Oh bullshit.”

“You’ll see.”  Said Calvin.

Calvin shook his head from side to side on his pillow of moss, feeling nothing but a faint chill in his torso; his legs numb, calm, and strangely vacant from the rest of his body.  

“You're a missionary, Calvin.  You like suffering.  That's part of your job.  But it's not my thing.  Just say a prayer.  Don't you have an in with the Almighty?  Say a prayer for me.  Pray that I'll die quickly so this pain will stop.  Pray for courage and shoot me quickly in the head.”

“John.”  Said Calvin, trying to remain calm in the face of mounting frustration.  “Just try and be still and quiet.  Stop thrashing about and maybe say a quiet prayer yourself.  I’ll also pray for you.”

“I can't pray.”

“Why not?”

“How can I ask a favor from someone I do not know.  You just don't do that.”

“But you can.”  Said Calvin.  “It's alright to do that.”  

“No.  I can't.  It's not right.  I've done nothing for God.  How can I ask for favors when I don't even believe.”

“You must believe, John.”

“Enough of that shit.  Just shoot me for Christ sake.  Shoot me.”

“Alright.  If you wish.”  Calvin shouldered the rifle sharply in annoyance and pointed it towards John, who looked at him with disbelief.  Calvin squeezed off a round, lifting the barrel slightly as he pulled the trigger.  The rifle barked and jumped in Calvin's arms, and some moss flew upwards several feet from John's head.  

“You shot at me.”  Said John.  “Are you nuts?”  

“You want me to try again?”

“No!”

“I didn’t think you really wanted to die; now just be quiet and take the pain.  Like I told you before, your pissing and moaning will bring the bears.  They will see the white tail of the plane and the smoke and they will come soon enough – without your encouragement.”  Said Calvin.   

Calvin lay quietly looking up at the clouds again and shook his head softly.  The exchange had tired him and he needed peace.  He purposely stopped talking with John and slowly John's restless chanting subsided and he drifted off into unconsciousness once again.  

Calvin chambered another round into the rifle and scanned the horizon as best he could.  Behind him some brush obscured his view, and it was just as well; looking behind was difficult given his predicament.  In front of him, beyond the wreckage, he could see the rocky coast of Hudson Bay with the large white boulders along the shore, and the endless sand and driftwood.  Farther out from the beach the intermittent white flash of waves breaking on the reef formed like dashes on a computer screen – and played games with his mind.  He strained his eyes, which watered as he stared at the breaking waves miles from where he lay, and wondered if all of them were indeed waves and not something else floating to shore.  He moved his head back and forth and from side to side, cracking his neck and swallowing dryly.  It was late afternoon now, and Calvin thought about the ensuing darkness.  It would be a long cold night; difficult to live through – especially for John.

He laid there and thought about his life, vignettes of which flipped from one to another: childhood to teen years and adult life, the good and the bad, the conquests and defeats.  Periodically he looked back towards the sea; it was a receding tide and the beach became larger every time he looked.  The rocks, grey, white and yellow – some piled like snowmen – looked like they were shimmering and swaying in the northern sun as wisps of heat rose into the cool afternoon air.  Calvin knew the bears would come from there amongst the rocks.  They would come in with the tide from beyond the reef and rest, basking and licking their fur, and sampling the air with their black noses from time to time in the shifting breeze until they found the scent of prey.  Calvin had seen them along the coast on many occasions, on his flights between Peawanuk and Fort Severn where he ministered to the Cree people.  They called them “Wabusk”, or white bear, and treated them with a mystic, almost religious reverence.  Calvin remembered Sam Hunter saying with a wry grin that the last word spoken by his father was “Wabusk!”.  They once hunted them for their fur, but the work in the hunting, the transporting, and the curing of the hide made it hardly worth the effort.  Instead they admired them from a distance and charged tourists big dollars for the chance to photograph them with telephoto lenses from tundra buggies.  The white bear was a magnificent beast to behold from a light aircraft, but a horrifying sight to encounter on foot.  Calvin swallowed hard and stared back into the sky.  They were alone on the shore and dying.  Two crippled men, two useless legs, and two shells to stave off white death.  It was a haunting shroud.  Death, although palliated by his religion, was nevertheless a trip he'd never taken.   

Calvin decided to eat and drink the rest of his provisions.  He opened his pack and removed the water and the remainder of the chocolate bar.  There was no need to save anything for a tomorrow that would never come.  

