Critics of The Hunter’s Wife
Yesterday, someone (she reads my blog) was making fun of me for not being a girly girl that takes her own fish off the hook. Coincidence that I asked if my readers take their own fish off the hook?
Maybe.
Probably not.
Dear chick that takes her own fish off the hook,
Before you get your fish off your hook … I’ll break your pole.
Love,
The hair puller.
It’s a full moon tonight be safe all!
I love my readers.
Flying off on my broom for the night!
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
Fishing Glove by Glacier Glove
A review sponsored by the great folks at Glacier Glove.
Before I left for our annual fishing trip, I was contacted by the wonderful folks at Glacier Glove to do a review for one of their gloves. I don’t accept all reviews offered, but this was different … because … well …
I use a handy wipe to take little baby fish off my hook.
Over the years I’d felt guilty having my husband take all my fish off the hook. So I’d tried using towels, handy wipes, and my sweatshirt thanks to a tip from my outdoor friend Arthur, just to give my husband a break and not be bothered.
So this trip was very relaxing for my husband and very productive for me because I had …
Glacier Glove has many style gloves for a variety of outdoor activities from hunting gloves, fishing gloves, paddling gloves, sun gloves and cycling gloves. The style glove that was sent to me was actually from their hunting section but I used it during my fishing trip.
And this is what my fishing glove looked like by the end of the week.
Can you tell it was put to good use? Holy fish slime guts.
The first few days I bounced around the boat in excitement that I was taking my own fish off the hook. I even had a dance for it.
By mid-week it wasn’t as exciting because I realized how good I had it when my husband was in charge of all that.
I use to be the carefree I’m never touching a fish chick with my feet up swinging my pole in my husband’s face for him to do the dirty deed. (In case you’re wondering, yes I’d hit him in the head a few times.)
By the end of the week I honest to goodness said …
“I don’t know what crazy person invented this stupid glove.”
Yes I said that.
Because it worked. And it worked well!
But I liked being the princess that doesn’t take her fish off her own hook. And now, because of the Glacier Glove, I’ll forever have to take my fish off my own hook.
And I want one of you to be just as fishing independent as me. So tomorrow, I am giving away one pair of the Glacier Gloves to one of you!
Have a great day all … and I wouldn’t be The Hunter’s Wife if at some point during the end of my fishing trip next year, my Glacier Glove goes missing.
We have a love/hate relationship.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
What Was I Thinking
Before I left for vacation I asked a few bloggers if they’d like to do a guest post here at The Hunter’s Wife. Nancy Jo Adams from Shenanigans From the Field sent me this guest post a couple of weeks ago. I thought today would be the perfect day to share it with my readers.
Saturday morning was a slow morning in the blind as I sat on the edge of a field in hopes of seeing the Grand Poopah; a name I dubbed the trophy bird that we filmed on this land earlier this season. As I sat there listening…and watching the weeds grow…my beloved Crackie vibrated in my cargo pant pocket. I thought to myself, I guess now would be the perfect time to catch up with what is waiting in my inbox. It was well after fly-down time and we had not heard a tom in over thirty minutes which was a tell-tale sign that they were “henned-up”.
As I looked through the messages in my inbox I ran across a Facebook message from Jody aka the Hunter’s Wife. Interesting, I am going to have to read this one now; knowing that it was going to bring a chuckle or a pondering thought. The message was asking if I wanted to write a guest post. Guest post? Shoot yeah, I want the opportunity to write a guest post on Jody’s blog.
As I sat there thinking how ironic that was…an avid “if I will eat it-I will hunt it” hunter writing a guest post in a blog by a camo-loving, crappie fishing, cupcake baking non-hunter. This can’t be too hard–not so long ago, I WAS a hunter’s wife so I have experience here; I think.
