With 2004 drawing to a conclusion, we are required by the Newspaper Column Writer’s Guild and Benevolent Association to produce a retrospective that highlights the previous 365 days.

January- I write a column in support of the now-three-year-old “one buck” rule.  This was the first in a series of unintentionally controversial columns that opened the email floodgates.

The final tally of responses was: Positive- 56 percent; Negative- 21 percent; “You are obviously a communist”- 10 percent; “I hope you die of eyeball worms”- 8 percent; mail too strange and vicious to even understand- 5 percent.

February- In February we made our annual trek to the huge Shooting, Hunting and Outdoor Trades (SHOT) show in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.

Before we even boarded the airplane, there was a problem with the small aluminum flashlight I was carrying.  The Transportation Security Administration screener at the gate was not familiar with professional lighting equipment and asked belligerently, “Is this some kind of combat flashlight?” I was then  waved over to a special  area reserved for inspecting credentialed terrorists prior to flying.

At the show we discovered the Most Useless Product Yet Invented by Man: the laser-sighted slingshot.  This weapon has an elaborate trajectory-compensating sight mechanism that adjusts through a complex system of levers, linkages and screws.  It might seem that such an arrangement would be unwieldy and impractical but it was also unattractive.

March- Ostensibly on a writing assignment for a national magazine, I spent a week in the mountains of southwest Colorado near ultra-hip Telluride.  My friend Rob was tour guide and I quickly realized he was a homicidal maniac behind the wheel of his large and frightening truck.  As we hurtled along a narrow gravel mountain road that ran parallel to the edge of the universe, Rob casually admitted to having been involved in “around 40” motor vehicle accidents.   I lost 20 pounds of cold sweat during that trip.

April- I wrote a grousing column that mildly rebuked my assorted friends for always being late at the start of outdoor trips.  In a nod toward fairness, I also admitted to having recently been horribly late to a special turkey hunt in southern Indiana.

My friend Brad was waiting 120 miles away at a National Wildlife Refuge the moment I awoke at 4:00 a.m.; the same time as mandatory check-in.  Brad, fuming, was not allowed to hunt because his partner was absent.  I surmised, correctly, that he would be angry.

When we finally spoke over the phone three days later, he tried to disguise his forgiveness under a thin veneer of rage.  I could tell he wasn’t really serious because, as a registered nurse, Brad knows that a 12-gauge pump shotgun will not fit where he suggested I store it until next season.

May- Fishing season had started in typical fashion.  One after-action column detailed the standard one-hour late start, turning around after 20 miles upon discovering the bait was left at home, gas prices so high that we were forced to use the services of a loan shark to purchase fuel for the boat and locking our keys in the van as the tank was being filled.

Once on the river, it began raining heavily as we reached the boat ramp and shortly thereafter we were boarded by an Indiana Department of Natural Resources SWAT team who checked everything including the legal status of my boat warranty.

Finally we began fishing and T.J. had his only hookup of the day: “Trailing our boat like a small water-skier was T.J’s lure and the largest live mussel I have ever seen in the wild. Somehow his rear treble hook had been caught between the shells, giving T.J the thrill of landing a creature that has all the tenacious fighting skills of a large glass ashtray.”

June- June brought our annual family vacation.  The trip this year included a stop at Aunt Sheila and Uncle Bob’s luxurious home on huge Lake Norman.

I wrote about the endless parade of incidents the following week:  “It is sad that such nice people didn’t realize what happens when more than four people named Wheat gather in one location; the result is very similar to what happens when plutonium isotopes get together for a small hoedown”

The finally tally of broken, lost or destroyed items and a roster of the wounded is too long to enumerate here but suffice to mention that Bob and Shelia are now receive regular death threats from their homeowners insurance company and housekeeper.

July- My fishing buddy Sam and I decided to indulge in a little “pit” psychotherapy.  This involves a water-filled gravel pit, a warm summer evening, catfish bait, cold adult beverages, decent cigars and deep conversation.

The evening turned into one of those “way, way too-late nights” in which men too frequently indulge but did result in one of my favorite descriptive paragraphs from the entire year: “Sam and I continued the course of conversation.  As twilight finally yielded to a star-filled night, we solved all the problems of the world, boasted a little bit, complained occasionally and generally got things off our chests as we watched our lines.  The lantern cast a glow on the water and hundreds of minnows sat in the shallows at our feet like an audience.

August- This month brought about our second annual trek to the beaches of panhandle Florida for two days of diving, fishing, camping and general savage behavior within the space of a 72-hour weekend.  The lady at the gas station said we were crazy.

At age 42, I consider that a compliment.

My buddy Jeff and I ran amok in the Caribbean-like outdoor playground, wearing only bathing suits and shower thongs for two solid days.  The days and nights were hot yet comfortable in our beachside campground and overall, it was the kind of tropical perfection and freedom you dream about on cold winter nights.

The only major trouble was the two crab traps donated to the Davey Jones’ locker.  Outdoor tip of the week: 22 feet of water depth requires more than 15 feet of marker-buoy rope.

September- One column covered outdoor urban legends, especially concerning the Indiana Department of Natural Resources.  This became a topic of interest after receiving several emails within days that claimed the DNR was stocking the Hoosier hinterlands with a thousand rattlesnakes, along with bears, mountain lions and even badgers.

While researching the story I was grateful that the DNR personnel contacted were kind and helpful, even when confronting an insane person who claimed to be an outdoor writer.

October- This month I wrote a column pointing out the inconsistencies in the story of one presidential candidate who claimed to be an avid shooter and outdoorsman.  The column eventually ended up being posted or linked on around 200 websites, including the George Bush for President Website.

While such exposure is valuable for a writer, the resulting volume of email is not.  In finally tally of reader response, I was hailed as the next canonized saint while also being vilified as a possible replacement for Satan upon expiration of his contract.

November- November is given over to deer hunting in various formats.  Several of my stories covered the various misadventures afield but the most interesting was perhaps the day Ken and I dropped off some old meat at a large cat sanctuary near our hunting area.

As we toured the somewhat dubious looking enclosures, I can say that I wasn’t entirely enthusiastic when Ken pulled a deer bleat call from his pocket while we stood among the lions, tigers and timber wolves.  In my mind all I could see was Ken being featured on a television reality show titled “Interesting ways to die.” Fortunately, the fences held and we didn’t end up passing through the alimentary canal of a large Siberian cat.

December- My favorite column of the year was a December ode to Dawn, a minor attempt to wax semi-poetic about the opening moments of each day.  I enjoyed doing this as it entailed a long journey through the mental picture book of a lifetime spent gandering about in the outdoors.

Leaning back at my desk, I thought about some of the best moments I have witnessed when the sun finally peaked across the horizon.

I thought about my buddies silhouetted against a sun that only appeared to be a white paper circle as it rose above the field during a foggy Benton county pheasant hunt, their orange hats providing the only focal point in an otherwise colorless morning.

There are many languorous summer sunrises remembered for the low, hard orange light that highlights fishermen already on the water, framing everything with a tawny rim light that lends a dramatic appearance to jumping fish or a dripping canoe paddle.

There are too many others to mention and a few that remain secretly locked up inside, only to be shared with yourself.

At the end of the column I noted that daybreak, like the outdoors itself, only rewards those who are there.  First light is an extraordinary moment seen by many but touched by few.  It is special only those who are Out in the Open.  You need to be there.

Make an outdoor promise today.

And keep it.