Neutral is not an option. In a world of black and white, yes and no, do or die, neutral is nothing, a lack of movement, acquiescing into retreat through indecision. I had lived in neutral too long. Movement was necessary.
     Like an old man lifting from a recliner, potato chip crumbs falling to the carpet for the dog to inhale, making changes happens slowly and painfully. A snap decision this past winter was the catalyst, prompted (like many snap decisions) by an evening scroll through Twitter. The offering of a film school promoted by the Heartland Bowhunter television show caught my eye, two words jumping out at me, peaking my interest like a dog catching a whiff of bacon . Film. School.
    Ask any female her interests, and I will guarantee “photography” will appear on the top ten list. Yes, I have a camera. Yes, I took a photography class in college, spending countless hours in a darkroom, fingers pruny from chemicals that will probably cause my unborn children to grow third eyes and second belly buttons. Yes, I enjoy black and white photography. Yes, I appreciate abstract shots and overly dramatic portrait work. All of the above stereotypes are true. Now that we are on the same page, let’s move on.
     What you don’t understand is how photography makes me a better hunter, a better fisher(wo)man, a better outdoorsman. Learning to view the world through an eyepiece gives you focus, causes small details to pop and grab your eye. Learning to look for the proverbial “cat” in a photo helped me hone my hunter’s eye for movement in the field, the rustle of brush at 200 yards that can’t possibly be the wind, the flicker of a tail in the distance that to the unobservant eye would be easily missed. And above all, a photography background taught me patience, the reward of waiting for long periods of time, just to capture the exact image at the precise moment in the perfect window of light. Just as a hunter knows in the split second before the trigger is pulled or the arrow is released that the shot will be perfect, a photographer has that moment of clarity before releasing the shutter that yes, this is it. This is what have I waited for, and it will be wonderful.
     To this point, photography has played a sidecar role in my hunting and fishing adventures. A battered cell phone is my constant companion, shoved deeply in the back pocket of my jeans at all times, as vital to a day outdoors as my knife and hat, for as a friend once said, “if there’s no proof, it didn’t happen.” This is the same friend that constantly gives me grief for repeatedly pausing to capture images during every outing, but I suppose you can’t have your cake and eat it too with some people. These images are hasty and often ill-composed, far from worthy of hanging on the refrigerator, let alone the wall. But that is not their purpose; their true purpose is to allow me to remember this moment, this day, this exact detail that struck me, made an impression, and illustrated the story of hunting, fishing, and loving life outdoors. For this purpose, my Motorola will suffice, but like Ariel, I found myself wanting more (cue impassioned musical transition here).
     Walking in the door to the HB Film Academy was nerve-wracking, to say the least. I knew I would be in the minority from the get-go, a doe among a sea of bucks, but the added weight of being an amateur hunter and photographer stressed me out to no end. It’s hard to explain how much more difficult it is to be a woman in the testosterone-soaked world of outdoor life, and I’m not just talking about physically challenging. Although the number of women engaging in the industry continues to increase in recent years, females still play a very small role in the land of hunting and fishing, and are frequently seen by our male counterparts as pretty accessories that are as interchangeable as a new stabilizer or sling. I am not pointing fingers or calling foul, just simply stating the fact that things like #fishbra illustrate how seriously people really take outdoorsy women. Look it up.
     I have no intention of allowing my “wits” to earn my place as an equal, so improving my skill and craft in the field is vital. That’s why I traded to a more competitive bow, practicing from 50 yards regularly, focusing on accuracy as well as increasing my strength and draw weight. That’s why I read incessantly about food plots, deer genetics, stand placement, and movement, for I lack the institutional knowledge most of my male friends take for granted, and it’s an arms race to catch up. And that’s why I chose to throw myself in the deep end at film school, to select yet another skill to master, one that will help document my story and illustrate what the hunting world looks like when you are 5’2”.
     That mindset, coupled with a few stiff drinks and a solid Jack Handy speech before the mirror, helped me power through the nerves, and I am so glad I did. The entire HB team was on deck for the two-day training; it is almost surreal to be in a room with Really Famous People Who Are On Television, and yet are the real deal when it comes to not only hunting, but filming and post-production editing as well. From the basics of good photography to tips on the best websites to order lenses and even drone photography lessons, the team covered it all. I furiously took notes, partially because I am that kind of person and also because I knew I could only absorb a fraction of what was happening in front of me, and I had to record it for posterity and later reference.
    However, two sessions stuck with me, and the lid remained down on my computer, an uncharacteristic move.  The first was more of an informal time-killer, viewing unreleased episodes of the Heartland Bowhunter show, meant to entertain the group as we had lunch. The quality of the video, the cinematographic style, the attention to detail and the world around the hunter was simply breathtaking in every single shot. While the hunting was excellent, I was captivated by the visuals, partly because each image resonated within my soul, bringing up vignettes of personal experiences and leaving a clanging “that’s how I see the world as well!” in my brain.  Right in that moment, I drank the filming Kool-Aid.
     If that is the “why” to my filming epiphany, the “how” came at the end of the course. I am a nuts-and-bolts person, needing concrete, tactile evidence of how things work. The cameras and equipment they brought presented a veritable orgy of touching, and I was able to see what filming could possibly look like for me in real life.  Owning a $30,000 camera will never be in my future, but DSLR filming is completely doable, particularly for my purposes. However, all the moving parts of what outdoor filming looks like snapped into place when we took the class outside, hanging stands and climbing sticks and modeling how a filming setup looks in the tree. I could see where the tree arm would sit, feel it glide as it extended to the correct position, waist high on the cameraman (or woman, in this instance). Watching all the pieces of the puzzle come together made the picture much clearer, less abstract, more doable.
     Just as valuable as the technical presentation was the unwritten curriculum of camaraderie and community. Hunters from across the country – literally – gathered in one place, for one purpose. A couple from Oregon was toying with the idea of filming as a way to strengthen their bond in the field. A father-son team from Georgia, travelling the world in pursuit of completing the Grand Slam challenge, wanted to learn how to assemble their existing footage for posterity (and hilarity. They were my seatmates, and made the experience even better with their laughter and warm-hearted Southern charm). Men and boys gathered, sharing stories and asking questions one after the other, assembling in groups in the evening to compare stories and photos over brews. The other lone female hugged me as we departed, a sweet gesture from a woman who knew nothing more about me than I love to hunt, and a person who hunts can’t be all bad. Seeing people with the same passion, same vision, connecting and growing – that was truly beautiful.
     Driving home, my brain felt fat and sluggish, as if it needed to put on stretchy pants after a Thanksgiving dinner of information. The wheels are turning upstairs on how to incorporate film into my hunts, but I know this experiment not be without strife. I asked several of the HB team about how filming has changed them as hunters, and the answers I received were both honest and heavy. Filming will cost me shots, they promised. It will take longer to pack in, set up, pack out. I will drop and break very expensive equipment. I will make mistakes, losing an entire hunt to a full SD card or dead camera battery. I will delete clips accidentally, and perseverate over editing to an unhealthy level. However, one statement struck home, and it is one I hope to cling to as I begin this part of my adventure; bowhunting is a feeling, and words simply can’t do it justice. As fall approaches, I plan on marching to the stand, bow in one hand and camera in the other, moving forward and gaining momentum as I climb into position.

