And now we present our annual year-end recap of Out in the Open outdoor misadventure, otherwise known as The Trail of Tears.

We swear and affirm, under penalties of perjury, that the following summation is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help us Orvis.

January- With the honor of discovering a new disease there comes the honor of likewise naming the said malady.  Thus, while perusing the local flyshop and noticing all the other Hoosier anglers slowly being driven mad by winter, I coined the term TWWS, an acronym for “The Winter Wheat Syndrome.”

In the column I outlined the signs and symptoms of this common but horrible condition:

-Making frequent solemn pledges to go fishing more often in the upcoming season, in spite of the fact the same promise has been made and broken for 28 consecutive years.

-Visiting the fly shop to “hang out” without purchasing so much as a spool of floss

-Rental of fishing DVD’s

-Repeated viewing of fishing DVD’s

-Compulsive reorganization of the tackle box every few days

-Attendance at outdoor sports shows

-Madly digging through lure clearance bins in order to find a bargain in spite of the stray treble hook embedded underneath a fingernail

-Completely ignoring  the fact that the Indiana summertime involves more biting insects than there are bacteria on the floor of a bus station restroom whenever telling about a special fishing trip from the previous year.”

TWWS also explains ice fishing.

Perhaps one of the most bizarre and potentially harmful behaviors I personally observed was the serious consideration of purchasing an $800 stick of aerospace-grade graphite for the express purpose of pursuing a cold-blooded creature that is the intellectual equal of Britney Spears.

February- This month we covered the plethora of cool, quirky and just plain odd products being showcased at the annual Shooting, Hunting and Outdoor Trades (SHOT) Show held in Orlando Florida.  We wrote:

There was also a plethora of general hunting and outdoors garbage but space requires us to begin closing up shop.  However, there is one thing I must mention prior to our departure: the cow blind.

This device is a life-sized fabric print of a USDA Prime Holstein, held open by a plastic frame and featuring a gun port in mid-brisket, used to sneak up on bison, antelope and other such dwellers of the western range.  If you think this sounds bizarre, it is.

March- On a geocaching trip, we discovered that snakes sometimes enjoy cold weather:

As we were poking about a fencerow in search of a cache, I happened to look down and notice a snake a few feet away from my foot.  I’m pleased to note in the last few years that such an occurrence no longer causes instantaneous heart seizures for Yours Truly and I actually thought the critter was a bit cute.  At least until I saw his brother and sister coiled up a few feet away.

Somehow, on a blustery day far too chilly for cold-blooded creatures to be frolicking about, I had stumbled into some kind of garter snake convention.  Though running across a snake doesn’t inspire the same horrific fright it did only ten years ago, I can’t make the same claim when surrounded by a writhing herd of serpents.

On a related-note: I’ve decided to enter the Olympic standing-long-jump competition since I have now set the unofficial world record in that event.

April- I had forgotten the story about what “could have been.”

In a column discussing the general advantages of cellular phones in the outdoors, I covered what was both exciting and ultimately frustrating beyond words:

Ecstatic with my luck, I decided right there to call my fishing buddy Sam.  I had strong signal and he picked up his office phone within two rings.

Flush with success, I realized that there is no more selfish, guilty pleasure than calling your friend at work from the middle of a river to rant about the incredible fishing.  As I stood there gushing about my luck and wonderfulness of life in general, I happened to look down at the green fly dangling a few inches from my rod tip.

To my great consternation, the largest rock bass within the entire Midwestern United States calmly finned out from underneath a rock and inhaled the hapless fly.  The coal-black fish then zipped right back under the rock.

Between the unintelligible shouting and general pandemonium that ensued, I’m sure Sam thought I was being eaten by a wolverine as I slammed the phone into my vest pocket.  The next 30 seconds were a ballet of carnage as I fell off the rock, nearly lost my balance, attempted to set the hook without dropping my pole all while still ranting incoherently.

I missed the fish.  Rather, I missed a possible state record fish.

I love cell phones.  I hate cell phones.

