Noob [nOOb]: noun, slang: a person who not only knows very little about a topic, but has no will to learn any more about a particular thing. God bless Urban Dictionary for keeping my vocabulary current. I use the word noob very purposefully here, because after my first experience with poison ivy, I want no part of knowing more about any of it and will happily embrace the title of noob if it means the itching will never, ever come back.
     How I have escaped the dermatological hell of poison ivy (PI) for this long, I have no clue. Growing up on a farm, we spent our weekends in the woods, cutting trees for firewood and clearing brush for cattle pastures. My poor mother is practically a magnet for the plant; it seemed like she was always suffering from at least one itchy patch, and she never let us down with an annual outbreak that left her so swollen and red that she was almost unrecognizable, such as the Christmas we referred to her as Quasimodo after the chainsaw nicked a vine and sent poison sap spraying into her face. I know the "leaves of three, leave it be" adage, and aside from one batch of poison parsnip blisters that left quarter-sized scars on my arms in junior high, I grew up thinking I was blissfully resistant to PI.
​                                          I take it all back.
     I am now on the downhill slope of Everest, K9, and Kilimanjaro combined of my PI journey, wiser for the experience that I'm still convinced I could have lived a lifetime without. For those of you who can commiserate, or those of you still blissfully ignorant of what two weeks of torture feel like, I broke my experience down into six stages for your reading pleasure.
                                       Stage One: Oblivion
     At this point, I was blissfully unaware of what was coming down the road, lurking in the shadows, gnashing its terrible teeth. I wish I could say my suffering was triggered by a spectacular day of hunting and fishing, but in tracing the events of the last few weeks backwards, I realize I infected myself while doing chores for my parents while they were on vacation. Debbie Do-Gooder was too busy trying to clean up storm debris in a ditch to notice she had waded neck-high into a poison patch. What's that old adage--no good deed goes unpunished? From Ground Zero, I had about 36 hours of ignorance of what was coming. I think I caught a nice bass that night. 
                                        Stage Two: Denial
     "Wow, something really chewed up my ankles!" Because that is the only logical response I had as to why my legs were really itchy, with teeny bumps lacing themselves up from my feet to my knees. Denial lasted for a good long while--there should be some type of twelve step program for first-time PI sufferers to shorten this phase. After three days of scratching and watching my "bites" migrate from ankles to ears and everywhere in between, I finally accepted the fact that yes, I might have PI, but I swore it wasn't really that bad. I went to an archery competition in jeans and boots, for crying out loud. I was tough! I was outdoorsy! I would be fine!
                     Stage Three: Sweet Lord Jezus, The Ooze!
     Denial ended abruptly when the little bumps turned to full-on weeping blisters in clusters the size of my hand. Things stuck to me as I walked by--grass, cat hair, the occasional fly assuming I was rotting carrion, looking for a free meal. I sat on the front porch steps and watched rivulets of ooze course down my leg like raindrops on a windshield, scratching around the blisters and looking up home remedies for PI. Apple cider vinegar compresses. Goat's milk. Fels-Naptha soap. I found a new spot on my ear to scratch, and noticed I was leaving amber-colored drip marks on my socks. Enough was enough.
                            Stage Four: Shots! Shots! Shots!
     I do not go to the doctor. Period. It's not a phobia, I don't mind paying the bills. I just typically am healthy enough to not really need to go, other than routine maintenance, oil changes, and tire rotations to keep my vintage '82 model body running. So breaking down to call the doctor that I might need some help was a little on the tough side--not as tough as marching into the hospital and getting open-mouthed stares from other patients at my condition, but almost. As the nurse practitioner came in, she took one look, swallowed carefully, and said "well, that's a pretty severe case of poison you've got going on there, dear." I knew the treatment (steroids) and the topical (calamine lotion), but what I wasn't expecting was that my 'roids were going to be taken Jose Canseco style, directly in the bum. It's never a good sign when the nurse says, "this is going to hurt, honey." Over the course of the next week, my poor derrière received three doses to try to stop the incessant itching. I think the nurse inwardly laughed at each and every one.
                                    Stage Five: The Pariah
     Somehow, I was lucky enough to get PI during the hottest d@#* week of the summer to date, and the only thing that could hide my shame and keep my fingers from flaying my skin was to wear pants. PANTS. 24-7. I found myself explaining to strangers and friends alike my awkward wardrobe choices and tendency to sneak a scratch whenever possible. Shorts were out of the question for both personal safety (I had seriously considered taking a wire brush to my legs at one point) and for courtesy to others (my legs look a bit like they are covered in patches of hard salami). The antihistamines, taken in double doses, made me slip into a coma at strange hours, and the oral steroids probably made me less sunshine-y to be around than anyone will ever care to admit. The one time I did brave a pair of shorts to go fishing at my dad's farm, I received a startled expression from a friend I met in passing, who is also a nurse, trying to figure out what exactly had happened to me and whether or not my apparent flesh-eating disease was catching. The only one who truly understood was my long-suffering mother. Mom: I take back every joke, tease, and snide comment I ever made about your poison woes and promise to only laugh a little, on the inside, when it happens to you next. 
