Arnold buys a Trolling Motor

It had been a while since I’d dared to venture onto the water with Arnold. Faithful readers of past experiences concerning Arnold and a boat will remember the many near death occurrences as we navigated the local lakes and waterways in pursuit of a fish or two. You may also recall that alcohol was, predictably, a factor.

It started with a phone call. “I got me a brand new Minn Kota trolling motor,” Arnold exclaimed. I could hear the excitement in his voice.
“What was wrong with your old one?” I ask.

“Well, nothing until my son tried to drive the boat on the trailer while the trolling motor was still down.”(Ah, ha. Let the record show that Arnold’s catastrophes do not always happen while I’m around, just most of the time.)

“This one is a doozy. It has this feature that will keep the boat within five feet of where you tell it to stay.”

“Bull."

“No, no. It will. Or so they claim. We got to try it out.”

This I had to see. We loaded up, stocked the ice chest with beer (of course), and took a couple fishing poles to Lake Skiatook.

It was nippy out, the wind from the north, but the sun was shining and we were blessed with a rare phenomena in Oklahoma, clear skies with only ten miles per hour wind, well maybe 15.  Of course, we could have simply motored out a few hundred yards or so, dropped the new trolling motor, checked it out, and then have a few brewskies. But no. Arnold drops the hammer on the big motor and we head into the wind to try and locate some underwater structure on his fish finder. Why? I have no idea as Arnold didn’t intend to fish it anyway.

It’s time for the big test. Arnold throws out an orange float with a lead anchor on it. This will be our point of reference. We lower the trolling motor and Arnold hauls out yet another feature of his new toy, a remote control. Yes, a remote, just like the one for your TV. Lord, lord, what will they think of next?

Arnold punches some buttons. The Minn Kota comes to life. And damned if it didn’t do as claimed. Well, maybe not five feet, but close enough. As we drifted downwind, the thing would power up, change heading, turn the boat around, and take us right back to our little orange marker. Amazing. We sat in the back of the boat, relaxing with beers in hand, and marveled at the technology.

With most people, that would be the end of the story. Not with Arnold. He decides we might as well fish a little since we’re there and heads up a narrow creek lined with dead trees. No, we didn’t sink the boat on a stump but we did run aground on a sandbar. It took a while, but a few anxious minutes later, we were able to pull ourselves free with the motor and not have to jump in and push. Did I mention the water temp was 55 degrees? I know this because the trolling motor told me so.

Arnold does catch one little bass, but that was it. We were out of beer and decide to call it quits and head for the ramp. By now the wind has risen to the more familiar rate of 20-25 miles an hour. Lots of waves, a very rough and bumpy ride, but that does not deter Captain Arnold and we speed across the lake with all the power the 150 horse Mercury can muster. That is until the brand new fancy and very intelligent Minn Kota trolling motor got a case of the dumb ass and shook loose from its mount, flopping into the water while the boat was doing a good 50 mph or so. There was a loud thump as a huge splash of cold water drenched the boat. Oh no! For a moment, I’d thought we’d torn the motor from the mount, to die a watery death at the bottom of the lake. No. The Minn Kota hung on. Arnold checks the shaft for odd angles, but all appears well.

All in all, it was a good outing. The sun was bright, birds were singing, and nobody died.

Next time, we’ll take more beer.

 

The Search for the Scarlet Tanager

Scarlet Tanager: it sounds like something you might order at a bar in Cancun, but in fact happens to be the name of strikingly beautiful bird. The male, in breeding colors of brilliant red with black wings, is about seven inches long with a wingspan of 11 inches or so.  Some of you local Alert Readers may be familiar with the more common Summer Tanager, not at all unusual in Oklahoma, particularly in the, well…summer.

 For years, I’ve been aching for a chance to photograph the Scarlet but it was not to be. Oh, there were sightings, or so I’d heard, just down the road in the Ancient Forest Preserve. But the bird remained elusive to these old eyes, nary a glimpse much less an image. And so it was when I read about a place called High Island in Texas where the Scarlet is not rare but downright common in the month of April, I had to go.

