Fly Eagle Fly

 It's on record that I'm a pretty patriotic guy. As a Marine, I proudly served my country in foreign lands across oceans. I've seen some pretty amazing places and unfortunately I've also stood a post in the armpit of the world a time or two. It's in seeing those not so inviting places that I learned a lesson early on in life. 

We've got it pretty good in the ol' U. S. of A.

Sure, the Land of the Free is imperfect. Sure, at times, the rise and fall of political tides and social unrest can make things a little less comfortable on the home front. Do we have room for improvement? Always. Evil exists everywhere. If you're looking for Dark and Gloomy, you can easily find it.

But if you choose to hold your head up high and your shoulders wide; if you choose to see the brighter side of things, it's there too. I'm not suggesting that we ignore indignities. We can address those gray times accordingly. What I'm saying is that we all could use a little more 'Hakuna Matata.' My life's philosophy isn't only centered on lessons from The Lion King  and The Jungle Book but it's OK to respect the Law of the Jungle. It's OK to have pride, courage and loyalty. It's OK to be happy. 

Man, am I happy!

And it wasn't just some Gold Medal Hockey game. 

But it helps!

***********************************************************************************

On a cold, early, Sunday morning in February, I set my alarm clock alongside 18 million of my closest, hockey-crazed friends. The NHL season had been put on hold while the World's best hockey players, minus the "Russkies", represented their perspective countries with honor on the line. The Canadians and Americans were meeting head to head on Italian ice in a clash for 4 year bragging rights and Olympic GOLD. It's hard to call this a rivalry because the Canucks have held the upper hand and own the historical gold medal total at 9 while the Americans pale in comparison with their 2. The 1960 and 1980 Yankee teams took home the Gold and Americans have been pining away ever since. 

At 7:10 am central time, 18 million and me tuned in to watch. 

At the 6 minute mark of the first period, Team USA's Matt Boldy hit the neutral zone with speed near the left faceoff dot. Standing in his way were two, top tier, Canadian defencemen in Devon Toews and Cale Makar. Boldy sped ahead and gently lifted the puck in the air, tempting Toews to go fishing at the blue line. Boldy split the D pair like a couple of traffic cones; tipped the puck ahead out of mid-air and a couple of strides later, pinned Toews' stick to the ice while executing a high speed forehand/backhand move to humble the Maple Leaf wearing goaltender. Jordan Binnington's 0% save percentage would improve as the game wore on. 

At the end of the first period, hope sprang eternal in the land of the Red, White and Blue. 

1-0.

Michele and Lewie needed to wake up and join me. Our team needed us. Lewie was easy to convince. Michele took a little more persuasion. 

Our neighbors to the North were not very neighborly and came out in the second period with their hair on fire. They peppered our tendy, Connor Hellebuyck, with an inordinate amount of angry shots on goal. The Americans gave a couple of breakaway chances to a guy called McDavid and a 19 year old kid named Celebrini. It's ill advised to let McJesus walk in like that. Luckily he was skating too fast for Our Lord's liking and Hellebuyck turned a harmless attempt aside. The kid, Canadians now thinking is the second coming, had a much cleaner look but the American goalie stood tall and offered the same result. 

At the 9:27 mark of the second, American and fellow Minnesotan, Jake Guentzel broke the rules and went to the box to feel shame. Holding. 18 seconds later his buddy, Charlie McAvoy, felt sorry for his teammate and joined him. Hooking. The American Penalty Kill unit faced an impossible climb: a nearly 2 minute 5 on 3 advantage to the moose loving, maple syrup bathing, Kokanee drinking, hockey nuts in red and black sweaters! What should have been a blood bath turned into a giant momentum swing for the Good Guys. Our record setting penalty killers valiantly defended their net and their Olympic leading, perfect penalty kill percentage. The Canadian All Stars were stifled by Hellebuyck and the men that battled in front of him.

Failing to convert on the two man advantage seemed to stir the hornets nest. The Canucks controlled the play, maintained puck possession, dominated offensive zone time, and continued to fire away aimlessly at the infallible American netminder. With the weight of his country pushing heavy on his shoulders, Nathan MacKinnon missed wide left on an empty goal  No doubt, he will forever have the mental image of the yawning goalmouth burned into his mind. A shot he makes 99.9% of the time bounced off the left pipe and into the corner. When the Canadians were on target, Hellebuyck withstood the barrage. And just when he seemed bested, he reached back with the paddle of his goal stick to make the save of his life and crush any remaining Canadian optimism. 

