During the past week, I was forced to confront my past habits. This didn’t involve any dramatic scenes with ex-wives or a former archenemy. I was simply tasked with cleaning and moving the excess outdoor gear from the garage to our storage building, otherwise known as The Warehouse. This brought home the realization that perhaps I do own too much outdoor gear, in the sense that I could fully outfit an invasion of Bulgaria, especially during fishing season.

For years my long-suffering wife has accused me of squandering the family fortune on an outdoor addiction. I would scoff, even while dumping a shopping bag full of “Clearance! Price Slashed!” armadillo decoys onto the living room floor. It didn’t matter that I had no immediate plan for the items; the siren song of the bargain bin proved unavoidable. After rummaging through the floor-to-ceiling goods piled where the cars should have been parked, I realized that she might be right.

I decided that this transfer was a good time to finally organize my gear storage system. I currently use the common “shelf-pile” method wherein everything is divided into various sized piles and then placed on a shelf. This works reasonably well, but I wanted something more efficient wherein items could actually be located without mobilizing a federal search team for assistance.

I started on the fishing stack. Several hours into the process I realized the main problem was that there were far too many brand-new lures sitting idle in their original boxes, so repulsive that they could never be inflicted upon the fragile ecosystem. All had been marked down or otherwise reduced in price so that they exerted what defense attorneys would call “an irresistible impulse” to the weak shopper. How else could you explain someone buying a crankbait that looks like a race car? Or worse, buying a case of said lure.

A survey of the hunting gear was similar. There is really no rational reason for Yours Truly to own three elk calls since I hunt in Montana almost as frequently as a politician speaks in understandable sentences. The calls were sitting alongside some rusty steel jaw traps that were found cheap at a garage sale some years prior. I have no intention of running a trapline but I rationalized the purchase to my wife by reminding her there is always the chance that mink might become a nuisance around the house.

Shoes are another area of contention. I never complain about my wives extensive dress shoe collection when I realize that our garage is home to The Boots: work, hunting, hiking, low hunting, winter hunting, waterproof hunting, upland hunting and ice fishing. There are also moccasins, old tennis shoes, new tennis shoes, wading shoes, chest waders and numerous other brogans with my bedroom closet containing the remainder. I tried to explain why someone needs both whitewater sandals AND whitewater shoes, but my wife simply rolled her eyes.

Boats are a similar problem. I have tried to explain that the whitewater raft can’t be used for lake trolling any more than the kayak can replace the bass boat. The canoe, well, everybody needs a canoe.

We won’t even go into clothing. The true outdoors enthusiast is prepared for weather ranging from thermonuclear-hot to colder than the proverbial brass monkey and each specialty garment requires matching pants, hat, gloves, socks and underwear, or several of each.

You must have some method of carrying your stuff from place to place. This requires things such as duffel bags, stuff bags, tool bags, fanny packs, day packs, medium packs, internal and external frame backpacks. Of course, I can’t often find anyone who enjoys or owns backpacking equipment, so I own an extra external frame pack just in case. The flight helmet bag just seemed interesting at the time.

I will admit that there are a few items that could conceivably be traded for a future draft pick, such as the rappelling equipment. I own enough slings, rope and carabineers to escape from a observation deck of the Sears Tower, which remains something of a mystery considering I never climb anything higher than a bar stool. Some of the equipment has come in handy for anchoring boats and tying up the dog. Katie, our English Setter, looked rather dashing last week in a body harness made from tubular webbing and a figure-eight descender even though were only going for a short stroll in the park.

After hours and hours without making discernable headway, I finally threw up my hands in defeat and carted the entire mass to the barn, creating new piles out of the old. Tomorrow, I vow to begin sorting the junk and coolly getting rid of all non-essential items.

Right after I finish reading the new catalog that came in the mail today.

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