So I sat and pondered for a little bit and it must have been the dew dampened earth permeating my nostrils, or the beam of sunshine that crept through a crack in the blind window that warmed my shoulder, or maybe even the song birds serenading me with a tune they were programmed to sing before their first light–I don’t know what it was exactly but the thought that Jody was missing out on all of these things was sad to me. The thrill of seeing an animal in their natural habitat unknowing of your presence, the communication of the animals among each other, the interaction between a caller and a tom as that tom methodically displays all of his grandeur; the colors ricocheting off his feathers of gold, copper, beige and the stark red, white and blue of his head. The sound, which cannot be explained in words, of a gobble as it rattles the stillness of a cool morning and the building anticipation while watching a tom strutting into your decoy setup; gobbling the entire way. The heart pounding moment that you raise your gun in attempt to harvest that tom and the wing flapping, dust flying moment right after the shot as you run out to get a better look at your prize harvest.
Wow! I wondered to myself, “What would it take to get Jody into the woods to experience all this?”
But like a needle SCREECHING across a record, glass SHATTERING on concrete, or two pots CLANGING together….I popped back to reality. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? I could just see it now…calamity in the field. I could just envision the morning now:
Turkey: {Gobbling from the tree!}
Jody: What was that racket?
Nancy Jo: That was a gobble. Didn’t it give you chills and make your hair on your arms stand on end?
Jody: More like raised the hair on the nape of my neck…what a racket!
Nancy Jo: Look at that beautiful sunrise!
Jody: Great! Now it is going to get hot and muggy. My hair is going to be a wreck!
Nancy Jo: The birds are on the ground now. We should see them any minute.
Jody: What is that smell? Peww..It smells musky!
Nancy Jo: That is the damp ground from the dew. Smells fresh, eh?
Jody: Like fresh mildew. Is this smell going to stay in my clothes and hair?
Nancy Jo: That sun beam coming through the window feels good doesn’t it? Warms you clean to the core.
Jody: Look at all that dust and pollen blowing in the air…ewww….is that going to stay in my clothes and hair?
Nancy Jo: Look Jody!! Look, the tom is headed our way.
Jody: Oh my!! What an ugly bird! He looks like a buzzard!!
Nancy Jo: Look! Look at that! He is strutting, putting on a show for the decoys! Isn’t that the neatest thing? Simply beautiful!
Jody: Is that a bug on my pant leg?? Oh! Oh! Is that a TICK? Get it off!! Get it off of me!!
Nancy Jo: Shhhh!! You are going to scare off the tom.
Jody: I am bored! Do you have any games on Crackie? How about the Internet? Anything?
Turkey: {Gobbles.} {Struts.} {Gobbles.} {Struts.} {Gobbles.} {Strut.}
Jody: What a racket! Can you get him to shut up? Shoo him away or something. Make him stop all that non-sense. What does he think he is doing anyways with all that poofing up and charades he is doing?
Nancy Jo: He is strutting for the decoys. I am fixing to make him quiet, dead quiet.
Nancy Jo: Raises her gun. Clicks the safety off and prepares to make a cluck to make the tom alert for the shot.
Jody: WAIT! ARE YOU GOING TO SHOOT HIM?
Nancy Jo: Yep! Look at that beautiful beard on him. I sure hope he has nice long spurs too!
Jody: NO!! You can’t shoot that BEAUTIFUL bird. Look how cute he is all puffed out. Look at the wonderful colors reflecting off of him. Look how pretty his pony tail is. He is so patriotic looking with that red, white, and blue head….NO!! You can’t shoot him!! No! No!
Nancy Jo: He is a trophy bird Jody—I can’t shoo him off!! He will also make an awesome honey bourbon grilled turkey breast.
Jody: No!! As she rises to stick her head out of the blind…shoo bird, shoo… get out of here–waving her arms frantically in the air.
Turkey: {Putt!} {Putt!}
Nancy Jo: As I watch tail feathers waggling, beard flopping from side to side and the bird disappear over the terrace in a dead run, I click the safety on and lower my gun, shaking my head as I slump my shoulders.
Jody: With a big smile on her face. See, that wasn’t hard at all. I’m hungry. Let’s go see if we can find a cupcake some place. Does my hair look okay?
