Icing on the Cake

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The Pathless Woods

With winter fast approaching I always laugh at people who bundle up like they are headed out on a trans Siberian adventure when they are merely going to the mailbox at the end of their drive.

Living in Wisconsin the number of complaints filed to the weather gods rivals that of the daily postage arriving at the North Pole this time of year. People curse the cold, stomp their feet, and proclaim loudly about how much they hate winter. What is the reason for so much animosity? The cold temps, messy roads, snow to shovel? With all the energy that goes into hating winter isn’t there at least one positive? Oh yes my friends, there are many.

Ice fishing! The best tasting fish of the entire year are the ones caught through the ice from December through March. Every winter I drag out my Fish Trap ice shack and treck…

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Icing on the Cake

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With winter fast approaching I always laugh at people who bundle up like they are headed out on a trans Siberian adventure when they are merely going to the mailbox at the end of their drive.

Living in Wisconsin the number of complaints filed to the weather gods rivals that of the daily postage arriving at the North Pole this time of year. People curse the cold, stomp their feet, and proclaim loudly about how much they hate winter. What is the reason for so much animosity? The cold temps, messy roads, snow to shovel? With all the energy that goes into hating winter isn’t there at least one positive? Oh yes my friends, there are many.

Ice fishing! The best tasting fish of the entire year are the ones caught through the ice from December through March. Every winter I drag out my Fish Trap ice shack and treck across frozen backwater sloughs to my favorite spots. The crisp air stings in my nostrils and through watery eyes I survey the bays for the perfect local to drop a line. It is either feast or famine out there and while nothing beats sunfish fried in butter, just a few hours out in the peaceful quite of my shack melts away the stress of a long work week.

Hiking! I absolutely love going hiking in the winter through snow frosted forests. Like a sparkling wedding cake, the landscape is perfectly iced without a single flaw save for the tracks of woodland creatures going about their winter routines. The clear sharp air clears my lungs and the most minute of sounds is amplified and carried to my cold nipped ears. Squirrels rustling, deer foraging, and birds of prey swooping almost silently down into the snow to catch a meal while the sun reflects off of crystalline surfaces painting rainbows on pure white templates. Every sense is heightened in winter. Unable to succumb to the sluggishness that warm weather fosters, the cold has a way of heightening and sharpening awareness of ones self and ones surroundings.

I could go on and on extolling the joys of the season and I am a firm believer that people who partake of the outdoors regularly, no matter the weather, are happier and, as a result, healthier people. I am living proof of this in the fact that I can feel a change in me when I have not had enough time in the wilderness. Headaches become frequent, irritability takes over, and my mood becomes generally glum until I get outside for a few hours. Yet there are those who think I’m crazy for feeling this way. The outdoors is my therapy, my spa, my place of renewal despite the weather because there is so much to experience when you head out into the woods, fields, and valleys.

Tell me how one cannot find beauty and peace while standing amid falling snowflakes. Angel feathers dropping from the sky to gently kiss upturned faces. Or the watercolor glow of a January sunset melting across sky and frozen land like a overturned painters pot spilling warm color before darkness falls. How can one complain about the cold when bearing witness to mornings following a fresh snowfall when every twig and surface is flocked in lacy white sweaters knitted by unseen hands?

There is beauty in the death that signals winter. Life yet to be discovered and savored with each icy breath, each crunching step. The cold months are a time of inner renewal, a time to explore and push ones limits and find splendor where others see only despair. Perhaps the sole purpose of winter is to serve as a test, a test of endurance, a test of appreciation, a test of imagination. Or maybe it is what I have called it all along; a gift.

The Art of Giving Thanks

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I am well enough aware that the internet and blogging community will be full of Thanksgiving posts speaking volumes on the origins and meaning of the Holiday. I will not try to veer from that theme but merely share my thoughts and memories about a the day we all gather to give thanks.

