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
Friday, October 10, 2008
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
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