May- What more can we say:

A TRUE STORY- This corner rarely includes third-party stories because they are so often a collection of so much hooey.  However, during recent my ill-fated turkey hunt, I was finally forced to laugh, then violently laugh, then guffaw until my ribs felt like they had been struck with a sledgehammer.  Wiping away the tears and coughing loudly, I decided to share the tale with both regular readers on the chance they might too find humor in what is actually a fairly disgusting story.

My friend swears it is true, even though I had not heard it before from the source.  However based on past experiences I’m sure there is a significant portion of fact in the story.  It also relates to a recent item printed in this column.

The protagonist in this tale shall remain nameless but he is an older gentleman well known to this writer and we have spent many years hunting and fishing together.  He is also that person whom we all know that can look at a simple situation and turn it into a full blow, four-alarm catastrophe in the name of fun.  This was one of those times.

The event occurred decades ago and involves an act that was rather stupid and childish at the time (go figure) but apparently not illegal.

The storyteller and my buddy were out hunting coyotes one day with rifles when they happened to spy a large gathering of buzzards feasting on the odiferous remains of some poor creature that had met its demise a week earlier on a country road.

Looking upon the group, my buddy impulsively decided that a full taxidermy mount of a turkey vulture would be a tremendous addition to his home decor.  Why that would be a better conversation piece than, say, a nice piece of driftwood or an oil painting remains open for debate.

Our hero fired and one buzzard flopped over as his buddies took wing.  The victorious rifleman walked over and picked up the stinking, gore-covered bird then threw it into the trunk of his sedan.  The two men then drove to another buddy whom they knew was an amateur taxidermist.

At the taxidermist’s home, my friend inquired if he would mount the buzzard.  After a bit of haggling, they agreed upon a price and the three men walked up to the trunk of the vehicle.  The storyteller stated that he heard an ominous rustling from inside as my buddy turned the key in the lock.

As the lid popped open, the now-conscious buzzard stood up from inside the car like the Phoenix arising, spread its wings wide, squawked loudly then proceeded to vomit with great force and volume.  For several moments its head swiveled like a lawn sprinkler spewing liquefied rancid roadkill all over my buddy and the car.

The smell was unbearable.  The storyteller claims that small trees within 30 feet began shedding leaves and several flying insects died in midair.  My buddy tried to grab the now active bird as it continued to flop and spew an upchuck geyser.  The struggle turned into a wrestling match with the bird expending its entire stomach contents on his hapless tormentor.  In the end, the bird met his demise but not before exacting well-deserve revenge.

I’m guessing my buddy’s wife did the same thing later when she entered the laundry room and opened up the hamper.

June- This month we offered tips on how to deal with lightning while outdoors:

If you are inside a small boat and there is no possibility of reaching safety, it is best to anchor, lay low inside the boat away from metal objects and pray to your chosen deity.

Having a pair of clean underwear in your emergency supplies is also very helpful.

Trust me, I know.

July- In the run-up to July 4^th, we publicly shared the story of what most women would consider an insane and idiotic stunt.  Guys, on the other hand, wanted my recipe:

I will not divulge construction details of my grand-finale firework except to say that a substantial quantity of powder was involved and it probably would have been illegal under the Geneva Convention and various federal laws.

In the videotape of the incident, mothers of the various participants are heard off-camera, murmuring concerns about the safety of their offspring and the dim-wittedness of beer-fueled fathers.  Finally, we reached the moment of truth.

A transcript of the end of the video reads something like this:  “What is he doing…why is he using a car battery…that doesn’t look safe, get the kids back…has anybody…..AAAEEEEEEEEEIIII!!!!!”

The screen goes completely bright orange in the split second I completed the electrical triggering circuit.  Screams, rattling casserole dishes, car alarms and barking dogs provided the soundtrack as smoke, flame and exploding fireworks were carried into the air from the force of the blast.  The streetlight overhead is obscured by a mushroom cloud and several particular vulgar words are heard above the din.

It was fantastic.

After the commotion died down, stunned witnesses gathered their wide-eyed children to flee the area.  No one was injured but a number of the moms refused even to acknowledge the master pyrotechnician afterward.  On the other hand, several of the assembled dads thought it was the coolest thing they had ever seen so the overall score was a tie.

August- This month apparently didn’t occur during 2008.  If anyone happens to find our column archive for this month, please send it home.  We will reimburse you for the cost of the bus ticket.

