Off the Hook E-Book

Nancy Besonen

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 282

Beschreibung

Back in 1981, publisher Ed Danner took a chance, hiring Nancy Besonen, a rookie reporter from Chicago's South Side, for his weekly newspaper, the L'Anse Sentinel. Her humor column, "Off the Hook," was ostensibly all about fishing, but she quickly cut loose, writing about anything relevant to life, especially in the Michigan's Upper Peninsula, as long as it made her readers smile.
There's something for everyone with a strong sense of the ridiculous: "Ask Miss Demeanor," "Life's a Breach" and "Baldness: A Growing Concern." Also, "We Make Hay," "Men Are from Mud" and a particularly sensitive piece, "I'm Poopeye the Sailor Mom." From Michigan's tiniest predator, the no-see-um, to life's biggest challenges, like trying to fly into or out of the U.P., Besonen's on the beat.
"Nancy Besonen's weekly columns in the L'Anse Sentinel always made me smile, or chuckle and, quite often, even snort with mirth. Besonen connects so well with our quirky Yooper culture and its priorities. Her perspective of our everyday lives is hilarious and reminiscent of the late Erma Bombeck."
-- Terri Martin, author and U.P. Notable Book Award recipient
"A veteran journalist, Nancy Besonen has a wonderful gift for sweet and tangy, humorous writing and storytelling. She uses visual, nuanced language to paint portraits of Michigan's Upper Peninsula's people, places and events, infusing culture, history and geography. Her colorful tales, filled with wit, action, twists and turns, are a must read for those in Michigan (and beyond), as she inspires us all to think about our own life journeys."
-- Martha Bloomfield, award-winning author, oral historian, artist and poet
"Besonen, a gifted journalist who moved north from Chicago for the fishing and brought with her a deep sensibility for the U.P, both teaches and inspires. This is true nonfiction at its best, both wit and investigative journalism. I am glad she collects it here."
-- Mack Hassler, former professor of English, Kent State University

Leseprobe

Praise for Off the Hook

“Nancy Besonen’s weekly columns in the L’Anse Sentinel always made me smile, or chuckle and, quite often, even snort with mirth. Besonen connects so well with our quirky Yooper culture and its priorities. Her perspective of our everyday lives is hilarious and reminiscent of the late Erma Bombeck.”

Terri Martin, author and U.P. Notable Book Award recipient

“A veteran journalist, Nancy Besonen has a wonderful gift for sweet and tangy, humorous writing and storytelling. She uses visual, nuanced language to paint portraits of Michigan's Upper Peninsula’s people, places and events, infusing culture, history and geography. Her colorful tales, filled with wit, action, twists and turns, are a must read for those in Michigan (and beyond), as she inspires us all to think about our own life journeys.”

Martha Bloomfield,award-winning author, oral historian, artist and poet

“Besonen, a gifted journalist who moved north from Chicago for the fishing and brought with her a deep sensibility for the U.P, both teaches and inspires. This is true nonfiction at its best, both wit and investigative journalism. I am glad she collects it here.”

Mack Hassler, former professor of English, Kent State University

Off the Hook: Off-Beat Reporter’s Tales from Michigan’s U.P.

Copyright © 2023 by Nancy Besonen. All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-61599-748-0 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-749-7 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-750-3 eBook

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

[email protected]

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

Tollfree 888-761-6268

Distributed by INGRAM Book Group (USA/CAN/EU/AU)

Thank God

and the L’Anse Sentinel

Contents

1. HOOK, LINE & SINK HER

No B-Word on the Boat

Living with SAD

Tallest Tale of All

Why I Like Pike

Ask Miss Demeanor

Fish Camp Follies

2. HUNTING UP TROUBLE

The Original Fast Food

Boars, the Other White Meat

Home Sweet Deer Camp

Paint Ball Hunt

3. UP SCALE FASHION

“Toque” Spells Trouble

School Clothes Naturally Cool

Bagging Mrs. U.P. Title

Boot Bench Runs Deep

Clearly High Fashion

4. KEEP ON TRUCKIN’

UP in the Air

Driving Me Crazy

Dirty Cars Save Lives

The Biker Wave

License to Kill, and Spin

5. DOES NOT COMPUTE

Laptop Minding My Businesses

Life’s a Breach

Net vs. Newspapers

Reporter Drones On

Laptop’s Last Days

6. SNOW HAPPENS

Getting Testy About Weather

Kids Cure Global Warming

Fake News? We Wish!

