Units of Measure

A few years ago a friend of mine from the North West ventured here to try his hand at southern whitetail hunting. While he was here we found ourselves caught in a rain storm that had us holed up in the tent for a couple of days. To pass the time we started doing what men do when trapped in a tent in a rain storm, we started sharing stories of past hunts and accomplishments, and to some degree failures. It was during one of these conversations that it became evident that our Northwestern friend was suffering from a lack of education, especially when it came to the proper units of measure.

You may be asking yourselves what led to this type of clarification, but it was so evident when during one of my stories, Wayne continued to interrupt and ask what this meant or what that meant.

Sure we have the standard system, imperial system and the metric system with all of its confusing conversion tables. But in the world below the Mason Dixon, where I hail from these are secondary to what we use every day to describe things such as quantities and distance. Never mind, volume vs. liner, around this part of the country we have our own way and it seems to be working just fine.

In this conversation, Wayne, being held captive by his northwestern way of thinking did not understand what was meant when someone described a successful fishing trip by saying he had caught a “mess of fish.”
“What exactly is a mess of fish?” Wayne asked.
Being from the south I knew what was meant by this but had never really given it any thought as to its actual quantity. All I knew was that a mess of fish was a successful day. It was then that we set out to clarify and educate Wayne on what are proper units of measure.

A “mess” of fish, I explained, is enough for supper (dinner to the rest of the country). With that he asked what he thought was a legitimate follow up question, “what is it called if you catch more than that?”
“Well that all depends.” I said. “There are different sizes of a ‘mess’ it all depends on the size of your family. For a family of two a “mess” might be 4 fish of average size, and for conversation sake so as to not confuse things more we will refer to all measurements using average size for two fish per person, etc. But if you have five kids then a “mess” would be somewhere around 10 fish of average size.” But for conversation sake we will simply say that a “mess” is enough for supper. If you catch what might be considered the equivalent of two complete “messes” then you have a “gob” of fish. A “gob” of fish is therefore two “messes” (of average size). To put it another way, if you were to be so fortunate enough to catch a gob of fish, then you would have enough for supper and some to “put up.”
“To put up” Wayne said sounding exasperated. What does that mean?
“To put up” I said means “to freeze or to can which ever the case may be, but usually with fish it means to freeze” We do this so we have fish for another day when you do not catch a “mess”.

This led to a somewhat puzzled look on my northwestern friends face so I knew that further explanation was needed to open his mind and to give him a clearer understanding. If a “mess” is enough for supper and a “gob” is a “mess” with some to “put up” then the obvious next question was, what is it if you were to catch two gobs? Logically, if someone was so fortunate enough to catch two gobs of fish, they would then have a “heap” of fish.

Wayne, by this point is looking even more puzzled having no concept of a “heap” of fish, (obviously he had never been to a fish fry) needed some further explanation as to the realities of a “heap” of fish. Quite simply a “heap” of fish is enough to feed the community. You pass on putting some up, and go straight to the bragging act of inviting all known acquaintances over for a fish fry so you can show off your testosterone driven ability of catching more fish than a family could eat in a month.

Beyond this is so rare that I have know of only two occasions when someone actually was able to catch more than a heap of fish, one reference is in the Bible, and the other was illegal. Something about dynamite and big landing nets. But in case you were wondering what is beyond a “heap” that would be a “passel” of fish. So to reiterate, it goes like this from smallest to largest, first you have a mess, two messes make a gob, two gobs equal a heap, and two heaps are the equivalent of a passel. Got it?