Evening crept slow and coldly as the sun sank in the western sky and painted the clouds with orange and purple.  The heat waves from rocks on the beach no longer danced and the waves on the reef no longer flashed white.  John lay almost listless now, moaning softly in quiet, helplessness.  Calvin gripped the rifle across his chest and lay patiently, waiting for darkness.  The left side of his face was warm and lit by the orange light while the right was cool and dark.  He shivered uncontrollably now as the cool, damp salty air chilled the core of his body.  He prayed for deliverance, and if not deliverance then mercy, and if not mercy peace.  

As he finished his prayer he spotted a flash of reflection in the sky to the northwest and he lifted his head quickly in order to focus.  A small black spot moved westerly through the sky and flashed from time to time with the reflection from the sun.  It was the size of a mosquito against the empty sapphire sky, and faintly now he could barely hear the drone of an aircraft.  His chill ceased as he propped himself up on his elbows and watched the black fly-like shape cruise up the coast.  The drone slowly developed into a pulsating impact that Calvin recognized as the blades of a helicopter.  They had come to their rescue – but the craft was still miles away.  

He scanned his surroundings and noticed how the empennage of the plane glowed strong and white in the setting sun, and how the vertical and horizontal stabilizer cast a shadow in the form of an elongated cross in front of him.  A large rock pile he hadn't noticed before was also lit from the sun and stood directly north towards the beach.  It reminded him of the piled-rock markers that the Inuit called “Inukshuk”.  This Inukshuk would serve as a landing marker, Calvin thought.   

“John!  John!  Wake up!”  Called Calvin.  “They've come to rescue us!”  

John mumbled something imperceptible.  Calvin could see he was shivering heavily and barely lucid.  Calvin lay back briefly to rest his back, and hoped the chopper would land soon.  He looked towards the shore again at his marker rock, and noticed it was larger now.  He snapped his focus abruptly and gazed suspiciously at the Inukshuk.  Something was wrong with what he was seeing, and he desperately hoped it was his fatigue playing tricks on him.  He looked away momentarily and then looked back, but what he was seeing was not a mirage.  Now he could feel the shrill fear build within, wafting from his toes through his face and onto his brow.  He became totally rigid.  Every cell in his body froze.  His breathing ceased, even his heart seemed to stop momentarily.  Then a harrowing pall came over him in a wave and his pulse began to thump heavily in his throat.  He sifted a cautious breath and computed the yellowish mass.  The top of the Inukshuk had moved and Calvin could see it was a large white bear with nose held high, swinging his head from side to side scenting the air.  Then the head dropped and its shape became lower to the ground and it lumbered towards him.  The chopper was closer now – but Calvin was not sure if the pilot had spotted them yet.  He gripped the rifle tightly and checked to ensure the safety was off.  His shivering returned with insufferable intensity.  The white lumbering shape was larger and closer now.  It moved big and strong and heavy on the dark green tundra that sank under the bear’s immensity with paws like dinner plates and black hooked claws and shoulders that rolled with a poised muscularity and powerful predatory head undulating from side to side as it walked all confident in its bearness.  It seemed to drift effortlessly – like a ghost.

The bear's head dropped to explore a small hollow and Calvin took this opportunity to lift the rifle securely into place and position his cheek to the stock.  The bear rose from the hollow and continued ambling towards him.  Calvin held the sights on the nape of the bear's neck where it met his chest in an angular 'V'.  The bear drifted across the tundra and Calvin's heart pounded heavily as he strained to take good aim.

“Boom.”  The rifle thundered and flame shot from the barrel for three or four feet.  Calvin re-chambered the rifle and searched for the bear as he settled from the recoil.  It stood tall now on its back legs, paws held and bent from its chest as it searched inquisitively for the source of the loud noise.  Then its large white head with a round black nose and beady black eyes pointed straight towards Calvin – and he knew it had spotted him.  It dropped to all fours and now moved swiftly, doggedly and angrily towards him, advancing with ears laid flat like an attacking cat, and eyes that pierced him.  Then the bear halted instantly and sniffed the air detecting something to its side: it had smelled John's blood and heard his faint groaning.  The bear turned brusquely and stepped towards John who lay helpless amongst the wreckage; his head nestled in the moss and his throat open and vulnerable.  Calvin lowered the sights once again to the base of the bear's neck.  All things focused on his target like he was gazing through a narrow tunnel.  Things appeared in slow motion as he carefully squeezed the trigger.  He had one shot, but one shot to the base of the bear's skull would drop him instantly.  

