Although rewarding and relaxing, spending so much time outdoors alone has its downsides. No one believes the crazy things I see, like the deer and turkey that were fighting each other over territory and then ran away like two children. I often struggle to manage routine tasks, like setting up a blind, due to the fact they are not meant for solo assembly when you are 5'2". Finally, solo hunting and fishing makes me constantly problem solve how on earth I'm going to fix a new disaster or, as was the case recently, figure out how to do something I really don't want to do but have to because, hey, there ain't no one else around, sister.
     My whole life, one animal has been my constant Achille's heel. Mice? No problem. Rats? I had them as pets. Try again. Spiders? Nothing a well-placed shoe can't take care of. June bugs? Getting closer. More about those prehistoric nightmares later in the summer. But the one creature that instantly makes me want to vomit, wet my pants, and run away screaming all at the same time is a miserable, slithery snake. Just thinking of it made my stomach roll.
     Yes, I understand snakes are a valuable part of the ecosystem, and they are vital to controlling rodent populations. The environmentalist in me recognizes this fact; however, the irrational human being deep inside me that pictures all snakes coiling up like springs and launching themselves at her says I don't care. As long as I don't see them or know they are around, we can happily coexist. The second one slithers into view, all I can think is "burn it! Burn it with fire!"
     My intense hatred for all things serpentine clashed with my desire to be outdoors alone in an ugly fashion when I checked my crawdad trap recently. There, woven into the netting like a watery nightmare, was a snake. Now, I have no idea how to tell apart venomous snakes from nonvenomous snakes and frankly, anything with a forked tongue may as well be a copperhead snake, because I run away with the same gusto no matter what. But running away wasn't an option because, as usual, I was flying solo and there was no one within a reasonable driving distance to come help me.
     The battle was quick but intense. There was no way the snake was going to be able to be removed humanely from the trap; edema had set in and I could see there was no way I could pull it free from the netting. Faced with the realization that I was going to have to put the snake down, I scrounged around the closest shed, found a pair of old garden pruners, pinned down the snake's head, and used my fillet knife to finish the job. And then I ran away.
     Once the urge to dry heave stopped, I surveyed my work. The decapitated snake surveyed me right back. It continued to snap and strike in my general direction for far longer than I believe is natural, which confirms that all snakes are evil incarnate. But as I pulled the body from my trap and instantly flung it down the bank, I felt a feeling of accomplishment. With my big girl britches hiked high, I rebaited my trap, tossed it in the water, and gave a ridiculously wide berth around snake parts A and B on my way to less terrifying fishing waters.

     For most people, the arrival of summer means cookouts, vacations, and gardening. For me, it means a break from the never-ending struggle of not being able to have my bow at my home. As a teacher, schools tend to frown on having weapons in vehicles, and my school is 30 minutes away from my home, but only 10 minutes away from the bow shop. To solve the problem, a friend of mine was gracious enough to let me keep my bow and targets at his place throughout the school year to save me miles on my car. Summer vacation started two days ago, and with the settling of my bow in its 3-month resting place, I set out Jake in the yard tonight for my first at-home practice.
   To be honest, I've neglected my shooting a little bit over the past two weeks. And by a little bit, I mean completely. I went to the bow shop one evening with all intentions of practicing, but it turned into social hour instead. Whoops. All the excitement of fishing, learning to fillet (finally!), and attempted crawdad trapping has pushed practice to the back burner, but that stops today. Oh, and having a WORKING rangefinder should make things go a little easier in a new practice spot--thanks, Amazon! If I'm going to sign up for any ASA competitions this summer, I have to get serious about shooting.
     I set Jake up in the backyard, with a small berm of soil at his back to catch any errant arrows that don't find home. Thank goodness for that backstop, because looming directly behind my target are two grain bins, just poised to blow up any arrow I send too far out of the way.  I live in the middle of prairie country, so the wind was a new factor to contend with, but I'll chalk up the frustration to good real-life field practice.  Drawing back felt so good, and hearing the thunk of field tips sinking into foam at 20, 30, and 40 yards complimented the sounds of birds in the trees at my back. It's not quite as pretty of a practice site as at my friend's house, but it will do in a pinch and is right out my back door.
     One side perk of shooting at home is that I got to give my first lesson. My husband, who is not a hunter, wanted to give shooting a try, so I gamely walked him through the steps and tried to adjust him as best as I could considering I was teaching someone to shoot on a bow that was at least 4" too short in the draw length department (not to mention the out-of-proportion peep sight and release). We had success, and he has a new appreciation for how difficult using a bow really is. After a 45-minute practice, I relished the short walk to the house over the 15 mile car ride and started eyeballing the second-story bedroom window as a potential way to practice adjusting shots for altitude. I think I need more targets!