There’s No Place Like Florida

7. THEY’RE ALL TEACHING MOMENTS

Working Remotely, With Children

The Return of MEAP

Reading Marches On

Setting My Record Straight

8. IS INSECTICIDE WRONG?

Battling Bugs

Don’t Run With Spiders

Targeting Ticks

Beetles Ain’t No Ladybugs

Tiniest, Mightiest Predator

9. AGING GRACELESSLY

It’s All Gray Area

Glasses for Fashion

I’m So Rad

Baldness a Growing Concern

50 Years Young

10. FOR THE HEALTH OF IT

I’m Poopeye the Sailor Mom

Besonen vs. Crowbar

Defender of Fat On Slippery Slope

Flu Bug Bites

I Hope You Dance

11. CALL OF THE WILD

Paint Won’t Stop Wolf

Whitetail Cafe

Driving a Death Trap

Ursula’s Revenge

12. GOING WITH THE TERRITORY

Bad Woman in the Woods

Master Canner

New Car Blues

We Make Hay

13. PAST? PERFECT!

Poly Preserves History

Valuables Safe from Us

Confessions of a Collector

Ugly Couch Finds Fame

Trail of Broken Toys

14. BAD HOUSEKEEPING

Stencil Artist Crosses Borders

Substitute Chef

The Truffles I’ve Seen

Bridal Shower Revisited

Furniture Witch Flying High

Secondhand Store Rejection

15. MOM RULES

Scaling Mt. Coffee Grounds

Mom’s Commencement Address

Flying Wallendas Grounded

Judge Nancy’s Got No Appeal

Our Grandchild, the Weimaraner

16. GENDER SPECIFICS

We’re Pols Apart

Men Are From Mud

Demand Pink Reform

Don’t Touch His Tees

17. COOK’S CHOICE

Fame Finds Me

Lights Out in Watton

Convoyyyyyy

Fit in at FinnFest

Yooperman Saves Our Day

18. REPORTING FOR DUTY

Goodbye, Pulitzer

Lefties Just Aren’t Right

Adding My Two Bits

Writing in My Sleep

J-Grad vs. Evolution

About the author

1. HOOK, LINE & SINK HER

No B-Word on the Boat

I was minding my own business at the Baraga County Lake Trout Festival which, me being a reporter, means I was minding everyone else’s business when I was suddenly cast into darkness.

It was Ed Fugenschuh. He’d stepped between me and the sun, and the planet didn’t stand a chance. Ed looked down at me, big as a mountain and rough as Lake Superior in a stiff northeast wind, and rumbled, “I want you to research somethin’.”

My first thought was, controversy! I am not a huge fan of controversy. My personal motto is, “Got a problem? Call a cop.” And I was just about to suggest Officer Pat Butler, who is great with kids and probably fishermen too and even gives out stickers, when Ed said, “Bananas on a boat.”

I was still in the dark but now I was beaming, because this was just the type of story I was born to write.

Putting pen to notepad, I took down the facts. Ed’s team was enjoying a great start in the festival’s Keweenaw Classic Fishing Tournament. They’d boated a nine-pound salmon, then a five pounder. Then someone ate a banana and the fish quit biting.

“What is it with bananas on boats?” Ed asked.

He’d also heard that when another fisherman in the tournament brought out a piece of banana bread, he was forced to throw it overboard.

If there is one thing that sets this reporter’s pen on fire, it is the shameful waste of baked goods, especially if they are buttered. Snapping my notepad closed, I promised Ed I would get to the bottom of this, using every available resource known to mankind.

That’s right. I Googled it.

After having spent several hours on the computer, I am confident in reporting there’s not much new on Facebook. Also, there is some substance to the popular belief that bananas have no place on fishing boats.

The theory dates all the way back to Caribbean trade in the 1700s. Sailboats had to hurry to deliver bananas before their expiration date. Sailors liked to troll during deliveries, and banana boats moved too fast for the fish to catch up to the bait.

Another theory holds that tropical spiders and snakes sometimes boarded with the bananas, which made it tough for the sailors to focus on their fishing. Still another notes that when boats carrying bananas sunk, all that was left behind was floating fruit, which was very incriminating to bananas in general.

Fish apparently don’t like the smell of bananas, which can transfer from hand to lure. On an interesting side note, I used to have a licorice-scented rubber frog in my tackle box when I was a kid. As an attractant it ranked right up there with bananas, but it made my box smell better.

