MALTA -- Ahhh, the smell of spring.
I was in the garage last week gathering my fishing gear for a trip to the reservoir east of town, visions of a walleye dinner coursing through my mind, when I got the first whiff.
Whew.
There’s no mistaking the unique odor of bat guano.
I put the spinning rod back on the rack and picked up a hammer. The walleye would have to wait. In a few weeks the bats will be back and I still had holes to plug.
After awakening from a long slumber inside caves in the Little Rocky Mountains south of here, the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats will return to town.
And more than a few of them will be headed directly to my place where odor of their past inhabitance is unmistakable.
I suspect my wife, Barb, and I got such a good deal on the house we bought here a couple of years ago because of the number of dead bats that littered the inside.
Vacant for a number of years before we moved in, our two-story stone house built in 1915 had enough holes in it to make it a very popular summer destination for members of the colony.
Following months of renovation, the house is now relatively bat-proof, but the garage is not. Sitting on the deck at night last summer, I watched as bats, squeaking eerily, came and went through a hole under the eaves.
Not wanting to trap them to die inside the attic, I decided to wait until they left town before covering all the cracks and holes in the garage with trim.
Then came hunting season when all work is put on hold.
Then came winter when it was too cold to work outside.
And then I forgot about them until spring when I was greeted by the odor of guano and forced to cancel my fishing trip.
Fortunately this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lived with wild animal issues before. In Kentucky a family of skunks took residence in the crawl space under my house. In Cooke City black bears raided the beer fridge on the porch of my cabin.
I’m hoping a lack of access to the dark recesses of my garage will persuade the bats to roost elsewhere.
If not, well, I may just have to adjust.
An elderly couple, who used to live down the street, wielded tennis racquets at night while watching television to fend off any bats that dared disrupt their favorite shows.
Come to think of it, my backhand could use some work.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Sunday, May 13, 2007
FOR PUBLICATION ON OR AFTER MAY 13
By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
MALTA -- Ahhh, the smell of spring.
I was in the garage last week gathering my fishing gear for a trip to the reservoir east of town, visions of a walleye dinner coursing through my mind, when I got the first whiff.
Whew.
There’s no mistaking the unique odor of bat guano.
I put the spinning rod back on the rack and picked up a hammer. The walleye would have to wait. In a few weeks the bats will be back and I still had holes to plug.
After awakening from a long slumber inside caves in the Little Rocky Mountains south of here, the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats will return to town.
And more than a few of them will be headed directly to my place where odor of their past inhabitance is unmistakable.
I suspect my wife, Barb, and I got such a good deal on the house we bought here a couple of years ago because of the number of dead bats that littered the inside.
Vacant for a number of years before we moved in, our two-story stone house built in 1915 had enough holes in it to make it a very popular summer destination for members of the colony.
Following months of renovation, the house is now relatively bat-proof, but the garage is not. Sitting on the deck at night last summer, I watched as bats, squeaking eerily, came and went through a hole under the eaves.
Not wanting to trap them to die inside the attic, I decided to wait until they left town before covering all the cracks and holes in the garage with trim.
Then came hunting season when all work is put on hold.
Then came winter when it was too cold to work outside.
And then I forgot about them until spring when I was greeted by the odor of guano and forced to cancel my fishing trip.
Fortunately this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lived with wild animal issues before. In Kentucky a family of skunks took residence in the crawl space under my house. In Cooke City black bears raided the beer fridge on the porch of my cabin.
I’m hoping a lack of access to the dark recesses of my garage will persuade the bats to roost elsewhere.
If not, well, I may just have to adjust.
An elderly couple, who used to live down the street, wielded tennis racquets at night while watching television to fend off any bats that dared disrupt their favorite shows.
Come to think of it, my backhand could use some work.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
MALTA -- Ahhh, the smell of spring.
I was in the garage last week gathering my fishing gear for a trip to the reservoir east of town, visions of a walleye dinner coursing through my mind, when I got the first whiff.
Whew.
There’s no mistaking the unique odor of bat guano.
I put the spinning rod back on the rack and picked up a hammer. The walleye would have to wait. In a few weeks the bats will be back and I still had holes to plug.
After awakening from a long slumber inside caves in the Little Rocky Mountains south of here, the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats will return to town.
And more than a few of them will be headed directly to my place where odor of their past inhabitance is unmistakable.
I suspect my wife, Barb, and I got such a good deal on the house we bought here a couple of years ago because of the number of dead bats that littered the inside.
Vacant for a number of years before we moved in, our two-story stone house built in 1915 had enough holes in it to make it a very popular summer destination for members of the colony.
Following months of renovation, the house is now relatively bat-proof, but the garage is not. Sitting on the deck at night last summer, I watched as bats, squeaking eerily, came and went through a hole under the eaves.
Not wanting to trap them to die inside the attic, I decided to wait until they left town before covering all the cracks and holes in the garage with trim.
Then came hunting season when all work is put on hold.
Then came winter when it was too cold to work outside.
