Dear Barack, sorry I missed you

A letter to the President of the United States:

Dear Barack,
Sorry I missed you last weekend in the park. While you were speaking at Old Faithful I was fishing the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River with a friend and his son.
I first fished the canyon in 1971 when I was working for an outfitter in Cooke City. I took an elderly couple from Ohio there by horseback. I was 19 and the place hooked me.
It was free to fish the park back then. The canyon was thick with timber and the native cutthroat trout were fat and eager to eat my flies.
I’ve tried to fish it every year since and have been pretty successful in that endeavor.
Fire burned through the canyon in August 1988 and I remember reading afterward that it would have no long-lasting adverse effects on the fishery. I beg to differ.
The canyon changed after the fire. It was no longer cool and dark. There was no shade and in late summer it was like fishing in the desert.
And it was no longer free. The park was now charging $10 for a fishing license and while I grumbled a bit about the cost, I consoled myself with the thought that my ten-spot would help maintain the good fishing.
Thirty-eight years after I first dropped into the canyon the fishing is still good, but without a doubt it too, has changed. The mature cutts we caught Saturday had big heads and skinny bodies. We also caught rainbow trout and what looked like rainbow/cutthroat hybrids. I’d never caught a rainbow out of the Yellowstone before above its confluence with the Lamar River.
The cheapest license I could buy now cost $15.
I’m beginning to suspect that my license fees aren’t being used to maintain the fishery.
On the bright side, the number of fish in the canyon remains high -- although they run a bit smaller than they used to -- and we still had the place to ourselves. Few anglers, it appears, are willing to make the hike. There weren’t even any horse tracks down there this time.
And while I enjoy having my own private fishing hole in the world’s first national park, as I grow older I find the privacy a bit disconcerting. Too many younger people hooked on Wii bowling I suppose.
Glad to read you took a fly-fishing lesson. It’s a very fun way to fish. Michelle and the girls would enjoy it, too.
Give me a holler next time you’re in the neighborhood. I’d love to take you into the canyon. The license may be a bit pricey by then, but there’s a good chance we’ll have the place all to ourselves.
Tight lines, Parker
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

What aches and pains?

A year ago I was recovering from a backpacking trip through the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
The eight-day, 90-mile trek took a toll on my aging carcass.
My knees still ache.
I realize, however, that aches and pain won’t dissipate with age, and whether I remain active or not, I’ll still hurt.
So I’m hoping to at least have something to show for my pain, like blistered feet, a sunburned neck or sore shoulders from hauling in fish.
My father quit hunting and fishing 15 years before he died. He had bad knees and an aching back. I think he thought retiring to the couch would alleviate the pain.
It didn’t. He hurt as much in his inactivity as when he used to stay busy.
But he never caught another fish or shot another bird out of the sky.
His was not a generation that worked out to stay in shape. He had survived the Great Depression, fought in a world war and never ever considered joining a health club. He worked to raise a family, not to tighten up his abs.
My generation has had it considerably easier. We’ve suffered little hardship and now find ourselves bewildered with the pain aging brings.
There’s a pill, it seems, for every ailment -- no matter how minor -- and a surgery for every worn out joint. Fly fishermen get rotator cuff surgery, joggers have their knees replaced and bird watchers, unable to tolerate the inconvenience of eye glass any longer, seek relief with Lasix surgery.
I suppose it all beats going to the couch, but being a bit a skeptic, I doubt there’s really much a cure for what ails me, or most of us, other than the grave.
And who wants to accept that?
So we pop our pills and ride our stationary bicycles, schedule appointments with the doctor to discuss surgery and wonder how our parents lived so long living they way they did.
I doubt I’ll live any longer than my folks. Mom died at 83 and Dad, who smoked, drank and got his only aerobic exercise while mowing the lawn, lived to be 90.
I simply hope to hunt and fish until the end. Heading to the couch isn’t one of the options I’m considering.
For the time being, I’m just going to suck it up, learn to cast right-handed, walk with a limp and squint to clear my vision.
Hopefully I’ve got a few years left to consider the modern wonder of pills and surgery.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Luckily my dogs don't live in China