                                    Stage Six: Resolutions
     Well into week two, I am still not 100% poison-free, but the end is in sight. The itching isn't as intense, I can sleep all night long, and the blisters are a thing of the past. I've started buying Mederma and BioSilk scar repair treatments in bulk, thankful that I didn't really have fantastic-looking legs to begin with. My glass castle of "I don't get poison ivy, I'm lucky!" has been shattered to pieces, and I think I have most of the shards swept up neatly. From this point on, I do so solemnly swear...
       .....to look CAREFULLY before venturing into weed thickets.
       .....to avoid shaving at night after a day spent in the woods (not confirmed, but I have a hunch that contributed to the spread).
       .....to skip Stages One and Two, moving directly to three without passing GO and without collecting $200.
       .....to keep calamine lotion spray on hand, at all times.
       .....to grab my pole and get back outside tonight, because even though PI could probably be used as some sort of third-world torture device, it certainly hasn't stopped the fish from biting.

     "People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war, or before an election."  Well, after today, I'd like to add "and at 3D archery shoots" to this quote. It's a good thing we were wearing boots on the archery course today, not for the 1.5" of rain that came down at 8 am, but for the tall tales and smack talk that were piling up in the woods just east of Bushnell.
     I thought it was going to be just my friend/archery coach with me on the course at Seven Hills, which was fine since he had been "too busy" to shoot since March and I was looking forward to putting him in his place with all my practicing. I was pleasantly surprised when we pulled up and noticed two slightly damp guys from the bow shop waiting out the rainstorm in their cars. With our duo expanded to a quartet, we started slip-sliding our way on the trail to target #1, starting out just as polite and serious as you please on a soggy Sunday morning.
     It didn't take long for the day to unravel. Without our serious archery friend, who was at a competitive shoot in Alabama, our game faces dissolved into teenage hijinks and the shoot took a sharp left-hand turn in the maturity department. Not only did you need to be wary of the slick footing and mindful of your ranged targets, but you had to watch your back for the repeated tree shakings that would send a cascade of rain down your neck if you weren't paying attention. Target #2 brought the first miss of the morning (not mine, thank goodness), which we harped on for at least the next five stations. There was mocking, rain shaming, finger pointing, gear bashing...you name it, we flung it. And we all loved every minute of it.
     By station #14, we started upping the ante with trick shots, tossing out the traditional 12-10-8-5 ring scoring and opting for the all-or-nothing approach of "hit the bear's tail" and other minuscule parts of the target that would make serious archers frown. By station #25, we invented a new sport, Hot Yoga Archery, which had us sweating and doing 180 degree turns while standing on one foot to take shots from 30, 40, and 50 yards. Station #30 had us taking blind shots through the weeds, balancing on elevated platform railings, and shooting between stairs that were never meant for arrows to pass through. Top that off with running through mud puddles like salamanders and repeated "do overs" from one of our group members (again, not me), and we had the collective maturity of a group of 7th grade boys. And I couldn't have had more fun.
     After the shoot, we sat around, sharing hunting stories and photos, making plans for a private shoot with our pooled 3D target resources. One guy has fishing kayaks on Spring Lake, another has a pool, pond, and puppies. The third hunts in Arizona and offered to take us all scouting for Mulies that would put our Illinois whitetails to shame. I offered my pastry expertise in exchange for some wild blackberries, which are just now ripe and will be perfect in a cobbler. What can I say, I like to bake (zucchini bread was the treat du jour for the range operators today) and have limited other marketable skills. As we parted ways, two for home and two of us back to the course,  we exchanged phone numbers and promised to meet up again this summer, and I couldn't help but think it was the best day of group shooting so far, hands down.
     I should have quit while I was ahead. Trip #2 on the course gave me a whiff on a target and a glorious slip in the mud that left me facedown on the trail, bow in hand but unharmed. Thank goodness it only happened in front of one guy, because the ribbing from the whole group would have done me in. But I ended the day without any lost or broken arrows (the only one to do so, I might add), and my score was still good enough to beat my buddy.  In the end, that's all that really matters. 

