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!

It Sucks To Be Ugly

Recently my son-in-law Ruben did some rabbit hunting. Ruben is a brand new hunter who just completed the safety course. As a graduation present of sorts, I took him to the Murillo Gun Show and bought him a Cooey .22 rifle. It was old as the hills but in great shape. For those who don't know guns the Cooey is an early 20th century classic. Naturally we had to shoot the Cooey so we did a little rabbit hunting on the way home at an old homestead near Hymers where I have permission to hunt.

Ruben managed to harvest his first rabbit - a snowshoe hare - and on the following day harvested two more. We had a meal of rabbit cacciatore later that week. (Try Glen Close's recipe for "Boiled Rabbit a la Fatal Attraction" it's awesome!)

Anyway, both of my daughters were rather incensed that we were hunting rabbits. My oldest daughter, Nicolette, lamented, "Your hunting rabbits now!" "Don't do that. They're cute."

Erin, who is married to Ruben, was also somewhat disturbed that we had harvested rabbits. "What are you doing that for?" She asked.

Incidentally both daughters approve of shooting grouse. Nicolette's husband, Joe, is an avid grouse hunter, but doesn't hunt rabbits.

I can only postulate on this apparent dichotomy, or expressed less formally, "What gives?"

I suspect it's because rabbits are cute. They are fluffy, have long slender ears, big feet and round eyes. Grouse on the other hand are kind of the doofuses of the animal kingdom. They have a tuft of feathers on the top of their skull that makes them look like they have "bed-head" and a ruffle of feathers around their neck that looks like they swallowed an acorn. They blink excessively, move their heads forward in herky-jerky fashion, and incessantly peck at the ground. Apparently they deserve to be shot!

If you're a member of the Northern Ontario animal kingdom - it sucks to be ugly!!

Sunsets are too Easy

A few days ago I went wolf hunting. I walked into a field in the dark and laid down in the dirt on a sniper blanket and waited for first light. It's very cool how things slowly change from dark to various shades of grey before the sun actually rises above the horizon.

I scanned the tree line with my binoculars looking for the "grey ghost" as the light crept across the field. Once the sun was up, the air actually cooled off a bit - or so it seemed. When the sun appears crows and ravens leave their night-perches and fly to their feeding areas; squawking to announce the new day.

Steam slowly rose from the earth as the sun's rays began to warm the wet ground. Eventually a shroud of fog formed and crept across the pasture making it pointless to watch any longer.

Watching the sun rise in the wilderness is an experience that always exhilerates me. I try to do it at least once every week but even that is not often enough. Those who don't do sunrises are missing out on THE most magical time of day.

Lots of folks make a huge deal out of watching the sun go down. But sunsets are too easy. Try and get up before the sun on a regular basis. It is good for the soul.

Writer's Block

Sorry I haven't posted for a few days. I've had writer's block. I think I caught it from a toilet seat - or something. It feels like someone let the air out of my tires. Oh, well. The malady inflicts the best of us. Even The Big Hem' (Hemingway) suffered from "the block".

Good writing is generated from a clear and creative mind. If you're off your game there's not much you can do. It's like a baseball player that's in a slump. "He's not seeing the ball." They say.

I'm a big Blue Jays fan. Last year one of my favourite players, Travis Snider, hit a midseason slump and was sent down to the minors and never came back. But this year he's hitting well in the pre-season. Hopefully we'll see him back in the lineup come opening game.

I guess I need to get out in the woods a little more and do my thing. Do some shooting, hiking - jumping in puddles with my rubbers on (boots that is) - and get my mind back in the game. Then perhaps I'll start "Seeing the ball" again.

Living in the Moment

Scenario: You are snowboarding in the Olympics. You are carving down a mountain slope on a bright winter day. The snow is fresh and crisp. The distant peaks are majestic and large evergreen trees are draped with blankets of snow.

But you - are pissed off. You've just realized that you're not going to finish in the medals. The podium ceremony where they hoist your flag and anoint you with precious metal will not happen for you. You are devastated. You can't believe how luck has passed you by. You bow your head as that sinking feeling settles in your gut.

