Baker's Branch

  WHAT TOOD HATH WROUGHT — Brian Loveland of Sand Springs used to catch and sell for fifty cents apiece, bullfrogs. He has since worked his way up to Lake Keystone catfish which are not for sale.  Last week I was an idiot. Maybe. I told you that. Well, if you read the column. Thanks for that kindness, and the time spent. I never take it for granted. This week, I am an idiot one year older, with a perpetual idiot’s smile. Happy New Year. Because I am an idiot, I told you once that I believe in ghosts. That hasn’t changed. They come and circle ‘round me in this room where I am surrounded by old family pictures, old hunting and fishing gear, and this keyboard in front of me. They sneak up on me. The ghosts, I mean. Dickens talked about the “ghosts of Christmas past.” Really. Was he serious? What kind of ghosts was he talking about? The same kind as me, I think. They’re real, believe me. Never doubt it, and whereas they may come to me at any time, even while driving down...

  It was snowing at daylight when I climbed out of my sleeping bag, dressed in the cold wall tent, and walked through sifting flakes towards the cook tent where I knew the coffee would be hot and halfway to the top of the three gallon pot. Bob McClintick, master camp cook, wouldn't let it run dry all day, even though he and I were likely to be the only ones in camp the entire day.  Somebody might come in early with an elk; you never knew. We'd spend the day talking quietly, drinking coffee, sharing yarns, one of the best parts of any hunting camp; planning and working on the evening meal for twenty, and listening for distant shots.   Here on the east side of Yellowstone Park in the Thoroughfare Wilderness of Wyoming, we were surrounded by elk, you could bet on that. You can't bet on an elk. You have to hunt them. Hard. Three days into a six day hunt, my hard hunt was over. I had a nice five-by-five cut into four pieces, six counting the two back straps, and hung high ...

‘Tis the season. The season for brutally cold, man-killing hunting and fishing, I mean. You’re out on a lake somewhere? Hunting? Fishing? Watch out. Two nights ago I brought in dog watering buckets, filled dog houses with fresh hay, disconnected watering hoses, filled bird feeders, and checked clothing storage for the location of all my cold weather gear; gloves, hand mufflers, wool socks, insulated coveralls, ear flap caps, et al. I even dug around in the pantry and found two stainless steel thermos bottles, plus another (Glory be. Where’d that come from?) I did not need. If I were going tiger hunting, you can bet I would clean my rifle five times whether it needed it or not, and made sure I had more bullets than I could possibly ever use unless serving with Custer up on the Little Big Horn. Tigers can kill you. When Elin goes Tiger hunting, I bet she carries along more three-irons than she could possibly ever use. You have to know that winter weather is not going to keep me from doin...

  On the table is where I like deer best. Really. In order for me to shoot one, or anything, it must be good to eat. I am not a horn hunter. I am a meat hunter. I get all of the esoteric stuff out of a hunt that you do; all the sunrises, sunsets, beauty and grace of the animal, all of that. But the best of the hunt, any hunt, is on the table. As I write, I smell a big pot of deer stew on Pam's stove in the kitchen. It's in there bubbling away as I do the same in here on the computer. It's cold outside; below freezing cold outside. When I get through here, I am going into the kitchen and dish myself up a big bowl of "wild what am" and think all those esoteric thoughts I mentioned a moment ago. But not until I get the first bite in my mouth. What's in it? What a wonderful question. Answering it makes my mouth water, which means I'm already eating the strew, right? Watch out, computer keyboard. Stews, like gumbos, are as individualistic as the people ...