Finally, there are charter boat captains who absolutely prohibit the use of Banana Boat sunscreen products on their boats, just because they include the b-word. One won’t even allow Fruit of the Loom underwear on his boat because of the bananas on the labels, and gives great big wedgies to offenders.

Ed, I hope this answers your question. Next time, how about a piece on licorice-scented frogs?

Living with SAD

I huddled in a corner of the doctor’s office, thumbing a copy of In-Fisherman while jigging my tea bag in my cup. When the receptionist called my name, I tied off the string to the handle, handed it to her, and said, “Watch this—I think I felt a tap!”

I followed the nurse to an exam room, stumbling a bit when my ice grips snagged on the carpeting. Frowning down at my feet, she advised me to lose the hardware before stepping onto her scale.

“You’re up a few pounds,” she noted.

“It’s the propane for my heater,” I explained, opening my coat to reveal a spare tank tucked into a pocket. “I’m also wearing a few extra layers. Traps the warmth, you know.”

She eyed my streaked coat sleeves, nudged a box of tissues in my direction, and said we’d forego the blood pressure check this time. Then turning to the laptop on her desk, she flipped it open and got busy typing.

“Marking anything?” I asked, nodding at the screen.

“Just the facts,” she sighed. “Now, what can we do for you today?”

“I’ve got the SAD,” I said.

“Seasonal Affective Disorder?” she asked.

“No, Seasonal Angling Disorder!”

It happens every year around this time, if I’m lucky, that is. Winter sets in, Lake Superior’s Keweenaw Bay ices over, and I can’t summon the energy to do anything but fish.

On cleaning days, the house gets a lick and a promise I have no intention of keeping. The dishes still get done, but only because I need the sink to clean my fish. I have a chronic case of hat head, and can’t sleep at night thinking of the ones that got away.

On the bright side, the cat can’t get enough of me.

The problem with Seasonal Angling Disorder is, nobody truly understands the condition unless they’ve lived it. That is why I gravitate at every opportunity to the colony—I mean, “ice fishing community”—on Keweenaw Bay.

I was there this past Sunday (and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) when I ran into another SAD subject with the same symptoms. He had arrived at daylight, just slightly before me. His case was clearly more advanced.

His tent was already out on the ice, and he was holding a rusty double-bladed ax that he uses for reopening his iced-over fishing hole. Some people might have become alarmed and fled the scene. I sensed a kindred spirit and settled in for a visit.

We talked animatedly about everything, as long as it had to do with fishing: how many we’ve caught this season, how big, how deep, what time of day, etc. We formed a regular bond, though we didn’t bother exchanging names because it just wasn’t relevant.

That is how we SAD people roll, at least until spring, and then a few of us float because some people don’t know when to stop. I haven’t taken the plunge yet, but I did fish a half mile out on Keweenaw Bay one day, and returned the next to find waves crashing against the shore.

It’s because I have a sickness. See you out on the ice! Right after I get my prescription filled at the local bait shop.

Tallest Tale of All

Around this time every year, I used to leave my writing to my readers.

Some would say it was my finest work.

It was my annual Fish Tales contest! It began on Memorial Day with a dare: write and send me a fish tale so preposterous, you hesitate to waste postage on it. Then sit back and wait to see if you win a fabulous prize and have your story printed in the Labor Day issue of your hometown newspaper.

My fabulous prizes ranged from beer can bobbers to ugly t-shirts to cool keychains shaped like a fishing reel. People did not enter the Fish Tales contest for personal profit. They did it for the glory of bragging rights as the biggest fish tale spinner in Baraga County. And maybe a cool keychain, too.

Well, Labor Day came and went and we all missed the boat. But the Fish Tales contest will return someday, and with that in mind, I’d like to bait my readers with the best tale ever told. “It’s a true story told to me by Gen Van Loo that I like to call: Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Don Van Loo of Watton was bigger than life, and full of fun and trouble. His wife, Gen, had a heart as big as her husband, and was an avid collector of recipes and thrift store finds. Gen’s thrill at sharing her treasures and homemade cookies made every visit sweet.

Don loved to share jokes and funny stories. One of his favorites was about a child sitting beside him in church one day, wiggling a loose tooth. Don leaned in and said, “Let me help you out there, buddy,” and deftly plucked a present for the Tooth Fairy.