 Throughout the second twenty minutes, the pace of play was being dictated by the Men of the North. Still the scoreboard showed the U.S. in the lead. That is, until Devon Toews and Cale Makar made good on their first period, defensive zone misdeeds. At 18:16 of the middle frame, now in their offensive zone, Toews went D to D to his hard skating partner. Makar received the puck at the top of the right circle and with his feet going towards the party, released a rocket destined for the back of the net, blocker side on the game's best player. 

Tie Game. End of 2.

In my professional opinion, not enough coverage was given to the Zamboni drivers even though they appeared to do a fantastic job. Throughout the third, the teams both figuratively and literally exchanged blows. The stat line shows each team serving two minute, minor penalties for high sticking although Jack Hughes' dental bill will be exceptionally higher. The high stakes drama was back and forth. Both teams had scoring chances and kept their feet on the gas. It appeared that neither team was content to lay back and wait for the other to falter. They simultaneously played as if every 'next shift' would determine the outcome. It was electrifying. 

I fired text messages to friends and family. Michele asked me if I was playing. My heart was racing as if I was. I told her I felt as if Mike Sullivan was going to call me up and put me in on the next shift. I started to do some mental math... if the game remained tied, it was possible that I was going to be late for my own Sunday morning Zamboni shift! Who would be there to open the rink for the children???!!!!

The Italian horn sounded, signaling that 60 minutes had not been enough to determine a winner. 

I jumped in the truck and sped to the rink. No one was there for my personal Pine City Opening ceremonies. I unlocked the front door and flipped on a few breakers and light switches. Threw some nets on the ice. Turned on hot and cold water hoses to fill the machine and hurriedly plugged in my laptop to sign back on to Peacock and Olympic coverage with time to spare. 

Through text message banter, my friends and I concluded that 3 v 3 was anybody's game. I replied that it was "gonna be over quick."

On fresh ice, the Americans turned away an initial rush or two by some random hosers and a couple of timbits. No real damage was done. As I watched on my computer screen, I thought that if we could withstand the speed with which the Canadians were entering the zone, perhaps we could catch them out of position and have that translate to opportunities on the other end. Quinn Hughes had the US's first real scoring chance. Jordan Binnington proved worthy and got some leather on it to thwart his first real test of OT. Another rush or two went harmlessly back and forth at lightning speed. But this time, the Canadian speed was their downfall. McJesus was caught too low. This time it was Makar that went fishing at an ill-conceived moment and got neither the puck nor the guy, leaving MacKinnon back to defend a driving, Zach Werenski. Dylan Larkin had jumped on for the US and trailed in support. The two poorly backchecking Canadians were gassed and watched the puck; forgetting about Jack Hughes charging hard in the opposite circle. Werenski found him and Hughes hit paydirt!

@ 1:41 of Overtime in the Gold Medal game of the Olympics, Jack Hughes did what every hockey loving kid that's ever laced them up has dreamed of. He sealed the deal for the good guys.

I screamed loud enough that the Mites in the boys bathroom scattered for the parking lot. Their father heard me waiting in the car. Two days later, I am still horse and loving every minute of it. 

I am high as a kite.

Fly Eagle Fly.

Life is good.

And I love my family. I love my dog. I love this team. I love America.

Concrete Flowers

 

When I'm monitoring the deck of the Rush City Aquatic Center, I'm scanning for stray trash, safety hazards, loose change or anything else out of the ordinary. Swim googles, beach towels and mismatched sandals are often left behind by our sun-soaked customers. My morning patrol feels more like a USMC police call sometimes - especially if the lifeguard squad from the day before dipped out prematurely. Before anyone else arrives, I roll through mental safety checks while brooming the pool and like to put my hands on all the slides, rails and guard stands to give me a piece of mind before we start our shifts. I make my rounds through the locker rooms, into the concession stand and when time allows, I take a walk through the yard or anywhere else that might fall under my jurisdiction. When the time is right, I hit up a little secret raspberry patch.

For the past few years, the custodial staff has rotated through the assignment and responsibilities of tending to the Pool campus. It's been awhile since we've had a guy that paid attention to detail on all the things both mechanical and cosmetic. Speaking politely, groundskeeping is usually done in haste and it's the grasses, weeds, dandelions and clovers that sprout from the cracks in the concrete that get to me. 