Yeah, what was I thinking?? Like the song birds, programmed for a predetermined sound before hatching…some women are born NOT to be in the woods with a gun sitting in their lap, sun on their shoulder, damp earth permeating their nostrils, and anticipation keeping them glued to their seat for hours on end as they ponder many things… crazy things at times.
Nancy Jo Adams – Shenanigans From the Field
Thank you Nancy Jo.
To my readers: Nancy Jo is a great follow on Facebook. That showoff outdoor chick does nothing but hunt.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
What Was I Thinking
Before I left for vacation I asked a few bloggers if they’d like to do a guest post here at The Hunter’s Wife. Nancy Jo Adams from Shenanigans From the Field sent me this guest post a couple of weeks ago. I thought today would be the perfect day to share it with my readers.
Saturday morning was a slow morning in the blind as I sat on the edge of a field in hopes of seeing the Grand Poopah; a name I dubbed the trophy bird that we filmed on this land earlier this season. As I sat there listening…and watching the weeds grow…my beloved Crackie vibrated in my cargo pant pocket. I thought to myself, I guess now would be the perfect time to catch up with what is waiting in my inbox. It was well after fly-down time and we had not heard a tom in over thirty minutes which was a tell-tale sign that they were “henned-up”.
As I looked through the messages in my inbox I ran across a Facebook message from Jody aka the Hunter’s Wife. Interesting, I am going to have to read this one now; knowing that it was going to bring a chuckle or a pondering thought. The message was asking if I wanted to write a guest post. Guest post? Shoot yeah, I want the opportunity to write a guest post on Jody’s blog.
As I sat there thinking how ironic that was…an avid “if I will eat it-I will hunt it” hunter writing a guest post in a blog by a camo-loving, crappie fishing, cupcake baking non-hunter. This can’t be too hard–not so long ago, I WAS a hunter’s wife so I have experience here; I think.
So I sat and pondered for a little bit and it must have been the dew dampened earth permeating my nostrils, or the beam of sunshine that crept through a crack in the blind window that warmed my shoulder, or maybe even the song birds serenading me with a tune they were programmed to sing before their first light–I don’t know what it was exactly but the thought that Jody was missing out on all of these things was sad to me. The thrill of seeing an animal in their natural habitat unknowing of your presence, the communication of the animals among each other, the interaction between a caller and a tom as that tom methodically displays all of his grandeur; the colors ricocheting off his feathers of gold, copper, beige and the stark red, white and blue of his head. The sound, which cannot be explained in words, of a gobble as it rattles the stillness of a cool morning and the building anticipation while watching a tom strutting into your decoy setup; gobbling the entire way. The heart pounding moment that you raise your gun in attempt to harvest that tom and the wing flapping, dust flying moment right after the shot as you run out to get a better look at your prize harvest.
Wow! I wondered to myself, “What would it take to get Jody into the woods to experience all this?”
But like a needle SCREECHING across a record, glass SHATTERING on concrete, or two pots CLANGING together….I popped back to reality. WHAT WAS I THINKING??? I could just see it now…calamity in the field. I could just envision the morning now:
Turkey: {Gobbling from the tree!}
Jody: What was that racket?
Nancy Jo: That was a gobble. Didn’t it give you chills and make your hair on your arms stand on end?
Jody: More like raised the hair on the nape of my neck…what a racket!
Nancy Jo: Look at that beautiful sunrise!
Jody: Great! Now it is going to get hot and muggy. My hair is going to be a wreck!
Nancy Jo: The birds are on the ground now. We should see them any minute.
Jody: What is that smell? Peww..It smells musky!
Nancy Jo: That is the damp ground from the dew. Smells fresh, eh?
Jody: Like fresh mildew. Is this smell going to stay in my clothes and hair?
Nancy Jo: That sun beam coming through the window feels good doesn’t it? Warms you clean to the core.
Jody: Look at all that dust and pollen blowing in the air…ewww….is that going to stay in my clothes and hair?
Nancy Jo: Look Jody!! Look, the tom is headed our way.
