‘FLASKS! A LI’L NIP HERE, A TINY DRINK THERE...'

“Whiskey in a flask is my all-season, all-terrain vice.” - Unknown

                  

          Ahhhh... the timeless stainless whiskey flask; while some perceive it to be a drunkard's accessory, that ain't hardly fair... to the container or the carrier. Most flasks don't hold enough liquor to get really drunk on; just enough for a toast amogst a few friends or for just a li'l discreet sippin'. A fishin' buddy of mine carries his in his tackle box, sandwiched between a couple of freezer packs to keep it cool. He says a sip here and there helps him unwind durin' a day on the river; plus, he adds... you can't never tell when you might need a li'l nip.

That reminds me of the fella what ran out of worms one day while Bass fishin’ down on the other side of Atlanta. About that time, he spotted him a Cottonmouth snake closeby, with a frog in its mouth. Now, that frog was just the kind of bait that feller was a needin’ to keep on fishin’, so… knowin’ the snake couldn't bite him with the frog in its mouth, he grabbed that ol’ snake right behind the head, took the frog out of it’s mouth, and tossed it in his bait bucket.

Now, though, he had him a dilemma; how was he gonna let loose of that snake without getting’ bit? Well, it didn’t take him just a second a’fore he had that ‘un figured out. That feller pulled out the whiskey flask he kept in his tackle box, unscrewed it’s top, and poured a swig of JACK DANIELS whiskey down in its mouth. Well now, that ol’ snake’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the damn thing went plumb limp. The fella then slid the snake back into the lake with no problem, and went right back to fishin’, usin’ that frog for bait.
It t’weren’t but just a little while later, though, the fella felt him a nudge on his foot. Can you believe it? That fella looked down to find that damn snake back… with two more frogs.

Seriously, though, totin’ a whiskey flask has been a tradition among outdoorsmen for more than a century, making flasks great commemorative items for your huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ buddies; one they’ll apprectiate and actually use for years to come.

Back years ago, I presented a life-long huntin’ and fishin’ buddy of mine with his very own stainless steel flask as a wedding gift. I’d had his name engraved on it and filled it with 12-year-old Scotch, which, along with another’s flask full of straight moonshine, sure come in handy the day of his wedding, when a sudden cold snap put a chilly twist on their mountain-top, outdoor spring nuptials. To say he was pleased with his gift is an understatement. And I’ve since shared a sip out of it while standin’ waist-deep in the Hiwassee River on a freezin’ December day, as snow swirled all around and ice clogged our fishin’ rod guides.

Now, just to set the record straight, what a fella puts in his flask is a matter of personal taste and choice. There ain’t no right or wrong liquor to use. Heck… it you prefer sweet tea, then I reckon that’d be just as acceptable (Just please don’t put lemon in it if’n you’re gonna offer this ol’ boy a snort). Take ‘Doc’, for instance, one of my huntin’ and fishin’ buddies. He keeps 20+-year-old GENTLEMAN JACK in his, where another friend of ours won’t tote nothin’ but Canadian whisky in his. And then there’s a third crony of ours, who we’ve shared camps with for years. He swears by his WILD TURKEY 101.

Also, most flasks end up personalized in one way or another. I’ve seen ‘em stamped, engraved, marked up in all kinds of ways; with pictures around the sides and even with leather ‘skins’ or coverings over the lower half of ‘em. As a matter of fact, I recently saw a firefighter friend’s flask that he’d adorned with his department’s patch embossed on the side. Regardless of what it looks like or what you carry in it, though, it’s all about makin’ it yours.

I myself have an old flask; a plain-jane model with a finish that’s kind of dulled with age. It sports a couple of small dents that I have no recollection of exactly how they got there. I’ve had the thing for a long time; many, many years. It generally stays in the side pocket of my ol’ backpack, always close to-hand, and always filled with GEORGE DICKEL White Label. It goes most everywhere with me. To me, there’s nothin’ finer or smoother than Tennessee sippin’ whiskey for warmin’ a man’s innards on a cold day on the water or afield or for celebratin’ an outdoor accomplishment, such as the catch of an exceptional fish.

Plus, once back in-camp of an evenin’, while sittin’ around a toasty warm fire, enjoyin’ good company, with a full moon overhead; out comes that ol’ flask of mine to be passed around for a final salute to a great day.

