Every year at about this time, the federal regulations governing newspaper columns require us to write a retrospective summary of the previous 12 months.  The editors have received many letters and requests concerning this annual event but we’re going to ignore them and present our long-awaited 2007 Year in Review.

JANUARY- We made our annual pilgrimage to the Shooting Hunting Outdoors Trades (SHOT) Show in Orlando, Florida.  There, among the 14 miles of trade show aisle, we found goodies, gadgets and sore feet.

The weather in central Florida was gorgeous, especially considering that most of our regular readers were up to their necks in cold weather and snow.  I couldn’t help a sarcastic mention of the challenges we were forced to endure on this “business” trip:

“It’s not all fun, however.  We are filing this report from the SHOT Press Center clad in resort wear while listening to a portable music player but, horror of horrors, they are out of diet cola on the refreshment table.  This is just one of the terrible hardships we endure for our readers.”

It’s a tough job but we’re happy to oblige.

FEBRUARY- Several times this month I mention the great Jim Jumbo controversy.

I’ll never make that mistake again since I’m still working to clean out my email In-box.

MARCH- This was a memorable month because, as I wrote, “I wanted an adventure, and for my literary sins, I was given one.”

On a nice late-winter day, I visited the little-known but gorgeous Nature Conservancy preserve known as Green’s Bluff in Owen County.  Aside from the bluff, the preserve is also home to Boone’s Cave, one of the largest in Indiana.

Trying to be responsible, I noted: “Readers should remember that it is unsafe to enter caves without being part of properly trained and equipped group…(therefore) you can check out my website for faked photos that give a sense of what the cave would look like if I had indeed entered.”

After visiting the cave, I decided to hike cross-country back to my car.  This proved once again that a person equipped with GPS, map and compass should not attempt navigation by dead reckoning in the deep woods.
Once lost, I fired up the GPS, and it showed that the car was now nearly a mile behind me.  This precipitated a panic-fueled flight up and down hills that were so steep that they would have otherwise required a rope and pitons to ascend.  Fortunately, fear has a way of increasing traction and endurance so I survived the trek and did indeed find my car with only a few dozen minor chest pains.

APRIL-  I thought I had survived the Green’s Bluff misadventure relatively unscathed.  However, this report was filed a week later:

“The day after my trip I noticed a sore spot near my armpit.  I ignored what I believed was a thorn puncture until it grew worse.  That afternoon, to my horror, I discovered a tick fully embedded in my side.

I hate ticks.  And, by all rights, with the cold weather, the tick should not have been rambling about looking for a tasty meal.  However, it was undeniable that this particular tick had ignored the cold and found himself a free ride.

Of course, I’m not sure which is worse, the tick bite or the horrible case of poison ivy covering my face and neck.

Yep, I sure wanted an adventure.”

MAY- We documented our visit to the new Kankakee Sands Nature Preserve in Newton County: “I haven’t quite figured out how you hide over 21,000 acres of wild land from the public, but as I stood under the big blue sky on a massive prairie, there was plenty of elbowroom.

In an area measuring over 30 square miles, I ran into no other hikers on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning.  It is obvious that the area is suffering from some kind of identity crisis.

For those who appreciate solitude, that is a good thing.”

I didn’t even get lost.

JUNE- In a column that generated considerable reader interest, I mentioned an incident that occurred while making an abortive attempt at cleaning out my barn.

It was a stagnant 95 degrees as I reached for an unmarked military ammunition can on the shelf.  There was a slight slurping noise as I popped open the top and flung back the lid.  Bad move: it contained all my catfish stink baits.
I remembered: “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.”

That is much the same reaction that readers report upon finishing this column

JULY- This month I committed the ultimate act of despair: I held a garage sale.  The column shared my feelings about the event:

“Like most American males, I hate garage sales with a passion.  In fact, I would choose to voluntarily have a rusty fishhook impaled into my left eyeball rather than submit to a morning of “garage sailing” with my spouse or mother.  However, when the barn clutter reached the point where I was forced to tunnel like a coal miner just to reach the duck decoys, it was time to do something.”

Of course, six months later the tunnels have begun to collapse again.

AUGUST- This month we made our second attempt to reach the summit of White Rocks, a spectacular mountain ridge on the Kentucky-Virginia border that can only be reached via trail.  The trip also served as my son’s introduction to backpacking.

The area was gripped in a profound, record-breaking drought that had dried up all the creeks and springs.  It hadn’t rained a drop in weeks, at least until we reached the top.

A biblical downpour arrived the moment we reached the summit.  Lightning crashed around us as a thunderstorm got stuck on the peak like a marshmallow impaled on a skewer.  We were trapped in our waterlogged tent for 12 hours, kept awake by incessant pounding rain and the brittle crack of lighting.  Column readers shared in this true bit of dialog from that moment:

“’What do we do now?’  Adam asked.

‘This is it,’ I answered gloomily.

He seemed rather unimpressed.”

It was that moment when my son finally experienced real life.

SEPTEMBER-  Unwilling to admit defeat and showing a complete disregard for potential retaliation by Mother Nature, I and my buddy Ken returned to White Rocks in September to finally reach the summit.  Along the way we did manage to conjure up a hard four-hour downpour on the parched mountain but the rangers at nearby Cumberland Gap National Park thanked us for the contribution.

Making the summit was truly worth all the heartache, effort and previously aborted trips.  There will always be a picture in my mind of the moment when I finally stepped out on the 600-foot cliffs overlooking the rest of the Cumberland Plateau.  I wrote:

“It had cost ten years, three long-planned hikes and countless frustrations in my attempt to witness that vista firsthand.  The highlight of the trip was undoubtedly the last morning when I ascended the rocks under a brilliant blue sky as the sun was rising.  Breakfasting above the cloud-shrouded valleys, I felt a contentment that only comes into your life on a few occasions.”

Amen.

OCTOBER- I wrote about a combination duck hunting/deer scouting trip through a really neat swamp.  I received many emails concerning the column and was pleased that both regular readers felt that the story was worthwhile.

I also pointed out the importance of wildlife conservation by explaining why I only fired warning shots at passing ducks.

NOVEMBER- This month was deer season.  I’m sorry but we’re not going to answer any further questions on that topic.

DECEMBER- On an utterly rotten day in late December, I had one of the more memorable deer hunts of my life.  As fog thicker than drywall compound settled onto the snowy forest, I found myself caught in a fantasy world somewhere between imagination and reality.

“I began to visualize things while swimming through the thickening murk.  Giant stags flitted through the mist like the scene from a Scotch whiskey advertisement as Native American warriors peered from behind trees at steely-eyed long-hunters who were invading their home.  There were pioneers and bears and elk and cougars.  The woods, silent and gloomy as a crypt, were alive with the ghosts of Indiana’s history.

I was tied to all of it by the .54-caliber time machine in my hands.

Finally back at the car, I took off my heavy clothes and unloaded the rifle.  I was going home empty-handed due to the self-imposed limitations of my weapon but there was a full game pole at the hunting camp that solely exists inside the overactive imagination of an outdoor writer who refuses to grow up.

Not bad for a cold, damp day that had commuters squinting through windshield wipers, shoppers scurrying indoors and unhappy people becoming ever more depressed.

However there was one person, crazy perhaps, who was outside and enjoying it all.”

Yes I was.

FINALLY- In closing, I’ll say that 2007 has been a tremendously challenging for Yours Truly but I am reminded that no matter how painful life seems, there is always the natural world to smooth out the rough edges, ease the twinges and sooth the mind.

That’s why we keep going Out in the Open.