I have a degree in Fisheries and Wildlife management, hunt and fish constantly and write about it, am way more concerned with the ethics and rules than what’s in my freezer, and strongly considered being a game warden. The result is a hot mess of pet peeves and annoyances that, despite my greatest efforts, will sadly never go away. In fact, they’re getting worse. But before pointing fingers, I’m pointing the biggest one back at myself; after all, things that annoy only do so if we let them. And I’m a pro at that.
Henceforth, I will share my 2024 Sporting Resolutions of Acceptance, which may, at times, resemble the “airing of grievances” at the annual Castanza Festivus Celebration. Consider this both chaotic and apologetic, so bear with me and think of some of your own. Maybe there’ll even be some common ground and head nods by the time I’m done, and a reminder (especially to myself) to lighten up a little — this is all supposed to be fun, right?
Let’s get the ball rolling with an oldie but a goodie: “Canadian Geese.” They’re not Canadian. Even being born there doesn’t give them right to be called “Canadian,” rather Canada… Canada geese. If your hunting buddy says he sees a flock of Canadians coming your way, you should be looking for a bus load of hosers headed to a hockey game instead of geese.
“Look at the horns on that buck (insert Homer Simpson ‘doh!’).” They’re not horns, they’re antlers. Horns are not branched and never shed, and even the females grow them, whereas antlers grow on males, are covered in blood-rich velvet for part of the year, and are annually replaced with a new set. When I hear horns, I’m looking for the fudgie from Illinois tailgating two feet behind me on his way to Moomers even though my truck could only go faster if it had wings.
“Nice Pile.” This lovely little phrase is in reference to a pile of dead things — typically ducks, geese, (even grouse by a few select hunters), etc. — and always, without a shadow of a doubt, posted on social media. The sole goal is to brag, turning sporting pursuits into a contests, and fueling others to go shoot more and post their own pile pics. Newsflash, it’s not a pile, they’re recently killed animals — a little respect goes a long way. You want to display a few trophy birds that you, your buddy, and dog worked hard to get, no sweat, but know when to say when in terms of numbers.
“How many fish did you move and eats did you have?” Fishing — fly fishing in particular, which I adore — has invented its own vocabulary. Moving fish is in reference to how many fish were seen charging at the fly or lure but didn’t actually bite it. Like “moving” is the goal. No freaking way — catching’s the goal! But somehow knowing you moved a fish is supposed to soften the fact that you couldn’t actually catch it. Kind of like no kid’s ever “out” in coach-pitch baseball so they don’t (gasp) have to deal with failure, moving fish is the self-esteem league for fishermen who didn’t get the fish to bite (which is the category I fall into more often that I care to admit). Speaking of biting, it’s not called that anymore, it’s eating, and specifically, eats. So instead of saying you hooked 10 brown trout, you really had 10 eats. Turn a verb into a noun, and vice versa, and it’s a whole new way of saying the same damn thing.
“The red legs are down from the North.” This references alleged late-season mallards that have red(er) legs than their early season cohorts. All red legs come from Canada, and their legs are red due to Canada’s colder temperatures, of course … except they don’t, and they aren’t. A mallard’s legs appear redder as the season progresses due to hormonal changes when males and females begin to court and form pair bonds, which coincidentally happens toward the cold end of our northern seasons. That large, colorful drake mallard has the same chance of being from Lake Leelanau as he does from Manitoba, and those red legs aren’t the indicator, just a fancy coincidence of an already flashy duck.
“Snowshoe hares turn white to match the snow.” Yes, their white coat matches the snow, but it turns white as a result of the brain’s reaction to photoperiod. Decreasing daylight triggers hormonal changes (like with mallards) that bring about the brown-to-white coat change because in a hare’s habitat, snow begins falling on or around the same time every year. But they don’t voluntarily control this change when it begins snowing, and this year is a good example. We don’t have snow and every white hare looks like a gallon of whole milk in the bushes, leading to an interesting sidenote: turning white and disappearing in the surrounding blanket of snow is where the ancient Chinese proverb, “hare today, gone tomorrow,” comes from.
Here are a few smaller, yet no-less-aggravating, peeves: whitetail deer instead of white-tailed deer; “seagulls” instead of just gulls (otherwise we’d have a-gulls, b-gulls, etc: the fact that they prefer the open “sea” is just a wacky coincidence), and crossbows allow us to snipe a buck at 90 yards.
“Proximity.” Not the word, but the action, specifically given to those who insist on hunting or fishing close enough that I can smell what they ate for breakfast, if you know what I mean. Waterfowl hunters are notorious for setting up well within shotgun range of some poor schlep who got to his favorite spot while most sane people were still sleeping, become angry when they’re asked to slide down the shore a little farther, and furious when the situation is reversed. But this phenomenon isn’t restricted to duck hunters.
Sitting in my truck while the morning dew wore off at a favorite grouse cover, a suburban load of orange pulled in next to me and asked where I’d planned to hunt. Sarcastically, I sort of pointed around my truck, to which they politely said they’d walk “that” way, giving me enough room. Gee, how swell of them.
Certain fishermen enjoy this little stunt, especially on choice warm nights when the big flies will be hatching and they were too lazy to get to their spot earlier.
Nothing like fishing and hunting with a dozen of my best friends I never met before.
While this resolution list is longer than the editor gives me room to write about, I’ll finish by promising to work on these annoyances with laughter instead of gritted teeth. Laughter, after all, goes further (not farther) than anything.