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
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
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
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
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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
“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
Friday, June 19, 2009
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
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
Friday, April 10, 2009
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
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
Sunday, January 18, 2009
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.
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.
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.
A winter to remember
By Parker Heinlein
Outdoors columnist
I’m beginning to suspect that the Yahoo who said, “If you don’t like the weather wait 15 minutes,” froze to death a couple of weeks ago and is buried in a snowdrift.
The weather up here has changed little in the last month. Snow still covers most everything and while the temperatures have moderated a bit, the mercury continues to have a hard time getting out of the single digits.
Apparently I now live either too far north or east to benefit from the Chinook winds that clear the snow from the ground across much of Montana.
This has the look of one of those winters that children will hear about for the rest of their lives, just like the ones I heard about growing up.
“We had to walk 14 miles through knee-deep snow just to get to school,” my father used to tell me. “It was so cold when we milked the cows we got ice cream.”
A couple of 30-below spells combined with more snow than usual has given the landscape a decidedly Siberian flavor.
At least the roads have begun to clear. A couple of weeks ago there was so much ice on the highway north to Canada I cut short a trip to visit friends and turned around after just a few miles.
A large gathering of antelope – hundreds, maybe more – grazed in the snow on each side of the highway and I stopped the truck as a group of about 40 began to cross the icy pavement ahead of me. At least half of them lost their footing before they reached the other side of the road, and the last goat in line – a fawn – flipped upside down and landed on its back on the ice.
I eventually reached the relative safety of the snow-covered streets in town, parked the truck and took refuge in the warm house where I could forget about winter for awhile.
But the howling wind is hard to ignore, even with the volume cranked up while I watch “Spring Breakers Gone Wild.” Cabin Fever, I fear, may become harder to deal with this winter than the weather.
And even if I spend most of my time inside until spring, I’m sure I’ll forget that detail when regaling my great-grandchildren with stories of how I survived the winter of ’09.
But instead of waiting 15 minutes and expecting the weather to change, which apparently isn’t working this winter, I’m doing the next best thing: writing about it.
I have hopes that this column will have lost all relevancy by the time it’s published.
Perhaps the snowbanks will even have melted and that Yahoo will once again be spouting his refrain.
I just don’t know what else to do.
Outdoors columnist
I’m beginning to suspect that the Yahoo who said, “If you don’t like the weather wait 15 minutes,” froze to death a couple of weeks ago and is buried in a snowdrift.
The weather up here has changed little in the last month. Snow still covers most everything and while the temperatures have moderated a bit, the mercury continues to have a hard time getting out of the single digits.
Apparently I now live either too far north or east to benefit from the Chinook winds that clear the snow from the ground across much of Montana.
This has the look of one of those winters that children will hear about for the rest of their lives, just like the ones I heard about growing up.
“We had to walk 14 miles through knee-deep snow just to get to school,” my father used to tell me. “It was so cold when we milked the cows we got ice cream.”
A couple of 30-below spells combined with more snow than usual has given the landscape a decidedly Siberian flavor.
At least the roads have begun to clear. A couple of weeks ago there was so much ice on the highway north to Canada I cut short a trip to visit friends and turned around after just a few miles.
A large gathering of antelope – hundreds, maybe more – grazed in the snow on each side of the highway and I stopped the truck as a group of about 40 began to cross the icy pavement ahead of me. At least half of them lost their footing before they reached the other side of the road, and the last goat in line – a fawn – flipped upside down and landed on its back on the ice.
I eventually reached the relative safety of the snow-covered streets in town, parked the truck and took refuge in the warm house where I could forget about winter for awhile.
But the howling wind is hard to ignore, even with the volume cranked up while I watch “Spring Breakers Gone Wild.” Cabin Fever, I fear, may become harder to deal with this winter than the weather.
And even if I spend most of my time inside until spring, I’m sure I’ll forget that detail when regaling my great-grandchildren with stories of how I survived the winter of ’09.
But instead of waiting 15 minutes and expecting the weather to change, which apparently isn’t working this winter, I’m doing the next best thing: writing about it.
I have hopes that this column will have lost all relevancy by the time it’s published.
Perhaps the snowbanks will even have melted and that Yahoo will once again be spouting his refrain.
I just don’t know what else to do.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Wolves are eating well it seems
No wonder people are mad.
Fifteen years ago the recovery goal for gray wolves in the greater Yellowstone area was 300 wolves in three states.
Today there are nearly 1,500 wolves in Montana, Wyoming and Idaho yet the critters still aren’t considered recovered enough to hunt.
A reporter friend of mine who has written about the reintroduction of wolves since its inception, says the feds keep moving the goalposts.
Montana’s first public wolf hunt was to begin this year before a federal judge pulled the plug pending resolution of a lawsuit by a coalition of environmental groups.
Now those same groups, who have enjoyed the anonymity of simply being called environmentalists, are refusing to fund a program that compensates ranchers for livestock killed by wolves. And the Livestock Loss Reduction and Mitigation Program, which is attached to the State Department of Livestock, is running out of money. Paying for the 91 sheep killed by wolves near Dillon will reduce the remaining funds by nearly half.
But times are tough on environmental groups, too. Wine and cheese fundraisers cost more to put on than they used to and the fewer dollars coming in sure aren’t going to pay for some redneck rancher’s slaughtered livestock.
The estimated 1,455 wolves that roam portions of the three states, however, are eating well. In 2007, wolves killed 183 cattle, 213 sheep, 14 goats and llamas and 10 dogs. So far this year a registered quarterhorse was killed near Kalispell and a border collie was killed north of Helena.
And that’s just livestock. No one’s keeping track of the wild game gobbled up by wolves except hunters who have seen elk hunting around Yellowstone National Park change dramatically following the introduction of the gray wolf.