Grabbing this little guy off the shelf at Bass Pro was the best accident I've made so far in my novice fishing adventure. It stinks up my tackle box like no other, but it drives the bass nuts. Three fishing outings using these soft baits, and I'm ready for a new pack. However, this success got me thinking...what if I fished with the real deal?
     To be fair, I decided to embark on my crawdad adventure after a random conversation about having a crawfish boil...which led to some online shopping (naturally), and two clicks later, Amazon was shipping me a crawfish trap direct to my door for the low, low price of $15.99. Crawdads (or crayfish/crawfish/mudbugs, depending on what part of the United States you hail from) are freshwater crustaceans that look like tiny, angry lobsters, and feed off of fish and plants in many ponds, ditches, streams, and swamps. You can tell if your pond is host to these little beauties by the characteristic mud "chimneys" they build around the pond's edge as they burrow into the waterline just below the ground. The bass and catfish love them, and since our family ponds are blessed with these little water bugs, I thought I'd give trapping a chance.
     Crawdad traps are supposed to be baited with the oily heads, guts, and tails of fish native to the pond where you are trapping; however, since I still don't know how to clean a fish, I've had to resort to using cheap hotdogs in my trap. I figure a package of $0.99 hotdogs probably has the same ingredients as oily fish heads and tails, so I should be good there. I picked out a shallow spot with good brush cover, weighed my trap down with stones, and tied it to the bank to restrain the onslaught of crawdads I was sure to catch from dragging my trap into the middle of the pond. Job done, I planned to wait 24 hours before dragging in my catch.
     I managed to wait the full day to check the trap, but that meant I had to duck in between graduation parties in a dress and heels and gingerly make my way to the pond like the classy lady I am. Nothing. Not even one measly mudbug. Disgusted, I replaced the trap and stomped my way back to the car. What can I say, I may struggle with setting realistic expectations.
     Giving my bait one more day to work, I checked the trap this afternoon. Progress! Two teeny bluegill helped soothe the frustration of being blanked -again- by the crawdads. I'm scouting for a new site and freshening my bait, because I'm not going to let the crustaceans win. It's starting to get personal.

