Wyoming is Home

I've decided I was crazy in college. Not crazy in a "the stories my friends could tell would make my parents cry" kind of way. My most embarrassing college moment involves me getting pulled over by a police officer on foot while I was sober and driving friends home from the bar. But that's a story for another day. No, I was crazy in a full of myself, must have lost my mind kind of way.

I grew up in Cheyenne, went to the University of Wyoming in Laramie and then took my first job out of college in Indianapolis, Indiana. I absolutely, positively, could not wait to get out of this state. I was going to move to Indiana, become fabulous and famous and never, EVER, look back.

What was I thinking?

It took me exactly four days in a place where I did not know another person for a thousand miles to get homesick. I missed my friends, my family, my horse, my dogs and Mountain Dew that tasted right (I swear it tastes different if it's not bottled in Worland, it really does.) I missed the prairie and the mountains and the antelope. Heck, I missed the wind.

"I've been to Wyoming. What's there to miss?" I remember my supervisor asking at the time.

How do you answer that? It's Wyoming. It's windy and cold and sometimes a little close-minded. But it's also beautiful and expansive and full of some of the most genuine, friendly, hard-working folks in the country.

My travels over the last few months only cemented my love of this place and our way of life. In the course of a two-hour drive up the North Fork of the Shoshone, I saw bighorn sheep, mountain blue birds, hawks, turkeys, a lone moose and more dang deer than I could count.

At the gas station in Shoshoni, I ran into two friends from college. We visited for a bit, discussing where life had taken us and how we thought the Pokes, our beloved University of Wyoming football team, might do in the upcoming season. None of us live within 250 miles of Shoshoni.

Two nights ago, I watched the sun set over Hells Half Acre, the sky an indescribable mixture of blue, purple, yellow and orange. From my perch on the hood of my car, I watched the moon come out, and with it more deer, antelope and critters of the night.

The only traffic jam I've dealt with in the last twelve months was caused by some cowboys moving cattle off their summer pasture in the Big Horn National Forest. The traffic, all seven or eight cars, backed up behind the herd as they headed toward town.

A few weeks ago, a friend circulated an e-mail with the subject line entitled "You Know You're from Wyoming When..." I've seen some derivative of this list a few times over the years, but it never fails to make me smile. Maybe you'll recognize your favorite part about Wyoming in it and smile with me.

YOU KNOW YOU'RE FROM WYOMING WHEN...

1. Your idea of a traffic jam is ten cars waiting to pass a tractor on the highway.

2. "Vacation" means going to Cheyenne or Casper for the weekend.

3. You measure distance in hours.

4. You know several people who have hit deer more than once.

5. You often switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day.

6. You use a down comforter in the summer.

7. Your grandparents drive at 65 mph through 13 feet of snow during a raging blizzard, without flinching.

8. You see people wearing hunting clothes at social events.

9. You install security lights on your house and garage and leave both unlocked.

10. You think of the major food groups as deer meat, fish, and berries.

11. You carry jumper cables in your car and your girlfriend knows how to use them.

12. There are 7 empty cars running in the parking lot at the Wal-Mart store at any given time.

13. You design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit.

14. Driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow.

15. You think lingerie is tube socks and flannel pajamas.

16. You know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction.

17. It takes you 3 hours to go to the store for one item even when you're in a rush because you have to stop and talk to everyone in town.

18. You have ever uttered the term "Greenie!"

Why in the world did I ever want to leave? Oh sure, places like San Francisco, Denver, Indianapolis and New York City offer better shopping, more restaurants and oodles of cultural experiences that you just can't get in Ten Sleep. And every city, big or small, has its own unique culture and history that make it an interesting place. I can't wait to get back to Washington, D.C. to see the monuments I missed the last time. I'd like to take in a Broadway show in the Big Apple. And I could probably make more money living in a more populated locale and climb the corporate ladder to a corner office with a view. But that view likely wouldn't include my beloved Rocky Mountains.