‘WHEN IT COMES TO THE OUTDOORS... SIMPLER CAN BE BETTER'

       Over the years, a lot of things have changed for those of us who enjoy the outdoors. We still hunt and fish and camp; only, for some of us our focus has changed drastically. No longer do the majority of fishermen enjoy the simpler pleasures of fishin’ small rivers, creeks, and ponds; they prefer instead to race over huge impoundments in high-dollar bass boats, competin’ against dozens of others in bass fishin’ tournaments  Where squirrel, rabbit, and bobwhite quail used to be the preferred game animals of hunters, now it’s trophy deer and turkey. It don’t hardly seem like anybody much appreciates a good bowl of quail and dumplin’s or a paper plate full of pan-fried Bluegill anymore… and that’s a shame.

          Gone too are the rustic, bare-bones huntin’ and fishin’ camps of old. Nowadays, the typical huntin’ camp is full of big fancy RVs, noisy electric generators, and a variety of four-wheelers and all-terrain vehicles for haulin’ hunters and downed game to and from the field. As for fishin’ camps, it’s pretty much the same, only in place of ATVs are pontoons and bass boats, and the camp is usually confined to one or two sites in a lakeside commercial campground.

          Give me a well-trained bird dog backin' another that’s on point; the explosion of wings and adrenaline as a covey of quail burst from cover just underfoot, shockin' novice and expert alike into not even gettin’ a shot off at their quarry. Or standin' around in a thicket with family and friends on a good ol' January rabbit hunt; pickin' at and teasin' one another about missed shots and such, as we wait on a mouthy pack of Beagles to circle a long-eared Cottontail back around to us.

          I know nothing more fun than pullin’ in hand-sized Bluegills and river-wise Spots on ultralight tackle, while wading a cool, clear stream; and then later cleanin’ a mess of those same fish at stream-side before grilling or pan-fryin’ ‘em up for supper. And as much as I love my STARCRAFT camper, stayin’ in some crowded campground ain't no where near as peaceful and relaxin' as campin’ on a secluded, sandy riverbank somewheres back up in the boonies; a cool breeze wafting through an open tent flap, a hint of campfire smoke in the air, with just the light of the moon and stars to illuminate the night.

          Life gets complicated enough on its own. Who needs the added pressure of tryin’ to bag a wall-hanger buck or the heaviest limit of bass durin’ your off time? Not this ol' man, that's for sure. If I sound like a romantic, it’s true. I am one. To me, huntin’ and fishin’ and campin’ is all about the basics; about spending time in the great outdoors, enjoyin' every day afield, and about gettin’ away from all the stress and boredom of every day life.

          So, I reckon me and mine’ll keep floatin’ the creeks in canoes, pot-shottin’ squirrels durin’ the ‘cuttin’ season’, and sittin’ by a campfire way back in the woods, listenin’ to the crickets and the frogs and the night birds, late of a night... which beats the heck out of the incessant hum of a HONDA generator, anytime.

‘THE FINEST PEOPLE YOU’LL EVER MEET’

'Granite Mountain Hotshots'

Yesterday, nineteen of the elite 20-member Prescott, Arizona’s ‘Granite Mountain Hotshots’ firefighting crew were killed in an Arizona wildfire. Known for battling the region’s worst fires, they had recently spent weeks fighting fires in New Mexico and Prescott.

So, as a heat wave across the Southwest sent temperatures into the triple digits, they hiked into the smoky wilderness over the weekend with chainsaws and backpacks stuffed with heavy gear to remove brush and trees as they fought the lightning-sparked fire, that encompassed more than 8,000-acres, destroyed at least 50-structures, and threatened 500-people in the small town of Yarnell.

'Granite Mountain Hotshots' demonstration

It was the most firefighters killed battling a wildfire in the United States since 1933. The average age of the men in the crew was only 22-years-old.

          Of the firefighters who all were part of his city’s fire department, an emotional Fire Chief Dan Fraijo said it plainly, “We just lost 19 of the finest people you'll ever meet."

My heart goes out to the Prescott Fire Department and its families. The have suffered a devastating loss. One that I hope our own community never has to experience.