Maybe I should be appreciative of the unplanned but ornamental grasses that decorate the otherwise drab concrete slabs of the pool deck. Their resilience to thrive under difficult circumstances should be admired and emulated rather than abhorred. Those "concrete flowers" have been able to carve out an existence and create a habitable ecosystem in a landscape seemingly devoid of life supporting essentials. Our tiny cracks in the cement provide just enough shelter and cover for a seed to grow. When water is added to the mix, tiny roots seek the path of least resistance in search of soil and sunlight. Bits of dirt prove enough to start and sustain life.  Rather than viewing them as a nuisance, maybe we could see these small miracles as a source of inspiration. If they can be beautiful than so can I. 

I tend to write metaphorically from time to time...slipping in a nondescript play on words or writing with doses of figurative language in place of being up front and confrontational. Writing about concrete flowers in the literal sense makes them seem problematic on the deck of my summertime haunts. But suggesting these weeds could be a comparison to to my own plight in this concrete jungle of life would indicate they hold a deeper meaning. I am more resilient and stronger than I give myself credit for. I acknowledge that many people have had things stacked against them during their childhood and have broken the cycle. In place of medication, counseling and therapy I face my truths head on. I talk through things with my wonderful wife. I accept the things I cannot change and change the things that I can. As I grow older more of my past has become clearer. I am not ashamed of the story that shaped me because I am so happy with my life now - my 3 amazing children, my loving and devoted wife, even our knucklehead dog... it's hard work making good choices but it's so worth it.

I am a Concrete Flower. 

Minnesota ICE Out - "a bleak midwinter's day"

 "For the citizen observer reporting data, ice out occurs when the lake is completely free of ice. Or it may be when it is possible to navigate from Point A to Point B." - publicly accepted definition as stated by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources

Those of you expecting something different here, it's possible that you've earned 5 bonus points in Social Studies for paying attention to current events. They'll be added to your end of 2nd quarter grade. But first... - 

        A)   You have to Cite Your Sources. : Facebook doesn't count & TikTok is frowned upon. You should have read from the printed word and critically evaluated the creditability, accuracy and bias of such.

        B)   Written opinions are accepted but must be validated with facts. As stated: those facts should be vetted for relevance and accuracy, recognizing that we all have had different life experiences shaping those personal feelings. Don't forget to check your spelling.

        C)   In order to earn your bonus points, students must be humble enough to admit that few of us are experts on international law, constitutional law and/or the law of the common man. 

Those of you that have been hidden under a rock for sometime, consider yourself lucky. Presently, the state of affairs in Minnesota is bleak. In current lingo, "ICE Out" refers to something so dramatically removed from it's historical and cultural meaning here. Minnesota is under the national microscope once again. Cold and miserable as the temperatures outside plummet in another polar vortex, it may actually be our only saving grace to explain why the streets aren't ablaze with riots, looting and chaos again. Sure, there are activists taking to the streets voicing their opinions over the local occupancy by federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. (ICE) Thankfully, the windchill limits their reach - both the protestors and the agents. 

While following orders from their chain of command, ICE officers have recently been confronted by disruptive citizens intent on distracting them from the mission of enforcing lawful orders. Citizens that should have distanced themselves and remained uninvolved have put themselves in harms way to protect the ugly apprehension of criminals and due process that follows. The 5th and 14th amendments to our Constitution have guaranteed those rights to everyone within U.S. Borders, regardless of citizenship/immigration status. Due process takes time and in some instances, the first steps seem inhumane to those watching from the comfort of their keyboard. Reminding everyone that the law abiding citizens would have nothing to fear in this transaction. If anything, temporary inconvenience could be their only cost of proving lawful citizenship and honest living. 

In the absence of lawful and honest living, we should all be glad that there are people willing to do violence on our behalf. Instead, at present, Minnesota is full of folks that mock the uniform that protect us while we sleep. Minneapolis is no stranger to this. I wish George Floyd and Renee Good were not killed at the hands of officers sworn to protect and serve. I hope we can all agree on that. No person deserves to be "un-alived" for committing petty, bothersome crimes while making the mistake of being at the wrong place at the wrong time and deciding to challenge the authority of the responding officers. But breaking the law has consequences.

Speaking of breaking the law - the Governor of Minnesota, Tim Walz, has said that he holds himself accountable for much of what happens in Minnesota. Prior to the ICE protests and subsequent violence associated with it, Minnesota was gaining national attention for a fraud scheme perpetuated by Somalian refugees living here. Called out for thousands and thousands of dollars of missing taxpayer money, legal and illegal Somalia nationals were being asked to provide proof, credentials and accurate explanations to the question: "where has all the money gone?" Again - in the absence of lawful and honest living, perhaps we should be thankful that their is overwatch, even if it is coming from Big Brother. Governor Walz stumbled and failed to offer a palatable explanation. If our Somalian friends arrived here legally, achieved citizenship and have acted in the best interests and served the local community then more power to them. But if not, they should be held liable and responsible even if the enforcement of that looks disconcerting. 

