The Great Outdoors - Accept No Substitutes

I think I have tennis elbow. My right arm is sore and achy and it when fully extended. It's embarrassing, considering I don't play tennis - at least not the kind the kind that requires an actual court and racquet. You know you are out of shape when you hurt yourself playing a video game.

I spent the weekend playing video tennis, among other games, on the Nintendo Wii. It's a pretty amazing gaming system. It consists of a console and wireless controllers that are sort of like pointing devices, and can translate the motion of your hand into movement on the game. For instance you swing the controller like you would an actual racquet, baseball bat or ping-pong paddle, and your character on the game responds in like fashion. The controller is so sensitive that when I let go of the button too soon on my bowling backswing, the ball flew behind me like it would in real life. The little Wii characters watching the game from the snack bar even pointed and laughed at me!

There are dozens of different games you can get for this machine, including sports, action, fantasy and kids games. You can fish or hunt ducks or wildlife, courtesy of games like Cabela's Big Game Hunter. We competed in about twenty different Olympic Events, including archery and skeet shooting. My favorite is though cow racing - a game where you race cows over a course, jumping hurdles and running into scarecrows for extra points. I think I just like it because it's one of the few games I can win. I pretty much got thumped in everything else.

The Wii has been in the news a lot lately. For one, they are hard to find. They are so popular, stores can't keep them in stock. But the consoles are also crossing generational boundaries. Video games are generally thought of as something for the younger audience. But Wiis have become popular among the elderly, including at senior centers and nursing homes. Most of the games are pretty simple to play and get you up and get you moving in some fashion. I found news articles about senior citizen center Wii bowling, golfing and fishing tournaments.

Finally, a video game that isn't completely sedentary. I have to admit, I was a little winded after boxing. In fact, a study by the Mayo Clinic released this year showed that playing physical games was beneficial in fighting obesity, at least in children. I also read testimonials from Wii owners who had lost between five and thirty pounds just from playing their Wii. Its being touted by some parents as the a way to get kids active and exercising.

As I made the long trip home from my weekend of fun and frivolity, I contemplated the many wonders, and shortcomings of the Wii. The technology is pretty cool, and it was a heck of a lot of fun. But as amazing as it is, and even if it can give you tennis elbow, it's certainly no substitute for real activity. No video game is.

It's scary to me to think that there is a generation out there who will only experience the great outdoors, including hunting and fishing, through a television screen and a gaming console.

Never mind the fact that ethics, sportsmanship and conservation play no real role in these virtual adventures. No matter how sensitive the controller, no matter how realistic the graphics, no matter how exciting the action, in no way can a game compare to the real experience.

Technology can never truly replicate the sound of bull elk bugling across the canyon or turkeys gobbling just yards away from your hiding place. A controller will never feel better in your hand than a well-loved rifle stock. You can't smell the sage or taste fresh pan-fried brookie through a television.

The experiences of getting outdoors and hunting, fishing, hiking, boating, camping or otherwise exploring the countryside are ones a lot of us take for granted. But the percentage of the population that actively hunt or fish grows smaller and smaller each year. That's a concern for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department, not only because license dollars represent the bulk of our operating budget, but also because healthy fish and wildlife populations depend on an active public. Hunters and anglers are the driving force behind fish and wildlife management, habitat protection and resource conservation. But as modern society is becoming more urbanized, we become more disconnected from our outdoor heritage and consequently, our stewardship ethic.

The Wyoming Game and Fish Department has identified hunter and angler recruitment as one our top outreach priorities in the coming years. True, the Game and Fish needs the financial base of hunters and anglers. But we also need active and vocal sportsmen and women who care about wildlife to speak up in the political arena as well. Wildlife needs a strong constituent base, and it starts with hunters and anglers. I suspect the challenges we've seen on a landscape level will pale in comparison to what the next generation will face. Are we doing our part to make sure there is a next generation of hunters and anglers?

As the miles ticked by and my muscles twitched as I held the car steady on the nasty roads, I decided I needed to put down the controller and put on my hiking boots. The weather is getting warmer, the days are getting longer. Soon the skies will be clear and the fish will be biting. I need to get off the couch and go see these beautiful spots in the Bighorns I've been hearing about for the last six months. I need to quit bemoaning my holiday weight gain and focus on gaining muscle and endurance for the fall hunting season. My arms should ache from casting practice, not a goofy video game. I needed to feel the sun on my face, the wind in my hair and the burn in my lungs from a challenging hike.