He was immediately rewarded with a gap-toothed smile. Then all h— (not heaven) broke loose as the parents rained down grief on their now-howling child. The child was supposed to keep his smile fully intact for family photos later in the day. So Don left church a little early.

Don also loved Fish Tales, and I could always count on him for a highly entertaining entry. Our secret panel of judges also appreciated his work, and over the years he managed to squeeze two grand prizes out of my tight fist. One, my Big Mouth Billy Bass, was a classic.

Billy was a plastic largemouth bass, and so much more. The obnoxious thing was battery-operated, and mounted on a plaque. When you pressed a red button underneath the fish, it sang “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” while flapping its head and tail to the beat.

Don had a wall of fame in his house that held trophy deer mounts, a bear skin and right in the middle of it all, his goofy old Big Mouth Billy Bass. He’d press Billy’s button for company. He’d press it for Gen. He’d press it for the dog. Don couldn’t get enough of Big Mouth Billy Bass.

We lost a great storyteller and friend when Don died several years ago. Family and friends rallied around Gen, who was so strong, and Don might have added a little support too, based on the final performance of his Big Mouth Billy Bass.

It happened three or four months after Don had died. Gen said she was puttering around the kitchen one day when the bass suddenly burst into the song: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

She ignored it at first, figuring the batteries must have misfired in their old age. Then the bass repeated the short concert. Gen crossed the room, switched the button on the back of the plaque to off, and shut down Billy.

A couple of days later, the fish started singing again. This time Gen hollered, “C’mon, Don!” and took the blasted thing down from the wall. She turned it over to remove the batteries and silence Big Mouth Billy Bass for good.

But there were no batteries in the fish.

Why I Like Pike

I like pike.

Well, that’s weeded out about 70 percent of my fellow fishermen. If you listen closely, you can almost hear their grumbles of “Bah! Snakes and hammer handles! Not to mention those stinkin’ Y bones!”

Every oath is true of course, and I utter them several times a summer myself. But you’ve got to admire a creature that boasts a vicious strike, a head lined with teeth and the ability to thoroughly slime its captor. It’s more than a fish. It’s an alien.

Here in the U.P., northern pike can grow as long as a short fisherman, but are considerably lighter. They’re found in the Great Lakes and in many of the lesser ones, too. So why is their following so small?

Yoopers already have to put up with too much snow, too many bugs and too little summer, but they have a choice when it comes to fishing. Most set their hooks for fish that don’t try to bite them back, like that U.P. delicacy, brook trout.

Brook trout thrive in creeks that barely crest a high-top sneaker, and rivers so turbulent you wonder how the rocks survive. They hit lightly on worms, and aren’t so much hooked as simply flipped out of the water and onto a grassy bank.

I shouldn’t say “simply” because I’ve so far failed miserably at the technique, but the point is, you’d hardly even have to touch a brookie to catch one. Bugs and brush take their toll on brook trout fishermen, but for the most part, the fish are only too kind.

Pike taste great, too, and that’s about the extent of their similarity to trout. If you’re casting a spoon, spinner, or surface plug, a passing pike will hit it like a freight train. With a splash or a big swirl, your lure is rudely yanked in the opposite direction. You yank back, and a pike fight is on!

You seldom have to set the hook because pike inhale it, burying every barb deep in their bony mouths. They drag your line through the muckiest weed beds and toughest lily pads, then dive beneath the boat. As a final insult, they toss and roll in the net until it’s a hopeless tangle of muck, line, fish, and slime.

Congratulations! You have a northern pike.

If you’re not careful about handling it, you will have a doctor bill, too. A pike in the net would like nothing better than to add a couple of your digits to the perch already crowding its belly. Long-nose pliers work best for safely extracting what’s left of your lure from the fish.

A good fight will chip paint off a spinner, kink a leader, and shred a bucktail. That’s why you don’t see pike fishermen displaying their lures on vests, or toting them around in see-through tackle boxes. What’s left of their artillery is just too blamed ugly for a visual.

If catch and release is not the goal, then cleaning your pike is the next hurdle you’ll face. Its tight scales will travel farther than you did to catch the fish. If your kitchen, like mine, doubles as a cleaning shack, the evidence will continue to surface long after the dirty deed is done.

I learned how to skin a pike long ago, which created a new problem. Soon Dad and then everyone else started handing the job over to me because I could do it more efficiently. You’ll have to work that out for yourself. Don’t bring me your fish.