Not to confuse anyone at all, but these units do not apply only to fish mind you. They are also applicable to anything gathered from a garden. For example, one can go gather a “mess” of collard greens, but you cannot go to the grocery and buy a “mess” of collard greens. That would be a “bunch”. Likewise you cannot go gather a “bunch” of collard greens from the garden. On one occasion I knew of while visiting an old country store a transplanted farmer arrived and commented that he had just “picked a bunch” of collard greens. The glares at him were deadly, finally one old farmer commented in a soft definite voice. “son, you don’t ‘pick a bunch of collard greens’ you gather a ‘mess of collard greens’ and you ‘pick a mess of beans’”. With that every gentleman in the room nodded in agreement. A “bunch” of beans (green or Lima or Crowder) is not the equivalent of a “mess” of collard greens. In both instances, it is enough for supper, but a “bunch” would be something like a “mess and a half” and no one in their right mind gathers a “mess and a half” of collard greens. You either gather a “mess” (enough for supper) or you go all the way and gather a gob. So you can “put them up” (freeze/can them) before the frost gets them. But to gather a “bunch of beans, is just enough to get the canning pot hot, it certainly is not enough to get serious about canning. In that case you would need to get a “slew” of beans which is about 6 bunches, or twelve messes, or six gobs, or three and one half heaps, or one and a half passels. It is simpler to say four bunches than to confuse things and say you picked six gobs, or three and a half heaps.

While it may be true that some isolated pockets of the country use the archaic terms of bushels, and pecks, but to pick a peck of beans is almost the equivalent of 4 gobs, and that divides the measurements and really confuses things, and the only time someone would consider picking/gathering a bushel, was if the weather was threatening, or if there was a church dinner planned and there was not enough time to gather later in the week.

Wayne is starting to get it now, his mouth is almost closed and I can tell he is thinking about a question when I interrupted his thought. “Do you understand it now?” His blank stare indicated that he was not quite there so I rationed to myself, that there was simply no hope in bringing a lifetime worth of education to someone in only a few hours. So with a tidbit of sympathy I moved from units of measure to linear measurements, after all it is a far piece from South Carolina to southern Idaho and I did not want my new friends to be left confused. So to change things up a bit I asked, Wayne how far it was from here to Columbia, knowing that we were but a stones throw, he indicated that it was “about 55 miles”.

With one eyebrow raised slightly, I asked as sincerely as possible, “how far is that?” I could see the puzzlement in his eyes so I asked, how long does it take to get there? Where we come from, we don’t care how far it is, all we care about is how long it takes to get there! In some parts of the country, it may take you 4 hours to travel 55 miles, while in others about 35 minutes. So Wayne countered and asked how far I lived from the beach, he knew it was about 150 miles, and I knew it was a good five hours. I simply said, well it’s “quite a piece”. This for us is completely understandable.

“How far is “quite a piece””! Wayne, shouted, with the obvious feeling of inferiority, I said in a matter of fact way, while trying to be sensitive to his feelings that he now seemed to be wearing on his sleeve. “It is fairly straight forward Wayne.” I conjured as he seemed to listen. “If something is fairly close, we say it is ‘a little piece’, that means that you can be there in less than half an hour.” I continued, “if something is further than that, we say it is ‘just over there’ while pointing in the direction of the final destination, that means that it is somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half, in good traffic. And if something is further than an hour and a half, it is ‘a far piece’ and when you get further than that, well then you are ‘quite a piece’”. Of course all of this is contingent on the traffic, sometimes, what may be a little piece today, may in all actuality be quite a far piece tomorrow if the traffic is bad.

I look over at Wayne who now does not seem to be listening at all as he pours another cup of coffee. So I decided to sum it up by suggesting that the next time he comes to visit, if it ain’t too far, we could go to the pond and catch a mess of fish and maybe gather a bunch of beans for supper.