Jody: Oh my!! What an ugly bird! He looks like a buzzard!!
Nancy Jo: Look! Look at that! He is strutting, putting on a show for the decoys! Isn’t that the neatest thing? Simply beautiful!
Jody: Is that a bug on my pant leg?? Oh! Oh! Is that a TICK? Get it off!! Get it off of me!!
Nancy Jo: Shhhh!! You are going to scare off the tom.
Jody: I am bored! Do you have any games on Crackie? How about the Internet? Anything?
Turkey: {Gobbles.} {Struts.} {Gobbles.} {Struts.} {Gobbles.} {Strut.}
Jody: What a racket! Can you get him to shut up? Shoo him away or something. Make him stop all that non-sense. What does he think he is doing anyways with all that poofing up and charades he is doing?
Nancy Jo: He is strutting for the decoys. I am fixing to make him quiet, dead quiet.
Nancy Jo: Raises her gun. Clicks the safety off and prepares to make a cluck to make the tom alert for the shot.
Jody: WAIT! ARE YOU GOING TO SHOOT HIM?
Nancy Jo: Yep! Look at that beautiful beard on him. I sure hope he has nice long spurs too!
Jody: NO!! You can’t shoot that BEAUTIFUL bird. Look how cute he is all puffed out. Look at the wonderful colors reflecting off of him. Look how pretty his pony tail is. He is so patriotic looking with that red, white, and blue head….NO!! You can’t shoot him!! No! No!
Nancy Jo: He is a trophy bird Jody—I can’t shoo him off!! He will also make an awesome honey bourbon grilled turkey breast.
Jody: No!! As she rises to stick her head out of the blind…shoo bird, shoo… get out of here–waving her arms frantically in the air.
Turkey: {Putt!} {Putt!}
Nancy Jo: As I watch tail feathers waggling, beard flopping from side to side and the bird disappear over the terrace in a dead run, I click the safety on and lower my gun, shaking my head as I slump my shoulders.
Jody: With a big smile on her face. See, that wasn’t hard at all. I’m hungry. Let’s go see if we can find a cupcake some place. Does my hair look okay?
Yeah, what was I thinking?? Like the song birds, programmed for a predetermined sound before hatching…some women are born NOT to be in the woods with a gun sitting in their lap, sun on their shoulder, damp earth permeating their nostrils, and anticipation keeping them glued to their seat for hours on end as they ponder many things… crazy things at times.
Nancy Jo Adams – Shenanigans From the Field
Thank you Nancy Jo.
To my readers: Nancy Jo is a great follow on Facebook. That showoff outdoor chick does nothing but hunt.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
Kentucky Fishing Guides and Princess Fishing Chick Angler of the Year
We’ve been vacationing at Barkley Lake, Kentucky for about 5 years. One of the reasons we continue to go back is the fishing. We’ve always managed to bring home our share of bluegill, crappie, yellow strippers and catfish. Between my husband and I, on average, we catch about 100 fish a day. We’ve never had a problem catching fish. But this year the guys, Mark and Troy, decided to hire a guide to possibly find a few new spots and learn a few new tips.
So we hired Billy Joe Boitnott that was highly recommended by the locals.
And I had no idea what to expect but I was put on the boat with Billy Joe and it was fishing heaven.
Let’s take a look back at my fishing history:
- My 1st year of fishing: My husband took care of everything but I needed to learn if I wanted to be fishing chick angler of the year.
- My 2nd year of fishing: I touched worms and baited my own hook. Because one day I’ll be fishing chick angler of the year that doesn’t need a man baiting her hook.
- My 3rd year of fishing: I could rig up my own pole in case of brush hangups. Or tree hangups. Or my own hair hangups. No need for a man on this boat. I’m fishing chick angler of the year.
- My 4th year: I just can’t take a fish off the hook but I’ll take pictures with it. Posing as fishing chick angler of the year.
- My 5th year: Oh Billy Joe where have you been for the past 4 years?