I had just fallen asleep when the barking began.
“Shut up!” I hollered out the window.
But Spot and Jem continued the racket.
“Woof, woof, woof.”
“SHUT UP,” I shouted again and this time got their attention.
“It’s a good thing for you we don’t live in China,” I told them.
“Why?” Spot asked. “Don’t you know how to say “shut up” in Mandarin?”
Ignoring her wisecrack, I told the spaniels how the Chinese had slaughtered 50,000 dogs in a single county in Yunnan province after three people there died of rabies. Only military guard dogs and police canine units were spared.
According to an Associated Press story, killing teams entered villages at night creating noise to make the dogs bark, then beat the animals to death. Dogs being walked by their owners were also seized and beaten to death on the spot.
“Spot beat someone to death?” Jem asked.
He had stopped licking himself and was paying rapt attention.
“Not our Spot, on the spot,” I told him.
“Huh?” he muttered.
“Never mind,” I said. But Jem had already lost interest. He closed his eyes and started scratching himself.
“And they’re limiting pet owners to a single dog in much of the country, too,” I told them.
“Well we know who’d have to go,” Spot whispered and gave me a wink.
“Oh, yeah?” I replied. “I believe you were the one who started barking first.”
“I thought we were being robbed,” she said. “I was being protective.”
“Baloney,” I told her. “You just like to bark.”
Jem snapped to attention.
“Baloney!” he growled. “Where?”
“In China, apparently,” Spot said. “Made out of dog lips.”
“You may be right,” I told the bitch. “They eat dogs in China. Chinese men believe dog meat makes them more virile.”
“What’s virile?” Jem asked.
“What you’re not anymore,” Spot told him, but he’d stopped listening again and was sniffing himself.
“I could make some money off you two if we lived in China,” I said. “Dog owners were offered 63 cents per animal to kill their dogs.”
“Wow,” Spot said sarcastically. “You could buy some new clothes, maybe get a haircut, too.”
“I’m going back to bed,” I told them. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”
Spot lay down and closed her eyes.
“Whatever you say, Chairman Mao” she said.
“Who’s Chairman Mao?” Jem asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “Just be glad we don’t live in China.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

The dog needs to quit reading the newspaper

The commotion in the kitchen caught my attention.
One of the dogs was in the garbage.
But before I could get to my feet, Jem wandered back into the living room licking his chops.
“Don’t do it,” he mouthed as I raised my arm to give him a smack.
Spot awoke from her slumber at my feet. “Better listen to him,” she said. “He’s been reading the newspaper again.”
Spot was referring to a story out of Great Falls concerning the arrest of an illegal immigrant from Mexico on drug charges. Sheriff’s deputies responding to a report of dog abuse found a pit bull lying atop $30,000 cash along with 20 pounds of marijuana.
Two Cascade County deputies had gone to the house to check out a report that a man was beating a dog there.
“So what’s that got to do with me,” I asked Spot.
“Jem says he knows where your stash is,” the bitch responded.
“My stash? What are you talking about?
“The money and the drugs,” Jem blurted out, ham fat glistening on his lips. “On the nightstand next to your bed.”
“You mean the coin jar and the Extra-strength Tylenol?” I asked him.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” he answered defiantly. “Smack me and we’ll let the sheriff decide what it is.”
Spot closed her eyes again. “Go ahead and hit him,” she said. “Nobody’s going to call the cops.”
According to the Great Falls Tribune, Salvador Orodnez-Maldonado faces up to 20 years in prison and a $50,000 fine. His bond was set at $100,000. The pit bull was taken to an animal shelter.
“So you think you’d be happier in a shelter?” I asked Jem.
“No, just safer,” he told me.
“I doubt they’d let you run loose and get into the garbage,” I told him.
“Yeah, and they’d fix you for sure,” Spot chimed in.
“Huh?” Jem queried.
“Snip, snip,” Spot replied.
“Snip what?” Jem asked her.
“You figure it out,” she told him.
Jem turned and looked back into the kitchen.
“Don’t think about it,” I cautioned.
“Snip, snip,” Spot whispered.
“Tylenol, eh?” Jem asked. “And a coin jar?”
“Uh huh,” I told him. “Go ahead and turn me in.”
Jem licked the last of the ham fat off his lips and sat down.
I rolled up the newspaper and slapped it against my palm.
“You’re no pit bull,” I told him. “I’m not an illegal alien. So just stay out of the garbage, OK?
”And quit reading the newspaper.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

No way, Adventure Man

I tried to keep the newspaper to myself.
No need for my wife to see the story about a 400-mile foot, bicycle and boat race planned this summer in southwest Montana.
But she saw the story anyway.
“Don’t even think about it Adventure Man” she said.
Ten years ago I took part in such a race. Age, lack of training and short-lived determination dashed my hopes of finishing after only three days, but I did bring home a coveted “Participant” ribbon and earned the now-reviled moniker “Adventure Man.”
It was a race that appealed to me: on foot, bicycle, horseback and kayak across nearly 400 miles of Montana backcountry.
I was invited to participate as a member of what race organizers dubbed “the media team” even though I was the only member of the media on the team.
It offered me a week out of the office and not wanting to exclude my wife from the fun, I volunteered her services as a member of our support team.
Unfortunately, she was the only member.
But all she had to do was wait at various trailheads where we might show up at any hour of the night or day and provide us with hot meals cooked over a Coleman stove in the pouring rain and set up tents so we’d have a dry place to sleep, then re-supply and eventually meet us at another trailhead where we may or may not appear.
We were risking life and limb in the wilderness and simply expected her to wait on us hand and foot on our way to the finish line and personal glory. She hung in there for a couple of days until I suggested she might be more comfortable living in the utility trailer until the race was done.
And for her it was.
“&%@&! you, Adventure Man” she hollered as she drove off into the night.
I held onto the fantasy a bit longer, visions of late night appearances on the Outdoor Channel coursing through my head.
But who was I kidding? The other competitors were young and fit and sponsored by the likes of Rolex. Their multi-member support teams were paid and drove motor homes.
I was an aging, desk-bound newspaperman. I should have known better, but I bought into my own press. Dubbed “Adventure Man” in the local paper, I thought I had something to prove.
My wife told me I had.
She just won’t tell me what it is and I’m not about to ask.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Mulies in the sage