The news media is licking their chops - exposing and portraying Minnesota as the lawless, desolate landscape of the Wild Wild West.  Our image is off-putting and does not look accommodating or accepting. I'm embarrassed and will admit that my own bias has shaped my opinion.

Only because I was once the guy in the uniform just doing what he was told. 

See above: Mogadishu, Somalia 1995

Many of my cherished friends and most trusted relatives feel drastically different than I do, as evidenced by my Facebook feed. As my homeboy Voltaire is accredited with saying, "I may not agree with what you say but I will defend to the death your right to say it."

And my other good buddy, Charlie Daniels, once said, "What this world needs is a little more respect for the Lord, and the law and the working man."

In the meantime, if you need me you can find me out on the lake. ICE fishing. 

But according to the MN DNR, "Ice is never 100% safe."

"I oughta..."

I oughta... write in here more often.

I oughta... call my mom this week before the big storm hits TN.

I oughta... get rid of some of those old t-shirts I never wear.

I oughta... tell my wife that I love her so. 

I oughta... brush my teeth a little more regularly. 

I oughta... clean out my Facebook friends.

Hell - I oughta... stay off Facebook for a while.

I oughta... call my grandma more often.

I oughta... put new fishing line on a few reels.

I oughta... decide what to cook tonight for supper that goes well with fish.

I oughta... clean up my hunting mess in the dining room. 

I oughta... let my kids know I think of them a thousand times a day. 

I oughta... make a TikTok with Emma.

Hell - I oughta... stay off TikTok for a while.

I oughta... whittle away at a few of those books that are begging to be read. 

I oughta... make some geography photocopies for 3rd quarter. 

I oughta... take Lewie for a long walk tonight.

I oughta... stop worrying about the things I can't control.

I oughta... register for Yoga on Saturday.

Hell - I oughta... write a Blog about me and Yoga. 

I oughta... listen to more of that new Zach Bryan album.

I oughta... start a load of laundry and tend to some bathroom chores tonight. 

I oughta... solidify some plans for a summer, getaway vacation with #5.

I oughta... call my Marine buddies more often. 

I oughta... work a few extra shifts as the Zamboni guy and save a few extra bucks. 

I oughta... shave off this goofy beard and make a haircut appointment. 

Hell - I oughta... make a list of the things I oughta

Pancho & Lefty - the 2025 Hunt

Chancho & Righty or was it, Pancho & Lefty?

Our brave new world has evolved into a place where humans demand instant and immediate feedback. The scrolling newsfeed of life keeps us pinned to our devises – or more aptly called just “vices”. I sometimes can’t tell the difference. The 3 second rule of TikTok says that you have just 3 seconds to catch a viewer’s attention. Otherwise, you’ve lost them and they will just swipe on by. The dopamine hit associated with “likes” and emojis connected to your Facebook profile cannot be disputed. Some can stay humble and live a normal life. I cannot.

My name is Paul Kirby and I am an addict.

Michele would argue that I spend too much time on all of the “socials” but what we’ve come to learn is that my addiction is not entirely social media related. Instead, I have become attached to Trail Cameras. To save our marriage, the “alerts and notifications” settings had to be adjusted earlier this Fall because we were both losing sleep when the TactaCam cellular plan lit up the night. Moments after silencing my morning alarm clock, I developed a habit of immediately logging on for the overnight updates from the woods. I looked forward to the latest uploads and craved the digital connection to the woods.

I love my wife and children but my love for all things wild may be a close second. My addiction to trail cameras can no longer be denied. 

Logan and Tyler had zero obligations on the day prior to deer opener. Because Chancho’s young pup, Lewie, has struggled this Fall containing his excitement in the duck blind, the boys conceived a plan to meet up that morning and chase ditch parrots. Their first Friday field yielded results proving the pup is more suited for running wild and free, scaring up pheasants then he is staring at spinning wing decoys. With a bird in the hand and a few in the bush, Chancho and Righty had a confirmed kill on the eve of the great orange migration.

Unfortunately, the kennel wasn’t open to accept Lewie until midafternoon. I suppose it didn’t matter much anyway because the school district served me up a dose of mandatory cultural competency training like I was being punished for a crime I didn’t commit. When the horn sounded quitting time, I bolted and joined the boys north bound by 4 o’clock.

