Love is In the Air

The alarm rang way too early for my taste, but while love knows no bounds, it does know sunrise, at least for the sage grouse. Outdoor Guy and I were up before dawn to watch one of the most talked about residents of the Wyoming landscape in its annual mating ritual.

Each spring, Wyoming's sage grouse gather on breeding grounds, known as leks, to strut their stuff for a potential mate. In our many adventures, Outdoor Guy and I had seen numerous sage grouse in the badlands between Ten Sleep and Wyoming. I'd heard about their crazy mating ritual, and asked my husband if we could find a lek and watch sometime. Thanks to our Game and Fish connections, we had directions to a lek about 30 minutes from our house. So yesterday, at 5 a.m., we loaded up in the big white pickup and headed for the badlands.

As dawn broke, Outdoor Guy spotted a lone black spot up ahead on a hill. As the sky grew lighter, soon we could make out the tell-tale point tail feathers of a male sage grouse in full strut. He'd strut to the left, puff out his chest and cock his head, listening, I presume, for a response from an interested female. Getting none, he'd strut to the left and repeat the process. Unfortunately for him, no revved up sage grouse hotties could be found.

"Tom said the lek was pretty hot and heavy last week," my husband told me. "Maybe we missed it by a week."

That was disappointing. Seeing sage grouse up close was something I'd wanted to do since last spring. But if all I got to see was this one, lonely male doing his thing, it was better than nothing.

Several minutes later, we decided to drivedown the road a little in hopes that there were more birds over the next ridge. Ben put the pickup in drive and we performed what he lovingly calls the "three-quarter ton sneak" down the BLM road.

"That guy must be lost, because all the others are up ahead. Look up there in the lighter colored grass. All those black lumps are grouse," Ben said, pointing out the windshield.

Jackpot. Ahead of us was the lek, with about two dozen birds of both sexes in various stages of coitus. We watched for the birds for almost an hour.

My favorite moment was when one male took umbrage with another male who was vying for the affection of a particularly pretty hen (at least I'm assuming she's pretty...but I'm no male sage grouse, so what do I know). The males puffed their chests and made their weird noises and chest bumped one another around for several minutes. The bigger male must have been declared the victor, but when he turned to reap the reward of his spoils, the lovely female was nowhere to be found. In his fervor to banish the competition, he took his eyes off the prize, and she got bored and wandered off. The male looked all around, could not locate his true love and deflated like a guy getting shot down at a singles bar. I laughed out loud at his apparent despair.

Sage grouse are dependent on sagebrush-dominated habitats. Sagebrush is a crucial component of their diet year-round, and sage grouse select sagebrush almost exclusively for cover. As people expand their own habitat for residential and energy development into the habitat of the sage grouse, populations have declined from around 16 million birds 100 years ago to about 200,000 birds today. Predators like coyotes, ravens and other raptors also take their toll on sage grouse species. Environmental groups have tried to get the sage grouse placed on the Endangered Species list twice before. In 2010, the Department of the Interior said the sage grouse was "warranted but precluded," essentially putting it on a waiting list behind more critically threatened species in need of federal protection.

I'm no bird biologist and I don't pretend to have the answers for balancing the needs of people with the needs of wildlife. But I do know I got to witness something pretty special that morning on the Washakie badlands, a native species doing an ancient dance of love. Here's hoping we can all work together so the party can go on for generations to come.

Skiing makes me cross

Outdoor Guy and I rented skis in town this weekend and headed up to Willow Park to enjoy a breathtaking afternoon in the Big Horn Mountains and soak up some sun.

Willow Park offers 13 miles of groomed trails and a variety of skill levels. It promises skiers the chance to enjoy loops, hills, ridges and wonderful scenery. The weather was great, the scenery wonderful indeed, the skiing...not so much.

The day started out well enough. We tried one of the easier loops, and the first leg of it was enjoyable. Our house sits at the bottom of a canyon, so from about mid-November to mid-February, we don't get the sun at our house. After two months in the shade, the mountain sun felt great on my face, like putting on a favorite, well-worn sweatshirt after days in a constricting business suit. Our skis easily glided along the trail, making quick work of the first half mile or snow.