By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
As soon as the sun topped the breaks to the east I saw them – three mule deer bucks across the creek, their antlers flashing in the bright light.
I dropped to the frozen ground, set up my shooting sticks and rested the rifle on them. Through the crosshairs I watched the bucks go about their business, which on this late November morning was chasing does.
There must have been two dozen mulies scattered across a football field size of prairie real estate. Deer kept disappearing and reappearing as they dropped into the dry creek beds that cut through the sage.
The country looked flat and featureless until you got into it and discovered it was veined with cuts and draws and low ridges.
For a couple of years I had driven past it on my way to hunt other places, dismissing it as just another expanse of hardpan prairie lacking enough vegetation to hide a grouse let alone a buck deer. But one evening in October I climbed the breaks above the valley floor to glass for antelope and saw that the hardpan stopped at the creek bank 200 yards from where I had parked the truck on the two-track. The country beyond was broken and covered thickly with sage, and sat just enough lower than the surrounding landscape that it was hidden.
Back at the truck on flat ground the country lost its allure. Dry, spare and dotted with prickly pear, it held little appeal, but now I knew better. Like a plain girl who attracts no attention until she smiles, the forgotten piece of creekbottom had flashed a million-dollar grin at me in the fading light. I was hooked.
Two days later I was back with the dogs and found sharptails in the thicker cover on the creek bends.
But it was the deer that caught my attention. They were thick as flies, emerging out of nowhere and racing across the flats only to disappear in an instant into a hidden draw.
And now I was set up in the sage, watching antlers flash in the sun. I caught movement off to the side and saw a doe trotting my direction, a young buck, head down, following closely behind. She stopped 20 feet away and stared hard at me until the buck bumped her and she ran off.
The glinting antlers began moving and I watched through the scope as one, two, three bucks walked out of the sage and onto the flat. They were young and fat and not yet in their prime. One by one they dropped out of sight.
I stood, shouldered the rifle and turned toward the truck. It had been a good first date but I didn’t want to press my luck. I walked into the landscape and likewise disappeared.

Wilderness in name only

By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
I’m a big fan of wilderness.
I like huge expanses of wild, undeveloped land into which I can disappear or just imagine doing so.
Until recently I didn’t think you could have enough wilderness. After all, it’s not something that can be manufactured, it can only be preserved.
Then I heard a rancher ask officials from the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge not to designate any more land on the refuge as wilderness.
He said doing so would increase elk depredation on his land and make managing the problem even more difficult than it is now.
He was angry. You could hear it in his voice and see it on his face.
During hunting season, he said, the elk seek refuge on those portions of the CMR already designated wilderness. There they remain out of reach to all but the most hardcore of hunters. Game retrieval is extremely difficult in wilderness areas where even wheeled carts are off-limits.
Hunters looking to fill a cow tag are seldom up to the challenge of packing the meat out on their backs and few have ready access to pack horses. Consequently, the elk hiding in the CMR’s wilderness and wilderness study areas are relatively safe during the hunting season.
And once the season ends they move back to the agricultural lands to feed.
In other parts of Montana, landowners suffer similar problems. Elk seek refuge on private land where no hunting is allowed and ravage farmland once the hunting season ends.
Elk become more difficult to manage as more folks move into their habitat.
In southern Phillips County, however, the problem isn’t development, but rather the lack thereof. It’s wild, rugged, beautiful country, but it’s been grazed and cut with roads for more than a century.
It’s also very small in scope compared to the more traditional wilderness areas in Montana. About the time you realize you’ve entered it, you’re already out the other side.
I suspect whoever suggested designating wilderness areas on the CMR has never disappeared into the Beartooths, hiked the Bob Marshall or gotten lost in the Scapegoat.
Perhaps wilderness designation on the CMR is the result of some federal bureaucrat’s feelings of guilt over running the refuge more for livestock than for wildlife.
Whatever the reason, designating more wilderness on the CMR will only create further hardship for those folks who eke out a living in this spare land.
I’m all for wilderness and all that it implies. Just don’t try to tell me what’s wilderness when it’s not. I know the difference.