   For my first turkey season, I prepared in true type-A gold personality form. I bought a Knight & Hale mouth diaphragm call and practiced constantly while driving, to the annoyance of my passengers and the entertainment of other drivers. I streamed Cabela's Spring Thunder nonstop, watching how seasoned hunters bagged big birds. I spent hours in the bow shop, learning to identify toms from jakes from just the shape of their fans. My turkey target had field tip holes from 20, 30, 40, 50, and even 60 yards. My blind was set, my camo was ready, my tags were in hand, my decoy was arranged just so. I was going to kill all the turkeys.
     Due to my work schedule and Illinois' restriction on turkey hunting after 1 pm, I was limited to weekend hunting only. That first Saturday, I was up well before dawn with my rangefinder in hand and my hunting buddy at my side. We made it to the blind in a respectable time, and after ten minutes, I tested out my first call. "Yerk yerk yerk yerk." One gobbler answered. Then another, and another. Jackpot! I spotted one big tom as he entered the hayfield where I was hunting, on the far end, about 200 yards away. For an hour and a half, I worked this bird, making sounds I hoped resembled a turkey more than the spit-shooting screeches I was prone to produce from time to time. He must have found my calls acceptable, because he continued to blow up and work his way in closer, dragging his hen with him the entire way. Eventually, she split off and bedded down, but he kept coming in. Eighty yards. Sixty. He was in range, but still moving, so I pulled up my big girl britches and made myself wait. Forty. I clipped on my release and shushed my sister, who was just as excited as me. Twenty. I drew back and fired. 
     That bird flipped in the air just like on all the videos I had watched, feathers blown out the side as proof that yes, I really did make contact. He limped away, but I wasn't worried--didn't that one guy on that one episode have to track his bird an ungodly distance before finding it in a ravine? What I didn't anticipate were the three jakes that came charging in, pushing my wounded bird off into the neighboring field. Crap. I mentally marked the spot where they went, picked up my arrow and feathers, and began looking for my trophy.
     Two hours later, I came up empty handed. In my heart, I realized the shot was low, wounding rather than killing, probably due to the new mechanical broadheads that I had to have but didn't have the time to practice with in advance (I know, I know, rookie mistake). However, it was officially the first time I had hit a live animal with my bow and managed to not lose an arrow in the process, so there's always a silver lining. My luck dwindled each successive weekend, calling in birds but never getting as good of a shot as that first one. However, the experience of working so hard for my shot was thrilling, and you can bet I'll be pulling a tag for the fall season. Until we meet again, gobblers. 

    #TrophyTuesday: a way for hunters and anglers to share great memories from the field and pond through social media. If you're a Twitter person, @AverageHunter hosts this hashtag, and it's worth the search. I didn't anticipate this morning that I would actually have a #TrophyTuesday...sort of.
     I've always had outside dogs, until this past year. Age finally caught up with my sweet pups, and both had to be put down. I haven't been able to fill the void, and slowly, varmints have started testing the boundaries at home. A raccoon here, a 'possum there, and now my homestead is being targeted by invaders looking for a free meal and warm places to pop out babies. I'm under attack, and this morning, I had to strike back.
     I'm a teacher, so mornings start early, and as I padded around the house at dawn, my husband sounded the alert. 'Possum, due east. I grabbed my shotgun (conveniently placed next to my dresser for easy access), tossed on a robe over my jammies, and headed outside. The biggest 'possum I'd ever seen was lumbering across my lawn, dragging her belly in the grass like a barge full of corn on the Illinois River. I pulled up, took aim, and shot high from 45 yards. Crapstick. Shot #2 found home, and I was feeling pretty good about myself and my homeland defense program, all before 6:30 am. 
     Not many people would consider an opossum a trophy, but when it means I don't have to worry about a nest with 1,000 babies in my garage, I'm pretty pleased. If we could just come to an understanding and they would kindly leave a "no-fly zone" around the house, I'd appreciate it, since they help curb snake and insect populations without carrying rabies, but they just won't take the hint. Until they do, I'll have to stay on the ready--or just break down and get another pup.

     You can only fly solo for so long before you need a sidekick, and my Sunday Funday buddy was my sister as we hit the trails at Seven Hills Archery for some outdoor 3D shooting. The bow shop guys had been waiting on me, apparently, because we took some gentle ribbing when we signed in that they were worried we weren't coming. I may have cut it a little close managing my time to get there--whoops!
     Seven Hills is an outdoor archery club outside Bushnell, Illinois, with monthly shoots open to the public. I stumbled across them during my winter indoor league and gave it a try on opening weekend in April. A range finder is a must as you travel a 30-target course, varying in elevation, terrain, and species to shoot. My personal favorite is a bear, suspended on a track, that swings at you as you shoot, but the over-the-creek shot at stop #30 is pretty sweet, too. My nemesis is the badger, usually at stop #9--that little jerk's 10-ring is the size of a penny.
     We could not have asked for a better day, with birds chirping and the sun shining just enough to be beautiful without sweating. Sammy kept score (and kept me honest) through the course and even took a few photos. Her favorite part is the Dairy Queen stop at the end, but after shooting a 209, I was pretty happy as well. The only fly in the ointment was my fickle rangefinder, which works about 40% of the time on a good day. Thank goodness I have Amazon Prime--someone just ordered herself a new Bushnell as a graduation gift. 

