I guess I should start this off by pointing out that I’m fairly tall. I’ve also heard the words “sinewy” and “rugged” and “chiseled.” Not in relation to me, you understand, but I have heard them. Because of my height I kept cracking the top of my head on the old drop ceiling in the basement of our house. A couple of weeks ago—it’s June as I write this—I was packing my boat with gear so my wife Lori and I could enjoy an outing after the slab bluegills which live in the lake a couple of blocks west of our home. I ran down the basement steps to see if I had forgotten anything, and whacked my head on the drop ceiling, again.
     I released the torrent of bad words which has been as reliable as any alarm clock in waking Lori on weekend mornings.
     “What now?” she called.
     “$$$!!! drop ceiling,” I yelled. “I’m ripping it out right now.”
     I imagine every do-it-yourselfer entertains hopes that a previous owner was an eccentric who secreted thousands of dollars behind a wall or—I hoped, in my case—on top of a row of drop-ceiling panels. However, what our ceiling actually concealed was a great many mice, of the variety which have long since passed beyond the threshold of this earthly realm. Let me tell you, being showered with dead rodents ruins a Sunday morning about as quick as anything I can think of.
     That is how a minor before-fishing project became a big deal which will probably take me right up until the gun deer season. But painting my basement floor Sheepshead Gray on evenings after work has given me time to think, and since it’s fishing season as I write this I’ve been thinking about—what else?—hunting. A lot of us are like that, I think. Because the seasons of the year are so short here in Wisconsin we tend to cast with the fly rod while planning for the double gun. Of course, the hunting equipment catalogs have begun popping up in our mailbox, and that hasn’t helped things any.
     I love catalogs, and I spend many enjoyable hours looking through them while dreaming of a trip out West for antelope, or thinking of what I’ll need when I eventually accumulate enough points to be drawn for a bear license. For the most part, I am a serial non-orderer—at age 40, I’ve accumulated enough stuff—but that little “Submit” button on the bottom of an Internet order form can get you into trouble if you’re online during a weak moment. That, for instance, is how grocery money gets spent on a cylinder which allows a .44 black powder revolver to function with light smokeless loads in .45 Colt.
     Speaking of catalogs, I was looking through the clothing section of one last night, and I feel confident in saying this: the days of the red-and-black plaid hunting coat are truly over. What an array of stuff, and all lauded with adjectives like “quiet” and “windproof” and “scent-blocking.” Many items are flogged to the hunting public in testimonials like the following:
     “Hi, I’m Kurt Helker, Pro Staff Team Member. I bagged this fox squirrel on a tough-conditions day. I never could have done it without my pair of Tactical Coveralls, from Squirrel Stopper. They’re lightweight and wick moisture extremely well, and the new EvasiCloth technology allowed me to creep within range of the nut-snatcher of a lifetime. Plus, at the end of the hunt my coveralls cleaned my squirrel. Heck, they even drove home, though we did argue a bit over whether to head north or south on County Highway Q.”
     O.K., I’m exaggerating, but just a little bit. Speaking of “wicking,” manufacturers of hunting clothing must consider sportsmen and women to be little more than giant sacks of sweat barely restrained by skin, what with the number of references to wicking in product blurbs. We’re like damned fountains, there’s so much wicking going on.
     “Did ya see anything?”
     “Nah. You?”
     “Nope. Hey, you mind moving back a little bit? You’re wicking all over my new boots.”
     Alright, so that’s one of my pet peeves, along with “tactical” flashlights sporting bezels for striking. Ah, I miss those innocent days when a man could walk to his tree stand on opening morning without having to repel an infantry division with his flashlight.
     It’s only a minor gripe, though. I just scheduled a week off in December for the muzzleloader season, which poses a problem. My muzzleloader used to love a .495 round ball and .015 patch over 70 grains of FFg black powder, and would lay the balls into one ragged hole at 50 yards. But now the rifle is spraying them all over the place. Note that I said “rifle.” Of course the sudden lack of accuracy can’t be attributed to me. So very soon I’ll look at a catalog, and maybe order a batch of conical bullets or even some of the newfangled saboted bullets. I used to be against them on principle, but now I just want to get my ducks in a row accuracy-wise before my hunt comes up. Besides, as the saying goes, one man’s compost pile is another man’s rotting heap of trash. (Also, as I discovered in my own garden, the line between “dormant” and “dead” is a very thin one indeed.)
     Well, sorry to cut this short, but I have to go. I hear the delivery truck outside, and I just bet my new Sporting Underwear are aboard. The manufacturer says they wick moisture really well.
     Best not sit next to me.