     We have entered the time of the in-between. Blinds and camouflage have been put to rest for the season, washed, inventoried, and mended for another day, another hunt. Boots and binoculars lie in wait on truck floorboards, itching for antlers that have yet to drop. Mailboxes are empty, and we search for letters from our respective state departments that contain our precious spring turkey tags. March winds and grey skies make fishing both unpleasant and unproductive. Even beloved hunting shows have fallen to reruns, allowing us to relive fall adventures from armchairs moulded to the shape of our backsides from hours spent inside rather than afield.  
     But beneath all the languishing, the doldrums of late winter, something small and quiet is ruminating in the dark corners of our periphery, fleeting and just out of our grasp, but something we know will soon be here. Spring, sweet spring and the promise it brings for another season under the sun. All these idle hours leave ample time for building castles in the clouds, and mine is as lofty as they come. And it all starts with spring.
     Sheds: find them, both at home and on some new properties that will also require some reconnaissance, research, and repair. Boat: remodel it. She has passed the initial float test, but we have a long row to hoe before she is standing tall. Turkeys: call, deceive, shoot, and recover at least one, and hunt every weekend like I'm getting paid for it. Food plots: the goal for this year is to plant four four, three primary and one micro. It's time to experiment and pull those deer to my farm instead of watching them pass by. Bass: catch as many as humanly possible, and put in some miles to fish a few new locations outside my comfort zone. Trail cams: buy more, always more. I want to watch some velvet grow.
     Amid all the spring must-dos are some hope-tos as well. I dream of cooking a meal that is 100% hunted, grown, or gathered by me, maybe on an open grill, or even over a campfire with a side of mosquito bites. I want to sit on a bank somewhere, listening to spring peepers well past the hour respectable people retire to bed. I hope to find the rest of my missing arrows while out searching for spring mushrooms, one more so than others--the one that should be nestled in ribs picked clean by predators and attached to the pretty basket rack of my missing buck. 
     I thought the last year was my season of firsts, and everything else would quickly become old hat. However, now I realize the firsts will never end; this year will bring a new bow, new ground, new friendships, new hunts, new hobbies (bowfishing, anyone?), and new adventures. While these winter doldrums have me aching to flip the calendar one more page, I have to admit that perhaps Steinbeck knew what he was talking about; "What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness!" 