At 5am the motor fired up on Mom’s ancient meat grinder as she fed through it’s churning blades the various and unexpected ingredients for Grandma Lenzen’s German stuffing. I would pull the covers over my head in an attempt to drown out the incessant noise to no avail. Mom and Dad made preparing Thanksgiving dinner for the 6 of us sound like they were creating a feast for the 7 kingdoms. Dad would bark orders, Mom would scurry around the tiny kitchen dicing here, peeling there, stirring this, and mashing that. I watched, learned and then crept off to find the turkey coloring page in the newspaper while watching Macy’s parade on TV.

Then came the wait, and I’m not talking about waiting on the food. The wait for my sister and her husband to make the 30 minute drive to our house which seemed to take them 40 days and 40 nights. When they finally arrived, my sister would unpack her kidney shaped Tupperware container of 7 layer salad and I would go about the business of snatching off as many hard boiled egg slices as I could while no one was looking.

When it was finally time to eat, we all gathered around that old butternut table, said Grace, and dug in. Each flavor was one to savor, so familiar yet foreign in the fact that it had not been partaken of in an entire year. We ate until our eyes bulged then Mom wold bring out dented aluminum pans filled with desserts and we would eat again.

Dishes were washed and games played while Bing Crosby crooned in the background about a white Christmas. It was a cozy time, a time to soak in all the love and comfort that a small family shares. A time to make memories and to recall old ones to laugh over again. I miss those days.

Since being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, my mom can no longer commandeer the kitchen. Part, a huge part, of the Holiday cheer has vanished. The food doesn’t taste the same because her hands and her love are not preparing it. The memories are not as funny, home doesn’t quite feel like home anymore. Yet, time goes on.

Change is something we expect in life except when it comes to the holidays. We never want to see that picture postcard Thanksgiving or Christmas of our childhood to ever end. The holidays are the one thing we can still count on as adults to give us the wonder of being a child again. We look for Santa at the mall, we gaze fondly at brightly wrapped presents, we snatch colorfully iced cookies off of sugar laden trays, and we watch Christmas programs on TV just to capture the nostalgia of a time when innocence had not yet been lost to the demands of adulthood.

Like a time machine, boxes of decorations take us back as we unwrap memories with each ornament. We prepare food that has the flavor of times long past that allow us to cling to happy memories of moments that will never be again.

For me, the holidays may have lost a bit of their cheer but I give thanks for the memories I do have of a warm home, good food, and family. Although things will never be the same perhaps it is a sign that it is time to make changes of my own. To share the blessings, invite new members to my circle, volunteer more and give others the chance to expierece the holidays through my eyes. Giving thanks is not to be isolated to one day but something practiced the year over. The gifts of the season are not to be contained in boxes and stockings but to pour forth from full hearts and believing souls. So, on this approaching Thanksgiving I wish all of you the very best and challenge you to make one change in your routine that includes touching a life that might not otherwise have reason to celebrate. God bless.

Antlers for Supper

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“You can’t eat antlers!” My dad used to say to me when I was a kid and complained that no big bucks ever came our way. I was not impressed by shooting does, I wanted that big 30 point buck to come my way so I could prove to the world that this 11 year old was a force to be reckoned with!

Looking back on my dad’s simple wisdom, I see how much times have changed. Back in the 1960’s Dad would load up his buddies in a renovated school bus with questionable breaks and head out to Buffalo, Wyoming for their annual mule deer hunts. They didn’t go out there to bring home trophies, they went to enjoy the camaraderie of deer camp and to bring home meat to fill the freezer, and memories to fill the year ahead.

Black and white photos from back then often depicted A-framed structures lined with deer harvested. There were no photos of a guy and his 40 point, non typical, mineral fed, selective bred, food plot deer. Just photos of rangy men standing by decrepit shacks in red wool and tattered hats.

What changed? How did the age old tradition of hunting become so glamorized, so Hollywood? Is it the TV shows featuring people in perfectly clean expensive camo always getting monster deer without breaking a sweat? The female hunter has morphed into women on the screen so perfecty coiffed that they look nothing like the women in my life who grew up hunting. Meanwhile, guy hunters show up to events in bedazzled jeans. It’s all about the big show, who is better, who gets more ratings.