“Click”.  The rifle misfired.  

Calvin frantically chambered once again and watched helplessly as his last full cartridge flipped to the ground.  

The bear stopped its advance towards John and turned towards Calvin.  He could see the blades of the chopper now flashing largely as it lowered to the ground in the last glow of the sun.  He held the rifle like a bayonet as the bear stepped towards his feet and blocked his vision.  The thump of the chopper blades was deafening and debris and grass blew heavily about. The bear's yellow fur whipped in the wind and sparkled in the orange light.  Calvin closed his eyes and prayed, “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend.”

***

How Scotty Got His Groove Back

It's always this time of year that a strange transition occurs within me. Towards the end of winter I kind of slip into a seemingly terminal funk. I think too much - often about things I can't change, and also about the negative. No, I don't think that I'm unusual in this regard. I think this sentiment is shared by most of us humans - at least those who can be open and honest about their feelings.

Because of this funk, I usually find it difficult to shift gears once spring comes. I know there are steelhead swimming upstream in the rivers near my cabin, yet I need some kind of motivation to get my "shit" together. It's like I'm stuck up to the axils and need to be pulled out of the mud.

Once that happens, I'm away to the races. Everything seems right with the world and there is an extra spring to my step.

I'm at that transition point right now. I'm up to my axils, but I feel like I'm getting my tires back on solid ground. I just need that extra pull. Perhaps what I need is to get out for an afternoon and toss a fly into some cold water.

Then all of a sudden I'll be getting my equipment ready, tying flies, sorting out my vest and picking up groceries for the cabin.

Once I'm at that little place I call "Scuttlebutt Lodge" with the wood floors, red-stained cedar siding, and the rotting deck that looks over Lake Superior; I'll sit in a plastic chair, maybe puff on a cigar and look at the point of Vert Island that tapers off into the water on the horizon. And I'll say "Jimmy Crack Corn and I don't care" to those things that were bogging me down, and "Let the games begin!" to another swing through spring, summer and fall.

If you're in that rut I spoke of earlier, maybe me sharing this experience will help you get your groove back.

It just worked for me!

Steelhead Season

Steelhead season is upon us - already. This is the earliest I've seen the run in the twenty-five years I have been pursuing steelhead. For those of you who don't know, "steelhead" is a nickname for rainbow trout - specifically rainbow trout that live in the ocean or Great Lakes and migrate up river to spawn.

In normal years the first fish show up when the rivers break open in mid-April. This year break-up has occurred probably a month early. Rivers have actually opened up, risen with the snow melt, and dropped already.  A number of enthusiasts have been fishing for two weeks or so already.

I'm not ready. I have some projects left over from the winter that I should have done a month or more ago. I always seem to be behind this time of year. I never seem to be ready for steelhead season because it comes upon me like an unexpected guest. It's not like other seasons that are designated by a certain date - like hunting seasons - but it comes when "mother nature" is ready.

I have steelhead fished at Easter before but we are still way ahead of that timing. Many years ago when I wrote for a magazine called Wild Steelhead and Salmon I invited the editor to come and fish with me on the May long weekend (around May 18th if I recall). When he arrived we found that the run was just starting. Our plan was to get ferried out to St. Ignace Island and fly fish for steelhead on the remote streams of the island's south shore. But we were faced with a very big problem: The lake was still frozen over! We fished some small creeks in a heavy rain storm on the mainland until they became too high and dirty to fish. We finally decided to drive back to our hotel room in Red Rock and get dried out. Good thing we did because later that day the Jackpine River washed out the Trans Canada Highway and left many people stranded on the east side of that wild river.

After the rain stopped we went to the Natural Resources office in Nipigon and asked where we might find some inland brook trout lakes. We were given a map and some names of lakes where fishing might be productive.

We went to two of those lakes, and as you might have suspected, they were frozen over as well. We then went to the Nipigon River, which was high and dirty, and did some casting practise under the guise of fishing.

This unpredictability is one of the things I respect and enjoy about the outdoors. Nothing is on schedule - at least our schedule. This is why every year anglers, hunters, skiers and other enthusiasts gather around coffee shops and pontificate about weather conditions.

I wish I had $100-dollars for every time I heard an outdoors person say, "It's been a funny year."

Bacon and Other Fruits

My wife says I eat too much bacon. "How can this be?" I ask. I told her that I only eat bacon when I'm fishing, hunting or at the cabin. She emphatically pointed out, "That's 3/4s of your life!"

Smarty pants.

