Never Enough

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We say it constantly “There are never enough hours in the day.” Why? Because, for the most part, our lives are so inundated with a plethora of tasks we cannot possibly hope to complete in the waking hours we are given.

So focused we become on cramming as much as we can into one day that we fail to see the big picture. It’s like driving on an endless interstate at 100mph being so focused on the task at hand that we completely fail to see what lies to the left and right of that asphalt ribbon.

The truth is, at that very moment when you start to panic over all you didn’t get done you should really be admonishing yourself for all you failed to experience in your mad rush to complete an absurdly long to-do list.

Did you miss your child’s first game, your Mom’s birthday, a chance to sit on a dock and drop a line, a chance to truly live?

I get on my soapbox about this all the time for the simple reason that I see so many unhappy people in this world. Rich, poor, popular, young, old it doesn’t matter. The reasons could be many but I’m convinced the biggest contributor to dissatisfaction in one’s own life is the fact that (as the saying goes) we spend so much time trying to make a living that we forget to make a life for ourselves.

When my dad was putting in 14 hour days at work did you think he ever thought that Mom would get Alzheimers right at the moment when their lives had finally settled down enough for them to enjoy? Heck no! If he had perhaps he would have re-evaluated everything. Nothing is promised in this life, nothing.

I get asked all the time about how can I spend so much time hunting in the swamp or woods? My answer is simple. I disappear every weekend into the swamp because it is where I can shut everything out. Every disappointment, every frustration, every distraction, everything. I am left entirely alone with nothing but magnificent nature around me. No deadlines, no phones ringing, no to-do list and it is exactly why I am a happier person.

So, the next time you glance up at a clock and feel your heart tighten with dread because you still have a million and one things to do ask yourself this “Is all of this worth giving up so much of my life for?”

Happiness and a good life, my friends, are not a matter of how much you can pour into each day but how much you can get out of each day.  Instead of staring at a list of things to do in the morning, write a list of the blessing and experiences you had in those 24 hours. A life well lived is one that is treated like a gift and not a bunch of years to just get through.

Redneck Margarita

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Musing over hunts past as I prepare for another weekend of duck hunting I thought I would share another one of the articles I have written about my hunting adventures for you to enjoy!

 

Needles of ice were hitting my bedroom window, awakening me in darkness to the last day of the duck season 2004. The wind howled through the trees like some phantom hound on the trail of an unseen foe as I slowly extracted myself from the flannel warmth of my quilt piled bed. So simple it would have been to turn over and succumb to the warm beaconing fingers of slumber but this was it, the very last chance I had to redeem my season and savor one more day on the water that would have to last me the long months until the next opener.

By the time I was on the road, the world outside was covered in a sheet of ice. Old tires on fence posts reflected in my headlights like the sugar glazed donuts which fueled my early morning jaunts. The sky was dark and thick like the midnight coffee keeping me awake.

At the boat landing, fellow hunters were slip sliding down the ramp using kitty litter, sand, and old scraps of carpeting to obtain traction under bald tires. The water was churning ominous and black as I started the motor and braced myself against the onslaught.

I felt like Captain Ahab in a 14ft Jon Boat; my enemy not some leviathan of the deep but rather the petrified bodies of ancient trees laying just below the surface. Those who came before me had attempted to mark the watery Graves with driftwood and u-posts. Many a morning I would hear the steady whine of an engine cut short as an unwary boater hit those underwater threats.

Safe at my spot parked in a tattered frag, I battled waves that threatened to swamp my vessel as I attempted to produce some semblance of a line of diver decoys. A hodgepodge of repurpose and repainted decoys bobbed among rafts of slushy ice like some giant redneck Margarita. By the time I was finished setting up, my left hand was clamped frozen to the gunwale, my nose was left red and dripping like an old man eating chicken soup, and a layer of ice cloaked me from head to toe.