High Island, Texas is on a tall salt dome on the Bolivar Peninsula at the extreme eastern end of Galveston County. Its thirty-eight-foot rise above sea level makes High Island the highest point on the Gulf of Mexico. Its wooded areas are unlike anything elsewhere on the upper Texas coast and provide a natural refuge for migrating birds working their way north.

My first day at High Island was dark and overcast; nothing like what the weather boys had predicted when I left home. So what else is new? Nobody can predict weather in the spring. The Audubon Society manages four refuges here, one of which is called the Boy Scout Woods, and that’s where I started my pursuit of the elusive Scarlet. Just inside the gate stood, of all things to see in the woods, a grandstand, for the sole purpose of watching water drip to see what birds were attracted to it. The grandstand was at full capacity. Whoa, this was some serious watching going on here. I stood at one end, watched the drip, drip, drip for a while, saw a few birds, no Scarlet, and moved on.

But on the very first trail, high in a tree, a flash of red. YES! At last, a good look. The problem was, I had a 400 mm lens, hand held, and the bird was a good 30 yards away. Here, let me just say that a 7 inch bird, at that distance, bobbing on a twig in 15 mph wind on a dark overcast day, is not an easy subject. I grabbed two quick frames and whoof, the bird flew away. A quick review of the LCD screen confirmed my fear, not sharp, not sharp at all. ARRGGGGHHHH! Surely there would be other more photographer friendly opportunities, but nooooo. It would be the only Scarlet Tanager I would see for three more days.

One of the events that High Island is famous for is the so called “fall out”. This is the rare phenomena where a weather front from the north moves in with falling temps and high winds, effectively halting the bird migration. The birds, exhausted from fighting the wind and cold, land at the first wooded spot they see–High Island–and stop to rest, maybe have a drink or two. My plans were to leave the next morning, but after watching the Weather Channel that night, I changed my mind. The prediction (there’s that prediction thing again) was that the temperature would drop to 58 degrees overnight with rain and 15-25 mph wind out of the north. Hey, are we talking fall out or what? I made a new reservation.

This time, the weather folks were right. The rain, the cold, the wind, all happened just as they said it would. I was at High Island at first light. So was half of Houston. The parking lot, only dotted with cars the day before, was packed, with the overflow stretching down the road for a hundred yards or more. The word was out. Damn birders.

I had a spot in mind. It was a mulberry tree just a short walk from the parking lot where several species were observed the day before, enjoying the fruit; Indigo Bunting, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and Eastern Kingbird, to name a few. Guess what other bird loves mulberries? Hee,hee, you guessed it.

But someone had beaten me to the tree. A guy in typical birder/photographer apparel–vest, floppy hat, long-sleeved shirt with pants tucked inside his socks, binoculars, and a camera– was staring intently into the branches. I quietly asked him if he had seen any Scarlet Tanagers.

“Yes, he said, enthusiastically, his eyes bright with excitement. “Not more than a few minutes ago.”

Hoo Boy.

But the guy was like a Jack Russell Terrier with a squirrel up a tree. Round and round the tree he went, never stopping, poking his lens between the branches, effectively scaring the bejesus out of any bird that had any inkling of landing for a quick berry or two. I watched, I waited, hoping the guy would give up and move on. Didn’t happen. That’s when I spotted a Scarlet Tanager amidst a very thick tree, the branches so dense, a photo was impossible. I could see the poor bird was starving for a mulberry. I wanted to tell the guy, “Hey dumb shit, get the hell out of there and quit scaring the birds.” But sensing that particular comment would not fit within the Birders Rules of Etiquette, I tried a different approach.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m rather new at this but I was thinking, maybe if we backed away from the tree a bit, perhaps the birds would be less fearful in their approach.”

The man looked at me and blinked his eyes like a bullfrog in a hailstorm. “Yeah, he said. “Okay.” and went right on with his manic maneuvers, flitting around and poking between the branches with his point and shoot.