I can live without Starbucks, P.F. Chang's awesome Orange Chicken, regular trips to Eddie Bauer or season tickets to the Indianapolis Colts. But I don't want to live without the mountains as the backdrop for my daily commute, wide open vistas, spring snowstorms so big and wet you swear your roof might collapse, antelope, or hearing about my trip to Cody from a friend in Sundance before I even make it to my front door in Cheyenne. I want space, abundant wildlife, close-knit communities and low humidity.

About three months after I'd moved to Indiana, a friend sent me a poster to hang in my office. The photo was pretty cool, a typical shot of the Tetons with brightly colored flowers blanketing the foreground. But it was the three words at the bottom that brought tears to my eyes the day the poster arrived at my Indianapolis condo a decade ago. They are my past, my present and God willing, my future...

Wyoming is home.

Giving the Gift of the Outdoors

Men are hard to shop for. Outdoor men are downright impossible.

With Outdoor Guy's birthday looming on the horizon, I'd been contemplating what to get him this year. He's a great gift giver, somehow sifting through the mountains of information and conversation I inundate him with to find the one or two offhanded statements I make about some treasure I'd like to have. For Christmas, he bought me a new iPod docking station to replace my broken one, and this great gold necklace. The perfect combination of practical and romantic.

I thought I'd return the favor and find the absolute most perfect birthday gift. After all, the boy has endured six months of endless wedding conversations about tuxes and flowers and pew bows and caterers. I wanted to give him something really cool because he's been so great about the perpetual prenuptial planning. He foiled my plan to buy him an iPod by buying one himself with his tax return money. So for the last several months, I've been trying to listen closely and compile a list of things he mentioned he wanted someday: an ice auger, snowshoes, a trail cam, a fletching tool (whatever that is), a bow case or a new sight, among other things.

I decided on the fletching tool because after a friend loaned him a book on bow hunting, he's started to get all amped up for hunting season and pour through archery catalogs on a nightly basis. So I sat down to my computer, signed on to the Cabela's site and went to order my betrothed the perfect birthday gift. I was so going to win future wife of the year award!

My keyword search on the World's Foremost Outfitter site turned up 83 results. There were fletchers, fletching strippers, something called a fletching jig and a weather vane. Hmmm, I knew we didn't need a weather vane, but which fletching thing-a-ma-jig had he said he wanted? And what was the brand? I recalled something about making sure it was a right-handed something-or-other, and it had a weird name that I swore I'd remember when I saw it again. I started reading the product descriptions, hoping the details would jog my memory.

"This is an all-metal, self-supporting fletching tool that will accept any size shaft and lets you fletch straight, offset, right- and left-helical. A permanent magnet assures uniform placement of all feathers and vanes. A self-centering nock receiver can be adjusted for feather spacing of three-fletch, four-fletch. Includes one clamp, instructions, and wrenches. Optional nock receiver available for fletching three-fletch, cock-vane down."

Or not...Was that even written in English?

So, maybe I'd just buy him a trail camera instead. My search for a suitable trail cam yielded 50 products to pick from, some of them costing in excess of $600. That kind of money was not part of my economic stimulus plan, that's for sure.

I asked aroudn the office, but no one seemed to have any good advice. In the end, I broke down and asked Outdoor Guy. "If a fletching tool magically showed up in the mail, which one would you want it to be?"

Not very subtle, but it got me an answer and it got him a new toy to help tide him over to hunting season. I also learned more about arrow building, and I learned a valuable lesson to help ensure future marital success...

Next year he's getting a sweater.

(Not) Talking Turkey

I'm ready for spring, because spring means summer is just around the corner, and summer means a wedding and a honeymoon spent halibut fishing in Alaska. I can't wait to get out on the water and try some serious sea fishing for the big, ugly, bottom-dwelling white fish.

Of course, I pretty much want to try everything outdoor related, from hunting javelinas in Texas to fishing for marlin off the coast of Florida. Maybe I've watched too many outdoor shows, but there isn't much I don't want to try at least once in my lifetime. So hunting turkeys seems like a logical aspiration, considering you can find them here in Wyoming, the license fee is reasonable and it's something to entertain me until July gets here and it's time to hook some halibut.