These days, it seem like the whole atmosphere of the sport has changed from fun and camaraderie to a cut throat competition over who can shoot the biggest deer. Social media is littered with images of guys and gals posing strategically behind behemoths of the forest so as to make them look even larger than life. It is all about the size of the rack and even that is not real anymore. Not even deer could escape man’s constant quest to alter nature and now there are whole industries dedicated to producing products to “enhance” antler growth to the point of absurdity. Selective breeding on deer farms is also a norm and people pay thousands of dollars to get the opportunity to bag “trophies” inside fences. Why?

Because it is not good enough anymore to be common, to be that redneck hunter in dirty, blood stained orange who hunts on instinct and the will of God. It is not “glamorous” enough to come home with your tag limit of does and a small (by today’s standards) buck to fill the freezer. The network and code of honor among hunters too has died in the sense that social media is filled with trolls waiting to pounce on anyone, man, woman, or child for shooting anything under 14 points. Hunting has become a competition to see who can bag the biggest and the best.

Is that really what it’s all about? I think not, but that is my opinion. I’m old school and to me hunting is all about the unknown. It is about going out into the woods and waiting for days and not seeing one deer. It is about freezing and sweating and pushing yourself and your patience to the absolute limit then going out and doing it all over again the next day. It is about no guarantees, it’s hard work, intuition and skill not gleaned from watching TV but from years of training, years of disappointments followed by years of victory. Gadgets and equipment can’t make a hunter, they may make things easier but is anything really worth having ever easy?

I have probably hit a nerve with this post and pissed some people off but I’ve never been one to mince words or worry about offending others. All I am saying is that we can learn a lot from those old deer camp photos. Namely that sometimes size doesn’t matter. Isn’t it supposed to be about tradition, bringing home stories, lessons, and if you are lucky, some meat for the table?

Hunter’s Remorse

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Too often, those of us who call ourselves hunters, are labeled as heartless beings who go about the forest firing at will, taking lives like robots with no feelings. We are ridiculed for harvesting animals for sustenance, attacked on social media for displaying our kill, and basically called killers. I would like to put all of those stereotypes to rest by simply stating that no true hunter enjoys taking a life. Last night I bagged a nice doe and a heartache. Perhaps my emotional turmoil is due to the fact that I am a woman, that I have many pets and love all animals, that two weeks ago I watched someone very dear to me take his last breath, that I keep picturing the deer in my head traipsing along the field road so sure of herself before veering up the hill towards me. The truth is, I have been hunting all my life and I deal with this every time I make a kill. One clean shot and a life ended instantly. I took a moment to thank my God and the animal for the life given and to ask forgiveness for being the one to end that perfect life. Today I am a mixed bag of emotions and I try to keep telling myself that there was a reason she came right to me but it isn’t helping. Does this emotional turmoil make me a better hunter? I think yes. Every time I go out in the field I am reminded of the seriousness of the task at hand. This is not target practice at the county fair shooting at stuffed clowns, this is a life. What people fail to realize is that some of us spend hours in our stands watching these animals in their homes going about their lives first-hand. We establish a connection to the land we hunt and the animals who live on it. We even go so far as to name deer who are frequently seen in our area. Then, when it comes down to shooting time we make the decision and a life ends. In my case, the hunt is done to obtain meat that will last me the entire year and to control herd populations. No matter how I justify it, however, the fact remains that I snuffed out a precious life. With all this being said, why do I do this year after year? I do it because it was a tradition in my family, because I thrive on pushing myself out in the woods to handle extreme weather and terrain, because deep down I know that those animals were put on this earth for sustenance, and because I feel better about consuming something that was taken without being pained or tortured in a slaughterhouse. Hopefully this will make some of you reevaluate your thoughts on hunters and hunting in general. Yes, there are those out there who do not feel the emotions I do when hunting. So much is their loss to not be able or willing to understand that it is more that just bringing home a trophy to show off, it is about playing a responsible role in the circle of life

5 Hour Wait

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5 hours might as well be 5 days or even 5 years when you are waiting to partake of the savory stew that has been permeating every corner of the house with its mouth watering scent.