Then the turnoff came. The first bit was slow going, requiring us to break trail.

"Want to turn around?" My husband asked. "I think this is just sticky because it's been in the sun."

"Nah, it'll get better further down the trail," I replied. It didn't. We worked our way across the trail segment, walking in our skis instead of actually skiing. Occasionally, I'd have to stop and scrape the sticky, wet snow off the bottoms of my skis. Frequently, my ski would stick, my ankle would roll and I'd topple over to the side. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the left, curse. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the right, curse loudly. Walk, walk, wobble, wobble, fall on my ass.

Ahead on the trail wasn't any better for Ben. He was dealing with the exact same conditions I was, but I never saw him fall once. I threw my hands up in protest and promptly fell back on my butt. Again.

"How's it going back there?" Ben called.

"Never better," I replied. "This is so much fun we should do it every weekend!"

We may have only been married 18 months, but Outdoor Guy knew me well enough to understand the snide cheerfulness. Ben ignored my sarcasm and we continued along the trail. Every so often, he'd point out something he saw along the trail...squirrel or rabbit tracks, owl scat or just a weird looking tree. I'm sure the area was pretty, but by that time I was so wet and frustrated, I wanted to cry. The only good thing about the day was that it was going better than the last time we tried skiing. Then, I'd lost control on a slight downhill slope, panicked and threw myself into a snowbank to stop my momentum lest I crash into a tree. Instead, I bashed my knee on a rock buried in the white drift, tearing my pants and giving me a substantial limp for the next three weeks. Today, I couldn't pick up any real momentum, so my spills were considerably less spectacular.

Finally, we hit the intersection where our trail met another. This trail was a main thoroughfare, so trail had been broken and the going became much easier. In theory.

Ahead, my husband shushed along the luminescent path, pausing every so often to look back over his shoulder at me. My skis would now actually glide on the snow, but the trail was so icy, if I got going too fast, my foot would fly out from under me and I'd wobble, precariously unbalanced. Three times out of five, I wound up on my backside yet again. After one massive yard sale fall that required my husband's assistance to right me, I gave up. I took off the skis and powered my way through the snow the last 200 yards to the parking lot.

God curse this wretched sport, I thought. I'll stick with summer activities from now on. But I didn't want Outdoor Guy to feel bad. I'd suggested skiing, and it wasn't his fault I was a complete and total klutz. I tried to smile and said things about how it would be more fun next time, or that maybe I just needed more practice. My crabbiness must have been etched on my face, however, because my husband wasn't buying any of it.

"Now I know why they call it cross-country skiing," Outdoor Guy said, wrapping me in a bear hug and planting a big kiss on my frowning face. "You are seriously crabby."

Maybe next time, we'll just go bowling.

How I Became an Outdoor Woman

I've never been really "girly," but I'm also not exactly what you'd call "outdoorsy." So when I accepted a position as the Information/Publications Manager with the Wyoming Game and Fish Department last spring, friends and family were more than a little skeptical.

"You don't hunt or fish," was the standard response.

"I don't have to hunt or fish to enjoy Wyoming. But I support hunting and fishing and really do want to play a role in conserving our wildlife and heritage. I love Wyoming and our wildlife resource is a big part of who we are as a state," I'd explain. "Besides I love the outdoors."

After working in the agriculture industry for several years, I was ready for new challenges but still believed in working for a cause and protecting our natural resources and rural heritage. The mission of the Game and Fish and its dedicated staff convinced me it was a job I'd love and could do well.

I'm not altogether without skills or ability. I have a college degree in communications and experience in writing, editing, web design and policy. Initially, I launched my career with the National FFA Organization, but decided the Indiana grass wasn't greener and moved back to the Cowboy state. After some graduate work in agriculture economics and a stint with 4-H, I spent the last several years working for the Wyoming Association of Conservation Districts. That eventually lead to a position with the Wyoming Game and Fish.

But the part about loving the outdoors, well, that may have been stretching it just a smidge.