There's just one problem.

To be an effective turkey hunter, you have to be quiet. And you have to sit still for long periods of time.

Make that two problems.

There's the rub. I can't be quiet. In high school, my teacher once told me that God only gives us a certain number of words to use in our lifetimes and at the rate I was going, I'd be mute by the time I was out of college. I've grown out of the need to chatter incessantly, but I still can't be quiet for very long. My brain keeps on plugging away, even if my mouth isn't moving, and before long, I've got a thought in my head that I just HAVE to share. It's like a sneeze, I can't hold it in.

A wild turkey's senses are extremely keen. Its eyesight and hearing are amazing. There's an expression I've heard from many long time turkey hunters - if a turkey could smell, you'd never kill one. Turkeys will flee at the first hint of danger. One cough, a slight shifting of your weight and there goes dinner.

All the turkey hunting tips that I've read say your best bet is to zero in on some turkeys, then get set up in the open and call the turkeys to you. Ron Eakes, a wildlife biologist in Alabama, offered this piece of advice for beginning turkey hunters in an article I read recently.

"Sit against a tree, stump or other object that is wider than your back and taller than your head. It will hide your outline and protect your back from a hunter who might move in behind you. Face the turkey's direction with your left shoulder (for right-handed shooters), this provides you with a greater mobility of your gun when aiming. Above all, be quiet and keep your movement to a minimum as you call. If the gobbler is working toward you, then goes silent, don't move. Sometimes gobblers will sneak in quietly."

Even when I'm not talking, I'm making noise. Antelope hunting last fall is an excellent case in point. We belly crawled for about 20 yards to get in position on a nice buck in southeast Wyoming. The buck was traveling right to left and in a few minutes, he'd be in a perfect position for one of my companions to take a shot. I hunkered low to the ground, careful to stay behind Michael and Wendy. I inhaled deeply, catching my breath. Soon, my eyes started watering and the urge to cough overwhelmed me. Within minutes, I was in an all-out hacking fit, wheezing and drooling like a dog gone mad. It took me ten minutes to stop coughing or clearing my throat. The buck got away and I found out that I'm allergic to sagebrush.

And it's not just allergies. I hiccup, my stomach rumbles or I to step on and crack the only branch within miles, scaring birds and any other critter in the vicinity away. If a turkey has keen hearing AND vision, I'm toast.

"If you were a predator, you would starve to death," a good friend told me when I bemoaned my bad luck. "You can't sit still to save your life. You fidget like a fart in a skillet."

While I've never particularly understood that expression, it still stung a little. I'm not a child, I know the importance of staying motionless, and I told him so.

"Tell tell you what," he said. "Find a comfortable position and just sit there. I'll time you. If you make it for even ten minutes without moving, I'll take you turkey hunting."

I lasted exactly four minutes and twenty-two seconds. Maybe I can serve halibut at Thanksgiving.

Greenery Vs. Gunpowder

There's a vase of flowers sitting on the edge of my desk. Bright, happy, sunshiny flowers that make me long for spring green-up and gurgling trout streams. I'd spent the holiday weekend packing all my worldly possessions to go to Ten Sleep and moving the rest from my house to my parents' house, where I'll be living the next few months. I kept it together right until the last load of stuff was packed in the pickup and covered with a tarp for the 350 mile trip to my future home. About halfway across town, I started to cry.

Tears, apparently, render even the toughest outdoor men helpless. Particularly Outdoor Guy, who tried to not make any sudden movements or say anything to make it worse. He sent the flowers the following morning, just to make me smile. Not only did they make me smile, they've given me great insight into the male-female dynamic, and a new way to acquire my dream shotgun.

Women walk into my office, notice the flowers and immediately ask if it's my birthday. When I say no, he sent them just because, they smile and tell me how lucky I am.

Men walk into my office, notice the flowers and ask, "What did he do?"

Men don't buy the argument that the flowers were just to make me happy. "We always have a reason," said one coworker. "Either we've made you mad and we are trying to make up for it, or we plan on making you mad and the flowers are a preemptive strike."