But that’s apparently OK. Elk and deer, not livestock, were the intended fodder and remain so today.
“To ensure the survival of wolves, these magnificent animals need to expand their range throughout the western states,” says John Marvel of the Western Watersheds Project. “There are many public lands across the West with abundant deer and elk populations that can and should sustain wolves.”
And if they don’t, there’s always livestock to eat.
Here are the groups no longer putting their money where their mouths are that have sued to stop the wolf hunt: Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, Sierra Club, Center for Biological Diversity, The Humane Society of the United States, Jackson Hole Conservation Alliance, Friends of the Clearwater, Alliance for the Wild Rockies, Oregon Wild, Cascadia Wildlands Project, Western Watersheds Project and Wildlands Project.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Fifteen years ago the recovery goal for gray wolves in the greater Yellowstone area was 300 wolves in three states.
Today there are nearly 1,500 wolves in Montana, Wyoming and Idaho yet the critters still aren’t considered recovered enough to hunt.
A reporter friend of mine who has written about the reintroduction of wolves since its inception, says the feds keep moving the goalposts.
Montana’s first public wolf hunt was to begin this year before a federal judge pulled the plug pending resolution of a lawsuit by a coalition of environmental groups.
Now those same groups, who have enjoyed the anonymity of simply being called environmentalists, are refusing to fund a program that compensates ranchers for livestock killed by wolves. And the Livestock Loss Reduction and Mitigation Program, which is attached to the State Department of Livestock, is running out of money. Paying for the 91 sheep killed by wolves near Dillon will reduce the remaining funds by nearly half.
But times are tough on environmental groups, too. Wine and cheese fundraisers cost more to put on than they used to and the fewer dollars coming in sure aren’t going to pay for some redneck rancher’s slaughtered livestock.
The estimated 1,455 wolves that roam portions of the three states, however, are eating well. In 2007, wolves killed 183 cattle, 213 sheep, 14 goats and llamas and 10 dogs. So far this year a registered quarterhorse was killed near Kalispell and a border collie was killed north of Helena.
And that’s just livestock. No one’s keeping track of the wild game gobbled up by wolves except hunters who have seen elk hunting around Yellowstone National Park change dramatically following the introduction of the gray wolf.
But that’s apparently OK. Elk and deer, not livestock, were the intended fodder and remain so today.
“To ensure the survival of wolves, these magnificent animals need to expand their range throughout the western states,” says John Marvel of the Western Watersheds Project. “There are many public lands across the West with abundant deer and elk populations that can and should sustain wolves.”
And if they don’t, there’s always livestock to eat.
Here are the groups no longer putting their money where their mouths are that have sued to stop the wolf hunt: Defenders of Wildlife, Natural Resources Defense Council, Sierra Club, Center for Biological Diversity, The Humane Society of the United States, Jackson Hole Conservation Alliance, Friends of the Clearwater, Alliance for the Wild Rockies, Oregon Wild, Cascadia Wildlands Project, Western Watersheds Project and Wildlands Project.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, October 2, 2008
There's enough old farts in town
I’ve reached an age where it appears I’d be better off living somewhere else.
For decades now, every time some magazine published a list of the most liveable places in the United States, Montana towns figured prominently. Whether it was in Outside Magazine, Fly Fishing, Men’s Health or Popular Mechanics, Bozeman, Livingston or Missoula always seemed to make the list.
Consequently, people who believe what they read chose to move here for the fishing, skiing, small-town atmosphere, convenience store casinos, whatever. Montana, according to the periodicals, was the place to be.
So here I stayed, my choice of where to live affirmed nearly every time I opened a magazine that included a list of the top ten places for almost anything.
Then my latest copy of AARP The Magazine arrived in the mail and my world was shattered. Not a single Montana town was included on the magazine’s list of America’s 10 healthiest cities.
Apparently now that I’ve eclipsed the half century mark it’s time to move to Ann Arbor, Mich., the No. 1 city on the list, which offers fencing and Pilates classes at the local YMCA and touts its efficient bus system.
What more could an old guy want?
Fargo, N.D., fifth on the list, is as close to my now outdated home as it gets. Fargo, says the magazine, ranks ninth in the nation for regular flossing and brushing, and the rolling prairie outside town provides “plenty of outdoor escapes,” perhaps from the sound of all that flossing and brushing.
Montana didn’t disappear from the radar completely. Missoula was mentioned for the 8.91 percent of its residents who bike or walk to work, and the lean body mass (25.97) of the Garden City’s populace.
Like a lot of other places in Montana, the town I now call home is small enough to escape anybody’s top ten list although the hunting and fishing out here is unrivaled, the folks are friendly, and most everyone appears to brush and floss. The outdoor escapes are endless and most of the ranchers in the area are actively involved in fencing.
Our mass transit system consists of a single bus, but considering our population of less than 2,000, that’s plenty.
I don’t begrudge AARP for leaving us off the list. As a matter of fact I’m grateful. We already have enough old farts in town. Including me.
So let them lust for Ann Arbor and flock to Fargo. I’ll enjoy the peace and solitude anonymity offers. At least until next month’s magazines arrive.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
For decades now, every time some magazine published a list of the most liveable places in the United States, Montana towns figured prominently. Whether it was in Outside Magazine, Fly Fishing, Men’s Health or Popular Mechanics, Bozeman, Livingston or Missoula always seemed to make the list.
Consequently, people who believe what they read chose to move here for the fishing, skiing, small-town atmosphere, convenience store casinos, whatever. Montana, according to the periodicals, was the place to be.
So here I stayed, my choice of where to live affirmed nearly every time I opened a magazine that included a list of the top ten places for almost anything.
Then my latest copy of AARP The Magazine arrived in the mail and my world was shattered. Not a single Montana town was included on the magazine’s list of America’s 10 healthiest cities.