But wait a minute. You are snowboarding in the Olympic games! No, you're not a paid professional. But you're on a trip to one of the premier locations in the world with all expenses paid. You're young and have your whole life ahead of you. And you've just experienced something that very few will ever experience: You are an olympic athlete! Oh, the stories you can tell your family and friends; children and grandchildren.

Sound familiar? It should.

You can transpose this scenario to every outdoor adventure imaginable (or any other experience for that matter). Loosing perspective is a human frailty. We want what we don't have and forget to enjoy what we have. Failure to relish in the present is a tragedy.

We can go through our entire life wishing for something better. "When will I arrive?" You say. But you have arrived already. When will I reach my goals? But you've reached many of them already.

We live in a society that worships the ultra successful - that is those who have fame and money. We attend in droves to hear motivational speakers - and that person is striving to become the next Dr. Phil, or Oprah, or whomever.

If we continue to look to the horizon thinking that our treasures are just beyond, we will forget to notice the blessings at our feet.

Don't spend your life thinking about the "If only" scenarios. Think about what you have. Think about the good things that surround you.

So the next time you are sitting on a stool looking down an ice fishing hole waiting for the fish to bite, or waiting in a tree stand for that trophy buck, or simply walking in the leafless woods as the snow begins to fall - think about the present. Contemplate that you will never live this moment again.

And it will become magical.

Learn to live in the moment.

The Outdoor Sandwich

Last Friday Dad and I decided to go snowshoeing at the spur of the moment. The freedom to make plans like this is one of the perks of being retired - at least being retired from a real job.

As we were heading about 40-minutes south of the city to check one of my trail cameras, we would be gone for a good part of the day. So naturally we had to pack a lunch.

Of course the go-to outdoor staple is a darn good sandwich. But I had one small problem: no bread. I am  trying to trim down by twenty pounds or so, and the only way I seem to be able to do that is by cutting out carbs - and chocolate. (I did have chocolate in the house - go figure.)

So I sent Dad to the store to buy a loaf of 5-Star Light Rye. This local bread is the cornerstone of any good sandwich. You need to buy the lightest loaf you can to get moist chewy bread. Not in the sense of moist, chewy Wonder bread that never seems to dry out and mould over (that concerns me a bit), but a fresh loaf of additive-free 5-Star Light Rye is something to behold.

Dad returned advising that the 5-Star delivery wasn't for another 30-minutes, so the clerk recommended a replacement. Another brand of light rye bread - but with caraway seeds. Yuk. Caraway seeds make bread taste nasty, IMHO (in my humble opinion). I sometimes wonder if caraway seeds were introduced to bread back in the days when mice were out of control. (I'll let you figure that one out on your own. Then you'll laugh your butt off.)

In any event, there was no time to pluck the dang caraway seeds from each slice with tweezers so I decided I'd make an ass-kicker of a sandwich out of moose-loaf (moose MEAT that is...). It would be so good you'd never notice that caraway taste - at least in theory.

So I built a sandwich from the ground up (you might say "ground-moose-up" in this case) by buttering the bread, covering one slice of buttery bread with Grey Poupon and the other slice with medium cheddar. The meat loaf was cut into half-inch slices and drizzled with Diana steak sauce, salt and pepper - then carefully closed together like a precious book.

As an aside, I won't let my Dad make a sandwich. He's a man of many talents. He can play the guitar and was in a band when he was in the airforce. He can fly a plane, fix a television, and complete a complex income-tax return. By trade he is an electronic technician; common house wiring is child's play for him. If he wants, he can talk electronics and it sounds like a totally different language. You might as well watch his lips move and imagine he is talking Swahili - because that's what it sounds like to the layman. But build a sandwich? No way. Dad used to be able to make beans and wieners - and I think he can boil water - but I don't know about now. Mom does the cooking and Dad does the eating. He's a man who knows what he likes. Mom always has date-oat square on hand, as it is his favourite. Sometimes he eats it with ice-cream. He's also a fool for apple pie. But he doesn't get near the construction area in a kitchen.