They muse as to what Outdoor Guy might have done, or what he's plotting that he knows I won't like. He could be planning some sort of large, expensive hunting expedition to which I'm not invited; he spent money for the honeymoon on any number of outdoor items – a boat, a gun, a gun safe, a 4-wheeler, a hunting dog, a new spotting scope; he invited his ex-girlfriend to the wedding; he invited his ex-girlfriend to be IN the wedding.

I'm sure none of those are true. Pretty sure at least.

My favorite response, however, came from a former coworker who dropped into the Game and Fish for business and stopped by my office to say hi.

"Birthday? Anniversary?" he asked.

"No. Just to cheer me up?"

"So he sent them just because? Wow, he's making the rest of us look bad," he said as he stooped to sniff the cheerful bouquet.

"Everyone else seems to think he's trying to get out of the doghouse."

"Nah," he replied. "I've seen you when you get really mad. If he'd really messed up that bad, he would have sent you a shotgun."

Flowers or firepower? It's food for thought for this outdoor girl. I better hurry up and decide. Pheasant season, I mean Valentine's day, is almost here...

Resolutions Revisited

I have a Sunday ritual that I follow, almost without fail. I sleep in till around 9 a.m., get a breakfast burrito from a local burger shop and head to my parent's house, dogs in tow, to visit and read their newspaper. The dogs love occasionally getting fresh bacon from the burger shop, and it's generally a good time to catch up with my folks and on current events.

Last week when browsing through the ads from the big box stores, I couldn't figure out why all of them were advertising treadmills, athletic shoes and yoga mats. It was only after passing the gym I should be frequenting did it dawn on me-- it was a New Year and that mean resolutions to get in shape. Very clever marketing, indeed. Either I'm a total slacker because I didn't bother making resolutions, or my life is so perfect, I don't really feel compelled to change.

Life is pretty great these days. But I could stand to lose some weight, exercise more, floss every day, take library books and movies back on time. I guess I'm just a slacker.

But last night, a good friend sent me an e-mail that made me stop and reconsider setting New Year's resolutions. It was a copy of my very first e-newsletter "column," where I shared my resolutions on learning more about the outdoors, or as I put it, finding my inner-outdoor woman.

"So, how'd you do?" The friend asked in the e-mail. "Think all that you've accomplished in the last two years has you ready to become Mrs. Outdoor Guy?"

His tone was teasing, but the gauntlet had been thrown. I reread my resolutions, contemplated them one by one, and gave him an honest assessment of my progress.

I will not stick my tongue out at, roll my eyes at or resort to "I know you are but what am I?" phrases when the fifth graders in my hunter safety class mock my age and incompetence.
I have to admit, I was intimidated at the thought of sitting in a hunter safety class with pre-teens who knew ten times what I did about hunting, and I worked for Game and Fish. So I took the Internet course and completed an Internet Field Day one Saturday to demonstrate safe firearm handling techniques. But I can proudly say I'm a card-carrying hunter safety graduate, and getting more confident in my shooting abilities all the time. Deer might actually begin to fear me.

I will try as hard as I possibly can to not burst into tears the first time I actually shoot a living creature. I will not tear up, gag or become squeamish in any way when dressing said creature.
I did get a little teary after shooting my first buck last November, but they were happy tears. But the experience of hunting doesn't make me sad. Actually, it's made me more aware and respectful. Usually I just mindlessly gulp down a Big Mac, never thinking about the anonymous cow that died so I could enjoy that Extra-Value meal. Its cool knowing you harvested the animal on your plate. I can't explain it.

I will not shriek when one of my guy friends throws a worm down my shirt.
I can bait my own hook. But I still make Outdoor Guy kill the spiders.

I will set aside a small portion of my paycheck each month to pay my insurance deductible so I'm covered when I hook my own ear learning to fly fish.
Two words...barbless hooks.

I will watch a hunting, fishing and outdoor show for one full minute before switching back to the Bronco game.
These days I prefer Who's Wedding is it Anyway?, but I've been converted to an outdoor TV watcher. I even slipped and called football tight-end Jeremy Shockey, Jim Shockey once.

