The packrat

A few years ago I wrote a column about all the neat stuff that outdoors enthusiasts collect.  What other people might consider junk, hunters, fisherman, outdoor writers and other indeterminate humanoid species find intriguing.

For some reason, those who venture into the outdoors have an almost obsessive need to collect little souvenirs, all while simultaneously saving every bit of broken gear “just in case.”  For example, most fishermen have a box somewhere full of old lures, decrepit hats, interesting rocks and other useless debris of the sporting life.

While this is all fine and good when you have enough space for your “collection,” things eventually start overflowing their designated spots until one day when you discover that the lawn tractor will no longer fit into the shed because of your driftwood collection.

This is why I found myself deep inside my barn on a recent sweltering afternoon, eviscerating the accumulated contents and vowing once and for all that I would simplify my life by selling, donating or simply trashing all the junk.

As I began pulling things from the darkest recesses of the barn, I was horrified at all the pointless items that were stored in there.  It was hard to believe that I had written column celebrating this collection of trash.

There were boxes of broken reels to complement the dozens of damaged fishing rods hanging from nails along the walls.  There were enough animal parts to start a small taxidermy museum.  There were deer skulls, fur scraps, mediocre antlers, jawbones, turtle shells, clamshells, vertebra of unknown origin and a deer hide I had attempted to tan myself.  The hide had hardened to the point where it would have served quite nicely as a machete.

There are dozens of military ammunition cans scattered through the barn.  Some hold bullets while others hold goodies such as game calls, fireworks or dried spider carcasses.  As I reached back onto a long-hidden shelf, I pulled out one can that obviously contained something but had no label identifying the contents.

Consider the moment: it was approximately 95 degrees as I was bathed in sweat at the back of an airless barn.  While attempting to avoid inhaling any of the dust from the scattered mouse droppings and powdered insects on the shelves, I was constantly wiping the stinging sweat that sheeted into my eyes.  My shirt was drenched in perspiration and I felt slightly dizzy from dehydration.  At this moment, I reached for the ammo can.

The airtight lid wouldn’t open easily due to a slight vacuum inside the container.  As I finally managed to pop the gasket, there was a slight slurping noise as the pressure equalized and I flung back the lid.

That was a bad mistake.

The can contained my collection of stink baits for catfishing.  In the year since I had used the stuff with names like “Big Stinker Sewer Bait,” the baits had melded together inside their steel coffin until finally reaching a point of critical smell mass.

At the very instant in time when all the ingredients had finally coalesced into a substance that emitted a spectacular odor that defied the puny laws of nature and man, I had opened the Pandora’s Box.

It is a normal reflex to inhale spontaneously when startled.  Thus, as the rancid, deathly odor reached my nostrils, I involuntarily gasped and drew in a lung full of the foul stench.

With the crystal clarity brought about by a near-death experience, I can clearly recall the next few seconds.  There was the taste of limburger cheese, pig manure and rotting fish on my tongue.  My eyes burned and watered as the pizza I ate for lunch began yo-yoing in my throat.
Dropping the box, I attempted to flee the barn.  Had the floor been clear, I might have made it with minimal damage.  However, with outdoor treasures strewn about like an obstacle course, I staggered, half blinded and gagging, toward fresh air.

I nearly made it but my foot got caught in a deer antler and I began to fall.  As I did, I spontaneously grabbed an old fishing pole, which then started a chain-reaction cascade of junk off the workbench and walls.

Twisting as I fell to avoid being disemboweled by the razor-sharp deer hide, I landed on my side in a box of duck feathers that were being saved for fly tying.  The box upended and feathers filled the air as if a mallard had been vaporized by antiaircraft fire.

Thus, I crawled out of the barn, bruised, battered, choking and plastered with handfuls of feathers stuck to my sweaty brow.  Right then and there, I decided that everything must go and I would never again fall victim to the packrat mentality.

At least until I find another cool piece of driftwood.

Photo: Ken Cole, USGS

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