Back to the sandwich building. Let's break down the process. First, let's consider the buttering. Don't butter your sandwich? You fool. Butter makes things better. It's not just a slick advertising slogan. Ask a 5-star chef about butter. Also ask if they ever substitute margarine. Not! Butter is natural. It is something that humans can digest properly. Margarine and its derivatives can grease the wheels on a skidder in all four seasons. Ever wonder why margarine doesn't get rock-hard in the cold and settle into a puddle in the heat? Because it's NOT FOOD that's why!

Some people buy margarine that has been flavoured and coloured to resemble butter. Hello! Try this: Take a moose turd, inject it with almond extract, dip it in chocolate and then eat it. My guess is that you'll gag like you've just eaten a freshly hatched maggot. I assure you it does not become a chocolate-coated almond because it looks like one!

Butter also prevents other condiments from oozing into the bread. This is critical. Ketchup, for example, will slowly eek its way into your bread and make it look like a used band-aid.

Butter also adds natural fat to the "sang-wich". Something you need in the outdoors. My father-in-law worked as a section foreman on the railway driving a heat-less, track-motor-car down the rails in 40-below weather. He ate pork fat in the fall and winter and swore by it. Sausages, chops, provolone - you name it. Fat keeps you warm. That's why I carry an inch or so over top of my "six-pack" (or shall I say 12-pack).

Then there is the meat. Few sandwiches are sandwiches without meat (PB&J being one of the exceptions). Sorry vegans, man was made to eat meat. If not, God would have given our bare-foot, neanderthal ancestors gardening gloves, not spears - and Ruger Mini-14s.

And we're not talking a single slice of shaved ham. No, an outdoor sandwich needs serious meat. Meat needs to be the primary ingredient. It's not like a chicken ceasar salad, where you have to search through the tall grass for the chicken (that's why I call them "chicken-hunt salads"). The meat needs to dominate! Make a "sangy" with a half-inch or more of meat (1 cm for you young pups) and it transforms from a sandwich to a "man-wich". (To reflect gender-equality, I could have included the term "woman-wich" but then I'd be a little worried about suggestive subliminal messages coming back to bite me.)

You'll notice there is no lettuce in the outdoor sandwich. This is on purpose. First off, salad wilts and oozes green over time. As I learned in high school science class that green ooze is called "chloroform" - or something like that. Furthermore, there is lots of salad in the bush. Does Survivor Man bring salad into the woods with him? Not! He brings a couple of cashews. That's because cashews don't grow in our woods. Salad does. You can pick all kinds of green leaves in spring, summer and fall - and in winter you can do like the deer and eat some cedar bows, if you really have to have salad with your sandwich.

"No tomatoes?" You ask. Remember this sangy is going to be placed in an air tight zip-lock bag and stuffed into your pack sack. When you go to find it you'll be squirrelling around with your hand in the bag and by time you retrieve your manwich it will be verily mashed. If you have tomato slices in your sangy, it will look more like sauce than sandwich when you go to eat it.

Remember boys and girls, Martha Stewart doesn't do shows on outdoor sandwiches (or prison sandwiches). You are talking with an expert!

When I was the commander of the SWAT team they didn't call me Sgt. Sandwich for nothing.

Woodpeckers

Woodpeckers should be Canada's national bird. Hard working and hard headed. I like that. They whack their beaks into trees all day and don't get headaches (as far as I know). If they did, they'd be getting back to the nest at night saying, "Dang! I've got one jack-hammer of a headache, dear." "Got any Tylenol?"

Life as a woodpecker is the quintessential man's life. You always have a freshly charged cordless drill in your possession and your favourite saying is, "Got Wood!?"

I'm glad woodpeckers eat bugs and not people. Imagine walking through the woods and all of a sudden a red-headed, pileated woodpecker the size of a crow starts drilling into your cranium. As a matter of fact, I think I'll send this post to Stephen King so he can write a movie on that. I might be called, "The Drill Zone".