Settling in as best I could, the ice continued to pelt me, hitting the aluminum of the boat with a raspy beat. Then, right at shooting time it happened. At first I was frozen in place, not so much from the cold but from the pure shock one feels when bearing witness to a phenomenon never before experienced.

The sky suddenly darkened a shade, not from the storm but from countless dive bombing winged bodies. I sat transfixed as time stopped and everything seemed to move in slow motion like in those superhero movies where the character is not moving but all the things around him are circling minutely as the world explodes.

Divers were pouring out of the sky, landing on the uncertain water then lifting up to hover and land again. Snapping to attention, I regained my purpose and stood in awe as varieties of ducks I only dreamed of shooting were laying at my feet.

When the onslaught subsided, I was left in breathless wonder. I looked around me, pinched my arm to see if it was all just a dream then proceeded to knock the ice from my tangled decoys.

It was then that Mother Nature had her fun. As I was bending over trying to untangle some deaks, an especially large wave struck the boat with enough force to knock me into a frozen bath. Pulling myself out of the water I imagined that every duck in the sky was giving their version of the old high ball at seeing “The Mighty Hunter” do her imitation of the Swan dive.

Wrapped in a moth-eaten army blanket, I finished the day out and went home with my first full plumage shovler and bluebill. My limit was achieved that day in ducks and experience.

When I arrived at the landing I soon realized that I was not the only one who was glad that she got out of bed that morning. Fellow hunters were chattering and gesturing wildly about the fantastic morning we all had out in the storm.

In life and in hunting we have two choices: to either call off the fight due to rain or pick up our gear and soldier on. Life is not lived when we shy away from a challenge. Life is lived when we duck our heads into the storm regardless of the risks. Frozen feet, soggy waders, and tangled decoys are a small price to pay for a lifetime of memories such as this!

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Apple,Walnut, Wild Rice Duck Sausage

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Walking through an Autumnal forest is an experience akin to walking the sacred aisle of a holy sanctuary. Multicolored leaves litter the ground like the broken panes of a great cathedral. A hush falls over the landscape only to be broken by the rustle of foraging creatures.

So much is to be gathered from field and forest during this season of harvest and the following sausage recipe has been handed down through the generations of my family. Each kitchen in which it has been prepared has added ingredients but the basic idea remains untouched. A soul warming food made from that which the woods and water provide.

Apple, Walnut, Wild Rice, Duck Sausage

3 lbs wild duck meat

2 lbs ground pork or country pork sausage

3 medium onions chopped

2 apples peeled and chopped

3 cups unseasoned bread crumbs

1/2 cup raisins

Run these ingredients through a meat grinder then add:

1 teaspoon ginger

1/4 teaspoon allspice

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1 cup cooked wild rice

1/2 cup morel mushrooms cooked and minced

1/4 cup black walnuts ground into powder

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Combine well and chill covered overnight to flavor through.

Fry as  patties, bake as a meatloaf topped with rich ketchup, or put into casings as sausage.

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Chill Chasing Soup

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Do you ever have a moment when a particular smell, taste, or sound triggers a long forgotten memory? Perhaps you are at a restaurant and with one bite of your meal you are suddenly transported via palatable time machine to another time in your life.

This happens to me quite often, especially when I am on one of my weekend road trips and happen to stop at a small diner for dinner.

There are several menu items that seem to switch on the slide projector of memories in my head but none more so than a good sausage and cabbage soup. Us Germans refer to it as Kohl Eintopft.

I remember eating this soup as a child in a brown speckled stoneware bowl with a thick, oven warm slice of homemade German potato bread.

Kohl Eintopft

1/2lb of a good smokey bacon

1 ring of farmer’s sausage cut into 1/2″ thick rounds

1 large onion diced

1 Tablespoon minced garlic

6 stalks of celery with the leaves diced

1/4 cup fresh parsley minced

6 carrots peeled and chopped

4 potatoes peeled and chopped

1/2 head of cabbage shredded finely

2 quarts low sodium or homemade chicken broth

2 quarts of good stewed tomatoes

1 cup V8 juice

Salt and pepper to taste

Brown the bacon in a large skillet until crisp. Remove bacon from drippings and drain on paper towels. Leave 2 Tablespoons of drippings in the pan. Add onion, garlic, and celery to the drippings and saute until tender.