The flight manifest for the 2025 deer season unfortunately dwindled down to the Outfitter, Aaron Kirby, and my delegation, consisting of me, Chancho (Logan) and Righty (Tyler). Uncle Tim had yet to turn in his walking papers and was therefor still assigned to punching in and out on the company clock. He was off “working” in the U.P. or Illinois or somewhere in between. Poppa Tom, on the other hand, had to forego handwarmers and blaze orange for an unplanned trip to Florida. Grandma Judy had fallen ill and although she insisted that he stay and play in the deer woods with the other Kirby boys, Tom felt otherwise and subsequently, headed south to look after and support his mother. (Side note: at the time of this writing, Grandma is out of the hospital with less innards than she went in with but is on the mend and in a rehabilitation facility. “The food aint great and this place isn’t my first choice, but I’m getting by,” she says.)

So, there we were, me, the Outfitter, Chancho and Righty, talking smack talk in the garage off Buzzle Road, a couple of Mich Goldens down the hatch, as we readied our gear for the rising sun.

            When we started our opening morning routines , an overnight, light frost coated the ground. For Day 1, Aaron decided to take a swing at some state land a couple of miles south of his digs, so he warmed his pickup. We layered on clothes and packed more than enough snacks to hold us over until Labor Day. A couple of handshakes were exchanged as pleasantries and before long, Tyler trekked off east towards the box blind; Aaron motored south to a portable in the southern pines and Logan and I rode the frost covered Honda southeast into county land for our regularly assigned posts.

               A significant drop in the mercury kept our usual text message string to a minimum that Saturday morning. There was very little deer activity to report aside from a random doe or two and a fork buck messing around over by Logan. Overall, it was a quiet first post. Besides sending Mountain Dew selfies to each other, we kept busy waiting for a 10:00 a.m. extraction time by wishing we owned a pair of electric socks like Aaron. Lunch time sandwiches and all the Pringles a guy could ask for were followed by a quick snooze in the small apartment complex that the Outfitter calls a Fish House.

               Through midday, the sunshine wrestled with the cloud cover enough to warm the air and make the evening post significantly more tolerable. Naysen joined his dad in the field blind. Tyler and Logan gave a few more deer a free Hall Pass. It didn’t sound as if the neighbors were doing the same. Chancho’s scent control and Little Debbie wrapper discipline afforded him the chance to have deer bed down in his general vicinity. As the sun set on Day 1, he was “pinned”. By 5:30 p.m., the depleted Kirby delegation had retreated without a shot fired.

               Since last season, the recipe for Tyler’s 2^nd place chili was misplaced but to make up for it, he treated us with some “Participation Award” chili for dinner that first night. Daylight savings time came a week earlier than usual this year, and that afforded us for more time to visit with Arica, Naysen, Natalia and her new beau, Will. The kitchen was filled with laughter and more light-hearted teasing. I slipped away to call my Dadd and check in on Grandma Judy with no deer news to report but was pleased to hear that Grandma was doing well. Shortly after that call, I took a phone call from my buddy, Scott, on a reference check on a potential Marketplace deal. Seems his Ice Castle was listed for sale and creating a buzz. I thought nothing of it.

               After a short phone visit with my huntin’ and fishin’ buddy, I checked back into the kitchen banter and filled them in on Grandma’s progress. When small talk resumed, I remembered an earlier conversation I had with Aaron about his father’s pending retirement. Right then it hit me, I had a potential match for Uncle Tim’s retirement fund. After seeing a couple of photos and hearing Logan and I reminisce about our time in that shack, Aaron started pecking away a text message to his dad somewhere in the Upper Peninsula. Tim needed to “swipe right” on Scott’s fish house. An hour later we had successfully negotiated a deal for Tim’s purchase of Scott’s Ice Castle. Not to be outdone, Tom got in on the action from afar as we found him a heck of a deal on a used Polaris 4-wheeler, also in Rush City. Tim got the Toy Hauler and Tom got a Toy. For different reasons this year, the brothers were missing out on this deer season but with both now retired, we’re hoping they rejoin us in the woods next. In the meantime, a couple of ice fishing adventures with their new toys will have to do. My brokerage fee can be paid with free LOTW guiding.