Teach a boy to fish and you’ll wind up with sand in your camera, but a smile that’s worth a lens that now grates a little.

I can get most of the major bones out, like the fin bone, the tail bone, and the head bone, but after that it’s anybody’s guess. Leftover “Y” bones are the most treacherous; upon entering your mouth they head straight for your palate, a final hit by a truly fighting fish.

They fight dirty, they try to bite you, they ruin your tackle and mess up your kitchen. So why do I like pike?

I like the fact they will hit on virtually anything that moves, and require little finesse on the part of the angler. Presentation? No sweat. I’ve watched a Dardevle spoon slide down a tall weed into the jaws of a pike, and I’ve bounced a spinner off the side of a docked boat into a waiting pike’s gullet.

I’ve bounced my share of lures inside docked boats, too, but apparently the owners didn’t have any pike onboard.

Most of the pike I catch aren’t big enough to bring home, but hooking into even a 24-inch fish can really rattle me. They shatter that peaceful kind of feeling you get from bobbing along in a rowboat on a quiet lake, and the fight is never over until the last bite is done.

Ask Miss Demeanor

During the dog days of summer, it is easy for we fishermen to get a bit casual about our personal appearances and social graces. Our boats that gleamed on opening day now look like full recycling bins. We need hook removers to extract lures from our tangled tackle boxes. We leave live bait on our hooks between outings. Our biggest catch for July was the family cat.

For the reasons above and many more, which are just too rude to mention, it’s time for another visit with our fishing manners expert, Miss Demeanor!

Q: Miss Demeanor, my wife is threatening that if I don’t wash my lucky t-shirt, the one with the rip in its back and fish gut stains on the front, she will leave me for someone who plays tennis. Please advise.

A: Reader Dearest, it stands to reason that if you let her wash the shirt, you will never catch another fish for as long as you live. Miss Demeanor feels that compromise is the key to a good relationship. If you can’t compromise your wife’s standards, you must compromise your own.

Wear that lucky t-shirt only while fishing. If it gets a bit too “lucky,” try this trick that cuts Miss Demeanor’s laundering time in half: turn it inside out for another season of use!

Q: Hey, Miss D. If I take my girlfriend fishing, shouldn’t she clean the fish?

A: Only if you are serious about the relationship, and want to start conditioning her for married life.

Q: Miss Demeanor, when I eat fish in a restaurant, I never know where to put the bones. What is the polite thing to do?

A: Order the beef. Sorry, Reader Dearest! The cheap shots are always the easiest. If the restaurant is fancy, you may discreetly hide them in your napkin by pretending to cough into it after every bony bite. Just don’t use it for sneezing later in the meal, or you’ll come up looking like you kissed a quill pig.

If the restaurant isn’t fancy, simply stick the bones on the side of your plate, same as you do at home. Just remember to leave a generous tip for the poor waitress whom you are about to pierce.

Q: Miss Demeanor, my husband has been missing since opening day. When can I have him legally declared MIA, and get on with my life?

A: Refer to your Michigan DNR fishing guide, and allow three days after the season ends for him to find his way back home. Brook trout fishermen will require seven days to extract themselves from heavy brush. Best of luck.

If you find yourself unattached and attracted to gentlemen who favor camouflage or blaze orange, be sure to pick up a Michigan DNR hunting guide in the fall. Same reason.

Q: Miss Demeanor, what do you do if you’re fishing with a friend who is catching all the fish, and he keeps razzing you with, “Your turn next!” or “You’re up, bud!”

A: Reader Dearest, Miss Demeanor has been in this very situation more times than she cares to admit, and it does test one sorely. When you’ve reached your limit and your friend’s back is turned as he reels yet another one in, select the stoutest rod in the boat and administer a firm whack between his ears, proclaiming, “There’s a hit for ya’!”

The verbal abuse and, quite possibly the unrewarding fishing trip, should end soon after.

Q: Miss Demeanor, I have seen your boat. I know what your tackle box looks like, and I’ve had the rotten luck of running into you when you’re doing a load of your “lucky” t-shirts at the Laundromat. My question is, how do you get off advising other people about social graces?

A: I always remember to say please and thank you. In the course of only five years, I earned a four-year college degree. The cat has almost healed. I AM Miss Demeanor!

