Outdoor Devotion: A Master at Work

Last night I had the privilege of seeing a true master at work. I attended the Sportsmen for Christ Campfire over in High Point. Campfire is a monthly meeting where outdoor fanatics get together for Bible study, a little good-natured ribbing, tale telling and of course, food consumption.
The featured guest was fly-tyer extraordinaire, Anthony Hipps of Lexington. After sharing a great devotion on temptation Anthony launched into a demonstration of how to tie his infamous foam-bodied bass popper. Starting with an empty hook, Hipps, added layer after layer of foam, thread, glue, hackle, paint, and other materials, meticulously molding and shaping until the fly resembled a perfect popper. Wrap thread, add material, turn the vise, glue, add material, wrap, spin, strip, wrap, adjust, paint, spin, adjust, motion after mesmerizing motion. Minutes later, as if conjured from some magical Orvis catalog, a perfect bass popper appeared. A true work of art, the handiwork of a master.
I have recently had the chance to watch another Master at work. My friend, Scott had been going through a really tough spot in his life. Very similar to the trials this life throws at us all: tough times at work, financial difficulties, relationship issues, marital discord, health problems, addictions of one sort or another, or maybe just disappointed with the daily grind. Scott's issues were compounded by the fact that he didn't have a relationship with the Lord.
After a particularly rough day, Scott decided he could take no more and threw up his hands in desperation. God was waiting. Through His providence one of Scott's buddies, a believer, was there at his time of need and he was led to the throne of the Creator. God reached down, grabbed Scott and embraced him as only our loving Heavenly Father is able.
As Scott has continued to surrender, God has been molding and shaping his life, his hopes, his dreams, his family into a true work of art. It has been a beautiful transformation to behold. A life full of pain to a man full of promise. The handiwork of The Master.
Is your life a mess? God, the Master, is waiting to transform you into His masterpiece. Why not talk to Him today?

He who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion

until the day of Christ Jesus. Philippians 1:6

Tangled Lines 4.02.08 Kids Fishing Trip

Growing up with a grandmother that loved to eat fish was a plus. Growing up with a grandmother that loved to catch fish was even better. I can close my eyes and picture my grandmother, affectionally known as "Granny," sitting in a lawn chair on the banks of the lake, under the shade of a battered straw hat, worn but adequate cane pole in hand , smiling as she pulled in bream, bass and catfish.
Granny was full of angling wisdom and would occasionally cast her pearls among swine and I, being her ever-present fishing buddy, was there to soak up the knowledge. One thing she always said was, “Fish bite better when it’s raining.” I’m not sure if her statement was based upon experience or if it was merely a ploy to keep her fishing buddy optimistic when foul weather loomed. I will say this, we caught some of our best stringers during spring showers .
Granny also said, "Never fish with dead bait." Being a consumate worm dipper, cricket sinker and minnow dunker, she was always sure to offer fresh bait on the hook. My mischievous side greatly relished her wrinkle-nosed response anytime I could convince a fish to partake of the bloated cadaver of a well overused nightcrawler.

Another of Granny’s precious nuggets was, “When the dogwoods bloom it’s time to go crappie fishing.” With this phrase in mind my friend, Greg and I mapped out a little fishing trip with my youngest boy, Zane, and his little buddy, Jacob. I would pick the boys up from school at lunch (yes, it is acceptable to get your son out of school to go fishing with their daddy) and Greg would hook up his boat and meet us at the Walmart parking lot.

We hit the water, ahead of schedule, and were blasting down the lake in Greg’s Ranger. Zane and Jacob lay on their bellies on the front deck and howled with delight as we sped along. (There are few things in this world better than the laughter of little boys.)

In minutes we were at our first spot, a beautiful rocky point off the main channel where someone had begun constructing a new pier. The sun warmed riprap and the protective structure of pier pilings made this an ideal location for prespawn crappies. We had Zebcos rigged with bobbers and mini jigs of varying colors at the ready and before the prop had stopped spinning, Greg had one on the hook. He handed the rod to Jacob who reeled in a nice, little fish, a nice start to the afternoon.