When I was a child, I remember my Mother making this stew on the coldest day of the year when all you wanted to do was wrap frigid hands around sturdy stoneware bowls containing the fragrant concoction.

Mom’s 5 hour stew was a masterpiece of simple ingredients, seasoned ever so slightly so as not to take away from individual flavors but rather make each one stand out even more flavorful.

Joanne’s 5 Hour Stew (Adapted for Crock Pot Preparation)

1 beef or venison roast cubed

1 can of good dark German beer

2 1/2 cups homemade beef stock

1 Tablespoon minced garlic

1 large onion diced

1 14oz can crushed tomatoes

6 carrots scraped and roughly chopped

4 medium potatoes roughly chopped

1/4 cup fresh parsley minced

4 stalks of celery with leaves chopped

1 teaspoon oregano

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

Salt and pepper to taste

3 Tablespoons granular or thickening Tapioca

Brown all sides of the cubed meat in a frying pan. Place meat in crock pot. Pour beer into frying pan stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan to loosen all of the meat bits. Allow beer to reduce down by 1/4. Pour into crock pot and add remaining ingredients. Cook on high for 5 hours. Switch to low and cook an additional hour if meat is not as tender as you prefer. Add 1 cup of fresh or frozen peas that have been thawed prior to serving, heat through.Serve immediately or wait until the next day when the flavors really start to come out.

If you choose to make it in your oven the cooking time is 5 hours at 350°

Lost or Found

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Lamenting on the events of the past week and the topic of “loss” in this blog post.

We often say “Sorry for your loss” by way of condolences at funerals. Yes, the loss of a life is something to mourn but as I was standing in the receiving line at a funeral for someone very dear to me on Saturday I wanted to yell “Stop being sorry!”

Perhaps I am I bit eccentric in my way of thinking, but I was not feeling a loss. I was feeling inside of me what can only be described as gratefulness that I was blessed to have this,man in my life for however short a time it was.

To me, loss is when your glasses go missing or a tooth falls out and you keep worrying the area constantly conscious of something being missing. The absence hinders you but eventually you adapt.

I could say that last week was the absolute worst 7 days of my life because one minute I was feeding a man, who was like a father to me, an omlette in the hospital and the next  I was watching him take his last breath. The reality is, I was crushed, saddened, angered, hurt, lonely, panicked, and feeling like my world had collapsed. Once I got over the initial shock of it all my mind started playing slides of our times together. I could see his smile, hear his voice, and the memories wouldn’t stop. Maybe, the storage of memories is the mind’s way of protecting itself in moments like this when such profound saddness threatens to snap that single cord of sanity we all so desperately cling to. The flashbacks remind us of happier times and we are filled with the warm glow of events long passed relishing each memory like a child watching a favorite movie.

The memories also remind us of how blessed we are when certain people enter our lives who are worth mourning when they are gone. People who love us as we are, who teach us life lessons, who take our hands in time of need, and take our hearts when we vow never to love again. The passage of those lives through the pathways of our own adds color, clarity, vibrancy, new ideas, new ways of doing things, and new ways of viewing ourselves and the world.

We gain more than we could ever lose in these situations because we are left not with an empty heart but a full soul, a scrapbook overflowing with the simple blessings of just living and letting others in, if just for a moment to touch our lives.

Yes, there is immeasurable pain when someone we love dies but there is also immeasurable joy to be found in the simple act of calling upon memories created and lessons shared. As for loss, the way I see it is that the sense of loss is simply a fear that we will return back to the person we were before our lives were changed and enriched by the person who is no longer with us. We fear we cannot be strong on our own, that we have lost our reason to keep up the fight when indeed we have only become tougher and more able to face the challenges ahead.