Hooked by Happenstance

This is a story for all sportsmen who have never experienced the terror of a woodcock’s wings slapping their legs as it flushes. It is a story for seasoned veteran’s who have forgotten their early days of discovery. For the days when dogs were a luxury and not a necessity, when small gauges, classic doubles, and open chokes are envied, even coveted. This is a story of freezing fingers and sweating palms. Open woods and briars so thick you walk on them instead of through them. It is a story of a happening, for in the short span of three hours, a lifetime was changed. A woodcock hunter has come into being.
We all have dreamed of those days, days when the number of flushes surpasses the number of shells we have in our game vest, days when easy shots outnumber the difficult ones, when there is no glare from the sun, no wind to speed up the game. We have dreamed of days when everything seems right---days when even the best storyteller has a hard time describing with clarity. Then, as fate would have it, reality steps in and even on the days when everything seems to be going our way, we do not follow through with our shots. We drop our for-end, snag our sleeves on everything in the woods when attempting to mount our guns. Days that begin as a day in nirvana quickly becomes a day we would as soon as forget. Ironically, for most of us the days of when flushes are few and shots even less, far outnumber days when every step produces an explosion of leaves and feathers. It seems as if never the twain shall meet, when accuracy meets with an abundance of game, days when the ease of getting into a covert, meshes with the ease of actually finding birds.
What happened to me last January was what I hope is not a once in a lifetime event, but what very easily could have been. The most ironic element of the whole process is that it was all by happenstance; it was a day to remember and a day to forget.
It all started during a cold snap, a lot colder than usual for the piedmont of South Carolina, Temperatures hovered in the mid 20’s and even for January it was cold, with a slight breeze out of the north. Woodcock season this far south, does not open until sometime around the end of December and runs through most of January. It varies from year to year. On this particular occasion I was not after woodcock at all, in fact I was going to try my hand at Coyote hunting, a relatively new sport in our area. I had heard rumors of Coyotes in the area, and although I had never seen one myself, it was as good an excuse as any to get into the woods.
The law in South Carolina only permits the use of small game ammunition for predator hunting, during the small game season. So I grabbed my pump shotgun and a couple of boxes of shells, (in case I jumped a rabbit, or squirrel) and I headed out.
Shortly after arriving at my destination, I walked the logging road towards the Broad River. As I got close to where I planned to set up and start my predator calling, I felt the flutter of wings slapping my britches. Jumping, falling and trying to regain my balance, I caught just enough of a glimpse to see what it was that just reduced me from the confident hunter to a terrified spectator. To my amazement it was a Woodcock. Then it dawned on me, it was the first week of January, and our Woodcock season runs in January. So right then I decided to forego the predator hunt and see if I might find a few more of these leg-slapping timber-doodles.
Little did I know that as I made this decision, I was at a distinct disadvantage, having never hunted woodcock before; I had no idea how big of a disadvantage I actually had. I learned some valuable lessons about future woodcock hunts, of which if I have anything to say about it, there will be many.
First, a pump gun is of absolutely no use in southern woodcock cover. There is not enough room to swing these typically long barreled heavy guns, and seldom enough room to work the action in order to send a second shell in the chamber without your sleeve getting caught on some type of briar, limb, sapling or other types of trash that frequent the feeding grounds of this little bird. Secondly, since I was intending on hunting coyotes, a full choke is about as deadly in woodcock cover as a slingshot. Lastly, #5 shot is entirely too much for a bird of this delicate size. After all an adult woodcock might tip the scales at a whopping 7-9 ounces and a twelve gauge pump carrying a full choke with #5 shot is a bit much, especially should the rare connection actually occur which would leave even less for the supper table.
Not that I am making excuses mind you, I am merely pointing out to future woodcock hunters what NOT to take into the field when in pursuit of these feathered lightning bolts.
But perhaps the greatest disadvantage was the fact that I was alone. No companion, either two or four legged, and while I love the companionship of a colleague when hunting, I would have much preferred the four-legged kind on this particular day. If you remember, I was coyote hunting, so why would I bring a dog with me? The greatest disadvantage of being alone on a woodcock hunt is that the woodcock knew where they were and I did not have a clue.
As I made my way down to the “riparian zone” (that area where logging is forbidden next to bodies of water) fighting my way through briars, and brambles. I jumped two more woodcock. Finally after reaching this riparian zone, I could actually walk. It was an area about 30 yards wide with planted pines on one side and the Broad River on the other. Slowly, I made my way through this riparian zone. After only ten yards, Woodcock jumped in front of me and headed straight away. Woodcocks-1—ill prepared hunter-0. Three more steps, I found myself stumbling backwards as two more woodcock flushed literally between my legs. Woodcock-3 – frustrated hunter -0. As I slowly moved through this area, I flushed 19, that’s right, 19 woodcock, and I fired 16 times. Now just for the record, I already told you that I had the wrong gun. I already mentioned that I had the wrong ammunition, and that my choke was too tight and my dog was at home sleeping and . . .well anyway.
By now I was completely frustrated and actually laughing at myself as I slipped through the woods with the shotgun mounted on my shoulder like a soldier wading through enemy territory, anticipating a sniper with every step. Finally, as luck would have it, after flushing a big female, I carefully marked where she landed. Slipping to where I figured her to be, she rose, the gun came naturally to my shoulder, I swung as smooth as anyone who was 0 for 16 and at the sound of the gun she folded. --- I discovered again why I needed a dog. These birds are almost impossible to find in the briars and thickets. And since I don’t smell very well, I resorted to crawling. I was determined that I had killed one of these woodcock, and I was going to find it. After a diligent search I found this odd looking little bird that now graces a well distinguished place in my house to remind me of the best day bird hunting I have ever had, or heard of. I was going coyote hunting remember, and I found myself completely enveloped by the woodcock migration.
I don’t know if I will ever find myself in that kind of flight again. When the weather is cold, the birds are thick and the shooting so often. I do know one thing is for sure. I will be out there again, and again, and again looking for those feathered bolts of lightning. Because until you have had a woodcock’s wings flapping against your legs, you haven’t bird hunted.
The bottom line is this. If you ever get a chance to hunt woodcock, it will be a trip you will long remember. It is a frustrating bird, but what game that we pursue is predictable? That is the allure isn’t it? Looking for the birds, searching the cover, hoping that this cover will produce again as it did last year. After all, a successful hunt is not measured by the weight of your game bag; it is just being there.