In a large pot combine the remaining ingredients and onion mixture. Add additional V8 juice and broth if there doesn’t seem to be enough liquid. Simmer on medium heat until the vegetables are tender.

In a skillet brown the farmers sausage on both sides. Add sausage to the soup and simmer a few minutes longer.

Serve garnished with dill and crumbled bacon.

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Traditions

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20171024_103609Many a time I am asked about how I got into hunting and my response generally is that I was born into it. The following is an article that was published that I wrote in honor of my mom and the legacy she passed on to me.

 

Black and white photos have a way of taking us back in time, as if the sepia tones have the power to soften our memories and lend a golden glow to that which once was. In the 1950’s my mom was growing up the youngest daughter of a poor farmer in Carver County, MN. No stranger to hard work, she also went out in the field trapping, hunting, and fishing. Not as a sport, but as a necessity.

As a teenager, she ran her own coon hounds and went fearlessly into the marsh to hunt ducks with her best friend Myra and an Ithaca shotgun. This is the woman who brought me into the world. A 5ft tall powerhouse with the spirit of a tiger and the heart of an angel. Now, when I look into her rheumy eyes and see the clouded confusion that the Alzheimers has lent to her gaze, I know without a doubt why hunting is such a huge part of my life. Each time I go out into the woods or marsh I think of that fearless young woman my mom once was, blazing a trail for female hunters in her own little way.

My need to hunt comes not from a desire to go home with my limit of birds but from a deep seated need to keep alive a legacy that was started on a small farm in West Central Minnesota. To get up before the sun and watch the sky give bloody birth to a new day, to feel the frigid air burning my lungs, to smell the scent of gunpowder as I take my first shot, to hear the ghost-like whisper of duck wings flying over me, and to taste the flavors that being in the outdoors lends to an ordinary Camp breakfast. These are the things that keep calling me back season after season.

These days I hunt a rich backwater marsh off the Mississippi River in Wisconsin. It has become a sanctuary, a place to leave behind the modern world and step into an untouched piece of the earth that is as healing as it is beautiful. One can walk for hours or just sit on a creek bank and watch as mallards and gadwall buoy themselves against the current, happily hidden in their wooded abode.

The hunting is unpredictable, as most things are, and I can go days without shooting a duck, yet, each time I leave a part of me stays behind. So I go back. I would go back every day of the season if I could to catch the sunrise, to feel the thrill of kamikaze teal teasing me with their sudden appearance and disappearance. Then, out of pure luck, the planets align and a small flock cups into the pocket where I am standing. Feet down, russet feathers ablaze in the early morning sun and the soft swoosh of the water as they land in front of me. Moments like this have the power of hypnotism, to blind you to your purpose as you stare dumbfounded for a moment before the adrenaline kicks in and you spook them off the water for a shot.

The hunt is not over when a duck falls, I take that flagging life into my hands and gaze down at the miracle of feathers and wings and thank the powers that I believe in for what was sacrificed, what was given. I give a prayer in honor of the bird, and to soothe my own soul and then I go home humbled. That is the way of the marsh, a circle that begins and ends day after day and those of us who are lucky enough to stand in the middle of it all are blessed in unmeasurable ways.

So, when someone asks me why I am a hunter, why do I want to crawl around the mud at 5am and stand out in the cold when I could be home in bed? I say give it a try once. Even if you don’t think you will like it, just go out there one time and tell me that you didn’t at least learn something about patience, appreciation for life, the wonder of raw nature, and a better understanding of your own self when you are removed from the modern world if only for a couple of hours. Hunting to me, is more than just bringing home bands and feathers, it’s bringing home memories and continuing a legacy started on that hard scrabble farm in Minnesota by my incredible mother.