               The next morning, perhaps for the first time, Naysen decided to join us for consecutive hunts. He and his dad took to the field again for Day 2. Tyler would return to the box blind that we invested some time and treated lumber into earlier in October. I wanted to mix things up and chose to sit in the green blind near Tyler and have a look at the woods from a new angle. Logan stuck to what he’s repetitively done and headed to the farthest ladder stand. Although he had not shot a deer from there, it has historically been the most dependable spot for action. That proved to be the correct choice.

               Seems the affinity for Trail Cameras is a familial trait. Aaron runs just as many cameras if not more in Bemidji than we do down south. And he is equally addicted to the shot of dopamine associated with the instant “Notification” from the Tactacams.

At 7:06 am he sent me a picture of a big buck walking by Logan’s ladder in real time.

At 7:08 Logan text, “We’ve got work to do.”

               Painted unclearly at the break of dawn, the faded black and white image was being beamed from phone to phone in our hunting party faster than the .243 jacketed hollow point Logan sent down range. No one dared guess just how big this bruiser was, but it was apparent from the pixelated photo that this dude was definitely a shooter. A young doe grazed beneath me while Logan said that he was going to get down and look for blood at the point of impact. With the sun yet to even hit the tree line, we anxiously waited for more confirmation. He then went radio silent for much longer than I had anticipated.

               After what seemed like a long time without finding a hint of blood, Logan climbed back into his stand and onto the phone to recount the shot and solicit advise. Logan felt like he made a good quartering away shot at about 60 yards and felt confident after seeing the deer mule kick and bolt off. Tyler asked for permission to join his younger brother and help. Aaron offered to climb down and head over and lend a hand too. I reminded everyone that we had time to wait. There was no rush. We aimed for 8:30. The best we could do was 8:17.

               Tyler and I met up and swung by the house to shed a layer of clothing and visit the porcelain facilities before joining up with Aaron on a tracking job in a place with a history of drawn-out adventure. Naysen made it to the house and his Legos about the same time the rest of us met up near the tiny pine trees 60 yards south from where Logan fired. Chancho marked where the deer stood and promised us that he had not trampled more than 10 yards in any direction. His account of the deer’s initial direction of travel was confirmed by a light dusting of snow. Some disturbed leaves provided small hints that the wounded buck hurried around the hill before disappearing out of sight. No blood had the hunters confounded. Logan speculated that the deer moved off in a southwesterly direction towards the stands from which our last two deer perished. We struggled to find any more sign. The rising and rolling terrain of the county land let doubt creep in.

               An hour and a half had passed since Logan squeezed the trigger. The 4 of us stood confused by the lack of blood on what should have been an easy shot for the young hunter. The light caliber rifle may have hit bone; may have not exited the wounded animal, thus making it less likely that we’d be successful finding a blood trail. The perplexed recovery crew began to silently separate, each of us in our own heads trying to solve a murder mystery. I wandered southwest in the direction my youngest swore that he heard it crashing. Tyler made small circles. Aaron was visibly trying to look up ahead and IN TO the woods searching for a clue. The marksman, feeling dejected, stood in place.

               After a while, I returned to the last set of tracks that we were sure belonged to the buck. I retraced his steps leading up to that point. It was then that I found a drop of blood. The colorblind fool I am would be rewarded when the rest of the hunting party gathered and quickly spotted one more drop. Two drops of blood trickled on to some oak leaves just six inches apart. The blood spots only confirmed that we had a wounded deer. That proved to be all the clues we’d be given. We were not able to definitively determine anything else and soon returned to our confused wandering.

               For another hour we grid searched and wandered. Because of the rolling topography and other property limitations, we generally worked in a clockwise direction and hopscotched south by southwest. At times we moved methodically and skipped a hunter ahead to cover while the others slowed down and picked apart the countryside. Other times, we meandered and daydreamed. A couple of live deer were kicked up and safely escaped without an attempt lobbed their way. Deflated and on the precipice of defeat, we eventually hit the north/south fence line. It was possible that Logan had lost his buck.

               When we reached the Pit, we paused to catch our breath and make a decision: call it good and go in for lunch OR ask for permission from the neighbors to the east; head back to the last known waypoint and keep trying. Aaron phoned the neighbor. Now midmorning, Tim Lewis was still posted in the middle of the hardwoods his family owns directly to the east.  Aaron explained our plight and Tim happily obliged. We agreed to only work 75 yards or so across the property line and would do our best not to disturb any remaining part of his hunt. If anything, we thought we might push deer his direction. The choice was made; our search to recover the mystery buck was still on.