Fish Camp Follies

Dear Friends,

Greetings from Fish Camp! I would write you all a postcard, but this is a whole lot cheaper. Besides, the Wampum Shop in Mercer is fresh out of the ones picturing a monster bass balanced on a wooden rowboat.

In case you did not get my postcard last year, Fish Camp is a time-honored tradition in which great minds gather for a week of fishing in northern Wisconsin.

HAHAHAHAHA!

Ouch! That raucous laughter hurts my great mind, which is still recovering from a work titled “Busch Light.” The reason for my irreverent outburst is, the aforementioned minds belong to Slick (aka my brother, Mark), me, our two teenage sons, and The Boys.

The Boys are a gang from Chicago’s South Side who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, no matter which side they lived on. Slick, Mard, J.K. and LeGear shared playgrounds and pool halls, John Wayne movies, and Dean Martin tunes. They, like their heroes, are classics.

The youngsters, Mike and Sam, are The Boys in training. One strums a guitar and the other plays CDs. One is dark-haired, the other fair. Both fish with their shirts off and their motor at full throttle, laughing wildly as lures dangling over the side of their boat dance across the sparkling lake.

I am HB, an acronym for a very rude title I earned by occasionally swiping a dust rag around the cabin. I am also Designated Driver, World’s Worst Pool Player and the misguided person who once brought a bag of apples to Fish Camp.

“Who brought these?” Slick growled. “Is this so we don’t get the kids taken away? Get these things offa’ the table!”

And so forth. In keeping with time-honored tradition, Fish Camp began last Saturday when all members plus Mard’s future bride (Joelyn lasted 24 hours, a new Camp record for fiancés!) converged at the Hideaway Resort on the Turtle-Flambeau Flowage.

A night of revelry followed, the likes of which would not be seen again until the next night and the next until all The Boys had gone home again. There was music, laughter, pool, a couple pizzas I think, and Busch Light’s good friend, Hamms the Beer Refreshing.

The next day dawned bright and early. About three hours later, all able anglers were on the lake. Two days later, LeGear went fishing, too. In a stunning display of angling finesse, we have collectively landed a mess of undersize northern pike and an out-of-season smallmouth bass.

The biggest news this week is that four tadpoles succumbed to an early demise in an act that will live in infamy. In short, they got gulped, and it wasn’t by the bass.

After probing a weed bed for signs of life late one afternoon, I was rowing back to shore when I saw JK and Sam on the beach. JK was tipping his head back, then leaning forward and apparently spitting, causing Sam to convulse with laughter. Spit, laugh, spit, laugh—what was up?

The Boys were up to no good, again, and were engaged in a live tadpole swallowing contest! JK finally succeeded in gulping his frog in progress. Instead of shunning him for the rest of the week like good girls would do, The Boys determined that to be a man, they had to swallow a tadpole, too.

Amid much hooting, hollering, jumping up and down (The Boys, not the tadpoles), and turning bright red in the face, four tadpoles met an untimely end that afternoon. HB was just glad the contest was held outdoors so she didn’t have to clean up after.

Slick took the title for most attempts, with eight tries before his tadpole finally stayed down. I even have a photo of its tail waving out the corner of his mouth. If it appeared on a postcard, the U.S. Mail would refuse delivery.

Lest you think Fish Camp is totally devoid of culture, we thrive on local history. Al Capone’s brother, Ralph, had lived in Mercer and managed a bar on the main drag. Al enjoyed Mercer, too, and during wintertime visits would arrive at the bar by a horse-drawn sleigh.

Our second night at Camp, we visited Little Bohemia. It’s a resort near Mercer where John Dillinger narrowly escaped capture by the FBI during a shootout in the 1930s. You can still see the bullet holes in the log walls that are liberally decorated with original newspaper stories.

On our way home to our own Hideaway, I piloted JK’s van down winding roads with The Boys quietly (for once) crooning along to LeGear’s CD. All hopped up on two near beers, I added my lilting alto to “Poncho and Lefty,” “King of the Road,” and “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down.”

Of course, I can’t write a comprehensive postcard from Fish Camp and not mention the food. Slick does most of the cooking, which consists of throwing meat on a flaming grill until the grates disappear along with low flying birds. Chips and hot sauce are official Camp vegetables.

The days pass in a happy blur of morning mists, afternoon trips to town, flaming grills, and fishing. The fog blanketing the Flowage at night is our signal to head over to the lodge for tale swapping, pool playing, and libation appreciation.