     I wish I could report that our scum-busting project was a success and the pond waters are now crystal clear. Unfortunately, our chemical treatment seems to have just slowed the scum down, not stopped it completely. Like a zombie horde, it slowly advances on the pool of open deep water near the dam, fed by fertilizer runoff from the cornfield to the west. On the plus side, the narrow pond neck, choked with weeds, makes for a perfect spot to practice flipping frogs, if that type of fishing is your cup of tea.
     I'm not the type of gal to admit defeat easily, and I know the fish are still in there, biting happily under the weeds. If I can just push through the frustration of dragging in clumps of vegetation with every cast, I know I can catch a doozie. But wait...what if there is a better way to fish here? What if I commandeer the paddler and try fishing offshore?
     I loaded up the little paddleboat one summer afternoon, the first I had free after spending a month on the road for work. Sunny and 75 degrees, with just a few clouds skittering across the deep blue sky, the pond couldn't have looked prettier (minus the green ring of slime around the circumference). Stocked with lures, soft baits, two poles, sunscreen, and an iPod, Pond Scum and I pushed off from the shallow water at the dock and paddled for the heart of the pond. 
     Since I was fishing alone, with no one to critique my efforts, I chose to cast for panfish instead of search for bass. I found a little crappie jig in my tackle box and, with furrowed brow, set to work. Colorado spoon first, followed by an electric lime Crappie Thunder soft lure, tipped with red sparkle crappie PowerBait. It may sound like the kitchen sink approach to fishing, but I thought it looked pretty appealing. Apparently, so did the fish.
     8-7-2, my final tally for the day. As I cast for hours from the little paddler, the fish just kept coming. Bluegill first, aggressively hitting on what felt like every other flip, bending my light pole in a beautiful arc as they dove and fought in the warm water. Crappie came next, silvery and spotted, some small enough the lure filled their maw completely, some large enough to make a nice-sized fillet. I even managed to snag two nice bass, probably due more to the frustration of the spoon than the temptation of the bait. To my mother: yes, I stood in the boat; no, I didn't wear floaties; and yes, I was just fine. Even better was that I finally ditched the my glove, proudly palming my fish and only getting spined once or twice by an uncooperative catch as I gingerly retrieved my hook from their mouths. Pink from the sun and with a permanent smile of joy, I headed to the shore at dusk, fish grime coating my hands and full-hearted from yet another beautiful summer day on the water, more convinced than ever that a boat is in my future.

            All I wanted to do was catch a crawdad, but those elusive crustaceans have evaded me, and I’ve about given up. However, my little trap has proven more than capable at snagging turtles, so my summer mission has changed from “let’s have a homemade crawfish boil” to “let’s eradicate the turtle problem in the farm ponds.”
            When I say my parents have a turtle problem, I mean they have a TURTLE PROBLEM. Little painted and box turtles, while harmless and fairly picturesque as they sun themselves on the banks and half-submerged snags, exist in numbers that are only found in zoos and other artificial habitats.  The real problem, however, are the alligator snappers that have moved in and taken hold.  We find them from time to time crawling through the yard, angry at the world and ready to lop off an errant toe or finger that strays too close for comfort.  Snappers in large numbers can also wreak havoc on fish populations, and without any natural predators to take care of them, our ponds have been blessed with more than our fair share of these prehistoric pains in the neck.
            Long ago, my grandpa used to butcher snappers as a delicacy during family fish frys.  I swear, that man would eat an iron skillet if it was battered and fried, but turtle was one of his favorites. In the summer, he kept a bucket and wire in the back of the truck to pick up any turtle unlucky enough to be crossing the road as we passed by.  Now that grandpa is gone, no one is interested in going through the work of cleaning a turtle, even though he left us a nifty instructional video to guide us along the way…not to mention the fact that eating turtle is strongly frowned upon by the IDNR (and the law).  I’m not about to shoot them in the pond, so catch and release is pretty much the only option I have left.
            A month into trapping and I’ve netted ten turtles: seven painted, two snapper, and one hybrid that didn’t look quite like either category but was super feisty and smelled like rotten fish.  They seem to like my bait of cheap hotdogs, particularly after they have marinated in the warm pond scum for about a day. Sometimes, little bluegill fry work their way into the trap as well, and I find their half-eaten carcasses floating among my turtles like the unwanted tidbits left on a toddler’s plate. My favorite turtle was the one that somehow passed through the pond overflow after one of our rare rains, landing in the scour hole pit installed at the bottom of the dam to stop the bank from eroding. Who knows how many days he had been there, but as I laid on my stomach with a dip net to fish him out, I could almost see his little turtle lips mouthing “it’s about freaking time, lady.”