When the bite slowed we headed to another area and fished there a while.
The sun hid behind clouds and the wind picked up making our bobbers dance and jigs dance seductively beneath the waters surface but the fish could not be enticed. Apparently it was nap time for crappies. That meant snack time for crappy fisherman and we were amply stocked with all kinds of goodies (thanks to Zane's sweet mama): Lance peanut butter crackers, fruit rollups, Little Debbie Oatmeal cookies, and some leftover Easter candy to name a few. After snacks we decided to return to our original spot.
We caught a half dozen more, finishing the day exactly where we had started. Although we didn't catch enough to supply a fish fry it was a great day of fishing. I sure wish Granny could have been there!

Outdoor Devotion: Trophy

Hang around in outdoor circles very long and you’ll hear certain words and phrases. One word that is used to the point of being overdone is “trophy.” Enthusiasts such as ourselves spend a lot of time and energy pursuing trophy bucks, fishing on trophy streams, etc. When I first started my sporting escapades I too was after the heaviest creel, the largest buck, the tom with the longest beard and spurs and other outdoor trophies.
Ironically a trophy, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. On a recent, Alabama turkey hunt with my eldest son, Si, I realized that over the years my definition of “trophy” has changed.
Although we didn’t harvest a bird, or even hear one gobble for that matter, here are some true trophies I took on that hunt:

• The wonder in his eyes as he watched a yearling doe munch rye fifty yards from our blind, oblivious to our presence.
• The sound of his raucous laughter as we drove just a little too fast on the four-wheeler.
• The ecstatic joy on his face as Mr. LC taught him how to drive the Kubota.
• The groggy stupor as he struggled to get out of a comfortable bed way before the sun got out of his.
• His sweaty, end-of-the-day aroma frequently accompanying a little boy that has played hard in the outdoors.
• The sound of him wrestling with his gloves and facemask, snapping limbs of a pine tree, wiggling in the leaves, whispering silly questions and chewing a crisp apple as I strained to hear the morning’s first gobble.
• The mischief in his eyes as he tried to sneak snacks out of my turkey vest.
• The ravenous way he attacked his egg sandwich, apple, poptarts and powdered sugar doughnuts for breakfast.
• The sweet, innocent tone to this voice when he ask, “Daddy can I hold you hand?” as we walked out of the woods after dusk.
• His sincerity and the strength of his hug as he said “Thank you Daddy . I had a great time with you.”

Recently a friend told me the story of two cousins. The eldest brother had a little boy and wanted to start taking him along on his outdoor adventures. The youngest pitched a fit, stating the boy would make too much noise, get tired too quickly, and would make a general nuisance of himself. Several years later, the youngest cousin wanted to take his son along to hunting camp. Long forgotten were the words he had spoken to his brother regarding kids in the outdoors. Apparently having a child of his own changed his perspective. Funny, having children has changed mine also!
God has trophies as well. He doesn’t have taxidermy hanging from the walls of His home but Heaven is full and will be full of things He treasures. Just thinking about the things He created: mountainous splendor, meandering rivers, creatures in all shapes and sizes, starry skies, majestic sunrises, etc, etc. etc. you know that God enjoys beautiful trophies. However, what He prizes most in this world is YOU! He passionately pursues people because having a relationship brings Him (and us) true joy. This pursuit has cost Him more than we can ever imagine. But the Lord was willing to give up the best that He had for us, His trophy.

For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16

1.26.08 Forsyth County Waterfowl Hunt - The Last Hoorah

Having work assignments most of the day on Saturday, I hoped to squeek out a last-minute waterfowl hunt before the close of the season. Mark and his son Bailey had hunted this pond in the morning seeing plenty of mallards, some mergansers and a flock of geese. They were unable to get a shot but were confident that would change in the afternoon.

I rushed home from the office, picked up my oldest boy Si (it was his turn on the rotation), grabbed a bunch of gear and headed to our rendezvous point. Bailey had other plans so Mark and Mark M. were stationed on a point in a makeshift blind. From afar it looked like they were covered up in geese. As we walked closer it was apparent these were decoys. The set looked great. Surely we'd get a shot a some birds this afternoon.
Mark M was quick to show us a fine, bull mallard he'd taken just prior to our arrival. He could only stay a while longer, he muttered something about a "date night" but at least he'd scored. With his departure we settled into our spots, awaiting what would certainly be a great shoot.
As is common in waterfowling, deer hunting, bass fishing, or any other activity afield, ideal conditions do not necessarily equate with a full cooler. We hunted the rest of the day, having a great time cutting up and fellowshipping with each other, but never saw another bird.