Whether it’s a structure, a vehicle, or woodlands, fighting fires is dangerous work, and the risk is well-known to the brave men and women who don their gear daily, 24/7, and battle the flames. And I, for one, am very proud of the men and women that protect us here locally.

The next time you see a fire truck headed down the road, lights flashing and siren wailing… say a simple prayer for these wonderful men and women. For each and everyone is truly a hero; highly-skilled professionals who selflessly put themselves in harm's way to protect the lives and property of their neighbors and fellow citizens, many of which they have never so much as met. These guys and gals are MY heroes, for sure, and without a doubt... some of the finest people you'll ever meet.

"When a tragedy like this strikes, all we can do is offer our eternal gratitude to the fallen, and prayers for the families and friends left behind. God bless them all." - Arizona Governor Jan Brewer

‘THEY FOUND GOLD, WHERE?’

          Back in the spring of 1898, Mr. John D. Johns, a Whitfield County cotton farmer, had just taken a break from his plowing to tighten the heel screw on his plow, when he noticed something shiny on the plow point. Taking a closer look, he found what looked like…

Naw, it couldn’t be! But after a closer look, surely the thought must have crossed his mind, ‘what if it is though?' Of course, his next reaction was probably the same as yours or mine would have been… GOLD! Sudden and abundant wealth, no more want, no more worry, and, for dang sure, no more following along behind a contrary, stubborn old mule anymore. But then, just as quickly, common sense took hold of him again.

Naw, it can’t be, he told himself. More than likely, it’s just some of that there iron pyrite, what folks called ‘Fool’s Gold’. The 47-year-old bachelor then got back to the task at hand, and resumed his plowing, promising himself that one of these days, when he had more time; he’d look into it a mite further. Right now, though, he had work to get done, and daylight was a-wastin'.

Over the next several years, somethin’ always seemed to divert Mr. John’s attention from the find, until in the latter part of 1903, a Mr. Higgins, a former Lumpkin and White County miner, happened by the Johns’ farm and became ‘greatly excited’ by the ore he found lying around the field edges. Mr. John was persuaded to have some of the ore tested, and reportedly, the results found a richness that seemed incredulous, predicting that the value of the ore would run $2,000 per ton. That figure would be something like $85,000 per ton, in today’s market.

Mineral mining experts in nearby Chattanooga unhesitantly declared that Mr. John’s find was by far the richest that their eyes had ever beheld. They also believed the ore to be almost unlimited in quantity.

In no time, Mr. John had a trench opened up measuring some thirty-feet long, six-feet wide, and eight-feet deep. The ore from Mr. John’s mine was described as ‘simply dazzling’. Reports were that the ore got even richer the farther down into the vein was dug.

Then, just east of the gold lead, another vein was discovered, only this time it was of anthracite or ‘stone coal’. The coal found on Mr. Johns’ property was considered, at the time, to be as good quality as that which was being obtained from the mines, at Coal Creek, Tennessee, where the majority of the area’s coal was being shipped from at that time.



John D. Johns with his great-nephew George C. Wilson


           Not long after that, a third find was realized on the Johns’ place, this time of a superior quality of lead ore. John was hailed in area newspapers as being ‘veritably the possessor of a vast bonanza’.
           Mr. John’s finds had some of his neighbors lookin’ at their own properties in a whole new light, as well. Within two weeks, his close neighbor Bill Chambers was blasting on his place in search of a gold mine, and shortly after that, a second mine was operating a couple of miles to the west.

The total amount of gold taken from Mr. Johns’ trench mine is not known, nor is how long mining operations were actually conducted in the area. However, by April of 1904, there was open speculation in the North Georgia Citizen newspaper (precursor to today’s Daily Citizen News) on just how long the area’s gold boom would last. After that last reference, though, no further mention of the gold mines can be found in the local newspapers.

Now, a century later, what was once Mr. Johns’ cotton farm is now a mix of pastureland and residential housing with all traces of past mining operations having been effectively erased by the passage of time, and the incident has become just another piece of Cohutta, Georgia’s forgotten history.