September- We made our annual fall backpacking trip and were joined by two lost dogs while hiking in one of the most remote sections of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

There was one noteworthy incident.  As we doggedly chugged up the most remote section of the trail, Ken suddenly heard a frantic panting noise rapidly closing behind him.  Hoisting his hiking stick to knock Yours Truly unconscious as bait for the bear he believed was attacking, Ken was relieved to only find a pair of hunting dogs following our track.
Later, our canine companions decided to abandon their rescuers:

It turned out that the dogs had jumped a huge bull elk that had been lounging the day away in the streamside forest.  As barking and crashing diminished off into the distance, we arrived back at our cars and saw the wet tracks on the roadway indicating the dogs had chased the elk across the roadside stream and onward into the Cataloochee valley.
After a short rest for drinks, nutrition bars and the odd toe amputation, we drove back to the campground while wondering what had happened to our canine companions.  We quickly found out while passing the ranger station: they were already in dog jail.

The male, whom we had named Max, was sitting forlornly on top of the kennel doghouse while the female we had named Patch was lying inside.

Looking at the morose dog, you could almost hear Max saying, “Wonderful…I had to listen to you….’Go ahead, chase the elk’…those hiker guys were feeding us, everybody was happy and then I follow you RIGHT PAST the ranger station…you realize it’s a federal offense to chase elk, right?!?!”

In summary, with terminal exhaustion, magnificent foot blisters, several instances of gut-wrenching fear and half of our party ending up in Federal Dog Penitentiary, it was pretty much another normal day on the trail.

October- I renew my un-love affair with treestands:

My hunting buddy Ken and I managed to get the ladder stand locked into place and tighten up the support straps.  From the ground it looked mighty solid.  However, my old nemesis Gravity was waiting as I climbed the ladder stand.  For some reason, Ms. Gravity is always threatening to pluck my body from the tree and fling it to the forest floor with results much like an overripe casaba melon being thrown into the path of an Amtrak train.

As I stood atop the quaking platform, I realized too late that the missing lower leg brace was in fact a requirement rather than an option.  I gingerly climbed down and began mentally working out a replacement for the absent brace.  Funny how a stand that appears large enough to host a good-sized square dance turns out to be smaller than a child’s handkerchief when propped 25 feet in the air.

November- I recount one of the worse, yet most satisfying, opening mornings of deer season I’ve ever experienced:

What I hadn’t counted on was the combination of wind and water.  Soaked everyplace that wasn’t covered by poncho, the wind sent needles of pain into the wet skin of my cheeks, ears and neck.  Shortly thereafter, it got worse.

The wind was roaring over the forest like an angry ocean while sleet began making tiny drumming sounds as it pelted my nylon rainwear.  With ice crystals now sliding down my cheek, I had finally reached the limit of my endurance. The blasting heater in the car felt good on my cherry-red ears as I drove, a bit defeated, down the farm lane.

Regardless, I consoled myself; I had met the dawn of opening day as a hunter.  It wasn’t a good and fine and honorable hunt, as Hemingway might say, but I had at least confronted nature on her terms and tasted some of the wildness that I crave.

It was miserable, but a soul-satisfying kind of miserable.   That feeling was not a pointless, self-despising infliction of pain but rather a celebration of being alive because humans need some adversity to smooth out the peaks and valleys of our psyche.  As hunters, we find those things in the woods, conveyed by both blooming trout lilies in spring and a stung face full of sleet on a November holy morning.

Yeah, opening morning 2008 was miserable, unproductive and even slightly painful.

But as soon as my coveralls dry, I’m going right back out this afternoon.

December- After trailing two deer in the snow and giving up, we were suddenly confronted by twin visions of hunting glory.  Of course, we were utterly unprepared and watched the two big bucks bound away through the trees without firing a shot.

The entire scene had been precipitated by the famous last words- “I think those tracks are old.”

In honor of that dubious incident, we covered other famous outdoor last words:

Finally, there are the most dangerous Famous Last Words in all the world- “After everything that has happened, I don’t think it can get any worse than this.”

Ahhh, just wait around a few minutes.

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