Apparently now that I’ve eclipsed the half century mark it’s time to move to Ann Arbor, Mich., the No. 1 city on the list, which offers fencing and Pilates classes at the local YMCA and touts its efficient bus system.
What more could an old guy want?
Fargo, N.D., fifth on the list, is as close to my now outdated home as it gets. Fargo, says the magazine, ranks ninth in the nation for regular flossing and brushing, and the rolling prairie outside town provides “plenty of outdoor escapes,” perhaps from the sound of all that flossing and brushing.
Montana didn’t disappear from the radar completely. Missoula was mentioned for the 8.91 percent of its residents who bike or walk to work, and the lean body mass (25.97) of the Garden City’s populace.
Like a lot of other places in Montana, the town I now call home is small enough to escape anybody’s top ten list although the hunting and fishing out here is unrivaled, the folks are friendly, and most everyone appears to brush and floss. The outdoor escapes are endless and most of the ranchers in the area are actively involved in fencing.
Our mass transit system consists of a single bus, but considering our population of less than 2,000, that’s plenty.
I don’t begrudge AARP for leaving us off the list. As a matter of fact I’m grateful. We already have enough old farts in town. Including me.
So let them lust for Ann Arbor and flock to Fargo. I’ll enjoy the peace and solitude anonymity offers. At least until next month’s magazines arrive.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Shut up!
I woke at first light one morning last week to the barking of a dog.
My dog.
Even half asleep, I could recognize his voice.
He was raising a ruckus at the far end of our property, upset over some early morning walker or the paper boy. Next to me my wife still slumbered, or at least pretended to, so instead of my usual “Shut up!” I whistled and soon heard Jem race past the bedroom window.
Had Barb been awake I probably wouldn’t have yelled “Shut up” either. She prefers “No bark!” and in her presence that’s what I try to use or I’ll hear about it.
Mom and Dad would be proud. “Shut up” wasn’t allowed in our house when I was a kid especially if directed toward my sister. I think we used “Quiet!” when the dogs began to bark.
But somewhere in my sordid past, I made the switch to “Shut up,” and as is the case with a number of descriptive profanities I picked up along the way, I have a hard time making the switch to a more acceptable command like “No bark.”
“Dilly darn” it all anyway, I’m no Ned Flanders.
My younger daughter also has an affinity for the phrase. But her “Shut up” in no way calls for quiet. Leslie uses it to mean “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Which is often how my dogs react.
Especially Spot who barks with enthusiasm when fed, let out of the kennel or taken on a walk. She howls with delight when I’m readying my hunting gear and barks non-stop when I load the shotgun.
“No bark,” has no effect at all in those instances and reminds me a bit too much of a New Age parent asking an ill-behaved child if he needs a “time out.”
“Shut up!” at least gives Spot pause and still works magic on two-year-old Jem who remains a teeny bit afraid of me.
The whistle that morning only worked because he thought he was going to be fed. By the time he realized he wasn’t and returned to the far end of the yard, the ogre that had raised his ire was gone.
I’ll put up with the occasional bark. I enjoy hearing different canine voices. It’s incessant, non-stop barking I can’t tolerate. And I can’t believe “No bark!” is the rememdy.
But I’ll try, especially in the presence of my wife, to be more genteel in disciplining my hounds. She may just tell me to “Shut up!” if I don’t.
And she won’t mean “you’ve got to be kidding.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net.
My dog.
Even half asleep, I could recognize his voice.
He was raising a ruckus at the far end of our property, upset over some early morning walker or the paper boy. Next to me my wife still slumbered, or at least pretended to, so instead of my usual “Shut up!” I whistled and soon heard Jem race past the bedroom window.
Had Barb been awake I probably wouldn’t have yelled “Shut up” either. She prefers “No bark!” and in her presence that’s what I try to use or I’ll hear about it.
Mom and Dad would be proud. “Shut up” wasn’t allowed in our house when I was a kid especially if directed toward my sister. I think we used “Quiet!” when the dogs began to bark.
But somewhere in my sordid past, I made the switch to “Shut up,” and as is the case with a number of descriptive profanities I picked up along the way, I have a hard time making the switch to a more acceptable command like “No bark.”
“Dilly darn” it all anyway, I’m no Ned Flanders.
My younger daughter also has an affinity for the phrase. But her “Shut up” in no way calls for quiet. Leslie uses it to mean “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Which is often how my dogs react.
Especially Spot who barks with enthusiasm when fed, let out of the kennel or taken on a walk. She howls with delight when I’m readying my hunting gear and barks non-stop when I load the shotgun.
“No bark,” has no effect at all in those instances and reminds me a bit too much of a New Age parent asking an ill-behaved child if he needs a “time out.”
“Shut up!” at least gives Spot pause and still works magic on two-year-old Jem who remains a teeny bit afraid of me.
The whistle that morning only worked because he thought he was going to be fed. By the time he realized he wasn’t and returned to the far end of the yard, the ogre that had raised his ire was gone.
I’ll put up with the occasional bark. I enjoy hearing different canine voices. It’s incessant, non-stop barking I can’t tolerate. And I can’t believe “No bark!” is the rememdy.
But I’ll try, especially in the presence of my wife, to be more genteel in disciplining my hounds. She may just tell me to “Shut up!” if I don’t.
And she won’t mean “you’ve got to be kidding.”
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting kids hooked on fishing
Getting a kid hooked on fishing isn’t always easy.
Sometimes the fish just aren‘t biting, the weather’s inclement, the tackle’s too complicated. Sometimes the kid would rather be doing something else.
But every once in a while it works and you can see it in their eyes, and even if they wanted to, they can’t throw that hook.