Better yet, I need to practice what I preach and get the next generation off the couch and in the wild. I vowed to take my nieces and nephews fishing this summer, a promise I made but didn't follow through on last July. Heck, maybe I'd even go for Coolest Aunt on the Planet and take them camping overnight while I was at it. Just me, a campfire, some marshmallows and eight kids between the ages of six and fifteen in the open country.

On second thought, just fishing is probably fine. The kids probably won't return from a trip to Pole Mountain ready to chuck their Gameboys for a fishing pole, but at least they'll have the chance to decide for themselves which is cooler - putting a worm on a hook, catching a fish and physically holding it in their hands or watching some animated character do it on a TV screen. The next generation will never know how great the great outdoors can be unless we give them the chance to experience it firsthand.

So spring has sprung and summer is right around the corner. It's time to turn off the Wiis and tune into the great landscape and outdoor opportunities around us. Just let me whoop this boy at one more cow race.

Puppy Love

My quest for the world's best second dog ended last fall. For several months, I'd gone back and forth on adding another canine member to my little family, debating among no dog, a companion dog or some sort of hunting dog.

In the end, the companion won out. I realized that hunting dogs, like a pointer or a springer, are dogs meant to have a job. They are bred for action in the field, not lazy spring days sleeping in until 10 a.m. So with neither the time, nor the expertise to turn an energy-laden pup into a lean, mean, hunting-machine, I settled on finding a four-legged friend for me and Hoops, my Golden Retriever-German Shepherd mix.

So off to the local animal shelters and rescue centers I went. After a few weeks of searching, I found him - a six-week old red heeler mix named Helton. I think it was the name that suckered me. After all, what normal Front Range resident didn't get swept up in baseball fever as the Colorado Rockies, and first baseman Todd Helton, marched on to the World Series? On the very day I just missed getting Series tickets, up pops a little e-mail from the local shelter. "Love the Rockies? Come meet Helton!" it said. It was an omen. It was fate. The Rockies would win the Series and I had found my perfect puppy.

Um, no, not so much. My beloved Rox ended up losing to the Boston Red Sox in an abysmal 4-game sweep, and I ended taking home a squirmy yellow dog that looks like a bat. Funny how fate can send you on a detour.

To get to the puppies, I had to walk right past the adult dogs waiting to be adopted. I barely glanced at the older puppies as I pressed on to meet Helton. But one glance had me laughing out loud. There sat Chrissy, a four-month old lab mix. She had yellow fur and giant-bat like ears. She looked like a cross between Old Yeller and Piglet from the Winnie-the-Pooh cartoons. The dog was positively ridiculous-looking. When she heard me giggle, she cocked her head, first to one side, then the other. I was about to move on to the puppy room when I swear, that darn dog put her paw on the gate and smiled at me. Yes, she saw me turn to leave and she smiled at me.

Well, it was kind of smile. More like a half-snarl, half-toothy grin. Then she wagged her tail and pressed her nose to the gate. I held out my hand and received just one soft-wet nose kiss before she wandered back to the back of her kennel and flopped on the floor.

So on to the puppies and home with Helton the wonder pup. But somehow, after Little-Miss-Sunshine in the other room, the sleepy blob of heeler puppy just didn't have any appeal. Uh-oh, I thought, I just fell in love. Puppy love.

The next night, Hoops had a new sister and the yellow puppy had a new home and new name. The smiling wonder was named Roxy, fittingly named after my beloved, if beleaguered, Colorado Rockies.

Life has since been a whirlwind. Roxy has certainly brightened my life with her silly smiles and puppy antics. I've learned that labs have incredible intestinal fortitude -- she''s eaten reading glasses, a paperback novel, a calculator, a CD and three pages of scrapbook stickers. She might have gotten away without me knowing about the stickers, except for the wayward R, K and B stuck to the top of her head. I'm convinced she was trying to spell the word BARK.

I've also learned to be careful what you wish for. For two months, Roxy refused to go up and down stairs, choosing instead to sit at the top and howl until her humans returned from the basement. My niece and nephew taught Roxy that stairs aren't so scary after all. In fact, stairs were so much fun she couldn't wait until morning to run up and down them. Did you know that a 30-pound dog running up and down 15 stairs at 2:30 in the morning sounds roughly like a herd of bison stampeding through your camp site?

And I learned that while the verdict is still out on old dogs learning new tricks, old dogs can indeed teach old tricks to new puppies. Hoops has systematically taught all of his bad habits to Roxy. She's learned how to beg for yogurt cups, hog the bed and last, but certainly not least, how to leave her rawhide in the middle of the hallway where I'm sure to step on it in the middle of the night. Together, they've invented a game I like to call "Make the Mistress Yell," where they will slowly stalk one another around the coffee table until the cue is given. Then they race to the bedroom, leap across the bed, tear down the stairs, circle the recliner and haul back up the stairs to the living room, giving nary a thought to whatever, or whomever, might be in their path. The first dog to bleed or get nabbed by me and thrown outside is considered the loser.