               Back into the woods our team paused to formulate another plan. Ironically, we stood in front of the Outfitter’s trail camera while it perfectly captured our dilemma. We tossed a couple more ideas around but settled on another trip through the county land to the south. Once we reached the southern border we would swing to the east and double back, this time crossing into the Lewis’ property and working back towards the impact zone in counterclockwise movement. Fifteen minutes later, the boys and I got a new view of the land that we had only seen before on the OnX app. About the time we arrived at a major property intersection with an endless view of prime hunting land in all directions, my phone ping’ed. Another Rud boy had taken another buck. Although Tyler and I were very happy for them, I was reluctant to show Logan. The agony of defeat and the pain of loss was setting in.

               Moving north now and closing in on the last couple hundred remaining yards, the team passed by an unused box stand that Aaron pointed out was the one that we were denied permission to borrow weeks earlier. Positive vibes had long since left me; my thoughts drifted towards lunch. Tyler and I walked beside each other on the public side of the fence while Logan and Aaron picked through some young popple trees on the Lewis property. The two pairs drifted apart when suddenly Logan called for my attention. When I was able to get a clear line of sight on him through the tangled saplings, he had his rifle shouldered and was waving me over. Aaron hurriedly pecked away at his phone trying to alert Mr. Lewis that we planned to fire again. Tyler and I closed the distance as quickly as the woods allowed and when it was apparent that Logan had found his wounded buck and had him sufficiently covered, we backed off and waited for the final shot. Aaron was unable to reach Mr. Lewis. Although the buck was not strong enough to get to its feet, the deer raised its head and needed to be put down.

Logan fired and our search was over.

We had “work to do.”

               A dark antlered 8-point buck lay at our feet, perhaps 250 yards from where he was first hit three and a half hours earlier. Turns out, Logan misinterpreted the smashing and crashing through the woods and Aaron’s hunch was correct. The wounded animal continued along the same general path that it was on when it came by Logan. Our determination and persistence were difficult to understand but we had accomplished another drawn out but successful recovery. Chancho finally laid his hands on his trophy while his three partners snapped pictures and fired off text messages to friends and family that had been waiting with bated breath.

               Congratulations and salutations poured across the airwaves. Logan’s sigh of relief was heard three counties over and his smile revealed that a major weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Mista Stutzman text from somewhere along the shores of the St. Louis River and wondered if this was a “local Buck” known to us through trail camera footage or whether it was a “sex crazed trespasser”. Turns out, we had a couple of great trail camera pictures of this buck and had seen him before. He was a local.

               Our diminished hunting party hunted together for a few more posts but never fired another shot that weekend. Tyler was able to join Logan and I and hunt Zone 225 around Rush City for a couple of days on the second weekend. The trail cameras there sent pictures of deer so regularly that we all became oddly familiar with a couple of different small bucks. Being able to be in the woods with my boys for a second weekend made this season all that much more memorable for me. We had action. We shared laughs and we swapped trail camera pictures to feed our addictions.

               Man, those things are fun.

 

 

 

 

POST SEASON SIDE NOTE:

After seeing a SnapChat that Emma’s roommate, Mia, sent of an Urban MONSTER BUCK, I am considering setting up a deer stand in Emma’s back yard in Duluth next year.

Likewise, Tyler may be hunting from his back porch in Plymouth after seeing the RING camera footage of another sex crazed trespasser.

 

 

The Gales of October –

 I am not a climatologist. Not a weatherman. Not a politician. Not a hippie.

There are some people that believe everything they read on the internet. And then there are people that question everything. I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.

Climate Change has been a hot button topic for a while now. The idea that human growth, expansion, discovery and exploration is outpacing the physical ability of our Earth and its atmosphere to keep up is controversial at best. Are humans, pollution, new technologies and bad decision making affecting the layers of the atmosphere that filter out and let in just the right amount of sunlight and energy to balance things beautifully on this here 3^rd Rock? Some call it global warming. Other use climate change. Whatever the catch phrase, there’s no denying that my Inupiaq friends in coastal Alaska are in danger.

Perhaps 50 years ago, there would have been enough sea ice built up by now along the barrier islands of the Northwest Arctic to protect its coastline from harsh ocean weather. That I don’t know. What I do know, is that 10 years ago when I was one of a few Naluagmiu living in Kivalina, an October storm from the Chukchi Sea threatened to punch a new channel through the middle of the village. As the wind and waves battered the shore, residents scrambled with heavy equipment and Volkswagen sized sandbags to avoid a breach.

Yesterday, Oct. 8, 2025, it’s happening again.