My two oldest granddaughters came up for a visit the last week in July. It was their first trip away from home by themselves.
Barb and I weren’t sure what to expect. We planned to take them out in the boat, but didn’t know how they would take to trolling, which was how we had been catching fish lately.
Teagan, at 7, is already an experienced angler. Her dad has taken her fishing at the lagoon near their home in Livingston since she was tiny. Her little sister Hayden, 5, fishes too, but still prefers dolls and stuffed toys to spinning rods and crankbaits.
Following a short run down the lake, we slowed to trolling speed, dropped the lures in the water and I handed Teagan a rod.
Hayden crawled up on the foredeck and started playing with her dolls.
I half expected Teagan to join her after a half hour or so, but it wasn’t a minute later and she was into a fish.
“I’ve got one,” she announced calmly, then proceeded to start cranking on the reel, the rod bowed with the weight of the walleye.
I was tempted to help her reel, but instead just watched and soon she had the fish alongside the boat where I netted it and pulled it aboard.
“Wow,” said a breathless Teagan. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”
We put the 2-pound walleye in the cooler turned the boat around and resumed trolling. She caught a few more before her sister said it was time to quit fishing and ride the tube.
We fished the next morning and Teagan got skunked. But it took nearly two hours of fishless trolling for her to lose interest.
She was hooked.
Teagan caught five walleye and a whitefish on the third morning, delighting in the struggle to land them.
Barb entertained the girls that afternoon while their exhausted grandfather took a nap. They each made badges from construction paper, Teagan’s declaring her the “Champion of Walleye.”
She wore it home the next day after vowing to come back and fish every summer, “Even when I’m in college,” she told us.
Whether or not her siblings will become fishermen or not is yet to be seen. I’m sure their father will give them the opportunity.
And I certainly hope they take the hook.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Sometimes the fish just aren‘t biting, the weather’s inclement, the tackle’s too complicated. Sometimes the kid would rather be doing something else.
But every once in a while it works and you can see it in their eyes, and even if they wanted to, they can’t throw that hook.
My two oldest granddaughters came up for a visit the last week in July. It was their first trip away from home by themselves.
Barb and I weren’t sure what to expect. We planned to take them out in the boat, but didn’t know how they would take to trolling, which was how we had been catching fish lately.
Teagan, at 7, is already an experienced angler. Her dad has taken her fishing at the lagoon near their home in Livingston since she was tiny. Her little sister Hayden, 5, fishes too, but still prefers dolls and stuffed toys to spinning rods and crankbaits.
Following a short run down the lake, we slowed to trolling speed, dropped the lures in the water and I handed Teagan a rod.
Hayden crawled up on the foredeck and started playing with her dolls.
I half expected Teagan to join her after a half hour or so, but it wasn’t a minute later and she was into a fish.
“I’ve got one,” she announced calmly, then proceeded to start cranking on the reel, the rod bowed with the weight of the walleye.
I was tempted to help her reel, but instead just watched and soon she had the fish alongside the boat where I netted it and pulled it aboard.
“Wow,” said a breathless Teagan. “That’s the biggest fish I ever caught.”
We put the 2-pound walleye in the cooler turned the boat around and resumed trolling. She caught a few more before her sister said it was time to quit fishing and ride the tube.
We fished the next morning and Teagan got skunked. But it took nearly two hours of fishless trolling for her to lose interest.
She was hooked.
Teagan caught five walleye and a whitefish on the third morning, delighting in the struggle to land them.
Barb entertained the girls that afternoon while their exhausted grandfather took a nap. They each made badges from construction paper, Teagan’s declaring her the “Champion of Walleye.”
She wore it home the next day after vowing to come back and fish every summer, “Even when I’m in college,” she told us.
Whether or not her siblings will become fishermen or not is yet to be seen. I’m sure their father will give them the opportunity.
And I certainly hope they take the hook.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, August 7, 2008
#@%&*! environmentalist!
Our language is constantly evolving.
New words are added. Old ones change in meaning. Others lose their ability to stand alone.
Environmentalist is one such example.
I can’t remember the last time I heard it used in casual conversation without an accompanying multi-syllable obscene adjective as in “----ing environmentalist.”
According to Webster’s New World College Dictionary an environmentalist is either 1) a person who accepts the theory that environment is of overriding importance in determining individual characteristics or 2) a person working to solve environmental problems, as air and water pollution, the exhaustion of natural resources, and uncontrolled population growth.
Neither definition appears to warrant an expletive. The dictionary, however, fails to mention the more commonly accepted Western definition – an obstructionist yahoo who works to prevent regular folk from making an honest living, seeks to limit public access to public land by opposing off-road motorized travel, and cares more for the welfare of wild animals than of man.
Wow! What an #!$&@&%!.
And while that definition may not be correct, it’s widely accepted across the West. Folks in the rest of the country give environmentalists little thought, most of their corner of the world already logged, mined, tilled and covered with pavement.
There’s still a lot of wild, undeveloped land out here, land those ----ing environmentalists would like to see stay that way. The water remains pretty clean and a few rivers, such as the Yellowstone, flow relatively unfettered from beginning to end. Those blankety blank environmentalists saw to that when they fought plans years ago to dam the Yellowstone at Livingston.
But smoke from wildfires across the West clouds the skies every summer, compliments of those !$%@!$&-$!%&#!$ environmentalists who fight the logging we’re told would prevent forest fires. Log it thoroughly enough and there wouldn’t be anything left to burn. When was the last time there was a forest fire in Indiana?
Environmentalists catch more flak than Exxon-Mobil, Walmart or the Chinese government. They’re apparently to blame for the high price of oil, the slumping dollar and the declining real estate market.