I sat in a chair on the front of the boat like princess fishing chick angler of the year and never had to move. He baited my hook, fixed my line, baited my hook, took my fish off, fixed my line, fixed my line and fixed my line.
And he called me cute pet names … Sassy Susie, Sassy Jo, Sassy Jane and Sassy Frassy.
And I’m not sure why? ‘Cause I’m not Sassy. I was very proper, polite and well-mannered. I was the perfect lady and I made sure not to use one bad word. I had a talk with myself before we went not to use bad words. No bad words Jody. It wouldn’t be ladylike.
But then I heard Billy Joe say, “you monkey” a few times. And just when I lost that monster 10 lb crappie I loudly blurted out …
“Y O U M O T H E R M O N K E Y.”
Have a good day all … I wonder if Billy Joe would paint my toenails next time?
Who needs the title fishing chick angler of the year being all fishing independent when you can be princess fishing chick angler of the year thanks to Billy Joe.
~~~~~~~~~~
If you’d like to hire a guide on Barkley or Kentucky Lake, I would highly recommend Billy Joe Boitnott. For more information and if you’d like his number you can email me at: jody @ thehunterswife . net.
Thank you all and thank you Billy Joe!
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
To Tinkle In The Woods I’ll Go
If you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time you’ve probably come across a comment or two I’ve made about never tinkling in the woods. I’m not that kind of outdoors girl. A squirrel might see me. But after an incident at the marina last week, well, um, lets just say I’d rather a squirrel saw me.
It was a very hot week of fishing. 85 degrees hot. Being on a boat in the middle of the lake with the sun beating down on you feels like 95 degrees. Without making a move, you’ve already worked up a good sweat. Which means your clothes are wet and stuck to you.
My husband decided he needed more minnows so we headed to the marina. We pulled up at the dock and I decided I better use the ladies room. So I pranced across the dock and up the pier to the restaurant wishing everyone a good morning along the way.
On my way out, I wished more fellow anglers and marina workers a good morning and climbed back into the boat. As we pulled away I noticed several workers going about their business on the dock, people having coffee on the upper level of the marina restaurant and I thought about the people that had a beautiful view to the water while dining in the restaurant.
We finally made our way to a brush pile with our fresh minnows and my boat duties kicked in. I bent over and dropped the anchor in the water. I bent over and set the minnows out for easy access. I bent over and handed my husband a minnow. And I bent over, grabbed my pole and started fishing while standing.
A short time later, another boat anchored behind us to fish a separate brush pile. We made small talk with the older couple and then I went about my fishing business. Bending over to get a minnow, bending over to pick up my minnow I dropped and bending over to pick up my squirmy little minnow again. After about an hour, our elder friends left.
You know when it’s 85 degrees out, your clothes are stuck to you, you’re swatting bugs in fear of getting bit and you start itching? Well I was all over the boat swatting and itching when I felt something biting the back of my leg. I turned my body to give the back of my leg a good itch when I noticed it.
You know when you’re the girl that doesn’t tinkle in the woods and is in fear of bathroom germs so you cover the toilet like you’re wallpapering the thing in case your squat fails?
You know when it’s 85 degrees and your ass is as sticky as wallpaper?
And your squat failed for that brief second just long enough for a 5 feet long piece of toilet paper to stick to your ass.
You know when you bend over 100 times in a boat and you’re husband never notices that you have 5 feet of toilet paper hanging out your sticky wallpapering ass?
You know when you’re on a boat and an older couple is fishing behind you and they never once said, “Excuse me hon, but I think you have something hanging out your panties?”
You know when you’re sitting there having flash backs of where it happened, when it happened, and for the love of prancing across the marina like you’re super TP girl, who in the world saw you?
Oh help me.
And then you do what every wife would do after sitting on a boat with their husband for 12 hours a day…
“Mark? Grr Mark. Grr. As many times as I bend over in this stupid boat, how did you not see 5 feet of toilet paper hanging down to my ankle?” I went on and on. Blah blah blah. Guys at the marina saw me. Other anglers saw me. Blah blah blah. OMG blah blah blah. I don’t even know what I was rambling but it was a good wife ramble for a good 15 minutes.