As far as I'm concerned bacon is THE most important outdoor staple. Bacon has been a big part of the outdoors ever since the great voyageur days and even before Socrates invented the isosceles triangle. There are three pinnacles of joy in the outdoors: sunrise, sunset, and bacon.

Recent studies show that bacon is better for you than apples, ginkgo biloba, and Preparation H. How it works is multifaceted. It's not only in the eating, it's in the smelling. That's right, bacon is good for you even when you smell it. When bacon cooks the odour... (Sorry, had to leave my computer and put on some bacon)... Where was I? Oh, yes. The odour of the bacon triggers your brain to release feel-good dopamine neurotransmitters in the substantia nigra region of the brain (that's mid-brain for you uneducated Neanderthals who haven't discovered Wikipedia). This portion of the brain is responsible for reward-driven learning. This means that when you smell the bacon, you know you're in for a reward. And the reward comes from the eating: The sacred, serendipitous second stage secret of smoked Sus sunai that is presently making me salivate salaciously.

Bacon is nature’s sweet and salty. The two flavours mix to make music in your mouth. It is a fitting beginning for every outdoor adventure worthy of sweat and sanctity. As I write this I am looking forward to steelhead season. I can close my eyes and visualize the bacon sizzling in the iron frying pan at my cabin amidst the Northwest's best steelhead streams. Bacon and eggs, followed by the fresh smell of moist cool air from Superior's coast, prime the pump for a day's worth of stumbling around on large rocks and falling in cold water. The fat in the bacon keeps you warm and lubricates your knee joints; the protein gives you the muscle to hoist those big steelies towards the bank; and the taste - oh, the taste - fires those neurotransmitters to put some stoke in your step.

Scientifically speaking, bacon is also good for your love life. As dopamine is a “feel-good” chemical, and the taste and smell of bacon results in the release of dopamine in your brain, bacon makes you more romantic. Not only that, but the smell of bacon on your clothing will make your dogs more attentive (and bears too, but I’ll not explore that much). 

Bacon tends to get boxed in by the eggs too much. Think outside the shell: It’s also awesome in sandwiches. You’ve all heard of the PB&J. Try the PBB&J. That’s peanut butter, bacon and jam. If you really want to hit all the fruit groups, then try the PBBB&J; which is peanut butter, bacon, banana and jam. It will fuel you all day in the coldest, most grueling weather on the planet. I owe my life to a PBBB&J. I flipped a raft early one morning on a cold steelhead river on a rainy May day and had to survive the entire afternoon soaked to the bone. If it wasn’t for the PBBB&J “sangy” in my pack (and an extra set of dry clothing) I certainly would have perished.  

Furthermore, the Patricia Region Centre for Personal Plumbing and Pelagic Studies in Borup's Corners, Ontario recently conducted a study on 40 sufferers of Farquharson's Flagrant Flatulism and found that a daily regimen of four ounces of bacon bits sprinkled over two dollops of Activia, followed by 14 jumping jacks improved intestinal function and colon health. Not only that, but the leftover scrapings of same can actually de-clog your dishwasher. 

So bacon is good for you right from head to foot - including the Ginky Baluga!

What If God Was One of Us?

What if God was one of us? What if he was just another guy hunting and fishing the same area you are? He would blend in quite nicely wearing a red-and-plaid jacket with that grizzled beard. And long brown hair tucked under a Budweiser ball cap.

He actually might surprise you. Most people with a North American world-view see God as "gentle Jesus" kissing babies on the head and not stepping on any flowers as he walks bare-foot along the path.

But a closer look at the stories about Jesus show that he had a disdain for hypocrisy - and also for people who trashed his house. Apparently the story of Jesus driving the merchants out of the temple doesn't get much attention because people continue to trash his temple. Littering, clear-cutting, over-harvesting, commercializing, and so on.

Arguably God's temple is now this earth. Regardless of your religious convictions we live here. So don't "crap in your own backyard" as the saying goes. Don't harvest over your limit of fish; shoot at animals you're not sure you can hit; pitch old couches and garbage into the woods at the end of a dead-end road. Don't pollute the environment as if it belongs to the enemy. You can't pee in the water without it effecting the whole pool.

Next time you think about tossing a styrofoam worm container into the creek, consider that if God was one of us - he might just drag you through the no-draft window of your pick-up and kick your boney butt.

Remember, the guy who walked into the temple and found everyone trashing the place knows how to open up ONE MEAN CAN OF WHOOP-ASS!