Where have all the hillbillies gone?

Where have all the hillbillies gone?On the final leg of a cross-country road trip that included long days spent traveling through both the Ozark and Smokey mountain ranges, the feeling that something was missing began to gnaw at my gut. Then it hit me: We'd covered more than 6,000 miles without a single roadside reference to those simple mountain folk of the South. I couldn' t remember even one billboard advertising a hillbilly café down the road ora gift shop selling corn cob pipes. Hillbillies, apparently, have gone the way of the passenger pigeon, the dodo and the stay-at-home mom. Portrayed on film and television (think Jed Clampit and Ma and Pa Kettleif you're old enough) as barefoot, opossum-eating mountain dwellers who lived off the land, hillbillies have always seemed a bit more comic-stripcharacter than real. Certainly Snuffy Smith, Lil' Abner and Daisy Mae no longer have any basis in fact. They exist only in the funnies, replaced in American folklore by rappers, gay television stars and video game heroes. Too white and too closely tied to the land, they had less and less incommon with the rest of us. And, my mother would add, being a hillbilly was nothing to aspire to. They were lazy, didn't use proper English, stole chickens, operated moonshine stills and lived in hovels. All aspirations of mine at one time or another, but nothing that anon-line, cell phone-jabbering, bottled water-sipping, politically correct society could relate to in the 21st century. Signs advertising adult superstores, all-nude dancers and Yakov Smirnov's theater in Branson line the highways in Missouri, Georgia and Tennesseewhere hand-lettered advertisements for country cafes used to ask "Have yaet yet?" and offered home-cooked vittles. But while I mourn the absence of a visible hillbilly presence on the American landscape, I suspect there remains some isolated corner of this country where hill folk still reign supreme. Where a feller can still satisfy a hankerin' fer a sip of 'shine and there ain't a cell phone tower in sight. Where the Hatfield and McCoy feud still rages and the chicken is anything but store-bought. Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

It's time to go home

ST.CHRISTOHER KEY, Fla. -- The one great indulgence my wife and I allowourselves each year is to run away to Florida in March and live in atent. We fish, cook our catch over a Coleman stove and fall asleep at nightlistening to the breeze rustle through the palms. It's the only month of the year I don't mind being away from Montana.Winter there has worn out its welcome by then and spring remains littlemore than a rumor. When I was 13 growing up in Indiana a friend and I planned to hitchhiketo Florida late one summer. The night before our departure, however, Ijumped over a fence and landed on a broken Coke bottle. The next few weeks I spent on crutches and then it was time to go back to school.When I was old enough to leave home with my parents' blessing, I wentwest instead of south. It was the rest of my family who eventually ranaway to Florida. My parents lived here until Mom died and my sister still lives outside the tiny town of Live Oak near the Georgia border. But unlike my family, I have no plans to live here. Too hot most of thetime and too many people all of the time. A few weeks in March is just about perfect. The sea trout are plentiful on the grass flats and in the boat we can escape the crowds. We walk the beach along the Gulf of Mexico at firstlight picking up shells and I catch bait with my castnet in the shallowbay across from our campsite. It's warm enough during the day that shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops areadequate, yet still cool enough at night that sleeping is comfortable. Like any runaways though, after a few weeks, we start to get homesick. We miss doors that don't zip, a bed off the ground, a landscape not filled to the horizon with buildings and people. The days keep getting warmer. It must be about time to head for home. Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

There's Nothing Like That Old "Lid"

I bought a new hat recently.My wife said it was time.The lid I'd been wearing for a couple of years had taken on a personalityof its own. The emblem on the front was illegible, the color hard todescribe, other than earthtone, and it was beginning to smell a bit likethe dogs.But it still fit, shaded my eyes from the sun and provided shelter for mybalding head.What more could I ask?Something a little more fashionable I suppose.Maybe a trucker cap.Favored by rappers, skaters and the heavily inked, trucker caps -- atfirst glance anyway -- look a lot like the baseball caps I've worn foryears. But instead of a curved brim and a snug fit, these roomy lids feature a bill flat enough to play cards on and are usually worn askew. As in "heydude, your hat's on crooked."An admonition that seldom draws a friendly response. It's doubtful, however, that I'll ever wear a trucker cap. Like baseball caps worn backwards, hats that fit too loosely to stay on my head in astiff wind or don't shade my face, make little sense to me.Besides, I'm too old for such a fashion statement.I've always favored utilitarian chapeaus, like my oldred-and-black-checked Scotch cap with ear flaps. Elmer Fudd be damned. It sheltered me through blizzards and made do as a pillow when I forgot tobring one. Or the straw cowboy hat that keeps my ears and neck from frying in thesummer sun. I even have one of those long-billed fishing hats with a Lawrence ofArabia flap across the back that billows out like a cape when I'm runningthe boat at full throttle. But I prefer a simple cap. One that shades my eyes and covers my head.With an emblem appropriate in the company of women and children. Mine says Montana State.Does away with the need to ask: "Bobcats or Grizzlies?" I've worn hats that advertised bars, ropes and the feathers used to tieflies. It makes little difference. In a few months the logo will beillegible, blurred by sweat, grease, mud and blood. The color will fade and the new cap smell will vanish, replaced by an earthier aroma enabling me to find my hat in the dark. Then my wife will tell me it's time. And I'll begin looking for another. Something simple. Snug-fitting with a brim.I ask little of my lids. Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Comfort is a Glock in Yellowstone

