I heard them coming far before I saw them. The tell-tale rustle of leaves in the tree line to my left broadcast the movement of some woodland creature, and as I continued to cast my line into the shallow water along the bank of Lake Argyle, I started guessing what might be working my way through the underbrush and hickory saplings.
     All of my fishing this season has been on private ponds with easy bank access and zero competition. Today's outing was different, and the whole family packed up and headed to the lake for some early Sunday fishing. As we jockeyed for space along the cattail-covered banks and competed for the best slab-netting setup, we quickly realized the fishing was going to be less than stellar. Our theory was confirmed by the half-dozen boaters trolling by, lamenting the lack of action on the water and wishing us luck with our bobbers and lures. The only part of the outing that was going as predicted was the heat and humidity, which had us shedding layers and reaching for sunblock before 9 am. 
     While I was on the cast, sweat, and repeat cycle, I started guessing about the animal headed my way. I was familiar with the incessant rustle of squirrels pestering me from the tree stand, and we had just released a juvenile raccoon just yards from my current fishing spot that had been robbing my parent's apricot tree at night. Last fall, I even had a coyote run practically into my lap before it scented me on the ground, but based on the amount of rustling I heard, I wasn't expecting something that large. Bowhunting had taught me the beauty of absolute stillness, so I sat tight to wait and see what was coming, since there was little to no chance of having a fish on anytime soon.
     What I never expected to see peeking up at me was a little brown face on a long, sleek body. At first glance, I thought the world's largest rat was headed at me, but as it emerged onto the bank with its mother and littermate, I realized I had a mink family on my hands...or rather, on my feet. Up to this point, I had only seen one other mink in the wild as it skittered across a gravel road, so I checked again; no hairless tail to indicate a muskrat, too small for an otter, wrong color for a weasel. The kits were blissfully unaware that they had encountered a human, and the mother was fairly unconcerned as well. As she surveyed me without fear, the babies ran up to my feet, sniffing my sneakers and consulting with each other in quiet mink chirps. I held my breath and quietly snapped photos, hoping they wouldn't notice my movements and run away or attack my ankles, for getting a rabies shot was not on my to-do list for the day. When they moved on down the bank, I reeled in my lure and ran back to the rest of my family to share the unbelievable experience. I believe my direct quote was "I don't even care if I get blanked fishing today, that was the coolest thing ever!"
     I probably shouldn't have said that last sentence, since I did turn up a goose egg for fishing for the day. Even after relocating to another lake, I was the only one who caught no fish; swimbaits and soft plastics just didn't compete with my mom's bucket of nightcrawlers. However, I don't really care; not only did I get to spend a beautiful day fishing with my family, but I scouted out two new fishing locations, experimented with a bunch of new baits, and had a once-in-a-lifetime experience to boot. Not too bad for a humid June morning.

     There is no denying the simple fact that I am not an overly lucky person. Now, Murphy's Law doesn't chase me around, torpedoing my every move, but Lady Luck just doesn't grace my presence very often. My sister can win $125 on a penny slot machine, and my friend can win a car off of a $100 raffle ticket, but my strand of luck tends to be more of the "oh, I found a peanut M&M under the seat of my car" variety. However, every desert gets rain eventually, and my patient adulting paid off handsomely this past week.
     June has been pretty challenging for me. Most teachers drop the mic and the grade book on the last day of school and run away fast enough to kick up dust in the parking lot.  Ag teachers, however, don't share the same luxury and spend most of the summer working and attending conferences and conventions. Until this past year, I had no problem with any of that, relishing the trips and hectic schedule. However, as the fish are biting and the Illinois weather is at its most beautiful, I'm foaming at the mouth to get outside, only to find myself stuffed into a suit in windowless rooms where I actually have to be professional and make decisions. Don't get me wrong, I love my job...but it's hard to take a #TrophyTuesday photo with a stack of financial reports.
     I was on week three of the travel circuit at our annual agriculture teacher conference. As a member of the board of directors, I had a little more responsibility than usual, and was more concerned that everything flowed smoothly than taking time to relax and reconnect with my Ag Ed family. On a whim, I tossed my name in for a door prize drawing of a Go Pro camera, knowing in my heart that it wouldn't come to anything, but the booth was on my way to my next meeting, so I may as well give it a shot. Folks...I won. I WON! Immediately, my thoughts turned to experimenting with filming my hunting and fishing (miss)adventures, so look for that on the horizon. I can't promise you will see anything good, but I can guarantee a laugh or two as you get to witness my flailings firsthand. As my friend so kindly pointed out, "now we can see all the deer you miss with your bow in real time!" Who needs enemies when you have friends, right?
     Winning the Go Pro turned my conference around. As I walked out the door after the last session with my suit coat over one shoulder and the camera under the other, I took a deep breath, knowing the only thing that stood between me and a long-overdue evening of fishing was a three-hour drive and a stop at Bass Pro. Maybe this is a sign that the 2016 hunting season will be a success, but for now, I'll kick off my heels and speed home, because I hear the bass are biting hard and I'm headed for the pond.