I do however have high hopes for her future hunting potential. She accompanied me one day while I worked the Springer check station last fall. The dog definitely has some hunting heritage in her, she managed to flush and retrieve every last pheasant part on the place. She'd pounce on a wing that had blown free of the trash can, then triumphantly return to me, dropping her bounty at my feet in delight.

Actually, she has caught on rather quickly to basic obedience, and listens well when we are out of the house and working outdoors. I'm crate-training Roxy, and I've decided that's the only way to go. I shudder to think of what my house would look like if she were left to her own devices during the day. The words tornado and total destruction come to mind.

Maybe next fall we can move on to live birds, if she doesn't eat my shotgun first. Even if I don't have a new hunting weapon, I have another source of unconditional love and a three-ring circus in my living room that is better entertainment than any show I'll ever get on cable.

Man, I should have gotten a Springer.

A Race Against Time

As I hiked the half mile through crusted snow toward the exclosure to inspect a big Wyoming sage plant, three things came to mind…First, I'm out of shape. It was only about half a mile, and I was huffing and puffing like the wolf in the three little pigs story. If I don't hit the gym soon, there's no way I'll be able to keep up with the cute boy deer hunting this fall.

Second, I need better cold weather socks. My fleece-lined socks are okay for keeping my feet warm in the office and shoveling snow, but they weren't really up to par for hiking across the frozen tundra. Besides, if any of my co-workers would have seen that my socks had Tweety Bird on them, I might not have lived it down.

And finally, if I were a pronghorn or a mule deer that had to make a living out on the Wyoming landscape, I would perish. Frankly, I'm just not quite tough enough.

I was touring southeast Wyoming courtesy of Bob Lanka, the Regional Information and Education Specialist in the Laramie region. He had organized this tour for media in the area to see first hand what wildlife have to endure in the winter, and to demonstrate how crucial quality habitat is to their survival.

Habitat is the food, water, shelter and space an animal needs to survive. Not only do animals need all four of these elements, animals need them in the right amounts and at the right time. Here at Game and Fish, we spend a great deal of time talking about how healthy habitats are the key to healthy wildlife populations. Bob hoped to hammer that point home with some in-your-face visual aids.

So two reporters from the Laramie Boomerang, two reporters from the Wyoming Tribune Eagle and a few Game and Fish staff members, including myself, piled into our Expedition and set off to experience a day in the life of a Wyoming pronghorn.

One of the Tribune-Eagle reporters asked me what Game and Fish hoped to gain from offering tours like this.

"We want to show how habitat is the foundation for wildlife, and how and why habitat drives wildlife management. Its all inter-dependent. Habitat drives carrying capacity, or how many animals can survive in a certain area. That in turn affects how Game and Fish manages wildlife. We use habitat as one of the factors affecting how many hunting licenses we issue," I told her.

Our first stop - a school section just north of Highway 34. "It's a race against time," explained Bob. "These animals spend all summer eating, hoping to put on enough fat reserves to help them last through the winter, usually until spring green-up in April. If they don't get enough nutrition through the winter and go through their reserves too quickly, there's only one ending - they die."

Bob picked off a small bit of sagebrush and held it out for our inspection. "Pronghorn need 2.5 pounds of food a day to make it through the winter. This is what one bite would be for a pronghorn. Imagine how hard it is to eat 2.5 pounds when this is the biggest bite you can find."

When pronghorn or other wildlife can't get enough to eat they draw on their energy bank account, the body fat they stored up during the summer.

The "bite" he held in his hand was tiny, probably about half an inch in length and weighing next to nothing. Several years of drought, combined with constant browsing by pronghorn herds in the area have taken their toll on much of the sagebrush and other big game food-source plants in our state.

Rick Straw, a Game and Fish habitat biologist, went on to point out that much of the food the pronghorn needed was crusted in snow, meaning the animals had to spend time and energy pawing at the ground to find suitable forage.

How in the world could an animal possibly get 2.5 pounds of food a day out of this? That would be like me needing to eat 2.5 pounds of food a day, half a peanut at a time, and having to sort through a sandbox to find those peanut halves. It seemed a daunting task.