With all of this being said, I hope those of you who take the time to read my ramblings will stop for a moment and realize that when something good goes away in your lives it is not a loss but rather the time to reflect on how much better your life became thanks to that one person or event. Be grateful and not mournful of your blessings however long or short their duration and look forward to what lies ahead. Death does not stop time for those left behind, it simply makes time that much more precious.

 

Once in a Lifetime

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FB_IMG_1471138809076         So often we lament about how short life is and how we need to strive each day to add quality to the time we are given. We vow to take more time for family, adventures, and all those things that make us truly happy before it is too late. We also look back in regret at all the moments lost and things we failed to do in the past. If I have one single regret, it is that I did not meet my black lab Deshka sooner so that we would have had more time together.

Deshka was a gleaming barrel chested lab with a heart of pure gold and a penchant for popcorn. Her instinct to excel in the field was born of years of field trial breeding that ran through her veins. When I met her I had just entered a new relationship and she was part of the deal, the best part. At nine years old she had already bore two litters of pups and was struggling through a bout of Lyme’s Disease which had slowed her down considerably. Her joints were sore, her gait slow and painful, and her eyes betrayed the agony she attempted to hide from me. Her usual favorite sleeping spot under the coffee table began to collect dust as she was unable to contort her body to fit beneath it due to her illness. I lost a season of duck hunting with her that year but by the following fall she was chomping at the bit to get out to the marsh; all pain a distant memory.

It was the greatest fall of our lives. Ducks were in abundance and Deshka was a machine on the water. From her grassy point she would survey the sky like a soldier standing watch for the enemy to approach. Many a time she spotted sneaky teal before I even noticed them and would give out a sigh of exasperation every time I missed a shot. I could almost imagine her rolling her eyes and requesting a new hunting partner. Retrieve after retrieve she never showed a single sign of slowing down and almost majestically, she would come up out of the water, a duck clamped firmly in her mouth, as the early morning sun shone off her red tinted coat like a polished gem.

Her beauty and gentle soul was second to none. I recall being sick for days at a time and she would only leave my side to eat or go outside. I called her “Mamma Bear” for the simple reason that she was so big and comforting like a mamma black bear with her cub. Deshka was my best friend, my confidant, my protector, and my favorite hunting companion.

When I received a call from a friend who was watching Deshka one Friday in November, 2014, I was unprepared for the news that she had passed away at the age of 13 in her sleep on her bed. I was devastated. No, devastated is not the right word. Is there a word to truly explain the feeling of such profound loss that it is like losing a limb, like having your heart deflate in your chest because the very thing that filled it is gone?

I cried for days, I looked at old pictures, I fell apart over the very clumps of her wayward fur that used to frustrate me when they littered the floor, and I agonized over all the times I let her down when she wanted to play or go for a walk. Sometimes I would even imagine that I heard the sound of her claws tapping a staccato beat across the floor to her water dish. I could still feel her weight against my leg as I sat alone on the couch trying to figure out what I would do without her. I am not ashamed to say that I was a wreck.

As they do, time and fate intervened and two weeks after Deshka’s death the opportunity arose to purchase an 11 week old female Polar Bear English Lab. One photo from the breeder was all it took and no three hour drive in a snowstorm would stop me from getting her. My first glimpse of her was love at first sight. An almost white, pot-bellied pup with eyes so compelling that everyone who met her would say that they made her look like an old soul. I named her Freyja after the Norse goddess of love and now, at 3 years of age she is as faithful a companion as anyone could wish for. While she lacks the drive and concentration out in the marsh that Deshka displayed, and she has her “blonde” moments, she remains a blessing and much-needed balm after such an incredible loss.

Not many can understand the bond people like myself have with their pets. My pets are not mere animals, they are invaluable members of the family, irreplaceable and unconditionally loved. They add purpose and quality to each and every day. Most importantly, they have awakened my heart and soul to the concepts of love, loyalty, and companionship in their purest forms. There is a saying by Anatole France that sums it up “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” No truer words could be spoken. Deshka gave me the love and companionship of a best friend and I cannot look at a bag of popcorn without the memories rushing back along with a smile. She was a once in a lifetime kind of dog and she will always have my heart.