I will learn what Cabela's Club Points are and why they are so important.
So much cool stuff, so few points on my card. I'm saving for a drift boat.

I will not forget the can opener. Again.
Can opener...check. Socks? Not so much.

I will try rabbit, quail and pheasant for dinner. I will wait at least 45 minutes before hitting the McDonald's drive-thru.
So I still haven't tried quail, but I'm game for just about anything these days, pun fully intended. I even found myself wondering what mountain lion tastes like (pork, according to those in the know). Nothing beats a big ol' juicy prime rib, but now deer and antelope are welcome staples in my diet. This summer I had my first breakfast of fried brook trout and waffles. A weird, but not entirely unpleasant, flavor combination.

And finally,

I will approach each new situation, whether hunting, fishing, camping or hiking as an opportunity to have some fun, appreciate this great state we live in and test my own limits and skills.
I can get frustrated with myself when I'm hunting, fishing or basically trying anything new. I'm competitive and a bit of a perfectionist, so it drives me absolutely crazy when I'm not good at something. I have a tendency to feel like a bit of a moron around Outdoor Guy and his crazy best friend because they make everything look so easy and I struggle with even basic outdoor skills.

When I stop to think about it, though, I can be proud of what I've accomplished and how much I've learned the last two years. I don't know that I'm a certified Outdoor Woman yet, but with patience and time, I'll accomplish that resolution eventually. Practice makes perfect, and what's more fun that practicing in a beautiful place like Wyoming, surrounded by family and amazing new friends. I'll let that be my resolution for 2009.

Of Whitetails and White Dresses

I hate being the center of attention. In a family with three older sisters and an older brother, being the center of attention generally meant you were in trouble, and that was not a good thing.

Add that to my gawky, self-conscious teenage years, and I'm more than hesitant to be in the spotlight, especially just for the sake of being in the spotlight.

So it was with great reluctance that I found myself on an elevated platform in 1-inch heels trying on wedding gowns. The salesladies oohed and ahhed, flitting about with veils and gloves and...

"Let's try a tiara on you," said Jessica, my personal bridal attendant for the afternoon.

A tiara? Oh for the love of Pete, this was getting worse by the minute. What part of nothing fancy or uber-girlie did this woman not understand?

"Try it and you'll pull back a bloody stump," I wanted to hiss. Summoning my most gracious bride-to-be smile, I calmly replied instead, "No tiaras, a simple veil will be plenty."

Hearing what sounded like a pod of dolphins on crack, I turned to the platform to my left. The bride next to me had apparently found "the dress," and was twirling and rocking in the three-way mirror while her mother and about twenty friends watched. All of them were crying and carrying on. "I'm so proud of you," the mother gushed.

"Oh honey, you look radiant," one saleswoman cooed at me, apparently trying to make me feel as special as the other girl. Sure, she was trying to be nice, but I pretty much just felt like a tablecloth, I was adorned in so much lace. I just smiled again and made a beeline for the comfort and safety of my navy Wyoming Game and Fish Department sweatshirt and blue jeans. I felt like crying too, but in relief at finally having the experience over with.

Friends had told me trying on wedding gowns was one of the most fun parts of planning a wedding. Most had cried when they found their perfect dress, describing it as feeling like the ultimate princess or the most beautiful creature in the whole world. "I was glowing," said one friend.

Yuk, yuk, yuk.

What was wrong with me? Why wasn't I more excited by finding a dress? Shouldn't I be crying, my hands shaking as I was overcome with emotion? Was I missing some gene that made this whole thing something other than absolute torture? I must be lacking some critical chromosome that compelled me to spend at least half my annual salary on a tiara and teacakes and have the ultimate wedding.

A few weeks later, Outdoor Guy and I headed for Sheridan, Wyo., for some whitetail hunting. I'd shot an antelope last fall, but was eager to try something new. This would be my first time hunting deer, and our first hunting trip together. I'd been inundating him with questions about what to expect, what to pack, how to prepare, etc. Antelope season came and went, and it dang near killed me not to be out with the Game and Fish girls getting a goat of my own again.