I have no doubt that Webster’s first definition is right on the money – we are a product of the environment in which we live. Unfortunately, as that environment becomes dirtier and more crowded, we become angrier and more divisive and choose to blame our problems on the folks, who by definition, are working to solve those very problems.
I choose to believe that the yahoos lining their pockets at our expense, big oil and big business for example, are the ones who more aptly deserve
the obscene adjectives.
But what do I know? I’m a bit of a ----ing environmentalist myself.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
New words are added. Old ones change in meaning. Others lose their ability to stand alone.
Environmentalist is one such example.
I can’t remember the last time I heard it used in casual conversation without an accompanying multi-syllable obscene adjective as in “----ing environmentalist.”
According to Webster’s New World College Dictionary an environmentalist is either 1) a person who accepts the theory that environment is of overriding importance in determining individual characteristics or 2) a person working to solve environmental problems, as air and water pollution, the exhaustion of natural resources, and uncontrolled population growth.
Neither definition appears to warrant an expletive. The dictionary, however, fails to mention the more commonly accepted Western definition – an obstructionist yahoo who works to prevent regular folk from making an honest living, seeks to limit public access to public land by opposing off-road motorized travel, and cares more for the welfare of wild animals than of man.
Wow! What an #!$&@&%!.
And while that definition may not be correct, it’s widely accepted across the West. Folks in the rest of the country give environmentalists little thought, most of their corner of the world already logged, mined, tilled and covered with pavement.
There’s still a lot of wild, undeveloped land out here, land those ----ing environmentalists would like to see stay that way. The water remains pretty clean and a few rivers, such as the Yellowstone, flow relatively unfettered from beginning to end. Those blankety blank environmentalists saw to that when they fought plans years ago to dam the Yellowstone at Livingston.
But smoke from wildfires across the West clouds the skies every summer, compliments of those !$%@!$&-$!%&#!$ environmentalists who fight the logging we’re told would prevent forest fires. Log it thoroughly enough and there wouldn’t be anything left to burn. When was the last time there was a forest fire in Indiana?
Environmentalists catch more flak than Exxon-Mobil, Walmart or the Chinese government. They’re apparently to blame for the high price of oil, the slumping dollar and the declining real estate market.
I have no doubt that Webster’s first definition is right on the money – we are a product of the environment in which we live. Unfortunately, as that environment becomes dirtier and more crowded, we become angrier and more divisive and choose to blame our problems on the folks, who by definition, are working to solve those very problems.
I choose to believe that the yahoos lining their pockets at our expense, big oil and big business for example, are the ones who more aptly deserve
the obscene adjectives.
But what do I know? I’m a bit of a ----ing environmentalist myself.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Thinking about an antelope tattoo
I don’t wear any ink.
No tribal tattoo encircles my bicep.
No initials decorate my neck.
The likenesses of my children don’t grace my scrawny chest.
Not that I have a problem with those who are all tatted up. It’s a generational thing.
I’m old enough to remember when tattoos were pretty much reserved for servicemen and bikers. Being neither, I never felt the urge or the peer pressure to get one.
I did used to have long hair, and my unshorn locks marked me as an undesirable in the eyes of mostly older folks who told me to get a haircut.
Now I’m one of those older folks and I wear my hair short, but it’s for convenience, not to make a statement. And I try hard not to judge others by their appearance, especially the heavily inked.
Chances are good they’re basically regular folk, not Honduran gang members, rocks stars or NBA point guards.
Seldom, however, are they antelope hunters.
Rarer still is the antelope hunter who wears his passion for pronghorns in colored ink on his forearm.
But it’s a passion I appreciate and a tattoo I admire.
Lots of hunters chase antelope, but few of them consider speed goats their No. 1 quarry, a position more commonly occupied by bull elk or whitetail bucks.
Most hunters invest little time filling their antelope tags. A few hours on opening day are usually enough to bag the first critter within range, leaving the rest of the fall to chase the more glamorous species.
I always felt like the only guy out there who spent weeks hunting antelope. The solitude, however, is one of the reasons I love pronghorn season. Following the opening-day barrage, the prairie is pretty much void of hunters until the general big game season opens.
Now I find I’m not so alone after all. I’ve recently become acquainted with a few other hunters who share my passion, including one with the tattoo of an antelope buck on his massive forearm.
He’s a bit younger than I am and he may wear other, less visible ink, but the buck is prominently displayed for all to see.
It’s one of the few tattoos I’ve seen that prompted me to consider getting one myself.
Unfortunately, it’s not going to happen. My skinny forearm hardly offers the epidermal canvas for any ink, let alone a pronghorn buck in full flight. There may be enough space on my arm to depict a bedded fawn, but who wants a baby animal tattoo?
I’ll stick with scars and age spots and leave the ink to a younger generation.
And on second thought maybe I will judge by appearance, especially when the tattoo is really cool.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
No tribal tattoo encircles my bicep.
No initials decorate my neck.
The likenesses of my children don’t grace my scrawny chest.
Not that I have a problem with those who are all tatted up. It’s a generational thing.
I’m old enough to remember when tattoos were pretty much reserved for servicemen and bikers. Being neither, I never felt the urge or the peer pressure to get one.
I did used to have long hair, and my unshorn locks marked me as an undesirable in the eyes of mostly older folks who told me to get a haircut.
Now I’m one of those older folks and I wear my hair short, but it’s for convenience, not to make a statement. And I try hard not to judge others by their appearance, especially the heavily inked.
Chances are good they’re basically regular folk, not Honduran gang members, rocks stars or NBA point guards.
Seldom, however, are they antelope hunters.
Rarer still is the antelope hunter who wears his passion for pronghorns in colored ink on his forearm.
But it’s a passion I appreciate and a tattoo I admire.
Lots of hunters chase antelope, but few of them consider speed goats their No. 1 quarry, a position more commonly occupied by bull elk or whitetail bucks.