After some more discussion, we turned to head back to the vehicles. I trudged through the snow, careful to step in the footsteps of the person in front of me so I didn't have to break new ground. A few times I stumbled, barely catching my balance before I toppled over. Occasionally the crusted snow would give out on me and I'd sink into the white stuff up to my knees. By the time we reached the vehicle, I was winded and my hiking boots felt like they were lined with lead. How in the heck did pronghorn do this day in and day out?

Our tour had to be amended when the road to Medicine Bow was closed due to blowing and drifting snow. Ahhh, life in Wyoming in the winter. Unphased, Rick and Bob regrouped and we headed back toward Laramie and the Snowy Range to learn more about mule-deer habitat. Along the way, Rick and Bob explained that plants like sagebrush did more than just provide food for antelope. It provided another important element of habitat, cover, to a whole other host of critters-- sagegrouse, pygmy rabbits and songbirds, just to name a few.

I decided to replenish my own fat reserves by breaking open my bag of Fritos I brought along for lunch. Mmmmm, carbs! Much better than sagebrush, in my humble opinion.

Our last stop of the day was an improptu lesson at a public access point to Sheep Mountain. We had just driven across some pretty nasty roads, the blowing snow making it impossible to see the road in front of us. Grateful for a break in the weather and ready to stretch our legs, the nine of us poured out of the vehicle and hiked a short distance up the hill to look at some mountain mahogany shrubs.

The wind was positively howling. It cut through my clothing layers like one of those TV knives cutting a tin can. My cheeks stung from its bite and my eyes burned behind sunglasses. Snow swirled around us, limiting the visibility. We hadn't been out of the vehicle more than a few minutes and I was freezing. I tried to get out of the wind, if just for a moment, so I could concentrate on what Rick and Bob were saying. But there was little relief.

"Think you could stay the night out here? Think you could make it to dawn if you had to?" Bob asked. "These are the conditions these animals live in, each and every day. Sure, they have fur to help keep them warm, but the point is, they aren't comfortable - they're cold, they're hungry and they are tired. They're racing time, trying to make it until spring. And if they don't have the habitat to support them, they lose the race and we lose lots of animals. That's the reality of life for wildlife in Wyoming."

There's no way. I couldn't make it to dawn. The cold was seeping into my body, numbing my brain and making me a big, whiny baby. I would definitely be the first pronghorn or mule deer to perish-- I'd get picked off by predators because I couldn't keep up with the group, starve to death or just flat-out give up and fall over dead. That's the reality of life for wildlife in Wyoming.

As we concluded the tour and headed back to Cheyenne, I couldn't help but have a new-found respect for our wildlife and what they have to endure. I also contemplated how we as humans, can affect that race against time. Just about everything we do on the landscape has an impact to the habitat these animals depend on.

Are we making the right choices? That's something we'll all need to decide together. But I would ask you this - the next time you're speeding along through this great big, beautiful state of ours, realize that's not just an endless vista out there. It's important, critical habitat: food, water, shelter and space. And habitat means home to Wyoming's 800 species of fish and wildlife. Let's make sure the place we all call home will always have those animals in it.

Lessons from a Life

I've never been one to have heroes, outside of my dad and my ag teacher, Mr. Berry. Growing up, there were certainly people I admired and tried to emulate, but no one else I would consider a true personal hero. That is, until I took a position with the Wyoming Association of Conservation Districts in 2001 and began working with then WACD president, Olin Sims.

Immediately, I was drawn to him. Charisma just oozed from his big frame. Even while Olin was peppering me with questions on the Endangered Species Act and animal feeding operations in my interview, his natural presence was evident.

For the next four years, I worked for Olin as a program specialist for WACD. My initial awe at the man quickly turned to respect at the very deepest level for his passion and integrity. He became one of my heroes, and someone I missed greatly in my new position here at the Game and Fish.

My heart has been heavy the last few weeks, after learning that Olin was killed in an accident on his family ranch in mid-December. I still can't believe it – only days before the accident, I hung out with Olin at the Natural Resource Conference in Casper. There he was, on stage, working the crowd as an auctioneer, ice raising an obscene amount of money for natural resource organizations in Wyoming.

After the auction, we stayed to visit and dance. We talked farm bill, I told him about shooting an antelope and of course, we talked UW sports. He told me about his work as the president of the Natural Association of Conservation Districts and spending a week in Guam with his wife, Tammy. I hadn't seen Olin in almost two years, but it was as if I'd never left WACD.

"I'm so proud of you, T," he told me, using my WACD nickname. 'I'm so glad things are going well for you, but I have to tell you, we miss you."