It’s time for a couple of corrections.
I’ve found a few mistakes.
One, I discovered myself.
The other was recently pointed out to me by a concerned reader.
I wrote last summer in a column on the cravings I experienced during a trek across the Bob Marshall Wilderness that “comfort comes on a long stretch of downhill trail.”
Wrong.
Comfort comes on a long stretch of level trail.
Downhill trails kill me.
What was I thinking?
I get shorter with each step down the mountain, little cushion left in my knees to lessen the pounding of a downhill slog on my aging carcass.
I suspect I wrote that line because for much of my life it was true. Downhill trails were a treat, especially if I was dragging a large piece of meat out of the hills.
But somewhere along the way pain crept in and now awaits me every time I top a rise and head down the other side.
A recent column I wrote on an amendment to allow the public to pack easily accessible firearms in our national parks also begs a correction.
It was pointed out to me in an e-mail that securing a parking spot in Yellowstone isn’t the primary purpose of the amendment.
“It’s about having the freedom to not have to worry about Nazis come thru your door to take your daughter and your mother and your grandson down to the local clinic for their tattoo or their community shower,” wrote Ron C.
I obviously didn’t understand the real issue.
On occasion I don’t.
Fortunately Ron C. cleared things up for me.
An armed populace is apparently necessary to combat the “international cops who carry 40s, tazers and hand cuffs,” in our parks and forests.
Again, I didn’t know that was a problem, and silly me, I wasn’t even aware Nazis were still a threat.
It’s been a while since I visited Yellowstone. I suppose I should pay closer attention.
Perhaps I was in pain following a long stretch of downhill trail, my thoughts focused on that happy place I head to when the pounding begins to takes its toll.
Had I been walking on flat ground I’m sure I would have seen the threat and written about it in a more serious manner.
So I stand corrected. Comfort is a long stretch of level trail and a Glock in a shoulder holster to fend off the Nazis in Yellowstone National Park.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net

Dreaming of fish

It’s 10 below zero and the wind’s blowing 25 miles an hour.

Snow’s piling up on the drift boat and my beard is frozen.

So why can’t I stop thinking about fishing?

And I’m not talking about hard-water angling.

My thoughts are on warmer times and climes, the sound of a screaming drag and the thump, thump of a smallmouth bass flopping in the cooler.

I can smell the exhaust from the outboard, feel the tug of a strong fish and see the fly line cutting through the water like a laser.

The forecast calls for more sub-zero temperatures, additional snow and stronger winds. Emergency-only travel is advised.

But I’m already counting the days until I can drown a shiner under the railroad bridge, throw an elk-hair caddis to rising trout on the Yellowstone or cast a gold spoon to tailing redfish in Mosquito Lagoon.

The Weather Channel calls for 25 below with wind chills approaching -50. Roads are closed and school is cancelled.

I didn’t fish as much last summer as I should have. Other things got in the way and now I fear I’m running out of memories. At least recent ones. And it’s always been thoughts of fish on the line that got me through these periods of arctic frigidity.

While I can still pull up visions of red and white bobbers disappearing into the murky depths, it’s been way too long since I actually landed a bluegill, unhooked a bullhead or lipped a largemouth bass.

I haven’t caught a fish since last August when the brook trout were fighting over my fly on the Clarks Fork near Cooke City.

Then it was hunting season and now it’s the middle of winter. Blowing and drifting snow. A high of -15. Weather brutal enough to kill.

A 23-year-old Bozeman man died of hypothermia last week after falling through the ice on the Missouri River near Toston. It was only nine below that night.

Now it’s so cold I half expect to find Jim Cantore, the Weather Channel’s harbinger of storms, knocking at my door. Cantore, however, a fan of hurricanes, tornadoes and drought, appears to shy away from the really cold stuff. What I’m hearing must be the wind or the dogs scratching to get back in.