Campfire Reflections

Campfire Reflections


I have had the fortune to sit around a lot of campfires in my life. I have stirred the coals with southern gentlemen and western cowboys, from Yankees to Texans. I have been fortunate enough to sit with men far my senior and boys starring wide-eyed into their first fire. From the deserts of south Texas to the edge of the Arctic Circle, from the swamps of South Carolina to the heart of the Rocky Mountains, there is a commonality around a campfire.

There is something that happens to people when gathered around a campfire. It is a great equalizer of us all; there is something mesmerizing about staring into flames that leap into the night sky. There is a yearning that brings out stories from days long gone, a desire to start philosophizing about the nuances of life. From the wealthiest to the more common, from the most educated to the illiterate, from the best outdoorsmen to the novice, the campfire is a place we all can gather and be one. It is a place where levels of education and economic chasms are whisked away with the smoke. It is a place where vices are ignored, guards are let down, and vulnerability is experienced.

The campfire is also a great confession booth. I would venture to say there has been more confession shared around a campfire than in many churches. People tend to open up and share experiences with feeling like at no other place. There is emotion in their recollections, stories of appreciation as well as fear. And it goes without saying that what is shared in the glow of a campfire remains forever trapped by the coals and embers. I have experienced them all. With a poke stick in hand, staring into the flames watching as this energy source consumes another soul, and listened to confessions that caused chills to race through my body in spite of the warmth of the flames. Stories of lost loves and lost hope, I have heard men share stories of unfaithful wives, lost business ventures, and heart wrenching stories of disease ridden children and the funeral that followed. I have watched as a windless night captured the smoke as if it were trapped by the guilt and pain of people gathered at this common place, seeming to cleanse the soul, as if the confessions are cast into the flames and consumed with the fuel and forgotten. I have experienced the cleansing of confession at the campfire. It is while sitting around the fire that not only burdens left, but treasurers are found.