Most hunters invest little time filling their antelope tags. A few hours on opening day are usually enough to bag the first critter within range, leaving the rest of the fall to chase the more glamorous species.
I always felt like the only guy out there who spent weeks hunting antelope. The solitude, however, is one of the reasons I love pronghorn season. Following the opening-day barrage, the prairie is pretty much void of hunters until the general big game season opens.
Now I find I’m not so alone after all. I’ve recently become acquainted with a few other hunters who share my passion, including one with the tattoo of an antelope buck on his massive forearm.
He’s a bit younger than I am and he may wear other, less visible ink, but the buck is prominently displayed for all to see.
It’s one of the few tattoos I’ve seen that prompted me to consider getting one myself.
Unfortunately, it’s not going to happen. My skinny forearm hardly offers the epidermal canvas for any ink, let alone a pronghorn buck in full flight. There may be enough space on my arm to depict a bedded fawn, but who wants a baby animal tattoo?
I’ll stick with scars and age spots and leave the ink to a younger generation.
And on second thought maybe I will judge by appearance, especially when the tattoo is really cool.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Buckle up on the river
The body of a Sheridan, Wyo., man who fell off a dock at Tongue River Reservoir during a recent storm was recovered earlier this week.
The body of a woman caught in the same storm in a 14-foot boat that capsized had already been recovered.
There but for the grace of God …
I never thought the Tongue was a very scary body of water. A fairly narrow body lake that sits just north of the Wyoming state line near Decker, Mt., it offers plenty of places to escape the wind.
Unless you’re not paying attention.
Or the bite is too good and you’ve just got to make one more cast.
A few years ago my wife and I got caught in a storm on the Tongue because we couldn’t stop fishing. We watched the sky darken and felt the wind building before we decided to take refuge. I couldn’t make the run back to camp across the lake so we pulled into one of the many bays on the lake and I ran the boat into the shallows, jumped out and dragged it up on shore, waves breaking over the stern
We sat out the maelstrom under a pine tree and when the wind ceased I bailed out the boat and we headed back to camp none the worse for wear.
We’d survived closer calls on Yellowstone Lake, a big body of water where the afternoon breeze can turn a slight chop into four-foot waves in minutes.
But it’s the cold water there that will kill you. The Tongue in July won’t even take your breath away when you dive in.
So I’m guessing the two victims of the recent storm on the Tongue weren’t wearing life jackets.
I seldom do. And who but a child wears a life jacket on the dock?
But when the wind kicks up and the waves begin to build it might be a good time to strap one on, especially if you’re alone in the boat – or on the dock.
A rafting guide on the Yellowstone River once told me she had never heard of anyone wearing a life jacket who had drowned in the river.
That’s probably true on most waters.
We’re required by law to have life jackets in the boat, yet we seldom feel the need to wear them – even though they’ll save us.
It’s hot. The water’s warm. The fish are biting.
But keep an eye on the sky. Storms build fast and move quickly this time of year.
Like buckling your seatbelt when you get into the car, pulling on a life jacket when the water gets rough should be a habit, not an afterthought.
By then it may already be too late.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
The body of a woman caught in the same storm in a 14-foot boat that capsized had already been recovered.
There but for the grace of God …
I never thought the Tongue was a very scary body of water. A fairly narrow body lake that sits just north of the Wyoming state line near Decker, Mt., it offers plenty of places to escape the wind.
Unless you’re not paying attention.
Or the bite is too good and you’ve just got to make one more cast.
A few years ago my wife and I got caught in a storm on the Tongue because we couldn’t stop fishing. We watched the sky darken and felt the wind building before we decided to take refuge. I couldn’t make the run back to camp across the lake so we pulled into one of the many bays on the lake and I ran the boat into the shallows, jumped out and dragged it up on shore, waves breaking over the stern
We sat out the maelstrom under a pine tree and when the wind ceased I bailed out the boat and we headed back to camp none the worse for wear.
We’d survived closer calls on Yellowstone Lake, a big body of water where the afternoon breeze can turn a slight chop into four-foot waves in minutes.
But it’s the cold water there that will kill you. The Tongue in July won’t even take your breath away when you dive in.
So I’m guessing the two victims of the recent storm on the Tongue weren’t wearing life jackets.
I seldom do. And who but a child wears a life jacket on the dock?
But when the wind kicks up and the waves begin to build it might be a good time to strap one on, especially if you’re alone in the boat – or on the dock.
A rafting guide on the Yellowstone River once told me she had never heard of anyone wearing a life jacket who had drowned in the river.
That’s probably true on most waters.
We’re required by law to have life jackets in the boat, yet we seldom feel the need to wear them – even though they’ll save us.
It’s hot. The water’s warm. The fish are biting.
But keep an eye on the sky. Storms build fast and move quickly this time of year.
Like buckling your seatbelt when you get into the car, pulling on a life jacket when the water gets rough should be a habit, not an afterthought.
By then it may already be too late.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Friday, July 18, 2008
I'm not quite ready for the couch
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
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
Friday, July 11, 2008
My wife's becoming a fish snob
My wife’s becoming a fish snob.
It started last spring in Florida when she hooked a sting ray and handed me the pole.
“It’s just a ray,” she said disappointedly.
“What do you mean just a ray?” I thought to myself as I tightened the drag and began reeling. “It’s a big ray.”
Fifteen minutes later I had the creature alongside the boat and snipped the leader.
Barb wasn’t even watching. She’d picked up my pole and was casting off the bow.
I’ve seen it before – a lack of interest in the fish that happen to be biting. On the Yellowstone River it’s mountain whitefish the fish snobs find so disgusting. While a whitie may rise to the same fly as a trout, if hooked and landed, it’s a sure bet he won’t receive the same careful release.