     I thought I was having hearing problems when my fishing buddy asked if I wanted to try dead lining for catfish. This comes from a tried-and-true, 100% bass fisherman who considers all other species subpar to the glorious largemouth. However, my sweet mother loves a good piece of fried catfish, so apparently exceptions can be made in the fishing world to bring back a treat for momma. The invite also made me realize that I have focused WAY too much on building a nice bass tackle box and was woefully unprepared for any other type of fishing. Folks, I didn't even have a single treble hook at my disposal. Pathetic, I know. Looks like I'm headed off to Bass Pro again!
     We set out to a friend's pond around 7 pm with two old poles and a bag of stink bait. As a kid, I had fished for cats with a regular hook, bobber, and chicken livers the color of pond scum that hadn't seen the inside of a hen for many moons. With this background, I was totally confused with the fishing rig we assembled: a swivel with two leader lines attached, one to a treble hook, and the other to a series of weights that I can't recall the name of, but probably should have paid more attention to for future reference. I learned to mash my wad of bait around the hook like the world's worst ball of cookie dough and cast into the water in a spot guaranteed to be teeming with whiskered beauties. And then the dead lining training began.
     Now, my buddy referred to this type of fishing as hand fishing, but where I live, hand fishing means sticking your unprotected digits into the murky depths, skimming along the bank to find a hole where a fish (or snake/turtle, if you are unlucky) may be tempted to bite on your wee fingers, hauling in a catch in the most manly of ways. I am not a manly fisherperson, so this type of fishing is NOT for me. What I did learn to do is also called dead lining, where you release enough slack in the line to hold it between your fingers, feeling for a bump in the line as a fish hits on (or takes) the bait. You then set the hook by jerking on the line, and then reel the fish in when you've made your catch. Sounds easy enough, but as usual, it takes me a while to get the hang of new things. We won't talk about that first cast that went directly into the weeds, or the number of times I set the hook on imaginary fish only to reel in a hook stripped of my bait.
     I couldn't believe how much more I could feel by not using the pole to fish. Not only could I feel every twitch as the bait skimmed the pond floor, but I felt bluegill tapping on my line in the water, as well as nibbles and strikes on the bait itself. My first catch was little more than a fry, probably all of 6" long and barely big enough to take the bait. I did far better with my second fish, a 2.5# female that took the bait all the way to her guts, so we had no choice but to clean her. I had no idea that catfish actually make noise, and as she croaked and flopped on the short walk back to the truck, I focused hard on not getting spined as I squeezed her slimy body, repeating "Do a good job! Do a good job!" with every step. My dad graciously gave me a lesson on cleaning catfish at 10:30 at night, and mom wound up with a nice hunk of meat for the pot, although I hear some people like the tail fin even better than the meat itself. I think I'll pass on eating fried fin chips, but I'm looking forward to my next night fishing experience to test out my new skills. Night fishing 2.0 is on the horizon, and I promise I'll be more prepared next time.

