Henry turned the squirrel loose in a stand of white pine ten miles away. He returned to his cabin, nailed up more tin can covers and spent a day cleaning the mess in his cabin. On the following weekend, Henry returned to find more holes gnawed through his outer wall and inner ceiling. He also found another mess inside his building. He again set the box trap and again caught the bob tailed squirrel. Again he released it at another distant place and again returned to again clean up the squirrel’s mess.
During the following weeks, the catch and release scenario was repeated and it became obvious. The bob-tailed squirrel considered itself to be the owner of the cabin. Henry still tried to get rid of it in what he called a “humane” fashion. He put a plate of candy in the attic, hoping the animal would eat it, develop tooth decay and be unable to chew through his cabin walls. He fed it dog food and called it “Rover” in a desperate attempt to con it into thinking it was a dog and get it to play with Bruno, the neighbor’s vicious Pit Bull. Nothing worked.
The pine squirrel stayed in the attic and became more and more gnawingly abusive. Henry had nightmares. He dreamed he was trapped in a surrealistic version of Poe’s The Raven. It was a pine squirrel perched above his chamber door. In answer to Henry’s demand that it leave his cabin, the animal always answered: “Nevermore.”
Henry became more and more agitated. It didn’t help when his insurance agent told him his policy covered vandalism only if was occasioned by human beings. Destruction by pine squirrels was considered to be an “Act of God.” Henry blew up. He cancelled the insurance and resigned from the church.
Henry Robinson learned to cope and now leads a peaceful and serene life. The letters of resignation he sent to the Animal Rights groups can only be described as containing some very strong language. “Destructive little S--- of a B-----” was one of the milder phrases. Henry is now a member of the National Rifle Association. He owns shotguns, rifles, pistols and revolvers. He is a good shot.
The bob-tailed squirrel has gone to his reward.
Pine squirrels no longer bother Henry’s cabin. His property is the black hole of squirreldom. If a pine squirrel has the temerity to venture close to Henry’s domain, it is sucked into an explosive vortex and disappears forever. Mother pine squirrels instruct their young to give Henry Robinson’s cabin a wide berth.
It is the common practice of Editors of outdoor sport magazines to insinuate written text between the columns of advertisements which appear in their publications. As the magazines prosper and more and more manufacturers of sports equipment insist upon purchasing advertising space, Editors have become hard pressed to find stories and article to fill those in-between spaces.
Some of them, in desperation, have actually resorted to paying good money for articles dealing with the cooking of game and the preparation of camp foods. A lot of these stories are accompanied by color photographs which show pictures of the finished product.
The perceptive reader will immediately recognize the fraud embodied in most such articles. For instance - in all of those photos, you will note the knives, forks and spoons all have the same pattern. I defy you to find a real hunting camp which contains even a single set of matching knife, fork and spoon.
The pictures also show food which actually appears to be good to eat. Now I don’t mean to suggest the food served in all hunting and fishing camps is venomous. It isn’t. Not in all camps. The food prepared in, perhaps, seventy percent of them is probably non-toxic.
The other thirty percent, however, represent a clear and present danger to the health and well-being of the out-doorsman. Any reasonably experienced hunter or fisherman knows the local Department of Health will pay a bounty of one hundred dollars in cash for the dead bodies of most camp cooks. If you bring them in alive, they won’t pay anything and if you leave them in their office, they’ll fine you for littering.
Such being the case, any wise outdoorsman will select his hunting/fishing companions with care, making sure at least one of his associates is kitchen competent. Any truly wise outdoorsman will make sure at least two of his companions are kitchen competent.
Once upon a time, I fished with Carl Wussow and Steve Willett. Both were capable of producing meals on grills, on wood stoves and over camp fires. Often those meals contained vitamins, were tasty and weren’t merely poured into a dish from a junk food package or heated directly in the can. I thought two capable cooks would be enough. I was wrong.
We rented a motel room near the shoreline of Montana’s Madison River. It had cooking privileges. Since I washed the breakfast dishes, I was exempted from assisting in the preparation of the evening meal. I don’t mind doing the breakfast dishes. I have to wash my hands anyway. Besides, we use paper plates and cups. However, as a condition for being relieved of dinner preparation chores, it was given me strictly in charge to make no snide comment, complaint or commentary relative to the cooking process. At the time it seemed fair. I was lucky to be able to live to regret my promise.
Steve and Carl decided to make spaghetti.
For those of you who know nothing about such things, the cooking of spaghetti is an intricate and complicated matter which consists of four separate phases. Step One: Bring water to a boil. Gourmet chefs suggest you bring a pot large enough to hold the water. Another trick is to be sure you turn on the electric stove. With a bit of dry-run instruction followed by practice, most camp cooks can develop the ability to accomplish Step One with reasonable efficiency.
Step Two: Put the spaghetti into the boiling water. Care must be exercised in selecting only hard, uncooked spaghetti. If soft, cooked spaghetti is chucked into the pot, the result will be a terrible sticky mess. I know. I tried it once.
One must be sure to remove those hard sticks of uncooked spaghetti from the plastic bag they come in. If you throw the whole unopened package into the pot, it will all meld together. It will be midnight before you’ve separated enough strands of the stuff to make a good meal.
Step Three: Take the spaghetti out of the pot. The problem involved in Step Three lies in knowing when to take it out of the pot. The term “al dente” doesn’t help much. Bite into it before you add it to the water and you will learn it is very hard and not yet done. Bite into it after it has been cooked an hour or so and you’ll learn is very soft and an overdone mess.
The question is: When - between zero and sixty minutes - should you take the spaghetti out of the pot? When is it just right? According to Willett and Wussow, you throw a strand of spaghetti up into the air. If it sticks to the ceiling, it’s done.
Step Four: Make the sauce. Some people buy a can of the stuff or a pre-mixed dry concoction which somehow or other gets turned into spaghetti sauce. Other people feel it is essential to add special ingredients to the store-bought product. Beware of these people.
Arthur “Bugs” Baer once said “there is no such thing as a little garlic.” He was a wise man. Referring to the spaghetti dinner in question, I am able to tell every one of you - there is such a thing as too much garlic. There is also such a thing as too much crushed red pepper, too much jalapeño and tepin chilies, too much cayenne powder and too much Louisiana Hot Sauce.
Call me timid, pusillanimous and cowardly if you will, but I don’t like my spaghetti to bite into me before I bite into it. Up until the following morning, I believed the term “Ring of Fire” referred to the volcanoes surrounding the rim of the Pacific Ocean. Believe me, friends, as far as I’m concerned and on a very personal level, the term “Ring of Fire” has another meaning.