This morning it was small northern pike that Barb found particularly distasteful. The walleye weren’t biting and the big northerns had made themselves scarce, but the hammer handles were willing and eager.
“Should I get the net?” I asked as Barb’s rod bowed and the monofilament cut through the water.
“No,” she answered, her voice dripping with disappointment. “It’s just another little pike.”
It may be that I’ve spent too many fishless days on the water to be disappointed in whatever decides to bite my hook. Or perhaps my sights aren’t set high enough.
Whatever.
If it wasn’t for whitefish, I’d often have no fish at all. Juvenile northerns beat nothing hands down and I figure big rays are good practice for big anything.
I no longer keep everything I catch anyway, so what does it matter?
Sure, a whitefish won’t fight like a trout, a little pike has the same teeth and slime as a monster and the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a ray, but I’m a needy enough angler to appreciate them all.
Barb isn’t.
She sets the bar a bit higher than I do.
Pike must be at least as long as your arm to interest my wife, whitefish are unceremoniously returned to the river as quickly as she can extract her fly and rays aren’t even worth Barb’s bother.
Consequently she usually catches more fish than me. I’m too easily distracted by the small, the ordinary and the mundane.
Bite my hook and I’m flattered.
Like a wink from a pretty girl, who’s simply humoring an old man, the bite of a less-than-stellar species is much appreciated.
Especially when fishing is slow.
Barb’s not so easily impressed.
She’s becoming a bit of a snob.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
It started last spring in Florida when she hooked a sting ray and handed me the pole.
“It’s just a ray,” she said disappointedly.
“What do you mean just a ray?” I thought to myself as I tightened the drag and began reeling. “It’s a big ray.”
Fifteen minutes later I had the creature alongside the boat and snipped the leader.
Barb wasn’t even watching. She’d picked up my pole and was casting off the bow.
I’ve seen it before – a lack of interest in the fish that happen to be biting. On the Yellowstone River it’s mountain whitefish the fish snobs find so disgusting. While a whitie may rise to the same fly as a trout, if hooked and landed, it’s a sure bet he won’t receive the same careful release.
This morning it was small northern pike that Barb found particularly distasteful. The walleye weren’t biting and the big northerns had made themselves scarce, but the hammer handles were willing and eager.
“Should I get the net?” I asked as Barb’s rod bowed and the monofilament cut through the water.
“No,” she answered, her voice dripping with disappointment. “It’s just another little pike.”
It may be that I’ve spent too many fishless days on the water to be disappointed in whatever decides to bite my hook. Or perhaps my sights aren’t set high enough.
Whatever.
If it wasn’t for whitefish, I’d often have no fish at all. Juvenile northerns beat nothing hands down and I figure big rays are good practice for big anything.
I no longer keep everything I catch anyway, so what does it matter?
Sure, a whitefish won’t fight like a trout, a little pike has the same teeth and slime as a monster and the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a ray, but I’m a needy enough angler to appreciate them all.
Barb isn’t.
She sets the bar a bit higher than I do.
Pike must be at least as long as your arm to interest my wife, whitefish are unceremoniously returned to the river as quickly as she can extract her fly and rays aren’t even worth Barb’s bother.
Consequently she usually catches more fish than me. I’m too easily distracted by the small, the ordinary and the mundane.
Bite my hook and I’m flattered.
Like a wink from a pretty girl, who’s simply humoring an old man, the bite of a less-than-stellar species is much appreciated.
Especially when fishing is slow.
Barb’s not so easily impressed.
She’s becoming a bit of a snob.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Friday, July 4, 2008
You'll find me out here and gone
What? Me worry?
As gas prices head toward $5 a gallon, real estate prices plummet, and global warming threatens to turn much of the West into a desert, I find myself just where I want to be – out here and gone.
The little northeastern Montana town my wife and I now call home is small enough we can ride our bikes wherever we need to go, there are plenty of critters to hunt within a few miles of town and the lake we fish is only 20 miles from the house.
My crop of sweet corn will be knee high by the Fourth of July and the tomato plants have already set fruit. Lately I’ve been spending the cool of the mornings fishing for walleye and pike, the afternoons fixing up our old stone house, the evenings counting my blessings.
An old hippie who for years longed to get back to the land, I’ve gotten back to a small town instead where the grocery, lumberyard and hardware store are but a few blocks away.
My Hutterite friends, from whom I stole the term “out here and gone,” keep us supplied with baked goods, the bounty of their garden and provide a shining example of “the simple life,” minus Paris Hilton.
No longer able to work my hoops magic because of aching knees, I joined the local gun club and shoot trap a couple times a week at a range north of town. I’m humbled there just like I was on the basketball court, but belonging to the gun club is considerably cheaper than my old health club membership.
It’s a very good life, however it’s not perfect. I miss the mountains. My daughters and grandchildren live farther away than I would like. I don’t see enough of my old friends.
The mosquitoes up here are legendary and the rattlesnakes can be an annoyance at times. But hey, they keep out the riff-raff.
And I’m certainly not recommending this lifestyle. No, you’re far better off staying where you are, commuting to those no-longer-so-high-paying jobs, shopping with everyone else at the air-conditioned mall and sitting in line at the fast-food drive-thru.
But please, come for a visit when you’ve saved up enough cash for a couple tanks of gas. We’ll go fishing out at the lake, come home and eat fresh sweet corn and turn in shortly after the curfew siren goes off at 9:30 p.m.
It’s a pretty simple life.
Paris Hilton would be bored to tears.
Thank goodness.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Selected columns are available at parkerheinlein.blogspot.com/
As gas prices head toward $5 a gallon, real estate prices plummet, and global warming threatens to turn much of the West into a desert, I find myself just where I want to be – out here and gone.