     Sometimes, all it takes is the reassuring thunk of an arrow in foam to make your day, regardless of if the shot was a 12-point ringer or a 5-point "participation ribbon" body shot. I have to be honest, people: I don't fail well, and I CERTAINLY don't fail well publicly. I prefer to make my mistakes in the quiet of my backyard rather than in front of others, and last Sunday I had to risk the certain doom of having strangers watch me stink it up at Seven Hills.
     I knew this could be an issue when I got a Facebook message from an archery friend. One simple line, "shooting at 7 Hills this Sunday at 8 if you are interested," brought both excitement (YES! CONTACT WITH OTHER HUMANS!) and dread (NO! I'M AN INCONSISTENT HOT MESS ON THE COURSE!).  But I'm not one to turn down a friendly offer, and I hadn't seen my archery buddy in a while, so I hit the road at 7:30 am to see how I would do.
     Things were looking pretty good as I pulled in. One club organizer had paid my entry fee in return for doing some soil testing, and I was toting a batch of homemade cheesecake for the guys running the course. Yes, it was already 82 degrees with a humidity level only seen in a sauna, but that's what everyone expects of a west central Illinois summer. However, I took a quick one-two punch to my confidence as I turned around: I was the last one of my group to arrive to shoot, and my group was far larger than I expected. Strangers were going to see me ride the struggle bus. Gulp.
     Two of the guys were regulars in the bow shop, but three others were new faces. After a quick round of introductions, we set off for the first target. I would love to say that my Bowtech and I performed flawlessly, but I believe the phrase "fair to middling" summed it up better. Aside from the occasional urge to puke a little and the fear that I had sweat through my shirt before we reached target #3, I managed to hit all the targets, even the moving bear that I had previously skipped because, honestly, I hadn't figured out how to run the damn thing by myself.
     I'm happy to report that I survived all thirty targets with no misses, and came away with some good tips:

1. I need more practice shooting uphill.
2. I need to actually study where the point rings are on the targets rather than guess.
3. I need to bring not just the rangefinder, but binoculars on the course (and all the cool kids call them "binos.")
4. I need to invest in a hip quiver. Immediately.
5. Even manly men look good with flowers behind their ears...unless they are poison parsnips.

I hope I get to shoot with the same group next month, and until then, I'll work on calming those nerves and picking a new recipe to share with my buddies, because I may not have a perfect shot every time, but I can make a mean pie, and that's almost as good.

     Spending the last few days baling hay with dad has been fantastic. Dirty, loud, and hot, but every time our tractors met in the field and we gave each other a formal tip of the hat, my heart grew three sizes in true Grinch fashion. However, I don't want everyone to think I'm neglecting my mother in my adventures, so this post is dedicated to her and our scum-busting afternoon.
      Our ponds have fallen to the scourge of summer pond scum. I swear, this is no ordinary scum; there is scum growing on the scum in places. You can't cast anywhere without dragging in a pile of slime, weeds, or some mysterious green plant with the texture of fiberglass. My weedless frog even drags in weeds. For the sake of all pond life (and my personal sanity), it was time to do some aquatic habitat management.
     My mother is very proud of her trusty paddleboat, and nothing makes her happier than taking a spin in the S.S. Minnow with a kiddie-sized fishing pole, "trolling" for whatever is biting as she soaks up the sun. However, for our mission, we commandeered the paddler, now aptly named the S.S. Pond Scum, to attack the scooge (mom's term for scum) on a hot afternoon.
     Mom has a bad knee due to a series of unfortunate events, so she was the chemical brains and I was the paddling brawn, even though she protested "its summer, I can't science today" in a very convincing manner. Many people try to kill pond scum with regular herbicides and succeed in killing everything in sight, plant and animal. Careful to avoid a scorched earth approach to pond management, we used copper sulfate granules rigged in the most hillbilly fashion possible--a pillowcase, circa 1980, with a Shrek pool float stapled to the top as a floatation device, secured to a wooden rake handle with a rope attaching it to our boat. Classy, but effective. After testing our handiwork gingerly in shallow water, we set sail, dragging our sack of poison behind us.
     The whole treatment covered only a quarter of the pond, but took probably five times longer than necessary due to the fact that the scum was so thick it actually clogged the paddles under the boat, halting our progress and forcing us to paddle backwards until the clog belched out in front of the boat like aquatic roadkill. At one point, I hopped ashore and grabbed a pitchfork to physically sling scum out of the pond, despite the protests from my mom of "don't stand in the boat, you'll tip over and drown!" (Safety Alert: the pond was only 20" deep, so her motherly concern was appreciated, but ridiculous. It was a very "you'll shoot your eye out" moment).
     Time will tell if our experiment worked. I'm brainstorming ways I could rig a floating rake to at least get some casting lanes open, because the two-week waiting period is enough to kill me. However, the S.S. Pond Scum did its job mightily, and hopefully it will be ready to go for a night cruise this weekend. The crappie are calling, and I have sparkly red Crappie Bites and a new rod and reel that are dying to be used.

    Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day--the Triple Crown of dates if you were born and raised on a forage farm. These three holidays are anything but vacations for hay producers; rather, they are calendar markers of when first, second, and third cuttings should be dropped, flipped, and baled to get livestock through the long Illinois winters. However, winter is far from my mind as the intoxicating smell of fresh cut hay baking in the June sun announces to one and all that summer is finally, officially here.
     I religiously hunt our farm's hayfields for deer (and now turkey); they never let me down, and with names like "Old Faithful" and "The Honey Hole," these stands and blinds are like money in the bank every season. Hunting and hay go hand in hand in my mind--if I lose an arrow, I worry about what tractor tire will get punctured while mowing. I debate when fields should be cut with my dad so that I have just enough cover on the edges for good concealment. My first bow hunting experience last fall was executed while wedged between two round bales in a field pinch point. In fact, my first ever hunting experience, many moons ago, was with my dad in one of our hayfields. We started with the best of intentions, but finished with an epic nap, killing only time while we slept in the fall grass.
     As I get more involved in hunting, I want to be more involved in the hay production on my family farm. I have always been part of the process, stacking square bales and riding on the tractor to keep dad company. However, riding isn't enough for me anymore, and I want to be prepared to take over the business someday, if needed. Better late than never as I took over the driver's seat for the post-Memorial Day cutting.
     Dad was eternally patient for my first go at mowing, even from the cramped back window "seat" of the International 986, our "newest" tractor. I felt the same fleeting panic when I took the wheel as I did the first time I picked up a bow, slightly overwhelmed at everything I had to pay attention to at once--gauges, PTO speed, contouring, cutting width, distance from the field edge, height of the mower, and most importantly, creating perfect windrows "so it looks nice and pretty if someone flies over in an airplane."  We chatted about mechanics and the finer details of mower operation, as well as noting the deer beds in the tall grass and spooking a new fawn from heavy cover. I won't pretend that my first experience was perfect, but it was far from terrible, and I think I managed to get a callback from dad for a second audition.
     Being behind the wheel gave me a new appreciation for what my dad does every summer, and the few hours we spent together in the tractor for my training session were fantastic. I get to move on to raking as soon as the hay dries, and hopefully it goes just as well. As we surveyed our field at the end of the day, two turkeys ambled into my neatly dropped rows and began picking over my work. Too bad they were out of range...and out of season.

     I fell in love with the place almost two decades ago, and it is still as beautiful to my grown-up eyes as it was the summer after I graduated high school. I have been returning to the singing sand beaches of Michigan City, Indiana every year, typically as a chaperone for my graduating senior students, teaching them to love the location just as my teacher showed me. Crossing the Indiana state line is the cue for my blood pressure to start dropping, and once I turn on Lake Shore Drive and see rows of candy-colored beach homes competing with each other both for architectural design and stunning lake views, the car (and my brain) goes on autopilot.
     This year was no different, and I had three wonderful days enjoying the companionship of my co-chaperones and treasuring the last trip with my seniors. This trip was particularly bittersweet, as my longtime teaching partner retired at the end of the school year, and the stay was part of our swan song together. However, we focused on the new adventures ahead, chatting about what the future would hold for us both while ankle deep in the sand at the edge of the lake.
     Between the sunscreen and sand, I managed to find time to relax and catch up on my reading. Quality Whitetails and Outdoor Life were among my top picks, and the Spring Angler 2016 catalogue from Bass Pro wound up with more tabbed corners than I care to mention, considering we stopped at the real deal on the way home and I was on a mission for a new rod and reel. As everyone else napped on beach towels or made their way bravely to the chilly water, I found myself ranging the seagulls in front of me for practice and eyeing the fishing boats on the open water, guessing what they were pulling in for their daily catch. Maybe my next trip will include some time for lake fishing, but for this year, I'm content to daydream at beach stop #7 and be thankful for where the current of life is taking me.