And all he had to say was, “Jody, I was fishing.”
I am never using the marina bathroom again.
Mariana worker: Where you going?
TP super girl: To use the ladies room.
Mariana worker: It’s that way.
TP super girl: Oh no it’s not. It’s behind tree number 3.
Have a good day all … to tinkle in the woods I’ll go.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
Eating Crow with Springing Teal
When I announced I wanted to take up Shooting Sports as a hobby, it went over like a fart in church. I can still smell the distinct odor the affair raised—and it wasn’t gunpowder. I heard the Doubting Thomases and the harshest critics say: ‘JoAnna Zurinsky, if you ever manage to blast a clay bird out of that sky, it will be the day monkeys fly out of our butts!’ Now call it what you will, Daddy says it’s a case of good-old fashion German Stubbornness, I call it American Woman Resolve. I was going to hit a clay bird. I was going to do it regardless of whatever anyone said. Daddy and I went out to the field in the back of our barn, and he threw the clays. I took his 12ga Remington pump shotgun, and blasted the smithereens out of a bird, first try! It felt so good. I did it again, and again that afternoon. Sure I missed my fair share, but I didn’t focus on what I was doing wrong, I only focused on what I was doing right. I was having fun, and I was hooked!
And Daddy? Well, he was shocked! My mom, who knew all along that I would do it, bagged up little pieces of clay birds for me to take home as a trophy to show my better, and sometimes un-believing half, Larry, as proof that monkeys sometimes do fly. And out of the strangest places! When I got home, I put the baggie on the table, Larry rolled on the floor laughing. ‘What?’ I asked. Larry blurted out, with Chardonnay gurgling through his nostrils (he was that amused): ‘Hand thrown birds are a great deal different than what you’ll experience at a Gun Club with trap-machine thrown birds!’ Undaunted, I soon got my chance to try Sporting Clays and Skeet.
I asked for a membership to the local gun club for my birthday that year, instead of jewelry—and got it, along with an offer for a full-on psychiatric evaluation. I started going to the gun club every chance I got; with friends, relatives and any country man or woman who lend me their time and ears, so I could yell: “PULL!” I befriended a couple of the members, and the nicknames along with the clays, started flying: JoAnnie Oakley, 12ga Lady, Clay Slayer, The Crapshoot Kid and my personal, but somehow annoyingly favorite, Ram-Jo. These were not all compliments- most of them cute, but condescending in nature.
At the gun club that I discovered Shooting Sports is wonderful fun, it is very competitive, and a boys club. One particular Sunday, my dad’s friends from work were watching me at the Springing Teal stand, and bet a barbecue lunch on the odds that I would not hit single high or low clay out of the brush. I took on the bet. Now, I did not have the money to buy lunch for any of these fellas, but I couldn’t let that stop me! Not a chance! I was going to stand my ground, if I was going to be wrong I was going to at least be bold about it. The taunting began. ‘Hey Ram-Jo, you gonna slay that Springing Teal today? You got a reputation to keep at this club! As long as you’re here, the clays are safe!’ Daddy looked at me, and I looked at him, the stubbornness and resolve creeping out of me, a sly smile crossed my face. We looked at Earl and Joe and yelled: Game On! With Daddy as my cheerleader, and pulling for me in the literal and figurative sense, I knew I could lick the Springing Teal stand. That day, there would be a thing such as a free lunch, but just desserts as well!
I got my clays, and Joe and Earl just stood at the bottom of the stand, jaws on the ground. I came over and they stammered out: “we guess we owe y’all lunch, and Crapshoot Kid, well, we’re kinda sorry.’ I took out my ear protection, and said: “Guys, I have my ear protection in. It silences the loudest of critics!’ Lunch was good. We were all sitting around, and Daddy asked: “Is this the best barbecue you’ve ever eaten or what?!” I smiled and said, “Dad, the chicken sort of tastes like Springing Teal, and I think that Joe and Earl’s ribs must taste like Crow.”