     Icy roads. Below zero wind chills. Barely glimpsing the sun as it rises and sets while I'm still at work. Spending most of my days indoors because I live in a state where the winter air hurts my face. Don't get me wrong, I love snowflakes and winter wonderlands just as much as the next person, but after New Year's Day, I'm ready for spring.
     Last fall, I started kicking around the idea of getting a boat. Nothing special, just enough to float myself away from treelines on the half dozen or so farm ponds that I frequent...a step up from the S.S. Pond Scum paddleboat (see exhibits A and B for the stories), if you will. I even toyed with the idea of a fishing kayak after enviously following a friend's fishing adventures on Facebook. I shared my plan with my dad, and my boat dream grew one step closer to reality when he proposed going splitsies on one; however, this wouldn't just be any old boat. We were now searching for The Boat. A 16', modified V, tiller-operated bass boat. One that could comfortably fish four people, complete with casting decks, slick compartment hatches, a live well, 30-horse Mercury motor, and trailer. "Fall is the time to buy; no one wants to winter a boat!" he proclaimed. We searched from Labor Day through Christmas, finding deals on Craigslist, the local shopper adds, and via text message from a fishing buddy in Wisconsin. Several times, we thought we had The One, but for one reason or another, it never quite worked out for us.
     I'm not saying our search for our ultimate boat is over, but I need somethng small in the meantime that I can manipulate by myself, something I can throw in the back of the truck and go at a moment's notice. Something without a trailer or motor. Something cheap. When a friend showed me Jon boat to bass boat conversions on YouTube, I was sold, convinced that I would join the Tiny Boat Revolution sometime in the spring.
     Apparently, I am terrible at judging timelines. On a Tuesday, I fell in love with the Tiny Boat idea. On Wednesday, the perfect boat crossed my path from Craigslist, a mere 15 miles from my house. On Friday, with the thermostat on my truck reading a flat zero degrees, I traded some of my precious bow fund money for a 12' Jon boat, frozen to the ground. We ratcheted it in the bed of my truck and I hauled it home, blasting the heater and thinking of warmer days on the horizon.
     I have a lot of work ahead of me from now until spring. Designing my layout has already begun, but I have to figure out how to keep down the weight so I can lift it in and out of my truck by myself. A winch and trolling motor are certainly in my future, and I'm currently in the market for a couple of gently used pedestal seats. I'm more concerned with the solo operation than the construction, but everything will work out in the end, just you wait and see. For now, my Tiny Boat is pushing me to finish up some jobs around the house so I can begin working in earnest with a clear conscience. Suggestions are welcome, donations are appreciated, and critics will be tolerated to a point as long as you're lending a hand during construction because I'm proud as punch that I managed to buy myself a boat, a truck to pull it, and a Yeti (not 110, but it still counts) iced down before topwater season hits.

     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.

    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.

     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!