"Weekly outings to the dog park, mini-golf and Wyoming Cowboy football games hardly qualifies as loving the outdoors," my dad told me.

I admit it, I'm more comfortable riding horses, showing hogs and playing sports than trap shooting or hiking in the high country. This outdoor novice may be more than a little out of her league here at Game and Fish with lifetime hunters and skilled anglers. My idea of roughing it is Motel 6 when I forget my blow dryer. I've never hunted, I barely fish and my outdoor adventures were confined to trekking back and forth to the Capitol in dress shoes in January for the legislative session.

Thus began my quest to become a true outdoor woman of Wyoming. I wrote about these goals and my efforts in a column for the Game and Fish E-newsletter, sharing my progress and follies with my readers. Some months I wrote about Game and Fish projects I covered, teaching about the work of the Game and Fish or wildlife conservation. Sometimes I shared funny stories about my attempts to immerse myself in nature. Later, after I’d fallen in love with my now husband (herein referred to lovingly as Outdoor Guy), I’d tell funny stories about our relationship with the outdoors and each other. And some months, I just wrote what was in my heart. Hopefully, my readers enjoyed reading about my misadventures as much as I enjoyed trying to accomplish my goals.

Now, Outdoor Guy and I live in Ten Sleep, Wyoming, at the Wyoming Game and Fish hatchery. He still works for the agency, while I’m trying to launch a writing career. We share our home with three hairy dogs and all spend out time learning more about one another and enjoying all the beautiful Wyoming landscape has to offer.

This blog shares excerpts from my columns and stories of my life as I adjust to life in rural Wyoming and take on new phases of my life as a wife, freelance writer and resident of the great outdoors. This is my quest to find my my inner-outdoor woman.

Every Mile a Memory

Fifteen hundred days. Forty-four editions of the E-newsletter. One job that has changed my life.

When I started at Game and Fish four years ago, I knew I was ready for a new challenge professionally. I never expected the impact this agency would have on me personally. From making life-long friends and meeting the love of my life, to learning new things about our environment and myself in the process, my time with the Wyoming Game and Fish Department is something I will forever treasure.

But my life, like the seasons, is changing. I'm scheduled to get married in two weeks, and will be relocating to Ten Sleep to start my life as Mrs. Outdoor Guy. Unfortunately, that means leaving Cheyenne and my job with the Game and Fish behind. So I leave you with my favorite memories and lessons learned from this amazing experience.

#10. Quiet Times. As in the kind of quiet that can only be found in a tucked away place off the beaten path. The kind of quiet you find fishing hungry little brookies in a high mountain stream or scouting elk from a hilltop at dusk. May all of us always have a quiet place to turn to in the future.

#9. Calamity on the Canoe Pond. About two weeks into my job, this friendly little gal, Janet, popped into my office and asked me to help at the Expo canoe pond. "It's super fun," she said. "You don't need any experience. You'll love it." Super fun, my foot. It was either blazing hot or cold, windy and rainy. I dunked my waders twice and got nailed in the back by a wayward canoe. But I learned some important lessons...kids will fall in love with outdoor activities if they have the chance to try them, and never, EVER, trust my coworker Janet.

#8. It's a bird. It's a Plane. It's an American avocet! When I started, I couldn't tell a woolly bugger from a woolly mammoth. While I'm still not an expert, I've improved my wildlife identification skills twentyfold. Just a few weeks ago, I was sorting images in the filing room for Wyoming Wildlife. I came across a stray slide of a bird, held it up to the light and quickly recognized it as an American avocet, filing it in its proper sleeve. It was a moment of pride, seeing my newly developed skills in action. There are so many weird, wonderful and wacky cirtters in this state. I can't wait to learn more about them all!

#7. Orienteering for Dummies. My friend Wendy and I decided a last minute scouting trip of our antelope area was in order. Armed with a map and a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew, we set off in my Pontiac G-6 sedan to see what we could see. We learned the lay of the land, that Wendy is the worst map reader in the world, that I am the second worst-map reader in the world and that surprisingly, the G-6 makes a pretty good off-road vehicle. We had a lot of laughs and got some pretty funny looks from the men out scouting. I still not sure if it was the little white car, our pink and purple cammo hats or my flip-flops. I decided that day that if actually hunting was half as much fun as scouting, it was a sport I'd love for the rest of my life.