            All my catches get carefully relocated to area creeks and streams, except for one particularly sassy specimen that I deposited in a friend’s backyard. I hope they all find a happier life away from Broken Arrow Farms, and I’ll continue baiting my Turtle Catcher Pro for the rest of the summer, checking it daily for fresh meat like a kid on Christmas morning.

     I heard him blow over the sound of the sander, over the music cranked up loud, over my creative interpretation of “Buy Me A Boat” that only the mice in the garage will ever hear live.  I could name that sound anywhere, a cross between a cough and a wheeze that proclaims to the world that a whitetail is near.
       Hunters strain their ears for that sound from October through January, the reward for frigid fingers and stiff legs from hours spent motionless in the stand. Other sounds can be misleading; rustling leaves could be just another annoying squirrel, snapping twigs could be a groundhog blundering by, myopically moving from den to water. But that blow can mean only one thing, and it’s enough to get my heart thumping, even when I’m in shorts in my garage and not nestled in deep cover.
       I immediately put down the sander and slipped out the open door, careful to not make too much disturbance so I could spy where my four-legged friend might be. My house is situated on three acres in the middle of cornfields with little to no cover, so deer sightings from my yard are rare. He was bounding up my grassed waterway with those effortless leaps that cover so much ground with so little movement, legs like natural springs propelling him forward along the field edge. As he slowed, I could roughly make out little velvet-coated nubs, the promise of fall bone yet to come. He stopped, looking around, seventy yards away by my novice ranging eye. I swear, I held my breath watching him, even though the only thing I had to lose was the beautiful image in front of me. I stayed undetected as he casually moved south, nipping at a corn stalk here, a grass head there. He was gone in an instant, although my hunter’s heart and brain felt like I had watched him for hours.
​     I hope he comes back to visit more this summer so I can see his rack grow and change. Come fall, we may have a different relationship, but for now, I am content enjoying his company as often as he wants to visit, The welcome mat is always out and I wish him the best as he navigates through the dog days of summer in Illinois.

     I am not a hot weather person. I envy those of you who can soak up the sun and turn golden shades of brown, living life as usual even when the mercury rises above 90 degrees and there isn’t a cloud in sight. My parents always tease that I come from “hearty peasant stock,” blessed with extra natural insulation that would make a finished show steer jealous. My skin is of the burn-and-peel variety; SPF 75 was made for me, and my typical response to the constant comments of “wow, you got some sun today” is “nope, that’s just my typical summer color.” I don’t tan, I just turn a darker shade of clear with new freckles popping up like morel mushrooms in April.
            My particular physical characteristics make my outdoor adventures a little more challenging, wearing long sleeves when everyone else is in tank tops, fishing from under a tree even though it increases the number of times I snag a limb, and avoiding touching people so they don’t notice my skin has the texture of a greased pig from all the layers of sunscreen I’m wearing. So when my buddy suggested we try night fishing, I was all in—moon burn isn’t a thing, and I’m naturally a night owl anyway.
            We set out at 6 pm with windows down and fishing gear loaded. I had spent the week at a conference, so when I got home, I took just enough time to ditch my suit for fishin’ pants and grab my tackle box backpack as I ran out the door, pulling on my boots as I beat a path for the pond. By now, my truck can almost drive itself the 13 miles from my house to the ponds on country blacktops, and I know it takes precisely 23 minutes to make it from one driveway to the other. Twenty-three minutes is forever when all you want to do is get outside and fish.
            Our fishing hole for the evening was another half-hour drive away, tucked in the heart of Hancock County where blacktop ends and gravel begins. We had our choice of four ponds to try, and after visiting with the landowners and a glass of sweet tea, we grabbed our baitcasters and topwater frogs and got down to business. I’m still struggling with my frog, and had been blanked on the last several outings with it because I just can’t seem to set the hook correctly. I blamed the fish, my friend blamed the pole, but now I had no excuse because both were new and primed for success.
            As usual, my buddy was catching fish hand over fist while my performance was fair to middling. I had one nice bass to his five, minus the mud I managed to get covered in when I dropped my catch at the pond edge. However, as the sun touched the horizon and everything turned that gold color that only happens on June summer nights, we moved to a new pond and my luck changed. Four hogs (by my standards), all in a row made for some of the best fishing I have had to date. I swear my scale is off, because one I would have wagered my truck title would scale five pounds was just a hair over three and a half. Regardless, they fought like monsters and made the night perfect.
            As the stars came out and the mosquitoes thickened, our luck turned cold at pond #3. It didn’t matter what we tried: topwater baits, Senko worms, poppers, soft crawdads…nothing. The only bites we had were ones that would itch the next morning, but it didn’t matter. I’m learning the best part of fishing is the act, not the outcome, and as we loaded up and drove home, I started counting the days until the next night fishing trip.