I caught a tiny cutthroat trout on a handline last summer while hiking across the Bob Marshall Wilderness. It had been hot that day and I was trying to cool off in the White River when I saw fish gathering in the still water behind my legs. Dropping a Griffith’s gnat onto the water a few feet upstream I watched as one tiny cutt rose to the surface and inhaled the fly.

The atmosphere sparkles with ice crystals. The radio warns me to stay inside. There’s no relief in sight.

But I still feel that tug on the line.

A swan song for hunters

The questionnaire arrived in the mail.

It required little time to complete.

Yes, I did hunt swans.

No, I didn’t get one.

And that may be a good thing.

Had I been successful, my wife joked she was going to tell my grandchildren that grandpa killed a swan.

My ineptitude at bagging one of the majestic birds saved me the scorn of a couple of little girls who are a bit suspect of me anyway.

“Grandpa doesn’t know Jesus,” the youngest recently told my wife.

“Oh yes he does,” Barb replied.

I’m sure, however, that my grandchildren remain doubtful of my salvation.

I seldom go to church, rarely read the Bible and no longer hold a regular job.

But they should realize, as surely as I didn’t shoot a swan last fall, I do know Jesus.

Matter of fact he was sitting next to me in the marsh. He always is. He’s there when I’m successful and he’s there when I miss three easy shots in a row.

He’s there when I cuss the dog for not sitting still and he’s there when I crack a beer at the end of the day.

I don’t expect him to make the hunt any easier or the dog more obedient.

I’ve simply come to expect him to be there. For as long as I can remember he has been.

He’s the reason I didn’t bag a swan although the questionnaire didn’t ask why. He’ll also be responsible for my success one day or my never-ending failure.

Only 25 percent of the hunters who held a swan permit in 2006 actually bagged one. I know they weren’t the only camo-clad hunters hiding in the cattails acquainted with Jesus.

If successful wing-shooting was that easy there would be a lot more waterfowlers seeking salvation in the marsh.

And surely the informational pamphlet that accompanied my swan permit would have included “get to know Jesus” along with recommended shooting distances and shot size.

My grandchildren should know that while they’re much more likely to find me in the field come Sunday morning than in a pew, or reading the solunar tables instead of 1 Corinthians, I do know Jesus.

Maybe next fall the two of us will bag a swan. Either way, I certainly won’t be out there alone.

And if I’m successful, I hope Barb won’t tell the girls. Explaining my faith to them could turn out to be a lot easier than explaining why I shot a swan.

Because of bats I live where I do

In an age of saving whales and reintroducing wolves, it should have come as no surprise, but the story about a group of fourth-graders in Bozeman selling baked goods to raise money to adopt a bat did just that.
Now I’m about as animal friendly as they come. As a kid I kept skunks and opposums as pets, caught snakes and snapping turtles just to get a closer look at them, and raised mice and gerbils until they began to take over the house.
I hunt, but years ago quit killing anything I wouldn’t eat. I’ll swerve to miss a jackrabbit crossing the road and have been known to brake for salamanders.
Bats, however, remain on the periphery of my goodwill toward critters.
And they deserve better.
Bats are responsible in large part for me living where I do.
When my wife and I began looking a real estate a couple years ago in the small northern Montana town of Malta we now call home our objective was a fixer-upper we could quickly remodel and use during hunting season.
Quickly being the key word. I didn’t want to spend all of my time working on a house, so we started out looking for something small and cheap.
Then my wife discovered an old, two-story stone house that had been vacant for a couple of years.
Too big and probably too expensive I told her. A similar fixer-upper in Bozeman, where we were then living, would sell for half a million dollars.
Of course this wasn’t Bozeman and that’s why we were here. And there was a catch -- the realtor asked if we were afraid of bats.
“They are dead though,” she reassured us.
Malta, it turned out, is home to the northernmost colony of migrating little brown bats.
About 30 of them, unable to find their way out, had died inside the house, their mummified corpses stuck to the windows and walls and nestled among the dust bunnies in the corners.
We fell in love with the house and were able to afford it, in part, I suspect, because it was littered with dead bats.
Two years later, the place is relatively bat-proof, although we hear them at times squeaking and rustling about in the rafters.
During the summer I catch the occasional bat that flies into the house through an open door, but can’t say I really relish the close encounters.
I’m told they eat mosquitoes, but at times up here, I swear they must be dining on something else.
I’d like to think I could live quite well without bats although I know I never will.
There appears to be little danger of running out of them, especially when there are fourth-graders out there selling baked goods on their behalf.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net