#6. You Go Girl. I had the chance to attend Wyoming's Becoming an Outdoors-Woman as a camp participant several years ago. It was one of the best three days of my life. I was nursing a broken-heart and my self-confidence was at an all time low. Then spent the weekend with Janet, Lucy, Michelle, Al, Helen and Ken and all the other great BOW instructors, along with 45 other campers. I shot guns. I canoed down a creek. I learned how to fly-fish. It was a chance to learn some intimidating skills in a supportive environment and be surrounded by nothing but positive energy and encouragement. The weekend did wonders for my roll-cast and put an end to the emotional roller-coaster I'd been on for months. I lost myself in the wilds of the weekend and found myself all at the same time. What an awesome program.

#5. Electrofishing with the Laramie Region fish biologists. I overslept and showed up late, forgot my WGFD hat, left my keys at the wrong end of the stream reach and probably hindered their efforts more than I helped. But Lee, Steve and Mike were patient teachers. After a day of floating on the Platte, I had a heck of a sunburn and my arms hurt from wielding the heavy dip net, but I've never had so much fun on the water in my life. I held the biggest brown trout I've ever seen and vowed, one day, I'd catch a monster like that for myself. It was my first time helping with a Game and Fish project, and the first time I felt like a real member of the team. Thanks for making me feel welcome guys!

#4. Whitetail Fever. Last November, Outdoor Guy and I shared our first hunting experience together. I killed my first deer and first buck the first morning. More importantly, we didn't kill each other, which bodes well for our future as a couple. Hunting is a big part of his background and lifestyle, and quickly becoming something I'm passionate about as well. My new friend Darrell mounted the antlers for me. They're hanging in my office right now, but soon they'll hang in my new home in Ten Sleep. Maybe one day, we can hang our daughter's first antlers in their place.

#3. Bully for the bighorns. I got to witness the release of about sixty bighorn sheep from Montana into the wilds of the Laramie Peak area. When you really look at a bighorn, it's hard to fathom how it lives in the remote, rocky places it likes to frequent. They aren't very big. But what bighorns lack in size, they make up for in sheer pluck. It was amazing to see those little sheep bail out of their transport trailer and take off into the wild to make Wyoming their new home. One of the ewes tripped and fell coming out of the trailer and got ran over by the other sheep. Sometimes, when I take a digger in the parking lot or trip over the canoe trailer, I think of that little ewe and wonder how she's doing out there. Hopefully, Wyoming has been as kind to her as it has to me the last three years.

#2. Antelope Adventures. Or rather, pronghorn if one is to be technically correct. Wyoming has lots, more than 500,000, while Mexico's population is struggling. In the spirit of international cooperation, Game and Fish partnered with Mexican conservation organizations to capture pronghorn fawns to transport to Mexico to grow and live on a wildlife sanctuary, where they will be studied and possibly used as surrogates to help bolster populations of the peninsular pronghorn. I got to help with the antelope capture one year. I learned a few new words in Spanish and had the amazing chance to hold a pronghorn fawn in my arms while she nursed a bottle. Seeing her giant eyes and tiny hooves and thinking about her a year later streaking across the prairie at 45 miles an hour...well, there are simply not words for how cool that was.

And last but not least...

#1. Outdoor Guy. Eighteen months ago, I relented and let a mutual friend set us up. I never dreamed that "do you want to go chuckar hunting?" would turn into "Do you take this man?" Whether he's answering my endless questions about working in a fish hatchery, teaching me how to wrap meat, kicking my butt on the Wii or teasing me about making pie, his love and support never waver. He's endured months of teasing about being "Outdoor Guy" from his coworkers who read the e-newsletter. Now he can just be Ben, the best friend and partner a girl could ask for.

Thanks for sharing this amazing journey with me.

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.