The Gale’s of October are pounding the coast from Kotzebue to Kivalina. Facebook is alive with videos from my Eskimo friends who have “never seen it like this”. The scalloping waves are rising and relentlessly eroding the banks. A non-mandatory evacuation order has been sounded. As of last night, some elders and a few children have hit the road and were bused inland to the new school.

When I googled Kotz and KIVILS – an Alaska Daily News story with video topped the feed. I saw familiar places and heard the voices of familiar friends. Although I left 10 years ago, I guess I’m still attached.

I cried for a second and then began to pray.

I’m no climatologist but I know what I saw.

                                                                    Pic. from 2015

Your Prompt.

 I write.

Some say I’m a bit of a storyteller – at times long winded. Perhaps it’s the Irishman in me. Truth is, I’ll talk to anyone that will listen. And when I write, I don’t have to worry whether anyone is listening or not.

So I write – sometimes to preserve a memory and not use up so much brain space remembering the particulars of a moment in time. These stories come about when we have a significant family event worth sharing and remembering or a hunt that was successful for more than one reason or another. As we grow older, the specifics, dates, times and details start to fade away. But I have found that if those details were written down while fresh, a quick re-read immediately reignites a fond memory as if it happened yesterday.

I write to process emotion. For a while there I was knocking out eulogies like unplanned and unfun clockwork. Those “Ted Talks” were my way of honoring some special people in my life and I got good at something I didn’t want to. Summing up the life of friends and family in an essay was my way of paying tribute to them while helping me cope with loss.

I never aspired to be an essayist. I did have a couple of high school English teachers that we could blame for this. Their approach to the written word freed me up to get words out of my head and onto the paper. Their positive feedback laid a foundation that enabled me to not worry too much about form, structure, and traditional conventions of writing. Thank you, Mrs. Nordine and Mrs. Hallan. I am forever grateful for you and your creative prompts, your endless enthusiasm for language and your belief that a jock might even have something worthwhile to write about.

I proudly served in Uncle Sam’s Motorcycle Club from 1993-1997. Those of us seasoned enough to have survived the “Olden Days”, remember a society without social media, without instant and constant news feeds, without email and text messaging connecting us to everyone in the world with the swipe and stroke of a thumb or a finger. We lived in a world of Snail Mail, and it was that precious Mail Call that kept me connected to my life back home. Every service man and woman can speak to the feeling of relief to finally hear your name called as the platoon sergeant doles out envelopes and packages from home to troops abroad. Maybe it was in those letters when I replied that I started to develop my own style. Either way, my appreciation for the written word grew.

On a liberty call in Dubai, UAE in 1994, some buddies and I hit a Rashad Johnny variety shop with a pocket full of dirhams. Traditionally, Marines on libo tear through the streets of foreign lands in search or good food, good beer, and bad women. As I recall, Dubai offered none of that. What I left that little variety shop with though has become one of my most prized possessions. It’s a little blue notebook. Nondescript and plain. No title. No frills. Just bound sheets of writing paper. My good friend, Lance Corporal Ratboy, bought one as well. Together we vowed to write as often as possible while on float.

We intended to journal.

Heroic - I know.  

And believe it or not, we both purposefully set aside time on most nights to write in our “feelings journals”. In that blue notebook I would write what was on my mind; write about what was bothering me; write about the ins and outs and daily life of jarheads aboard the Navy’s finest ships. I wrote down thoughts of home and missions both ahead and behind us. I wrote down song lyrics and how their authors moved me. Periodically time didn’t allow me to put pen to paper. But eventually it became such a habit that I felt like something was missing if I didn’t catalogue the day’s musings. In that journal I mumbled and muddled my way to pass the time.

That blue notebook took me through the end of that first float. It recorded combat, lost paychecks and broken hearts. I broke it out again 2 years later and traveled across the Pacific once again, feelings journal in hand. An Irish jock from small town mid-America turned scribe and part time litterateur had learned the therapeutic effects of writing.

By the time the Marine Corps let me out in 1997, technology had progressed enough so that a few short years later I was able to “get the girl” with the help of constant contact through daily emails. The woman of my dreams fell to my rugged good looks and uncanny way with the written word. By the mid 2000’s, she and I established a family blog to keep our loved ones up to speed on our growing family. It wasn’t long until that Blog became a creative outlet for me to again play with written babble whether anyone was “listening” or not.

10 years ago, when I spent a year in Alaska, the audience grew.

And now the blog sometimes goes untouched for a while…dormant… its scribe waiting for a Prompt.

 

PS – I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell any of my Marine buddies about my Feelings Journal.