And then I forgot about them until spring when I was greeted by the odor of guano and forced to cancel my fishing trip.
Fortunately this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lived with wild animal issues before. In Kentucky a family of skunks took residence in the crawl space under my house. In Cooke City black bears raided the beer fridge on the porch of my cabin.
I’m hoping a lack of access to the dark recesses of my garage will persuade the bats to roost elsewhere.
If not, well, I may just have to adjust.
An elderly couple, who used to live down the street, wielded tennis racquets at night while watching television to fend off any bats that dared disrupt their favorite shows.
Come to think of it, my backhand could use some work.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Socorro, por favor
My cousin, who lives on Florida’s Atlantic Coast, fears one day he’ll answer a knock on the door and find Jim Cantore standing there.
Although he’s already weathered more than a couple of hurricanes in his beach house, my cousin knows the presence of Cantore, the Weather Channel’s harbinger of really bad weather, would mean he’s in for the big one.
I, on the other hand, fear the day Cesar Millan, knocks on my door. The “Dog Whisperer” from the National Geographic Channel is apparently summoned only in times of dire canine distress. And having lived with dogs my whole life, I’m a bit too proud to make the call myself. So the summons for help would have come from elsewhere.
Perhaps, I fear, from my dogs.
Because, after all, according to Millan, a native of Culiacan, Mexico, the majority of dog problems are actually people problems.
“That’s what I’ve always said,” my springer bitch Spot recently told me.
“It’s you, not us.”
“Exactly,” her studly little brother Jem agreed. “It’s your boyfriend, girlfriend.”
“Get a clue,” Spot growled at me. “You praise us when we’re bad and discipline us when we’re good.”
“And when are you good?” I snapped.
“I’m calling the Dog Whisperer,” Jem told her as he lifted his leg on the couch.
“Oh, yeah?” I said as I reached for the phone. “I’m going to call that woman in Bozeman who makes jewelry out of baculums.”
“Huh,” he asked as he sniffed himself. “What’s that?”
“It’s a bone found in the sex organ of most male animals,” I told him. “You’ve got one. For now anyway.”
Babs Noelle makes necklaces and earrings out of gold, silver and platinum casts of the bones. She won’t say where she gets them, but she keeps the bones in tiny white boxes in the back of her shop.
Noelle’s creations sell for up to $3,000.
“I think it’s about time I started wearing some bling,” I told the dogs.
Jem stared at the floor. Spot closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Then the telephone rang.
“Maybe it’s Jim Cantore,” I told the dogs as they followed me into the other room. “I read where the Weather Channel is offering a service where Cantore will call you when a storm is coming.”
“There’s not a cloud in the sky,” Spot said. “Maybe it’s Cesar Millan. He must have heard about your necklace.”
Jem raced to the phone.
“Socorro! (HELP!),” he whispered as he picked it up. “Socorro, por favor. (PLEEEZE)”
Although he’s already weathered more than a couple of hurricanes in his beach house, my cousin knows the presence of Cantore, the Weather Channel’s harbinger of really bad weather, would mean he’s in for the big one.
I, on the other hand, fear the day Cesar Millan, knocks on my door. The “Dog Whisperer” from the National Geographic Channel is apparently summoned only in times of dire canine distress. And having lived with dogs my whole life, I’m a bit too proud to make the call myself. So the summons for help would have come from elsewhere.
Perhaps, I fear, from my dogs.
Because, after all, according to Millan, a native of Culiacan, Mexico, the majority of dog problems are actually people problems.
“That’s what I’ve always said,” my springer bitch Spot recently told me.
“It’s you, not us.”
“Exactly,” her studly little brother Jem agreed. “It’s your boyfriend, girlfriend.”
“Get a clue,” Spot growled at me. “You praise us when we’re bad and discipline us when we’re good.”
“And when are you good?” I snapped.
“I’m calling the Dog Whisperer,” Jem told her as he lifted his leg on the couch.
“Oh, yeah?” I said as I reached for the phone. “I’m going to call that woman in Bozeman who makes jewelry out of baculums.”
“Huh,” he asked as he sniffed himself. “What’s that?”
“It’s a bone found in the sex organ of most male animals,” I told him. “You’ve got one. For now anyway.”
Babs Noelle makes necklaces and earrings out of gold, silver and platinum casts of the bones. She won’t say where she gets them, but she keeps the bones in tiny white boxes in the back of her shop.
Noelle’s creations sell for up to $3,000.
“I think it’s about time I started wearing some bling,” I told the dogs.
Jem stared at the floor. Spot closed her eyes and went to sleep.
Then the telephone rang.
“Maybe it’s Jim Cantore,” I told the dogs as they followed me into the other room. “I read where the Weather Channel is offering a service where Cantore will call you when a storm is coming.”
“There’s not a cloud in the sky,” Spot said. “Maybe it’s Cesar Millan. He must have heard about your necklace.”
Jem raced to the phone.
“Socorro! (HELP!),” he whispered as he picked it up. “Socorro, por favor. (PLEEEZE)”
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