The little northeastern Montana town my wife and I now call home is small enough we can ride our bikes wherever we need to go, there are plenty of critters to hunt within a few miles of town and the lake we fish is only 20 miles from the house.
My crop of sweet corn will be knee high by the Fourth of July and the tomato plants have already set fruit. Lately I’ve been spending the cool of the mornings fishing for walleye and pike, the afternoons fixing up our old stone house, the evenings counting my blessings.
An old hippie who for years longed to get back to the land, I’ve gotten back to a small town instead where the grocery, lumberyard and hardware store are but a few blocks away.
My Hutterite friends, from whom I stole the term “out here and gone,” keep us supplied with baked goods, the bounty of their garden and provide a shining example of “the simple life,” minus Paris Hilton.
No longer able to work my hoops magic because of aching knees, I joined the local gun club and shoot trap a couple times a week at a range north of town. I’m humbled there just like I was on the basketball court, but belonging to the gun club is considerably cheaper than my old health club membership.
It’s a very good life, however it’s not perfect. I miss the mountains. My daughters and grandchildren live farther away than I would like. I don’t see enough of my old friends.
The mosquitoes up here are legendary and the rattlesnakes can be an annoyance at times. But hey, they keep out the riff-raff.
And I’m certainly not recommending this lifestyle. No, you’re far better off staying where you are, commuting to those no-longer-so-high-paying jobs, shopping with everyone else at the air-conditioned mall and sitting in line at the fast-food drive-thru.
But please, come for a visit when you’ve saved up enough cash for a couple tanks of gas. We’ll go fishing out at the lake, come home and eat fresh sweet corn and turn in shortly after the curfew siren goes off at 9:30 p.m.
It’s a pretty simple life.
Paris Hilton would be bored to tears.
Thank goodness.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Selected columns are available at parkerheinlein.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Newspaper reading dogs a problem
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
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
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Sage grouse hunting may be thing of the past
It may not be long before we count sage grouse among the species of birds we used to hunt.
Concern that West Nile virus is hurting sage grouse populations has prompted the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks to consider cutting in half the hunting season for the state’s oldest grouse.
Not that it would matter much to most bird hunters, who seldom target sage grouse anyway, but eliminating the season completely is probably on the horizon.
And that would matter to my friend Dallas.
Sage grouse are his favorite game bird both in the field and on the table.
He opens the upland bird season each fall with a family hunting trip for sage grouse and pursues them with the same passion he does elk.
Sage grouse, Dallas tells me, are Montana’s original game bird, so ancient they don’t even have gizzards.
Properly handled in the field, the big birds are unequaled on the table. Or so my friend claims. I would beg to differ, but perhaps it’s simply a case of improper handling on my part.
I may not have too many more chances to improve my handling of them.
There’s already a two-bird daily limit on sage grouse and the season on them closes two months earlier than it does for most other upland birds in Montana. Now FWP is considering cutting the season to 31 days.
Deadline for public comment on the issue is June 27 and the FWP Commission will take final action on game bird seasons July 17.
Although hunting pressure has been shown to have little effect on game bird populations, bird hunters are easy targets. Instead of addressing loss of habitat and energy development, wildlife managers too often punish instead the only folks who give a damn about the birds.
Like Dallas.
And there’s seldom any going back.
The daily mountain grouse limit was reduced from five birds to three in the 1980s because an FWP commissioner didn’t see as many blue grouse on his ranch one fall as he had in the past. Twenty-some years later, the limit is still three.
The daily limit on sage grouse was recently reduced from three and now there’s talk of halving the season.
The writing is on the wall.
While wildlife managers admit that hunters aren’t the problem, hunters are most easily removed from the equation. Then the only people who care will be those who are paid to care and people who care because of a paycheck don’t care like Dallas does.
Remove the hunter and you’ve turned the sage grouse into another spotted owl. And while they may both taste like chicken, no one will ever know.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
Concern that West Nile virus is hurting sage grouse populations has prompted the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks to consider cutting in half the hunting season for the state’s oldest grouse.
Not that it would matter much to most bird hunters, who seldom target sage grouse anyway, but eliminating the season completely is probably on the horizon.
And that would matter to my friend Dallas.
Sage grouse are his favorite game bird both in the field and on the table.
He opens the upland bird season each fall with a family hunting trip for sage grouse and pursues them with the same passion he does elk.
Sage grouse, Dallas tells me, are Montana’s original game bird, so ancient they don’t even have gizzards.
Properly handled in the field, the big birds are unequaled on the table. Or so my friend claims. I would beg to differ, but perhaps it’s simply a case of improper handling on my part.
I may not have too many more chances to improve my handling of them.
There’s already a two-bird daily limit on sage grouse and the season on them closes two months earlier than it does for most other upland birds in Montana. Now FWP is considering cutting the season to 31 days.
Deadline for public comment on the issue is June 27 and the FWP Commission will take final action on game bird seasons July 17.
Although hunting pressure has been shown to have little effect on game bird populations, bird hunters are easy targets. Instead of addressing loss of habitat and energy development, wildlife managers too often punish instead the only folks who give a damn about the birds.
Like Dallas.
And there’s seldom any going back.
The daily mountain grouse limit was reduced from five birds to three in the 1980s because an FWP commissioner didn’t see as many blue grouse on his ranch one fall as he had in the past. Twenty-some years later, the limit is still three.
The daily limit on sage grouse was recently reduced from three and now there’s talk of halving the season.
The writing is on the wall.
While wildlife managers admit that hunters aren’t the problem, hunters are most easily removed from the equation. Then the only people who care will be those who are paid to care and people who care because of a paycheck don’t care like Dallas does.
Remove the hunter and you’ve turned the sage grouse into another spotted owl. And while they may both taste like chicken, no one will ever know.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net
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