Finally, the season opened and my big morning came. As first light approached, we headed to "the deer hole," a piece of private land where we had permission to hunt. My eyes were still adjusting to the pre-dawn light as Outdoor Guy began pointing out deer to me.

"There's a doe and a fawn at about 60 yards right in front of us and a decent buck and some does out about 300 yards to our left," he said, binoculars pressed to his eyes.

I raised my own binoculars to my eyes and looked for the deer. Those were deer? I saw mostly darkness and some brown shaped lumps that could have been deer or bushes or a water tank for all the detail my untrained eyes could detect.

"Ahh," was all I said. Sure enough, several minutes later, animals materialized before my eyes as more light peeked over the horizon. By golly, they were deer! Soon I could see some mule deer does grazing on the hillside and cows and antelope in a far pasture where just moments ago there had been nothing. What felt like an eternity later, a line of seven bucks came strolling up over the hill, down the fence line and into range.

"Ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo right there," I yelped, pointing wildly.

"Okay, get your gun and get set up. Use the fence as a rest. I'll stay here, you don't need me breathing down your neck," Outdoor Guy replied calmly, laughing at my first-deer delirum.

And so I sat, rifle trained on a decent buck, waiting for him to just take a step or two forward to clear a fence post end give me a safe shot. And I waited and waited and...dang it, he didn't just take one step, he took a GIANT leap and fled across the pasture, around the corner and out of range. No worries, I thought, there's another buck hid in the trees, I'll just wait for him to come into the clearing.

As I went to reposition, Outdoor Guy touched my elbow and motioned for me to get up and follow. We snuck across the yard, me crouching low behind him, to reposition and set up on the group that had fled my sights only moments before.

"Take the one on the right," he said, pointing to a 5-point I'd asked about earlier. The buck had an unusual rack, with the top half of his antlers an almost pristine white. I sat down on the ground, using the corner of a shed's foundation as a rest.

"Put your crosshairs right behind his shoulder and shoot," he said. Easy as pie. Except that I couldn't get calmed down. One look at the critter through my scope and I got buck fever. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, my hands shook with each breath I took. I could never hold steady to take a good shot, and soon the beautiful buck with the crazy white antlers disappeared around the bend.

I waited for an admonition from Outdoor Guy about letting him get away. Instead he squeezed my shoulder. "Try lining up on the buck to your left," he encouraged, and put his folded-up jacket between my hand and the foundation. "Try this, it might make you a little more steady."

Whether it was his calm support or the jacket, I'll never know, but it worked. A few deep breaths and a quick prayer to the hunting gods and I pulled the trigger.

"PERFECT!" Outdoor Guy whooped as I reloaded. "Good shot!"

A strange yipping noise interrupted us as we started to gut the buck. It was Outdoor Guy's best friend, come to see the carnage, as he so eloquently put it.

"I see legs! I knew TC wouldn't let me down this morning," he hollered across the pasture, using his self-appointed nickname for me as he crossed the pasture. The next few minutes were a blur as the boys bantered back and forth, Outdoor Guy explaining what he was doing as he gutted the deer for me. Darrell insisted I give him a play-by-play, and offered to mount the antlers for me, in triumph of my first deer and buck.

"Want pictures of the two of you?" Darrell offered, gesturing to my camera sitting on the edge of the pickup.

We knelt behind the buck as Darrell barked instructions like he was a fashiopn photographer on assignment, taking pictures of runway models. "Okay, now turn his head to your right, good, good. Now tilt his chin down just a little. Perfect."

I felt Outdoor Guy's hand on my back and the buck's hair beneath my own hand. "I'm so proud of you sweetie," Ben said as we grinned for the camera. "That was awesome, I'm pumped."

With the two of them oohing and ahhing over me I felt like a rock star. I was the center of their attention, and I loved it. I was excited because now I was confident we could share hunting together in the future. And it felt so good, knowing Outdoor Guy was proud of me, and feeling confident once again in my abilities. Suddenly, my breath caught in my mouth and hands shook. Tears sprang to the back of my eyes, threatening to spill over in this great moment of happiness, confidence and pride.