And how do animals sleep in the daytime with woodpeckers around? As we know, most animals are nocturnal - so that means they sleep, or try to sleep, in the daytime. I don't know about you but I've sat in my tree stand many a time listening to a woodpecker incessantly whacking away at a nearby tree. No joke, one time I actually said from my tree stand, "Holy crap! Will you cut it out already!"

I then heard a deer in the woods about 20 yards behind me say, "Thanks Dude."

Woodpeckers could reek havoc on the moose population too. Moose don't have hands like we do. So when a woody perches himself on a moosie's horns and starts drilling him between the eye-balls the only thing a moose can do is run through the brush like a freight train screaming bloody murder. 'Cause dat's what it is, bro!

This whole thread (aka literary gem) was inspired by a conversation with my Dad in the shop. I said to him that when I was in my twenties I worked out so hard my muscles were as hard as woodpecker lips.

Dad laughed and then pondered out loud, "I wonder what woodpeckers take for a headache?"

So kudos to Dad!

Luck, Truth and the Hereafter

Luck is a subjective topic. Some believe in luck, others believe in the divine. I know that tragedy is bad luck; and good luck is a God-thing. What can I say, God has a better publicist than that other guy with the red cape and horns.

For the most part I am an up-beat happy person. People who know me personally agree with that statement. But those closer to me know that I have my dark days. This time of year can be difficult for many. As I've written before winter blues is a real thing. The days are short and the season long.

As a writer, you simply can't always be funny and cheerful. Most artists fluctuate between happy and sad, and reflect that in their work. Take music for example. A lot of musicians tell sad stories with their lyrics and melodies, and in-turn a lot of people love those ballads. It's because we are all on the same page with life's ups and downs, and sometimes you need to express the downs as well as the ups.

There are times when you hear a song, perhaps by Tracy Chapman, Eric Clapton or the late Jim Croce, and it just seems to hit a nerve. Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" being a prime example. You have to stop all things and submerge in that feeling for a while. I suspect everyone shares these sentiments, because, presumably, we all have hard luck now and then.

Some people have more than their share of hard luck. I know it's not healthy to be overcome by sadness for the long term, but every now and then I like a nice slice of "pity pie", served with a healthy scoop of "self-doubt a la mode".


Sometimes I think I don't believe in luck because I don't have any. Because of my good Baptist upbringing I don't gamble. And that's a good thing because I've never won anything anyway. Except for the time I bought a Porter Cable router and received a notice in the mail saying I'd won a free Porter Cable sander. Awesome! I finally won something. Until I went to redeem my coupon and found there was an expiry date - past tense.

I've also bought some "sure-thing" stocks, which really is a veiled form of gambling for most people, and had them tank shortly after I bought them. My luck is so bad with stocks that I told my financial advisor (I'm his "Erin Brokovich" pro-bono client) that I should be one of those stock markers: If Scott buys a stock - dump it. Quick!

It's really kind of funny.

Particularly when you compare yourself with those that seem to have the midas touch. Everything they handle turns to gold. They don't seem to work all that hard at things, but nevertheless their ship comes in anyway. After I wrote my first - and so far only - book, Ontario Blue-Ribbon Fly Fishing Guide, I was on cloud nine. This was my proverbial foot-in-the-door to literary fame. Hemingway, move over!

I immediately drafted up some really great book proposals. One I thought was a no-brainer for a publisher: Extreme Fly Fishing. A book on fly fishing for all kinds of extreme fish: sharks, piranas, tuna, carp, alligator gar - with suitably extreme techniques. I never even got a sniff from a publishing company.

Meanwhile one of said publishers, published a book on trolling with a fly rod. Hmm, I thought. How can one write a whole book on that topic?

I guess this could be a comprehensive exploration of various types of trolling. Like trolling from a canoe, vs. trolling from a row boat, or motor boat. Perhaps a chapter could be committed to "trolling on the right side of the boat", and another to "trolling on the left". There could be an exposition on "trolling while eating a sandwich",  or "trolling while having a pee". (Which, for men, could be deemed "double trolling"!) Hey, what about "trolling while water-skiing"! Again, there's that "extreme" theme popping up again. Dang, it's just not fair. No disrespect to the guy who wrote the trolling book. He's done some good marketing for sure.