Till the next time: Shoot Straight and Aim High!
J.Z. Zurinsky- My Bullet Points
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
The Dangers of Bear Hunting, or How I Got Porcupine Quills in My Head
We don’t have porcupines where I live. We also don’t have many bears, so when the occasional one is spotted, the 6 o’clock news reports about the posse that stalked the poor bruin through a ritzy neighborhood. So if I want to hunt bears or see porcupines, I go somewhere that seems exotic to me, like coastal British Columbia.
Upon arriving in a B.C. bear camp years ago, I noticed all the guides had porcupine quills in the tops of their caps. Minutes later, as my hunting partner, our guide, and I headed out for the afternoon’s hunt, a porcupine waddled across the road in front of us. Snatching my cap from my head, the guide ran for the porcupine and slapped its back with the crown of the cap. And that’s how they all got quills in their caps and I became one of the guys. Nice.
A few days later, we were on a logging road on the side of a mountain that felt like the top of the world. Although there was leftover snow on the ground, it was a warm, shirt-sleeves day. My hunting partner spotted a large black bear about 300 yards away. It was a shootable distance for him, and he had a gun with enough oomph to do the job from that range, but between us and the bear were a vertical rock cliff, a patch of thick alders loved by grizzlies, a wide creek raging with the waters of the spring thaw, and a large snowbank. Getting the bear back to the logging road looked difficult, if not impossible. He shot it anyway, and we started plotting its retrieval.
The route would be circuitous, through, around, and over the obstacles between us and the bear. Without the aid of GPS units, radios, or any other electronics, we realized just staying on course would be challenging. So the plan was that I would stay on the mountain where I could see both the bear and my fellow hunters and direct them as needed. How did I get so lucky?!
I watched the scene below as the two men navigated their way to the bear, occasionally pointing left or right to get them back on track. Finally, they reached the dead bear, and the guide turned to me with both arms stretched overhead, waving in a criss-cross manner to let me know they had found the bear. I acknowledged him with the same signal – and suddenly pain seared through my head. I had bumped my hat while waving, and a porcupine quill had nailed my scalp.
“&$%@#*!!!” I yelled, reaching for the brim of my hat to remove it. The cap wouldn’t budge. I tugged a little harder, but the pain was worse by the second. My head hurt, my ears throbbed, every individual tooth in my mouth pounded. I sat in the logging road with hands on each side of my hat, tugging firmly but gently. It was nailed to my head. I reached for the quills and thought I could somehow figure out which ones were pinned to me. Every one I touched made the pain worse and still didn’t budge.
Finally, there was no choice but to be more aggressive, like ripping a bandage off quickly. With both hands, I pulled my hat as hard as I could. This time it came loose, every little fish hook quill end attached to a chunk of bloody scalp. I later counted 84 bloody quills.
I dropped my head into my hands, my fingers massaging my aching scalp, my eyes clenched. Soon I realized my arms felt strangely warm, and I opened my eyes to find my hands and sleeves soaked in blood. My head was gushing, and I needed to stop the bleeding. I recalled that just down the logging road was a small waterfall, the runoff of the spring thaw. I walked there, blood streaming into my face and over my clothes, and stuck my head in the icy water. It worked; in a few minutes, the bleeding finally stopped, and I washed the blood from my hair.
I looked down at myself, seeing that my shirt was a bloody, sticky mess. My hunting partners were still at least a couple of hours from returning. I could see for miles, but there was (probably) no one around to see me. So I took off my shirt, washing it in the waterfall, streams of blood running down the roadside. I rinsed it until the water ran clean, then wrung it out. I found a sunny spot and spread it out on a rock to dry.
In the meantime – combless and mirrorless – I arranged and fluffed my hair with my fingers, trying to get it dry. My shirt eventually dried enough to wear, and I got myself dressed and back together. Minutes later, my partners emerged from the ravine, loaded with bear, and there I sat on the big rock where they had left me.