"Well I miss you guys too, Governor," I replied, using my own nickname for him. I really did miss Olin, because his sheer love of all the things that are good about Wyoming was positively infectious. You couldn't have a conversation with Olin on something he cared about and not come out fired up and ready to take on the world. Heck, I might have even missed dealing with his numerous cell phone issues (What? You're breaking up. I hate when you call when you are moving cows, make those calves stop bawling, I can't hear you! Uh, no Olin, the Verizon warranty doesn't cover phones dropped in an irrigation ditch...)

Three days after we danced and talked and laughed, he was gone. His death was felt by the entire agriculture and conservation community in Wyoming, from folks in the conservation districts to Senator Barasso in Washington, D.C. We were all in a state of shock - Olin was larger than life, there was simply no way he could be gone.

I couldn't bring myself to go to his funeral. I was afraid it would just be too sad, that my grief at losing someone I so admired and respected would overwhelm me. And there were certainly many people mourning a loss much greater than mine for me to make such a spectacle of myself. The magnitude of what we had all lost would just be too much for me to bear, my emotions too raw and deep to come to terms with it so quickly. How could I process losing someone I'd considered a second father figure?

To quote his good friend, Johnny, here was a man who lived his whole life for others, giving his everything for his family, his land and his country. He not only talked the talk of integrity and values, he walked the walk, following through on promises and commitments. He was the kind of man you want your son to grow up to be and your daughter to grow up to marry. Olin wasn't content to just sit around and gripe about what he thought was wrong - he got involved and tried to change things. His desire to make things better took him all the way to the National Association of Conservation Districts presidency, where he was able to, among other things, weigh in and lend a voice to Wyoming farmers and ranchers on the conservation title of the upcoming farm bill.

He was also a man that lived by example. Olin and his family used their ranch to demonstrate best management practices, to show how wildlife, agriculture and environmental stewardship could work together for the benefit of all. He literally practiced what he preached, enrolling the family ranch as an animal feeding operation Clean Water Act demonstration project to get the cows out of the creek, or using his cattle to graze lands in conjunction with elk migration patterns to improve forage for resident elk herds. Awards for Olin and the Sims family ranch in Rock Creek Valley included the Excellence in Grazing Management Award, the National Endowment for Soil and Water Conservation, and the Land Manager of the Year. In 2004, they received the Wyoming Stock Growers Environmental Stewardship Award and were named the Wyoming Game and Fish Landowners of the Year. In 2005, they received the Environmental Stewardship Award from the National Cattlemens Beef Association, acknowledging their tremendous efforts to protect and conserve our nation's rural resources. Olin was also inducted into the Wyoming Agriculture Hall of Fame in 2006.

But perhaps the greatest thing about Olin was you could strip away the titles, the accolades and the cowboy hat and he was still just Olin. Just a Wyoming rancher and all around good guy. He was true to his roots, never too big or too important to recognize small contributions, do the little thing that needed to be done or laugh at himself. My favorite memories of Olin won't be standing up delivering a farm bill presentation or testifying on legislative issues, even though that was what he did best. It's the more candid moments that I'll hold near and dear to my heart. Olin in flaming yellow shorts and white legs playing volleyball in Thermopolis; Olin bent over a broken wagon axle, using that good Scandinavian engineering (and possibly duct tape) to get the wagon righted and our tour of Owl Creek back on track; Olin, leaning back in an office chair, Bud Light close at hand as his huge hands fumbled to put little sticky tabs on board packets; Olin, wrapping me up in a bear hug my last few days at WACD, telling me "You'll do good things for wildlife, T, just like you've done for ag. But we'll sure miss ya, so don't be gone too long, okay?"

To be honest, I was just plain angry. Where was the justice in his dying? The world needs more men, more leaders like Olin Sims, not fewer. We need the real deal to look up to. Whether they agreed with his politics or not, Olin's sincerity and desire to really do good things was recognized by those around him. We need Olin's brand of honesty, collaboration and kindness. Agriculture needs that, natural resource conservation needs that...I need that. He was my superhero...and superheroes don't just die, dang it.

But bitterness and anger are not my style, and soon I recognized that I needed to say goodbye, in my own way. So there, in the Wyoming open country with the Wind Rivers in the background and nothing but miles and miles of snow covered sage as far as the eye could see, I whispered my own heartfelt tribute to my friend. And just as soon as I said my thanks to him for his guidance and leadership, my words were gone, picked up by a soft Wyoming breeze somewhere along Sand Mesa, my grief carried on the wind to the earth and the sky and the very land and that we both loved so much.