There on a hillside in Sheridan County, I finally had my weepy girlie moment, complete with tears, shaking hands and feeling like a mighty huntress, if not exactly a princess. I guess I'm just one of those girls that gets emotional over whitetails, not white dresses. And I don't think I'd want it any other way.

Confessions of a secret gun nut

I stood, poised in the back of the room, ready to snap some photos of our 2008 Becoming an Outdoors-Woman workshop. I was sitting in the Introductions to Firearms course, listening to the instructor explain the purpose of a choke in a shotgun.

"So in reality, you could buy a gun with the interchangeable choke, and that gun could handle most any hunting situation you might need it for," asked one woman.

"Sure," replied Ken, the instructor.

"So instead of a gun safe full of guns, my husband could have a single gun and still be a successful hunter. One gun should really be all he needs," the woman continued.

"Uh, well now, I didn't say that..." stammered Ken.

"Oh I know," echoed a different classmate. "My husband must have a dozen different guns and that doesn't include the pistols, and he's always looking for another one. What's with that? Why do they think they need so many guns?"

A chorus of yeahs, I knows and me toos made their way around the group. At the front of the room, Ken was laughing, realizing he had just opened Pandora's box and perhaps set in motion a few divorces.

I used to feel the exact same way. I'd roll my eyes when the boy-du jour in my life would start salivating over the Cabela's catalog or insist on stopping at a pawn shop because "you just never know what you'll find!" Then I started shooting and hunting and I soon discovered a universal truth in my quest to find my inner-outdoor woman...

You can never be too rich, too thin or have too many guns.

My modest collection includes a Remington 7mm.08, a Winchester .22 and a massive 12 gauge side-by-side shotgun my father donated to the cause. My wish list includes a .22 handgun and a 20-gauge shotgun and maybe a .270 in case I decide to try hunting elk.

I got my first inkling that maybe I had a problem was when I was looking at shotguns with Outdoor Guy this summer. I'd narrowed down my selection and was explaining to him that the gun was on sale and the manufacturer was offering a $30 rebate as well.

"That's the same gun I own, just go ahead use mine for a while," he offered.

That would be a practical and cheaper solution. But for some reason I felt like stamping my foot like a petulant child.

"But you don't understand. I want my own shotgun," I wanted to whine. Luckily, I got distracted by all the other cool stuff in the store before I could work up a good pout. I'm sort of like a crow - I'm easily distracted by shiny objects.

The next of my symptoms surfaced a few weeks ago. I met a few coworkers for dinner after they had spent the day hunting antelope northwest of town. They hadn't had much success, but I received high praise for my rifle, which I had lent to Rebecca for the short season.

"That is one sweet gun," Dave told me. That just made my night. My gun was considered cool! You would have though he had just praised one of my children, or told me I was prettier than Jennifer Aniston the way I grinned.

It was a non-hunting friend who finally helped me accept my condition . She and I were discussing my pending nuptials and the merger of stuff between me and Outdoor Guy. I told her I was excited because I would inherit all of his guns, at least quadrupling my current selection.

"I don't get it. How many guns does a normal person really need?" she asked.

Sure, if you want to be practical, my friend and the women at BOW had a valid point. There are versatile guns out there that can handle lots of different types of hunting. A person could get by with just a rifle or two and a versatile shotgun. But where's the fun in that? Every gun is unique. Each feels and handles just a little differently, and is designed for specific conditions. And even just after a few uses, I have great memories tied up in my guns - reminders of special people, special times and beautiful places. But how do you explain that to someone who doesn't hunt or shoot without sounding like a pistol-packing right-wing nutcase?

"You could play a pretty decent round of golf with just one driver, one iron and a putter, but I'm guessing you carry more than three clubs in your golf bag," I replied.

I saw her start ticking off her clubs on her fingers. When she got to twelve, she abruptly stopped.

"So where are you going on your honeymoon again?"

Hello, I'm Teresa and I'm a gunaholic. Could you please point me to a therapy session, maybe near a Sportman's Warehouse?