The Scarlet Tanager, bless his brave little heart, said hell with it and made a dash for the tree. I had the camera set to six frames per second and got off three quick shots, only one of which was decent before the Scarlet said Screw this. This ain’t the only mulberry tree in town, and left for parts unknown.

The fall out? Didn't happen. Not that I could tell anyway. I guess birds don't always follow the rules.

All in all, it was good outing. Got a few new photos, enjoyed the fresh Gulf air, even saw an alligator or two. I would make one small suggestion to the Audubon Society. Have one day for birders and one day for photographers, maybe alternate days. Let’s face it, the two species do not mix well. Violators would be banned from High Island. Seems fair to me.

 

 

 

 

 

Losing It

We’ve all done it, lost our glasses, our cell phone, our car keys, the remote, a wallet, or sometimes, temporarily, a kid or two. I’ve noticed that age is a factor in losing things. The older you are the more items you tend to misplace and misplaced sounds much less drastic than lost as in the ship was lost with all hands. All you know is that it wasn’t where you thought it was. And if you find it, it wasn’t really lost was it? Out of sight perhaps or absent without leave, but surely not…lost.

In my recent case, it was the checkbook. I had the bank record of where I’d written the last check but that was 20 days ago and when the man who just finished some tree work for me wanted to be paid, no checkbook. Luckily, I found another pad of new checks but where on earth was that familiar blue cover and its precious contents?

The customary location for safekeeping was, of course, barren of checkbooks. Secondary sites were scrutinized; the top of the dresser, jeans pockets, jacket pockets, the car I was in when the last check was written (at least I think that was the vehicle I was in.) You see, the longer you think about it, the harder you try to remember, the more the mind starts playing evil little tricks. Where exactly, if anywhere, did you visit after writing that last check; the grocery, a Wal-Mart, maybe the liquor store? Think! Think!

The search began, cursory at first, after all, it has to be here somewhere, not far from its regular home base, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? You pat pockets, run your hand behind the cushions, look under the couch, question the Missus, give the evil eye to the cats ( oh, they’re quite capable of knocking items from shelves and dressers you know), check the magazine rack, the trash can, the bed, but no.

I go to the web and the online banking site. Whew! No bad guys have used the account, not yet anyway. I decide to call on my friendly banker and check my options for lost checkbooks. A very serious looking lady explained, “Well Sir, you have ten lost checks. I can put a stop on them for $30 a check.”

"WHAT! Three hundred bucks? You’ve got to be …… Surely, there’s another solution."

“Or, we can cancel the account and set you up with a new one.”

Hmm. That was an option all right, but not without consequences. There was auto bill pay and auto deposits to deal with. Geez.

“One other thing we could do is to freeze the account for ten days. This means no one can use it, not even you without personally talking to us again.”

I chose door number three and went home with renewed determination to find the damn checkbook. Since it was late in the day and happy hour was at hand, I opted to continue the search come sunrise. I would go through the cars and the house, room by room, inch by inch, searching every niche and cranny, no matter how unlikely, until I was absolutely positive that any area larger than 3” by 6” by ¼ “ was devoid of little blue folders.

With sun shining and birds singing to welcome the new day, I grabbed a flashlight and began my quest. Hoping that I had not yet reached the early stages of dementia, I reasoned that the car was the last known place of checkbook occupancy and started there. Besides, it was a smaller area to search than a whole house.

 I backed out of the garage for better light and access and started in; driver’s side pockets, under the seat, sun visor, console box, nada. Moved to the passenger side, nothing on the floor, nothing in back, checked the glove box for the fourth time, and …hold it! HOLD IT! There, in the back, on edge, vertical against the rear of the box, now revealed in the glare of the spotlight, a familiar blue cover.  The lost (I mean misplaced) was found. Keep in mind that the Missus and I had reached in that very glove box, removed the contents, and examined them piece by piece. Not once, not twice, but thrice, yet always in the semi- darkness of the garage and without a flashlight. With the dark blue against the black, well, you can easily understand how it happened, right? Just one of those things. Could happen to anyone. Getting old had nothing to do with it.

That doesn’t mean I’m ruling out the cats as the root of the problem, not yet.