My friend, my hero is gone. But his legacy will live on, through me, through all the folks at the local conservation districts, through the game wardens and habitat biologists and all his other friends across this state and country. Because his passion for the land, for doing right, for conserving what we believe to be special and sacred, is infectious. It's a passion I try to do right by every day I come to work, and one I'll instill in my own kids. Whether you are a wildlife advocate, a rancher, an environmentalist, a hunter or just someone who loves this great big state with all your heart, may that be the legacy we all leave behind - doing right for your family, doing right for others, doing right for Wyoming, simply because it's the right thing to do.

Making a List and Checking it Twice

Some years ago, my family started drawing names at Christmas. Between my parents, five kids and four spouses, finding and buying meaningful gifts for everyone just got too cumbersome. I opposed this idea at first, because I just really liked getting presents.

Now that I am older and wiser, it's a tradition I've come to embrace. My resources are now focused on buying one family member what they really want. I’ve always considered myself a top selection in the annual drawing of names. The last few years, my wish list included mainly items for my house - a ladder, a magazine rack, a Bissell Little Green Machine. All relatively straightforward, readily available, one size fits all gifts.

That is, until this year. My brother-in-law, Kyle, drew my name, which means that my second oldest sister will be shopping for me. When she asked for a few hints in post-Thanksgiving e-mail, I sat down to consider what I really wanted.

I had nothing. There was really nothing pressing I needed, nor anything of great importance that I truly coveted. Sure, if a 37 inch LCD HD television showed up under my Christmas tree, I'd be okay with that. And I'd like a digital camera, a Browning shotgun and there is a pink fly-fishing vest I've had my eye on. But those are all items I'm perfectly capable of buying myself, and well beyond our Christmas spending limit.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my Christmas wish list was so short not because I lacked creativity, but because my life is truly blessed. I've got more than a girl really needs, and more than this girl certainly deserves.

To start with, I'm blessed with a supportive and loving family. True, they don't quite understand my new obsession with all things outdoors, but that aside, they are pretty amazing. Last year about this time, my father suffered a stroke and we spent the holidays in a hospital in Denver. Having always been a bit of a daddy's girl, the whole ordeal sent my world into a tailspin. But we pulled together and pulled through it, and now Dad is back on his feet, cracking bad jokes, playing dominos and attempting to navigate his way through cyberspace.

I also have one of the coolest jobs on the planet. I get paid assist with projects like the antelope capture and bighorn sheep transplant, and what's more, I get to force my captive e-newsletter audience to read my stories about such adventures. And I'm surrounded by talented and dedicated coworkers who are more than willing to share their passion for wildlife and wild spaces with me.

I get to live in, work for and explore the state of Wyoming, where the mountains are almost never out of sight, pronghorn darn near outnumber people and it is still possible to find a quiet place in the wilderness to escape to.

But when I'm tired of being alone in the woods, I also have a great cast of friends to come home to. They are the best kind of friends - friends to shoot with, hunt with, fish with, gamble with, yell at the refs at a UW football game with, laugh with and cry with.

I have pictures of my first hunt, a freezer full of meat and a self-confidence I never really knew I had.

And finally, I have a new puppy to laugh at, a grown dog who loves me unconditionally and a cute boy that calls occasionally.

So Santa can skip my house this year - I've already got the most precious gifts I'll ever receive.

Merry Christmas.

So That's Hunting

I leaned into my rifle, my cheek pressed against the stock, my finger resting above the trigger, every molecule in my body quaking like an aspen leaf in the stiff Wyoming wind.

"Take a breath, let half of it out and squeeze the trigger," I thought in my head, remembering my hunter ed instruction and the hours of practice at the range leading up to this moment.

But that was then, on flat ground with paper targets. This was now, with sage scratching my knees and a living creature in my sights.

Through the scope, I watched the antelope take a few more short steps, then stop and turn broadside toward me.

"Shoot! Shoot," voices urged. Not in my head this time, but voices behind and to my right. It was Michael, my trusty hunting guru on this trip, and a few men in a pickup that had stopped to chat as I set up away from the road. Just what I needed my first time out - an all male review.

I steadied my hands, put the crosshairs in place and squeezed. And just like that, I was a hunter. The antelope took a few faltering jumps and fell. One shot, 230 yards, my muzzle still warm.

Holy cow.

"How do you feel?" Wendy asked, eyeing me. It was a question I was to be asked time and again by fellow hunters, family and friends - How did I feel? What was it like?

How could I answer that? Elated? Sad? Excited? How exactly do you describe the experience of hunting big game? I was at a total loss for words for the strange mix of emotion I felt coursing through me - a combination of satisfaction, humility and even some sadness, with a little bit of adrenaline thrown in for good measure.