1001 Ways to Make Chili

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FB_IMG_1509416495913       A recent conversation, or perhaps a friendly debate would be a more appropriate term, with a friend of mine involved the “correct” way to prepare the popular dish known as Chili, inspired this post. Delving deeper into the topic, I found out some interesting facts about a dish that has made its way to the top of the list of American comfort foods.

Notations dating back to the 1850’s mention bricks made of suet, dried beef, and chili peppers that were boiled in water on the trail as a staple in the southwest.

The 1892 Worlds Fair in Chicago included the San Antonio Chili Stand which served to further popularize the dish and in the 1970s Chili was made the official dish of Texas.

With all that history, the original recipe had to have gone through many many mutations depending upon the cook preparing it. These days Chili cook-offs are widely popular as people from all walks of life compete to prove that they have indeed come up with the perfect combination of ingredients to create an award-winning recipe.

Is there just one flawless way to prepare Chili? I think not, but just in case I am wrong, here is my “Perfect” Chili Recipe.

2lbs ground meat (I use venison)

1 large onion minced

1 Tablespoon minced garlic

2 Tablespoons taco seasoning

1 large jar of salsa

1 can 14 Oz stewed tomatoes

1 large can tomato sauce

2 cans chili beans in sauce

1 Tablespoon smoked pepper sauce (I use Hickey Bottom brand)

Chili powder to taste

1/8 teaspoon black pepper

2 Tablespoons brown sugar

1/4 cup ketchup

Brown ground meat with onions and garlic. Add taco seasoning and 1/4 cup water. Simmer until water evaporates and meat is well coated in seasoning.

Combine all ingredients in a large pot and simmer on med/low for one hour.

Serve topped with Fritos, sliced scallions, sour cream, shredded cheddar, or your choice of toppings. Enjoy!!

Frugal to a Fault

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Palms sweaty, I stare at my computer screen as my heart races and that little voice inside my head screams “NO!!!

I hit “Submit” and watch my order zoom off into cyberspace to be delivered “On or before November 7th.”

What have I done??!!! Did I not take into account how many hours I will have to work to pay off this “extravagant” purchase, didn’t I think about how I will have to scrimp and save until the next paycheck, or how I could have gotten by with my old ones for one more year?

I did it, against my will, I went ahead and ordered a new pair of waders. Good grief, I’m still shaking!!

I know this all sounds melodramatic at the least, but you have to understand the mindset of a broke, stubborn German, frugal duck hunter. I had my current waders for 14 years. They saw me through the best hunts of my life. Through thick and thin, sunny Indian Summer days and days cold enough to freeze the devil right out of his sauna.

My waders became part of me, an essential tool, a reliable partner in the swamp, my security blanket. But the frustration of patching them every weekend this season with wader sealant that cost an arm and a leg finally pushed me over the edge.

I simply went online, found a pair that matched all of my needs for warmth, comfort, dependability; hell, with all the criteria I expected from my “perfect” waders I sounded like someone signing up for Match.com! But, I want something that will last, something that will see me through the best of times and the worst of times, something I can count on, simething that will fit me like a glove…in a wader of course!!

All my musings and criteria aside, I settled in 1600 gram insulated 5mil, reinforced knee, quick snap suspender chest waders. An upgrade of sorts.

Yet here I sit admonishing myself for the money spent. $140 in all on a pair that formerly cost $300. Did I make a wise decision? I think so because now at least I won’t be dealing with something that has been patched up more times than Michael Jackson’s face so that’s gotta count for something right?

But, knowing me, I will be lying awake in bed making lists in my head of all the ways I could have stretched the life of my old waders, how many groceries I could have bought with that $140, how new ones will never be the same, and worst of all what if my old waders were a good luck charm and now my hunts will all be cursed?? Argggg!!

Oh the life and drama of a cheapskate with a penchant for hunting!