With things so slow a decision was made to break one of the cardinal rules of duck hunting: never pick up the decoys early especially on the final day of the season. We gathered, stacked, and stored several dozen dekes and made our way to our trucks. As we rounded the final curve in the pond and were about to cross the pasture something caught the corner of my eye. Wouldn't you know it, a hooded merganser drake plopped down into the pond and began to preen, completely unaware of two men, a boy standing right out in the open. Unbelievable! Mark quickly loaded up and Si put his ear protection on. I shouted and waved my arms frantically and when the hoodie jumped he made an arc and rather than flying away from us, veered right over us. Mark made a beautiful second shot and the duck plummeted into the chilly waters. Ike rocketed off the bank, swam a beeline right for the drake and had it retrieved and in Mark's awaiting hand in short order. What a beautiful bird. And what a great way to end the hunt and the season.

1.17.08 "Snow" Goose Hunt

Ever had something just "felt right"? A favorite pair of boots, the smell of the air right after a rain shower, a well worn recliner, or maybe breakfast at your grandma's house. This morning was one of those moments. Daylight found Mark, his dog, Ike, and me sitting along the bank of a local farm pond. We'd thrown out just four mallard decoys and were waiting on the shoreline for some geese or quite possibly some ducks to show up. Two pair of long johns, sock liners and wool knee highs, a pair of goretex bibs, a waterproof parka, a wool shooter's sweater, warm gloves and a thick toboggan made sitting on the bank pretty comfortable. Wind-forced waves caused the decoys to dance perfectly. And, in spite of sleet bouncing of the back of my neck, all was right with the world. This was what duck hunting weather was supposed to be like.

Water the color of liquid lead.

Steely clouds camouflaged the sunrise.

The air smelled of cold, damp and faintly of a fire from a distant chimney.

Frozen rain hitting the pond, icey branches creaking inthe wind, crows arguing with one another and an occasional car traveling very carefully down an adjacent roadway.

Just after sunrise a small group of mallards dropped into middle of the pond. They came from nowhere and were in the water before I spotted them. I asked Mark, "Hey man, what was that noise?" and looked over to see him staring at something, left hand tightening on his Benelli, right hand reaching for one of the calls hanging from his neck. Ike was staring in the same direction, quiet and still except for the involuntary spasms of excitement ranging through his body. Following their gaze past our four faux ducks I saw three larger-than-life ducks swimming eighty yards from our location. The hen was fussing mightily at the other two for the error of their ways. Mark tried to lure them within range but like phantoms they were gone as quickly as they came.

An hour later sounds of geese in flight filtered across the farmland. They were coming our way so we hunkered down and anticipated their arrival. Sure enough a large flock, over thirty birds, was coming right to us unfortunately they veered to our right, circled around a stand of hardwoods and landed in a hayfield a hundred yards behind us. Lickity-split Mark was up, "I'm going after them. Maybe I can sneak up on 'em." We mapped out our plan and put it into action. Mark would try to sneak to the right while Ike and I would stake a spot to the left on the edge of a small clump of trees. Hopefully he would get within gun range and upon shooting would spook the now feeding geese toward our ambush.

Ike whined as we waited. It seemed like an eternity but in reality only ten minutes pasted until I heard the alarm call of one of the flock's sentries followed by the raucous cries of geese on the move. However, even as the geese flew away there were no shots. Just then, two more geese flew into view and they were coming right at Ike and I. Just as I was about to shoulder my gun, a three simulataneous booms rang out and the lead goose dropped to the ground. The other kept flying and when it came within range I attempted to draw a bead on it's outstretched neck. Little did I know that my sling had become wrapped around my parka preventing me from shooting. Eventually, after getting untangeled I raised my twelve's barrel but it was too late.

I released Ike who took off after the canada while Mark walked up grinning from ear to ear.

Not exactly the hunt we had in mind but a great time nonetheless. I can't wait for our next winter storm.