‘JEWELS OF THE CONASAUGA’

A Redeye Coosa Bass

It’s a beautiful June day, mid-way in the week; sunny and warm, the temp in the mid-nineties. The river is up; the water gin clear. We’ve yet to even shove off in the canoe, its stern still sittin’ fast on the pebble beach. Keith wades into the strong flow, the water reachin’ waist-deep on him before he’s got within castin’ reach of the pocket of slack water on the far side of the river. To the left of the pocket, the river tumbles over a drop-off, and on the right, an eddy pulls back into it.

Keith tosses a black and chartreuse curly tail tube jig to the back of the pocket where it drops into the water, just this side of a submerged log. Immediately it’s taken. The hook-set, a short fight, and a 10-inch bass is brought to-hand; bright blue belly, blood-red eyes, it’s one of the ‘Jewels of the Conasauga’… a Redeye Coosa Bass!”

Keith with a nice Spotted Bass

Minutes later, we’re headed downstream. I steer as Keith prospects likely-lookin’ spots with an ultralight spinnin’ rod. Time and again a jig is danced at the base of exposed tree roots along the riverbank, the line tightens, a plunge for the depths, the rod checks it, and a shimmerin’ rainbow of color, a stunningly beautiful Bluegill is soon in-hand; with a twist, the little ‘gem’ falls free of the hook and back into the water; the canoe glides along.

Just below a partially submerged grass bed, I put the bow over, turnin’ back upstream. With a plop, the jig hits on the far side of the grass, and a fish slams it as it swims past. The rod bows deep, the drag sings as line peels off the reel. Its run checked, the fish leaps from the water, vigorously shakin’ its head, attemptin’ to throw the hook. Near the boat, the fish makes one last bid to escape, but he’s tired and is soon bein’ lifted from the water; it’s the second of the ‘Jewels of the Conasauga’… a hard-fightin’ Spotted Bass!

That’s a recount of just the first fifteen minutes on the river, last week, and it set the tone for the next six-plus hours, which resulted in a day of fantastic fishin’. With a combined total of over 100 fish caught, each a wonderful experience regardless of the species or its size; couple that with the privilege of floatin’ 7-miles of one of the most scenic rivers in this area, plus the enjoyable company of an old fishin’ buddy, and you’ve certainly found yourself a true ‘treasure’. The Conasauga River is undoubtably a 'jewel' itself.

‘STRESS-FREE RIVER-FISHIN’ FUN’

          No pagers or radios, lawnmowers or ball schedules… no keepin' the peace or ridin' the fire truck… just pure stress-free river-fishin’ fun.

Keith reels in a good Bluegill

          The best cure for the stress of everyday life that I know of is a day spent float-fishin’ the river, and on our days off durin’ the summer, my friend Keith (a professional Firefighter/First Responder, Rec League ball coach, umpire, and Daddy to two very active young boys) and I do exactly that every chance we can get. The river we fish is typical of the myriad of small rivers and creeks all across America. Clear and clean, it flows unrestricted through woods and farmlands; chock full of freshwater fish just waitin’ to be fished for.

Now, river-fishin’ ain’t one of them get-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn affairs. No... you can sleep-in a bit, ‘cause river fish are always feedin’, and midday generally brings some of the best action, unlike lake fishin’ where the fishin' is best early and late in the day. So, we usually get on the water sometime aroun’ 10:30 or 11 of a mornin’.

A nice 'Spot'

After castin’ off, it only takes a few minutes to get everything squared away, spare rods tucked safely away, tackle boxes within easy reach, and gettin’ our ‘balance’ back since the last trip. And then the ‘float’ begins…

We don’t go no more’n a few canoe lengths before I put us close-in on the first good fishy-lookin’ spot, and Keith drops a lure tight into the structure. Tap. Tap. Uhhh! He sets the hook on a nice pound and a half Spot (Spotted Bass) that jumps once in its futile fight to get away. Once brought to hand, he’s admired, maybe a quick pic taken, and then tossed back into the water to be caught another day. And that, my friends… is how most every trip of ours down the river starts.

          Our boat is a 1970’s model aluminum canoe, sportin’ a worn paint scheme of brown camouflage, a plastic cup holder in the bow, and a COLEMAN seatback laid-claim-to early on by Keith. This ol’ boat’s been down this stretch of river so many times over the past decade and a half, it could almost navigate it all on its own. Fairly quiet, easy-handlin’, and a whole lot faster than your ordinary johnboat, when it comes to the ‘perfect’ riverboat… this is about the closest we’ve found.

