He swore he could smell them, and moved through the woods like a seasoned coon dog after prey just as soon as he saw the first lilac buds pop open on the bush in the driveway. Fueled by a furtive dip of Red Man tobacco, grandpa would head to the timber in Old Blue, a traditional three on the tree Ford that liked to shift about as much as grandpa liked getting caught chewing by grandma. Shuddering down the road, first with siblings, then children, and finally grandchildren, my grandpa taught each of us what spring in Illinois is truly about: morel mushrooms.
     One of three sons, my grandpa was raised during the Depression in rural Illinois, learning to make the most of what you had available and foraging and hunting for the rest. He was taught about living off the land from his father, a gruff brawler that I never met, who lived alone on a white dirt farm outside one of the many one-horse towns in our area. Grandpa was the best fisherman I knew, and hunted for small game and dove between hours devoted to his garden and family. However, that small window in mid-spring where temperatures and precipitation hit "just right" sent him to the timber with his walking stick, faded hat cocked ever so slightly, suspenders fighting mightily against gravity, and a purple mesh potato sack stuffed in his back pocket. Better for spreading the spores from picked mushrooms, you know.
     Over the past few years, mushrooming on my family farm has been less than stellar. It seems that the morels started to leave when grandpa passed, and all our secret spots have left us empty handed, year after year. We can blame some of the problem on the cattle grazing heavily in the timber, some on uncooperative rains, some on global warming, bad juju, or Russian fungus espionage. Whatever the reason, our dead elms bore no fruit this year, or last, or the year before last. To find morels, I had to leave home.
     One text with a glorious mess of mushrooms spread on a kitchen counter led me to invite myself to my buddy's property...thank heavens I have good friends that put up with my boundary issues. We spent an afternoon with rubber boots and plastic sacks walking up and down a sandy creek bed lined with chestnut saplings and clumps of multiflora rose. I had grown accustomed to mushrooming that was far more walking than picking; you know the kind, and I was prepared for more of the same, using mushrooming as an excuse to spend some time outside. Oh, how wrong I was. I think I found my first morel within the first three minutes, less time than it takes to cook a potato in the microwave. It happened just that fast.
     It seemed that everywhere we looked, we found mushrooms. I even shimmied down a precarious bank to pluck a monster growing at the root of a tree exposed by the creek below. We were right in the sweet spot of the season where the small greys had passed but the giant yellows had yet to come, leaving us with a mess of meaty mushrooms ripe for the picking. We stuffed our sack quickly, and found ourselves filling hats and pockets as we separated to comb different areas. Inevitably, one of us would abandon our post because the other came into a fresh bounty. It was as if Mother Nature had designed the best adult Easter egg hunt, and I filled my basket with the enthusiasm of a child.
     The day's end found me two pounds richer, the only time a woman is happy to have more weight than less at her disposal. Although it was late when I got home, I took the time to carefully clean, slice, and soak my mushrooms just as I remember doing as a kid. The next day, like a dutiful daughter, I brought my mushies home to my parents, and we devoured half of them in the blink of an eye, dredged in flour, fried golden-brown, and accompanied by a cold beer, per tradition. As I chewed on the last morsel, I contemplated what my grandpa would have thought of the pile--if his keen eye would have found more that I passed by, if he would have fallen in the creek and come back to the house, soaking wet but with a potato sack full to bursting. It's funny how a mushroom can be so tied to a memory, fleeting but familiar, like the intangible scent of morels on the warm spring breeze.

     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!" 

     The stories of our lives are often illustrated by the damage they do to our bodies, and true outdoorspeople wear these bruises and scars proudly, gesturing to them during a tale the same way a kindergarten teacher refers to pictures during story time while her students sit criss-cross-applesauce on carpet squares, at full attention. This story is connected to a bruise the size of a half-dollar, lemon yellow with just a hint of brown, tucked neatly in the soft meat of my right shoulder socket at the point where my cheek touches my torso. I'm pointing to it now, for your reference.
     I'm impressed when anyone can do anything with some measure of consistency. I would love to say I have never missed an opening hunt on the first day of shotgun season, or I have a secret fishing hole that I visit every spring, or even that I haven't missed an episode of Bowhunt or Die, which comes out every Friday online. I wear the Mantle of Shame for my shortcomings, far too often putting aside what I want to do for what I think I have to do. That's why I appreciate people who can stop life, say no to requests, and can uphold family traditions that were started far before they were even born. Those types of people have staying power.
     Sixty years of squirrel hunting over Labor Day weekend is almost unfathomable to my mind, but that is what my friend's family has been doing with pride. I saw the hunting grounds back in July as we examined his fall food plots, focusing more on the deer and casually mentioning the squirrels. Bordering each field was a dense ring of oak-hickory trees, the original deciduous forest type for West Central Illinois, back before we introduced conifers and lesser species of softwoods for our viewing pleasure. We ventured into the trees, noting height and nut crop, as my friend mentioned his family's squirrel hunting history. He was eagerly anticipating this year's hunt, and had six weeks to finish clearing brush before the hunters arrived. His children were going out with him this year, and he wanted to make sure the path down to a memorial site where one hunter's ashes had been carefully spread years earlier was open. 
     Fast forward six weeks, and family had come in from all around. Squirrel was simmering on the stove as I pulled in the driveway, my husband and I tempted from small-town food and festivities by the promise of trap shooting on a perfect Sunday. Uncles, siblings, parents, and grandkids gathered around a table of ammo, chattering excitedly about new guns purchased through the year and the merits of new styles of choke tubes. As outsiders, we were instantly and overwhelmingly welcomed, my hand-me-down Winchester accepted into the fold with Benellis and Berettas leaning against the oak tree in the yard. As soon as the town parade finished and everyone was ready, we took turns shooting on the line, Annie Oakley style. No one kept score, but we all pushed for the satisfying sound of breaking a bird missed by the person in front of us. One sweet girl, too young to shoot, donned earmuffs and served as the Official Clay Sorter, handing them one by one to the thrower, never complaining her role and cheering us all on equally. We stopped now and again for a drink, a sucker from one of the parade candy bags, or to cluster around a malfunctioning firearm, tinkering with triggers and springs in the guts of the gun until it was in proper working order again. The sun sank lower, the shells piled higher, and the squirrel finally softened enough to eat, served with a side of squirrel gravy and pillowy mashed potatoes.
     Sixty years is a long time to maintain a tradition; people move, families bicker, land changes hands, and life gets in the way. Despite all the odds, this one is still going strong, with young new inductees in line, waiting for their turn behind the gun. I guess I get to include myself as an honorary member, for that evening I received a brief, but powerful text: "Fyi...you will be expected to attend Labor Day festivities going forward...next year you squirrel hunt." And next year, you can bet that I will, and that my little bruise will return for this story's sequel.

     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.

            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.

     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.

    #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.