UA Tailfeathers TOM CARNEY
TOM CARNEY is an award-winning
writer/photographer based in
Michigan. You can find him at
http://www.tomcarneywriter.com and on
Facebook at Tom Carney-Writer.Byproducts of a Certain Vintage
“I
t’s a long time between Octobers.”
Tom Huggler sure got it right in that opening
sentence to the “Ruffed Grouse” chapter of his
book, Grouse of North America.
So, so right.
It’s especially long when you’ve made it into August,
sitting and sweltering at the cabin trying to think of anything
except the long time until October and the oppressive heat.
The afternoon’s rain did nothing to cool things off; mostly
it just slapped the ground and immediately evaporated. The
kayak paddle and seat winced when I splashed water on them.
Veterans of the assaults by summer’s plunkers, the largemouth
bass remain in the shade, tight-lipped and disinterested.
For a few minutes, I entertained the idea of calling the
Schwan’s man for a home delivery. Upon his arrival, I’d march
out and plunge as much of me from my head down that I could
fit in his truck’s freezer. There, I’d take my time pretending to
be making selections. Once cooled enough, I’d choose some
ice cream sandwiches or something, pay him and send him on
his way.
What??
Stupid Schwan’s people. You have to order at least 24
hours in advance.
It is, indeed, a long time between Octobers, and mostly
I spend that time not bird hunting but working on something
related to it. Now and then, though, like a fresh breeze we
won’t be feeling today, sometimes work activities ferment into
full-bodied memories.
Take the SHOT Show in Las Vegas. My main assignment
there is to walk the floor and look for items that probably appeal
to bird hunters and to arrange to review them in the magazine.
Well, last winter, once Katie McKalip, communications
director for Backcountry Hunters & Anglers (BHA), and I
finalized plans for her group to contribute to the magazine, she
asked if I had plans for Wednesday night.
“No. Why?”
“Want to come to a campfire?”
“Sure,” I said, imagining some electronic fireplace in a
meeting room on the Strip somewhere.
Wrong!
Wednesday evening, BHA and Filson piled 100 of us into
two buses and drove us about 30 miles south of Las Vegas onto
some BLM property. We were so far from the city that all was
shrouded in darkness – until we rolled up to the ... campfire?
It was so gigantic that we folks from back East would call it a
bonfire.
Forty cords of wood, the organizers said, they had on
hand for the blaze. It was so hot we, dressed in our layers ofnylon, cotton and fleece,
approached it no closer than
about 10 feet, lest it ignite us.
My chief recollection from that night, in the wilderness
lit only by the campfire, a full moon and the reflections of
people’s faces, is the pain I inflicted on the lady from France
who works for Filson. For at least a half hour I thought I was
impressing her with my fluency in her native tongue.
(I have since been assured that I should always, always
remember what the lady at the store counter in Quebec City
said in 1985 when I regaled her, too, with my mastery of the
language: “Please! Please! You are hurting my ears!”)
I was also able to catch a few photos of the campfire
on my cell phone. One of my favorites is of two women
sitting there and using 8-foot-long twigs so they could roast
marshmallows at a safe distance.
Now, I told you that story so I can tell you this one.
In early spring of this year, Eukanuba pet foods hosted a
group at its Pet Health and Nutrition Clinic, about an hour’s
drive from Dayton, Ohio. While a few journalists attended, the
vast majority of participants consisted of dog trainers.
Our dinner table held nine people. Two groups of three
engaged in trainer talk. Stuff like, “Well, I like to run ...” or
“You gotta take the pups and ...” or “The way I handle that
problem is ...”
But my head can only corral just so many of those
iterations before they break away and stampede over other
important knowledge, like the last vestiges of French
vocabulary still clunking around in there.
Thankfully and unexpectedly, two trainers sitting near
me – a woman from Minnesota and a man from Kansas –
dipped their toes into other topics. Somehow the talk turned to
campfires.
I showed them the photo of the marshmallowers and
pointed out their long roasting sticks.
“Yeah!” said the Kansan. “You get too close, you singe the
hair off your knuckles.”
“Ha!” I remembered, eying the back of one hand. “You,
too?”
“A couple of times.”
“Wha? How could you allow yourself to do that more than
once?”
“Alcohol might have been involved.”
“Copious amounts?”
“Probably.”
And again, “Ha-ha!”
It’s a long time between episodes of single-instance
camaraderie.