We float the long pools, some deep and some not-so-much, and we wade through the shoals too shallow or dangerous to navigate, all the while tossin’ lures at every piece of fishy-lookin’ structure we come to, pullin’ fish after fish after fish from their watery lairs.

A dandy Redeye Coosa Bass taken on a fly

We use ultralight spinning outfits to bounce lead-head tube jigs along the rock-strewn river bottom and swim soft plastic shad baits along the seams of fast water for coveted Redeyes and hard-fightin’ Spots. With our fly rods, we toss poppin’ bugs with wet fly droppers close under the tree roots along the river bank for panfish and strip small white streamers along the edge of grass beds, which almost always results in a feisty little bass puttin’ a bow in your rod.

'Our' river

We’re in and out of the canoe all day long, wadin’ the shallows, sometimes draggin’ the boat past obstacles; other times paddlin’ long, almost current-less, stretches of water; part of the day in the cool shade, the rest in full sun, and almost always shirtless.

'Lunch of Champions'

When we get hungry, we pull the canoe up on a sandbar and break out the grub. Lunches vary. They’re generally light… a pack of crackers, a can of potted meat or Viennas, maybe some Beanie Weenies or a sandwich and some chips. Snacks range from apples and trail mix to jerky and Little Debbies. And we wash it down with water kept cold in the beat-up IGLOO water jugs we keep tied to the thwarts of the canoe.

          The fishin’ after lunch takes on a different character, as the river itself changes. Now, the river turns into a twistin’, turnin’ watercourse with deep holes scoured on the outside of each bend and full of logjams, downed timber, and undercut riverbanks, where the bigger fish of this river live. The number of fish caught through here decreases somewhat, but the quality definitely improves.

A Largemouth taken on the lower section

Now, we work Beetle Spins through downed timber, toss soft plastic creature baits in amongst the logjams, and twitch floatin’ RAPALAS next to submerged stumps in search of dark-colored, river Largemouths and bigger-than-normal Bluegills and Shellcrackers.

After 5 or 6-hours on the river, we reach the planned take-out point and beach the canoe, wearily haul armloads of gear and then the canoe up the grassy hill to the gravel parking lot, where it’s loaded onto a waiting truck and trailer.

Then stiff and tired and sunburned, still drippin’ water from our shorts, we tromp into the li’l store there at the takeout to buy our celebratory glass bottles of ice-cold rootbeer for the ride home. We don't spend much, but still it's our way of thankin' the store owner for lettin' us park a truck there. We've done this simple gesture for so long that my 10-year-old grandson swears that ‘IBC Rootbeer’ stands for ‘I Been Canoein’ Rootbeer’.

          Once home and the canoe is on its rack and our rods and gear are put away; after we’ve all showered, sprayed ourselves down with SOLARCAINE, and changed into dry shorts and t-shirts; we throw some burgers on the grill, pop the tops on some adult beverages, and settle into loungers out under the shade trees in my front yard and just chill. Pleasantly tired and utterly relaxed.

‘HANGIN’ WITH UNCLE-BURR-PAW’

Gene & Jonathon @ Tellico

           

            To my son, I’m ‘Burr’. To my grand-boy, I’m ‘Paw’. And to my nephews, I’m either Uncle Burry or Uncle Barry. Regardless of what they may call me, though, to me, they’re just simply ‘my boys’. And, as such, I do my darnedest to spoil ‘em rotten. At Christmas, I’m the one that always buys the ‘cool’ gifts. You know, the gifts that all young boys love to get and the ones that make most mothers and grandmothers nervous… like pocketknives, tomahawks, swords, and once even a crossbow pistol. I think boys should be allowed to be boys.

          As often as possible, I try to spend time doin’ somethin’ fun in the outdoors with ‘my boys’. It gives me time with them, and gives their parents a much-needed break. Sometimes, it’s simply goin’ over to a nearby pond and wettin’ a hook. Other times, it’s a backwoods camping trip away from parents and other ‘responsible’ adults. Every time, though, it is a learnin’ experience… sometimes for us all.