As we walked down the hill, it only got more difficult to comprehend. My prey was dead, life having drained from its eyes just moments ago. My shot was a little forward, hitting through the meat of the shoulder instead of just behind it, but the job was done. A small trickle of blood showed where the bullet had entered.

My god. I did that.

Until that moment, that experience of my first hunt, I had no idea what hunting was really all about. Oh, I thought I did. I figured folks liked it for the excitement, the challenge and the basic fun of being outdoors. True, its all those things, but hunting is also so much more.

I've heard hunters described as blood-thirsty, trigger-happy, or killers. As I prepared for this first hunt, I wondered if I could pull the trigger. After all, I cried each and every summer when I'd have sell my 4-H and FFA animals, even the summer I was twenty. I rescue birds trapped in Christmas lights and kittens trapped in window wells. Could I really knowingly, intentionally kill another living creature?

Obviously the answer is yes. And those same anti-hunting voices will call me names and blaspheme me to the heavens. True, I did kill. But the moment when you pull the trigger is just a tiny part of the whole hunting experience, one moment in a string of memories that makes the whole experience special.

Hunting is learning something new, from calibers and manufactures to bi-pods and cammo patterns.

It's the tiny bit of vindication felt when Outdoor Guy picks up the Cabela's flyer and discusses what would be a good woman's gun without finally dumbing-down the conversation so said woman can keep up.

It's a sick feeling in your stomach when you sign the credit card receipt for a brand-new Remington 700 SPS 7mm08 in Mossy Oak break-up when you really needed new carpet in the living room.

Hunting is the smell of gunpowder, a good three-shot grouping and adjusting for wind and distance at the range.

It's a spur of the moment scouting trip with a good friend, filled with good conversation and sightings of antelope, deer and sage grouse that perk your senses and make you happy for reasons you still can't explain.

Hunting is the anticipation of the season opener, not sleeping the night before you have to get up at 3:30 am, or if sleep comes, dreaming weird dreams of four-horned antelope, getting to the field without your gun or ammo, or Wyoming Wildlife magazine editors in trees calling elk in the city park.

It's knowing almost everyone else in the world is still asleep while you have the privilege of witnessing the glorious reds and pinks and yellows of the sunrise from a fourth-generation working Wyoming cattle ranch.

It's ham and pastrami sandwiches and Doritos on the tailgate plotting strategy after a morning of getting skunked.

It's confidence in yourself and your firearm when the heavens smile upon you and the conditions finally come together and you draw down in the perfect moment.

It's a text message with just three words - "Got my antelope," and feeling a tremendous sense of pride, accomplishment and camaraderie as you press the send button.

And hunting is all the work that comes after the shot. Its learning to skin and butcher your quarry, following the natural lines of bone and muscle to remove tenderloins and hams and that will fill the freezer and your belly for months.

Hunting isn't just the moment you pull the trigger. The whole hunting experience is the awakening of a part of your soul- the part that is wild and primal and guttural and instinctual - a part you did not know existed before, the part that connects you to the creatures and the earth and the sky and the very essence of our being.

So that's hunting.

Now I get it.

The Legend Begins

photos by Mark Gocke, Jackson Region Information and Education Specialist

I wore several hats at the Wyoming Game and Fish Department's 2007 Wyoming Hunting & Fishing Heritage Expo held earlier in September in Casper - canoe pond lady (actually I think it was Miss Canoe Pond Lady), news release distributor, announcer, gopher and door prize distributor. But my favorite, if most reluctant, role that weekend by far was as a member of the Wyoming Wildlife magazine Media/Celebrity pentathlon team.

Seeing as how I'm not technically media, a celebrity, nor a particularly good shot, when my good friend and Expo coordinator Wendy Hayes asked if I'd fill in on theWyoming Wildlife team, I tried my best weasel my way out of it. Didn't Erin need me at the canoe pond? Surely my time was better spent helping the Expo planning office deliver water to thirsty volunteers or reuniting wayward children with worried parents.

Nope, Wendy told me. I was expected at the Media/Celebrity pentathlon at noon in exactly three weeks. No excuses.

Some friend.

