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.

     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!

    #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.