Lessons from the Swamp

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I spend a lot of time in the swamp during the waterfowl season and my trip there this weekend allowed for some moments of reflection. To be honest, I learn something new about the world and myself every time I go out there.

On this particular trip I learned that, in a pinch, a garbage bag with a draw string works very well to line a leaky wader. Even better, a garbage bag with built in smellies like mountain flowers will freshen up musty leaky waders while keeping your feet dry at the same time!

My leaky waders aside, to be mentioned again later, I realized some pretty important things about life while on my pilgrimage to the swamp.

The ducks were flying, as usual, in the same frenzy that is typical of the morning flight. It is as if each one of them was late for an important meeting and were rushing off to their various destinations. It is at this time that my adrenaline kicks in and the blood starts pumping.

The excitement is palpable, how do I explain? For the non hunters out there it is something akin to driving a Maserati on the Autobahn, shopping at Neiman Marcus with a limitless credit card, finding out that Elvis is alive and lives next door. Anyway, I digress, the excitement is what keeps me coming back day after day rain or shine, through snow and ice. Why? Because it makes me feel alive. Simple as that.

The excitement is a double-edged sword, however, and can cause one to make grave mistakes afield. Much like life, if you hurry too much you are not going to get down on your barrel to focus on the target and follow through. This has been my problem on more than one occasion. You can’t just fire and will and hope for the best. You must take careful aim and never take your eye off the goal.

Another lesson involves, yes, my leaky waders. I have had them for 14 years now. They have seen me through so many memorable adventures and trying to make me part with them is like trying to make Linus give up his blue blanket. However, my waders have started to fail me. Last fall a red squirrel got into the garage and decided to remodel them into a corn crib for all the loot he hauled from the bird feeder. I opened a feed mill on what I dumped out of the right boot and proceeded to carefully repair the damage. I was good to go for the rest of the season.

This year is a different story. My patches are wearing patches and those patches are wearing patches. It is like a wader patch family tree! Yet I keep fixing something that continues to fail despite my diligent efforts. Hmmm! Life lesson, you can only fix something so many times before it is time to just walk away and try something new. I can argue with myself all day about how comfortable my old waders are, how many memories are associated with them, how they used to be so dependable, how long it will take to break in new ones, etc….. As you can tell I have been arguing with myself for a while on this! In any event, in life and in waders, sometimes you just have to endure the pain of trying something new rather than just settle for the same old unreliable.

So as I close out my post, I hope you all learned something besides the fact that I am long-winded, that I rent out my waders to woodland creatures in the off-season, and that the swamp gas may be getting to me! There are lessons to be learned every day even from a pair of leaky waders!

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Opening Day

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Perhaps it is a little ironic that a woman who is so determined to remain rooted in the ways of the past would create a blog; but here I am giving technology a go.

I begin on the premise that there are those of you out there who, like me, bask in the simplicity of a life not founded on the complexities of the modern world but rather on a basic design only found in eras past.

I grew up the youngest daughter of parents who clung fiercely to the German traditions of their ancestors while at the same time embodying the survival by hard work instinct which filled the veins of all settlers in America.

From an early age I was taught to hunt, fish, cook, preserve garden and meat stuffs in glass jars, sew, cut wood, build a fire, fix anything in a pinch,  and basically store all of the knowledge necessary to survive on my own in the absence of modern conveniences.

In this blog I will share with all of you a glimpse into my world through tales of my hunts, my fishing adventures, recipes handed down to me, my own German wisdom, and of course anecdotes on what it is like to be a goat herder.

My life is an open book and one in which I hope all of you can read with relish and perhaps glean new ideas from. It is my hope that at least one person who reads this blog will be inspired to embrace new things, to go out into the field and taste the flavors of the wild earth and find a part of themselves he/she never knew existed.

We are on this earth to learn and grow from each other and may this publication be a place where you can find new roots, new ways to grow, and eyes to see beyond your former horizons. Are you ready? I guess I am too!