The idea for the pentathlon came from conversations between the Expo planning office and Weatherby Foundation International (WFI). The Wyoming Expo was celebrating its 10^th anniversary, and WFI was celebrating 10 years of supporting not only the Wyoming Expo, but also outdoor expos in general. While Wyoming didn't pioneer the expo concept, we were one of the first states after Texas to begin hosting an annual outdoor expo. Wyoming Game and Fish Department employees wanted a way to help showcase the fun and educational opportunities offered by participating in outdoor activities. Weatherby Foundation International, for its part, thought outdoor expos were a great way to carry out its own mission of educating the non-hunting public on the beneficial role of ethical sport hunting and its contribution to wildlife conservation.

Dave Lockman, a former WGFD employee who now serves as a project leader for WFI's outdoor expo campaign, pitched the idea of a pentathlon to get members of Wyoming's media to attend the Expo this fall and see first-hand all the great activities offered. Members would compete in the same skill areas offered in the youth pentathlon - shotguns, muzzleloaders, air guns, rifles and archery.

What a fun way to give Wyoming reporters a taste of what the Expo is all about! Soon the concept was expanded to include celebrities, possibly even some of national stature like actor Rick Schroeder and former screen goddess Bo Derek, both respected for their marksmanship, or world-renowned hunter Craig Boddington.

I was all for the idea, that is, right up until the time I was told I'd be competing. I could handle the .22 long rifles and the air guns. I've spent enough time at the plinking range with a .22 and at the carnival with an air gun to be confident I could at least get on paper. The other three areas, well, lets just say I'm more Bo Peep than Bo Derek.

Saturday of the Expo dawned, and the pentathlon loomed large. Fortunately, Boddington, Schroeder and Derek all had prior arrangements, but I still had to face up to the press, members of the Game and Fish Commission, employees from the forensics lab and a few other Wyoming notables.

"Oh, by the way," Wendy asked, "did I tell you Gregg Arthur is going to be on your team too?"

Excellent. Now my humiliation could be public and professional. Gregg Arthur is the WGFD deputy director. Watch me take him out at the knee with a wild arrow. Nothing like maiming the big boss to help further your career. I made a mental note to cross Wendy off my Christmas card list.

At noon, I checked in at my designated starting skill - shotguns. I found Deputy Arthur and our other teammate, Chris Madson, Wyoming Wildlife editor and, for all intents and purposes, a pretty crack shot.

As Chris, Gregg and I found our shotguns and adjusted ear and eye protection, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I'd shot a shotgun a total of 2 times. Not two sessions, two shots. Both missed. Maybe the third time would be a charm.

"You shoot trap, Teresa?" Gregg asked.

"Uhhh, once, at the Becoming and Outdoors Woman camp this summer," I replied.

Gregg wasn't so impressed. I made a mental note to add Wendy to a different list altogether. Wendy was a dead woman.

We took our places, I raised the 20-gauge to my shoulder, called for my bird, prayed to whatever saint it is who protects fools and small children, pointed the gun at the ever-rising target and pulled the trigger. I missed...and missed... and missed...eight times. On bird number nine, the target exploded in a small puff of orange.

I tried to act nonchalant, like I'd been there before. Yeah, it was only a matter of time before I found my shooter's legs, so to speak, and started knocking down the birds. No big deal. Madson caught my eye and I realized I wasn't fooling anyone.

"Are we having fun now, Miss Teresa?"

I admit it, finally hitting that bird was fun. I could get into this!

The rest of the day went about the same. I wasn't great, but I wasn't supremely awful either. At least I still had a job to come back to on Monday! I ended up 1 for 3 in muzzleloaders, 5 for10 with the .22 andalmost perfect in the air gun. By the time we made it through the archery range, I was grinning like an idiot and Wendy was re-friended.

My team didn't win - that honor went to the U.S. Olympic shooters. But I don't think we were last either. And all in all, it was exactly the result the Expo planning office wanted from the pentathlon - getting the participants to realize anyone can learn to shoot and seeing just how much fun the different skill areas can be.

In fact, I think I've got some actual mystique going for me now. At the banquet that evening, several coworkers asked why I didn't archery hunt, seeing as how I tore it up on the archery range that afternoon and had so much experience.

I was puzzled. I'd done fairly well, but one poor yucca on the range will never be the same after shanking shot number seven.

"I hear you competed in archery in 4-H from the time you were 12, and you were the total archer. You've never told anyone at the office you were a competitive archer!"

Actually, what I'd said was that I had shot a bow once at 4-H camp when I was 12, and that had been the sum total of my archery experience. I started to explain, but was cut off by the emcee beginning the evening's program.

I decided to just stay quiet. A girl needs a few secrets, right? And I'll have 364 days to practice between now and the 2nd Annual Expo Media/Celebrity pentathlon to uphold my new kick-butt bow-hunting reputation. Just don't tell Gregg Arthur...