Gene with squirrels taken while floatin' the Conasauga River

          This all started back years ago when I first started takin’ my son Gene and my nephew Jonathon campin’ and fishin’ in Tellico, floatin’ the Conasauga in canoes, and huntin’ for squirrels and doves every fall. Now that they’re grown and off on their own, my grandson Trevor and younger nephews Matt and Will have stepped up to take their places. And once again, I’m teachin’ the basics all over again.

Will with a Bluegill he caught

For fishin’, it’s how to rig their own rod, bait their own hook, how to catch a fish, and how to take it off the hook by themselves. Should they catch really good fish, then a picture is taken of them proudly displayin’ it, which is later sent to the newspaper for hopeful publication. For huntin’, it’s responsible gun handling, expert marksmanship, fair chase, and how to clean their kill. For the water, I drill into ‘em that a life vest is always a must, then how to paddle and handle a canoe or kayak. And they learn how to camp by goin’ with the ol’ master himself.

Trevor with his BB gun

            Every boy gets to carry his own pocketknife, for whittlin’ and such, and each carries a whistle, as well… just in case. Everyone has their own fishin’ rod and tackle box, and Red Ryder BB guns are always welcome in camp, as are flips (or slingshots, as some of you call 'em) and the ever present football. If the boys want to swing on an old grape vine, well then… have at it. If they want to stay up late tellin’ ghost stories, fine by me. And if they get in the mood to sing silly ditties at the top of their lungs… sooner or later, I send ‘em to the far end of the lake.

I don’t nursemaid ‘my boys’, either. I believe that, for the most part, boys learn best on their own, through trial and error. So, once at our destination, I turn ‘em loose to be boys. If they want to take the canoe out by themselves and fish, I let ‘em go. They’ll end up learnin’ more and gainin’ more confidence in doin’ so for themselves. Should they want to take their BB guns and go ‘explorin’ out in the woods, so be it. They know my rules, and rarely have they ever disobeyed more’n once’t.

Jonathon & Gene @ Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

         Best of all, though, is the enjoyment I get back from hangin’ out with ‘my boys’. When they’re with me, I rarely get to fish, but that’s okay. I enjoy watchin’ and coachin’ them. On our long tramps through the mountains, I get all caught-up on what’s goin’ on in the wonderful world of 9 through 12-year-olds. One minute, I’m teachin’ 'em how to tell the difference ‘tween turkey and bear scat, and the next, we’re talkin’ over the difficulties of musterin' up courage enough to tell a pretty girl that she’s really, really liked. (Give me bear scat, any day.) And you’ll never really appreciate a popular TV jingle until you’ve heard the ‘corrupted’ version made up by 10-year-old boys… and, yes, it can get kinda gross. Oh, and I’ve never laughed so hard as when the older boys finally succeed in talkin’ the youngest, who is a self-proclaimed scaredy-cat, into tryin’ out some crazy stunt and seein’ the huge grin on his face after havin’ accomplished it and realizin’ it wasn’t THAT scary, after all.

Matt with a fish on!

          I try to remember how it was to be their age and let that guide me in how I treat ‘em. It’s the little things that matter… like simply listenin’ to what the have to say. Kids they may be, but their thoughts are still important. And another thing… keep your temper. Getting’ angry never helps any situation, especially when you’re tryin’ to live by example to a bunch of impressionable boys.

Recently, while on one of our hangout days, Trev let me know that one of the best things about me is that I "don't get mad too easy... even when one of us breaks out the truck window with a rock." Both his cousins, of which Will the Rock Chucker was one, immediately agreed. Now, folks, to me, that was a compliment like none I’ve ever received… ‘specially seein’ how a lot of kids get treated by grown-ups when they ‘mess up’. Made me feel kinda good inside.

'My Boys'

          Most importantly, though, I try to make sure ‘my boys’ enjoy every minute spent with Uncle-Burr-Paw, whether it’s campin’ in the Smoky Mountains, floatin’ across Lake Conasauga in a canoe, fishin’ for trout on the Hiwassee, or hikin’ the trails on Grassy. And, it must be workin’… ‘cause come time to head home, one of ‘em nearly always says he wishes that our days were longer, that we didn’t have to go home yet, and then another starts up askin’ when we’re gonna do this again.

          Yep… makes a fella feel pretty doggone good… hangin’ out with ‘my boys’, that is.  J