So after I got totally frustrated with my "extreme" proposal, I thought I should perhaps write something spiritual. After all, it can't hurt to have God in your camp. I came up with a blend of faith and fishing. Some of the disciples were fishermen. Jesus talked a lot about fish and fishing; fed people fish; had the disciples throw their nets on the other side of the boat to catch fish, and so on. So I approached the publisher from my first book, and pitched the idea of a faith-fishing journal of sorts. Perhaps some nice photographs accompanied by simple, reflective stories about how faith and fishing go together. I had a telephone conversation with the publisher and enthusiastically pitched my plan. Knowing he was a good Catholic I anticipated a positive reception. But just when I thought he seemed interested, he quipped, "If you can get Saint Peter to write the forward we'll print 10,000 copies on the first run!"

Wisenheimer.

I pitched a few other ideas all over the map for the next year or two. Right from Christian growth to spicy cop novels - and a few ideas in between. I quickly learned that rejection letters had a second paragraph that started with "however"; followed by a bunch of good reasons why the book - albeit a great idea - didn't fit their program.

This is a valuable life lesson. Whenever people start a conversation by praising you and your cause, wait for the "however" sentence before you jump for joy. Otherwise it's like a punch in the gut.

Do I sound depressed? I'm not. I'm just being real.

Sometimes I think we do our children a disservice by telling them they can be whatever they want. Like Santa and the Easter Bunny this might be fitting at a very early age, but later on it becomes a stretch. I wanted to play hockey for the Leafs, like almost every other Northern Ontario kid, until I got cut from the PeeWee all-star team. How does this fit with my dream? I wondered.

I suppose the secret to what we call luck is completely out of our hands. We should do our best at our work - whatever it may be. And if you are blessed in some way for the good you do, bask in that moment.

Be honest with yourself and others. Success at the expense of other people is wrong.

It works though. And I do know people that have, and will, step all over others to get a leg up. This is wrong, and success in this fashion is not success at all. It's failure. Failure at fairness. Winning the gold on steroids really isn't winning. If it isn't stripped from you in this lifetime it will be in the next.

Of course if you don't believe in the hereafter that doesn't matter to you. But one of the things I have learned about truth after 30 years as a cop and 52 years as a human is that truth is NOT subjective. I believe in the hereafter and the next guy doesn't. One of us is wrong. Has to be. Our present culture - and I suppose every culture before ours - seems to suggest that "What is true for you, isn't necessarily true for me". This, like drinking from both sides of the cup, is not possible.

When it comes to mysteries about things like Creation, or who killed so-and-so, there is only one version of the truth. Some truths come to light in our lifetime. Others in the hereafter; or not. Depending on the truth about the hereafter. If you get my drift.





 

"Feel Free to Sit"

Otto Young is a man who lives in Little Harbour, Newfoundland. He and his wife operate three rental cabins overlooking the ocean on Twillingate Island. CBC ran a heartwarming story on Otto, who is a remarkable man that loves people and music. He has many talents, including music, model boat building, and playing the accordian.

Otto has made Little Harbour a very welcoming destination for tourists. He erected a wooden bench, complete with a coffee table, overlooking the sea. Everyone is welcome to use the bench, whether they are renting a cabin or not. Many folks sit quietly and eat their lunch there, soaking in the Newfoundland scenery.

On the back of the bench facing the road is a sign etched in wood that says "Feel Free to Sit".

Otto makes no money from those who sit on his bench. His motivation is not to make money but to serve others.

I like that a lot. And it reminds me that not all our endeavours need to be cost-effective. We live in a very commercialized world. Sometimes it seems that every encounter we have with others is a veiled attempt at making us a consumer and customer.

This very upbeat story on Otto Young is a breath of fresh air.

People like Otto motivate me to create things for others out of good will - and not for money.

Kind of like this blog...

Please, "Feel Free to Sit" while you enjoy reading about the outdoors.

*For more on Otto Young visit http://www.cbc.ca/landandseanl/2012/02/feel-free-to-sit-1.html