     Yep, just another day on the pond for this girl. At this point, casting into trees is expected; it's not a matter of if it will happen, it's a matter of how often and how many lures I will lose. This little topwater frog has seen more hang time than Michael Jordan and keeps coming back for more. Thank goodness for rubber boots and a shallow pond shelf, or we may have parted ways for good yesterday. Its buddy, hanging in the oak at pond #2, wasn't so lucky.
    I hadn't fished this pond since I was a little kid, setting bank poles for catfish and flipping bobbers for bluegill with grandma. It was the first pond my family built, damming up a steep ravine to make a teeny slice of heaven so good the fish can't be tempted to bite. It was just me and the wood ducks for a good two hours while I experimented with a half dozen lures and baits in my bag. Dad swears there are monsters in there, but the only fish interested in my goods were the three small bass infatuated with a soft crappie lure. But I tied on a heck of a wacky worm, so that's a resume builder.
     Even though the fishing wasn't great, the scenery was out of control and it was hard to pull away to move to the big ponds. Thank goodness I did, because the big bass were biting hard and I pulled in four fatties in quick succession--not a single one less than two pounds and one weighing 3.5#. It was a nice enough fish that my friend, who generously offered to do some backseat fishing/heckling for me in the evening, dove in to snatch it up when the crayfish lure pulled free at the bank. No slabs for the freezer (mainly because learning to fillet is still on the to-do list), but I blame that on fish that were just too big to butcher. Dang!
Fish count: 7 bass, biggest: 3.5# 

     Sixteen years is a long time to do anything. There's a reason there are term limits on our most important government positions--after a while, it's like you're adding milk to weak gravy to stretch it over those last servings rather than do the work of making a whole new batch. I've been taking college classes for sixteen years, and today, at 5:30 pm, I will be done, done, done.
     This is my third degree; my undergraduate from the University of Illinois in agriculture education took four years, my first master's in educational studies from Western Illinois University took seven, and my second (and final) master's in educational leadership from WIU took two and a half. As I like to tell my students, life's a bridge and I'm SO over it. 
     My family doesn't believe me that I'm done with school for good, but my name's Lou and I'm all through. Now the challenge will be to prevent filling the hole where classes used to be with other work and keeping myself to the promise to actually enjoy life a little. In my mind, there's a little hole scooped in the sand of my life, and now I'm going to have to bail like hell to keep it empty. Somebody better get me a bucket, and fast.
     Now, I can't promise I'll stop taking opportunities to learn things.  There's a nifty QDMA Stewardship I seminar that has caught my eye, and I could always use a night class for some Photoshop training. However, whatever I do will compliment my new life plan rather than detract​ from it. With degree in hand, I officially declare my new major to be Outdoor Recreation. I just hope I can pass the final!

     Three weeks.  The text message said I had been gone for three weeks.  When your bow shop pro sends a message that he hasn't seen you around lately, you either a) realize you've spent too much time at the range and reexamine your priorities or b) burn a beautiful afternoon outside to go visit the man that takes REALLY good care of you.  I (wisely) chose option b.
     I never thought I would be the kind of gal spending her evenings on a wooden bar stool, swapping turkey hunting stories and sorrows while debating the merits of trail cameras with men who have forgotten more about hunting than I could ever hope to absorb.  In October 2015, the encouragement of a new friend and a $50 Barnett Vortex youth bow opened my eyes to what I was missing in the world of archery, and I was instantly, hopelessly, hooked.  Casual shooting lessons in the yard led to whitetail archery season, followed by throwing myself into a winter indoor archery league and, most recently, hitting the 3D archery circuit. My technique is better, my equipment is upgraded, and my draw weight just got jacked up another two pounds. Eight more to go before those whitetails come around this fall, and I'm practicing like mad to make my goal. 
     Best part about all this is I feel like I've truly found a hobby I love that is leading me to a better life. Work has always been my life raft, but it had become my life. I'm ready for something shiny and new that brings a fresh start to the next chapter in my life. And I choose to begin that chapter by walking through the bow shop doors.