Having a great time! Wish you were here. Love, Nancy

2. HUNTING UP TROUBLE

The Original Fast Food

Whenever my folks come to visit, I like to play a little game with them called ‘Hide the Venison.’ They detest the stuff, so I am morally obligated to try and break down their defenses, and help them learn to love the original fast food.

“What’s in this stew?”

“My burger seems awfully dry.”

“Hey, kids, let’s go out to eat! Our treat!”

Mom and Dad haven’t been up for a whole year now, and I can’t say I don’t know why. But when they come again, I’ve got a whole stew, I mean slew of disguised venison dishes planned, as well as a list of restaurants we’d like to hit.

Ever since the first cave spouse complained, “Woolly mammoth again? But it’s so stringy!”, man has struggled with the dilemma of how to make wild game taste like corn-fed beef. It’s impossible of course, because a deer isn’t a cow. If it was, hunters would dress like Holsteins.

However, you can still turn a deer into a tasty meal. The first trick in venison’s transformation is to treat the meat like something you actually plan to eat. It starts with a pull of the trigger.

When a hunter shoots a deer, nature sends a wondrous substance raging through his body called adrenaline. Adrenaline helps him throw off his coat in sub-zero weather, plunge his arms into the animal’s innards, scrub up with snow, then drag the deer out of the woods, sometimes so quickly it barely touches the ground.

This phenomenon is commonly known as, “The bigger the buck, the faster you go.”

Some hunters produce so much adrenaline, they bypass vital steps, like properly cleaning their deer or remembering to untie it from the roof of the car after their long drive home. If your deer isn’t processed soon after your triumphant return, it’s going to taste a lot like US-41, heavily salted.

So, your deer is cleaned, unloaded, and skinned, and your children are all armed with age-appropriate butcher knives. Do you consult a professional butcher chart outlining specific cuts of meat? Only if you’re still wearing that Holstein suit!

Venison consists of four cuts: big roasts, little roasts, steaks, and dry hamburger. For instance, hindquarters make big roasts, and necks make little ones. Backbones make steaks, and tenderloins are tenderloins. Everything else goes into the hamburger pot for this year’s chili, spaghetti sauce, and other dishes my folks will only eat once.

Many hunters enjoy making venison sausage, which is a wonderful preparation for wild game. To make it, you cut your deer into bite-size chunks, then bag and place it in the freezer. Call the butcher shop to have your name put on a waiting list. Then live a long and happy life.

Just kidding! Butcher shops in the U.P. are very busy during deer season, but they eventually get to your order. Soon after, with a lot of help from assorted spices and a token barnyard animal for suet’s sake, your deer is transformed into a socially acceptable lunch meat, like baloney.

Another popular treatment for venison is jerky. Jerky is a tasty option that can be made at home. It transforms fresh meat into edible leather, which will keep the hunter and his family busy chewing until they’re finally called to come pick up their box of venison baloney.

Of course, there is always that Hunter’s Helper called cream of mushroom soup. A rather drab substance on its own, it has long been recognized as the vehicle for wild game preparation. Groups opposed to hunting could probably bring the sport to a skidding stop, just by buying out all the cream of mushroom soup at local grocery stores.

But you didn’t read that here.

The last tip I’m prepared to offer, besides never serving tallowy deer ribs with a cold drink, is to just can it. The process involves filling jars with bite-size pieces of venison, placing them in a pressure canner, and then cooking them until every fiber of that tough old buck’s being hollers, “Uncle!”

Take a jar down off the shelf on those busy week nights, sneak it over to the stove so your folks and kids can’t see it, and a few minutes later you too will be saying those words Americans everywhere so love to hear:

“Come and get your fast food!”

Boars, the Other White Meat

Ever since this little piggy went AWOL, inhabitants and guests of Upper Michigan’s Point Abbaye have been fighting in vain to get the wild Russian boars returned to sender.

The clever Russkies staged a successful escape from their game farm, and have been wreaking havoc on local sensibilities since. The DNR was contacted right away, but patiently explained to the citizenry that, based on name alone, the wild Russian boar is obviously not a natural resource and is therefore out of its jurisdiction.

The state’s stand is that the wild Russian boars are too far from Lansing to pose a serious threat to Michigan as legislators know it. However, if a bill addressing the problem in any way should materialize, we taxpayers should vote for whoever wrote/supports/can quote from it.