I could only imagine how shocked my hunting partners must be when they returned to find me in such a mess, especially after they had climbed down a rock cliff, crossed thick alders, waded a raging creek, trudged through a snow slide, field-dressed and skinned a bear, and returned through the same hazards with their first load of bear hide and carcass.
But they didn’t say a word! “OK, they’re excited about the bear,” I thought. “Soon they’ll finish telling their story and will notice.” Not a word. Nada. Nobody noticed.
I guess I could easily attribute their negligence of my ordeal to their being men. I could call them inattentive and self-centered. In reality, they didn’t notice because, after a week in bear camp, a waterfall shower and mirrorless grooming didn’t hurt my appearance at all.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
Gettin’ Jiggy With It
The first year I started fishing with my husband I was more concerned with how beautiful it was being out on the water at dawn …
And I loved this cold morning seeing other anglers out on the water …
And I spent a lot of time just watching my husband enjoy fishing …
And with two pairs of glasses on my head and a face that shows how early in the morning it was … I’d ask, “Is this a crappie?”
And then it happened last year. I think I just got scolded for talking so much so I was minding my own fishing business when I felt something pull my line. And I politely whispered, “Um Mark, I think you should get the net.” And he didn’t until I heard him say, “That’s a damn crappie.” And he about jumped in the water trying to make sure my inexperienced crappie fishing self didn’t lose my fish…
My first crappie. My first fish I actually touched. Please excuse the crusty hair and the I’m soaking wet and I’m not holding a fish look on my face. But I have a husband that thinks, “Oh you won’t get wet. Just enjoy the boat ride.” As we head right through a huge whitecap.
And excuse the 10 chins. Thank you.
So this year is different for me. I’m gettin’ jiggy with it. Over the past few weeks I’ve been …
- Checking the weather.
- Checking fishing reports.
- Watching crappie You Tube fishing videos.
- Reading up on how to catch crappie.
- Purchasing my own jiggy do’s from what I’ve read.
- Practicing posing for better pictures.
Have a good day all … I have 10 chins to hide before our fishing trip next week.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
How I Might Ruin The Hunter’s Wife Reputation
I have a reputation to uphold around here – I don’t go in the woods, I don’t pack heat and I don’t know the proper way to hold a bow. This one time at Cabelas, out of boredom, I picked up a bow like I was some hot outdoor chick scanning the woods to smack a critter when my husband turned around and said, “Jody you’re holding that backwards.”
And he went about his business while I stood there for an hour trying to figure the darn thing out. In case you’re wondering, we had the same conversation last weekend.
If you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time you know I have a fear of a squirrel attack. Just as I step foot in the woods I know one of those flying trapeze of a squirrel with find it’s way in my hair. Because I have big comfy nest hair for squirrels.
So when I read about Indiana B.O.W. – Becoming An Outdoors Women on the Women’s Outdoor News I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for me to … well … maybe … just … read about it.
That’s all I’m doing.
Just gathering information.
- It’s about 2 hours from our house and about 30 minutes from our river house. (Oh deer)
- The cost is only $175 from Friday to Sunday. (I can afford that.)
- It’s in the woods. (Blair Witch.)
- You sleep in barracks or a tent. (Friday the 13th made me sleep on the floor til I was 18.)
I’ll write more about the details next week. It sounds like a very affordable exciting weekend for any female looking to learn more about the outdoors.
But what would it do to me? My blog would never be the same. Next thing you know I’ll be wanting to wear camouflage on my date night like I yell at my husband for. Or competing at some clay sporting shot ‘em up. Or having a camera crew follow me around in the woods. That would make great footage … squirrel attack.
My non wearin’ camouflage painted nails hunter’s wife reputation will be ruined.
Because I know me … I cave to peer pressure and I’m very competitive. My blog would change to smack em attack em and rack em.
What do you all think?
Have a great day … maybe I could go there as a reporter or the entertainment. And stay at the local spa hotel.
See the original article at TheHuntersWife.net