When I sat with friends, watching a star filled sky, and glancing into the mounting pile of coals. Sharing portions of my soul that I thought were forever suppressed, and I hoped would never rise to the surface again. I likened them in that place of safety, that place of forgetfulness. Yet as we sat there in the silence listening to the crackling of the fire, and watching as spiders were drawn to the warmth, mesmerized into the reality that the very thing they sought for survival, would consume them if their greed overcame better judgment. It was here that I was able to share my soul like at no other place. It was here that I was able to look at these friends and know what I said, would forever be kept in their vault of friendship. Just as theirs was in mine, listening not with condemnation or sympathy, just listening.

For me, that is what it is all about. That is why I continue to sleep in tents, in freezing temperatures, why I walk miles in thin air, and go weeks on end with out a real bath. Why I eat eggs full of ashes and bugs, why I survive on Spam sandwiches and water with the distinct taste of purification tablets. It is to see different country, and be with friends. To catch up on their lives in ways that telephone conversations just cannot do. It is an opportunity to hear the same old jokes, and new stories, to argue over deer calibers, knife brands and sharpening techniques. To hear passionate pleas for small gauges when wing shooting, and then see the same person un-sheath a .300 magnum when after a whitetail, or a 10 gauge for Turkeys.

It is all about the experience. Telling your story with conviction and with the understanding that there may be some who disagree but that is all right. It really does not matter to me if you shoot doves with a 10 gauge and I use a 28. I don’t care if you shoot .300 magnum, and I like a bow. It really does not matter. As long as it is within the law and you enjoy it.

As the fire began to dwindle and the stars got brighter, I looked across the flickering flames, and saw the outline of distant mountains. Glowing in a pale blue hue as the moon reflected on the snow that crested her top. And I thought of what treasurers and what pain that mountain would leave here. I listened and heard the cackling of ptarmigan and the slap of a beaver’s tail and I wondered about their treasures and their pain. The bald eagle resting on her nest, the jack rabbit hiding under a cactus, the distant coyote; is that howl a proclamation of treasure or is it a sharing of pain? Would he come to his cleansing place and cast his sorrows on the woodpile of pain, or stack them with the protected treasurers?

Somehow I believe we all do a little of both. There are things we gladly throw into the fire, things we do not care that others know about. Scars we want removed at any expense, and pain we want transformed from the woodpile to drifting smoke that rises into the night air carrying with it all the sorrow and heartache. Then there are other things we will never share, things that come to our mind and brings a smile to our faces just at the recollection, things that the fire transforms just as it changes cold wet wood into hot dry fuel. Things that stir our soul and cause us to treasurer even more, those times well spent.

Times Well Spent

Times well Spent are reflections of my time enjoying God's creation, the friendships I have made and the experiences seen and felt in my time there. Many of these are personal and introspective. Others are more informative and helpful.

If you love the out of doors as I do I hope you find these refreshing and different from the normal writings and perusings about the out of doors. Too often today's writers are publishing "how to" articles or "me and Joe" stories and missing the real thrill of being out there. You will find some "how to" and a few "Me and joe" stories, but mostly it is an introspective of how I have viewed things which I am finding is not that different from many who live for the experience.

I love hunting, fly fishing, camping, traveling and experiencing new things. I long to fill my life with more experiences, more exciting things many only dream of but I know are only a decision away. Until the decision is made, I also know that most of life's experiences are found in the more common and simple. Salamanders in mountain streams, bull moose in arctic meadows, mosquitoes, campfires, and friendships are what captivate me. I can spend hours on a stream bed looking at rocks, and stand motionless transfixed watching a spider tie a web. I can sit in a deer stand and marvel at whitetail does teaching their fawns, and listen to bull frogs call for a mate. I have sat in duck blinds for hours watching empty skies and loved every minute of it.

I hope these stories will inspire you to notice the small things and enjoy the simple. I hope they inspire you to live today and not long for tomorrow. I hope these will invoke you to hang onto memories and to live your life knowing it is about loving and building memories.

Some will also involve my family and the times we share together. I love being with my wife and five children, I search for adventure I can have with them. So some sharings will involve our times together. I hope you will join us as together we share Times Well Spent.

Pete