Something About Fishing (part two)

The Trinity River

Through the year that followed my first catch on a fly rod, I spent at least one day every weekend somewhere on a river casting, trying to hone the skill. So many different casts, each having its own unique purpose. A narrow spot amongst some trees, use a D-cast. A pretty tight spot with trees all around, a slingshot cast will do the trick. A super tight spot, with trees hugging you like your mom before the first day of school, go find another spot, there are fish somewhere else on the river, I promise. Windy, cast with the wind, and do not ever take your eyes off the hook! Mother Nature likes to play tricks on fly fishermen and sometimes a sacrifice of blood is required. She will give a light kiss of wind at just the right moment causing the fly to whip far behind the back, so as it starts forward it catches your ear perfectly. I am not sure how many times I have done this, but it never becomes pleasant.

Getting flies, artificial bait, was a bit more of a challenge. Again I was faced with the fact that fly fishing just wasn’t that big in Texas, so getting gear was proving extremely difficult. This was before the era of online shopping, and driving all the way to Oklahoma didn’t exactly appeal to me. Then Old Man Tom from work said, “Try ‘Cabela’s Sporting Goods’ or ‘Bass Pro Shop.” I looked at him confused and responded, “What’s that?” The 69 year old man wearing jean overalls, a white t-shirt and his grey hair whisking like flames from under his hard hat, smiled at me then ordered me to roll up the tools and get in the truck. I looked at my watch, it was barely two o’clock and the work day was supposed to end at five, but it clearly wasn’t up for discussion. I got in Tom’s truck, another thing that wasn’t a suggestion, and he put in an old Dolly Parton cassette tape, I couldn’t help but laugh at how excited this old man was getting over a sporting goods store.

We turned on to a street, and I couldn’t help but notice the name, “Bass Pro Drive.” “It has its own street?” I remember thinking. Then we pulled into the parking lot, and my eyes widened. “Wow,” I muttered through an exhaling breath. There were an assortment of large fishing boats, for sale, all through the lot, and the structure before me must have been where Santa Claus vacationed. We parked the vehicle and Tom and I both were out of the truck almost before it came to a stop. We walked inside and it was a toy store for outdoor folks. I was overwhelmed, I gave Tom a big ole hug, like he had just gifted me the store. Then he said, “Don’t thank me, you’ll never have extra money again.” Inside the store were Bass boats, a whole house sized section for hunting, another for fishing, and upstairs a section specifically for fly fishing. If you have never been to a Bass Pro Shop, stop reading this, find the one nearest you and go. You can hug me later. Thanks Tom, you were right, but thanks.

My special hat

About a year later, work started to become more stressful, I was now leading my own large projects, and the expectations were high. I would still carve out at least half a day on Sundays to drive to one of the tributaries, known as forks, of the Trinity River and do some fishing. I would fill a backpack with my box of flies, a couple of bottles of water or a thermos of coffee depending on the season, a pack of cigarettes, and a six pack of beer. Then affix my reel to my rod, and thread the eyelets with the fishing line; look at what type of bug seemed to be dominating the sky, then find a fly pattern that matched, to attach to my line. Placing my special fishing hat on my head I would light up a cigarette, open a beer, don my backpack, turn toward the fork, and begin strolling along the bank up stream till I came to a spot I liked; normally the first spot I saw after finishing the beer, and cigarette. If the water wasn’t too deep or cold, and the situation dictated it necessary, I would walk out into the water in order to facilitate a good cast. It was during one of these times, it occured to me, I hadn’t caught anything in weeks, but yet here I stand casting a fly I had no intention of changing, in a spot I had no intention of leaving, and if honest with myself, I had no desire to truly catch anything. It was then I stopped, looked around and realized, all this time I thought I was here trying to catch the big one; when in reality, it was nature trying to catch me. I sat down on the bank, opened another beer, and just listened to water running over the rocks, the birds chirping and the crickets playing their tune. I took a deep breath and let it out. Something happened just then, the stress eased, and everything seemed to balance. I sat on the bank until dusk, then mozzied back to my truck. I remember sleeping significantly well that night. This became a ritual much as Church is for other people, I could clear my mind of the week, and reset for the one following. Every now and then I would be more determined to catch something, and normally I would, but generally it was just to get out, spend some time with the Mother of us all, and heal the wounds left from the whip of work.

Through the next few years, I would always tell my boss I could work till noon on Sunday if I had to work, but I had other commitments. He wouldn’t argue; so at noon I would leave, stop, grab some lunch while deciding where to go, then head off. Sometimes I would catch something while half in a daze, and while always welcome it was no longer a requirement. Now I would just listen to the words we are often too busy to hear, and appreciate that there is just something about fishing.

My first Crappie on a fly

To be continued…

NASA and SpaceX make History: Good News for a Change

NASA and SpaceX Make History: Some Good News For a Change

For those who may not have known or were unable to catch it on television, Sunday, November 15, 2020, NASA and SpaceX launched Dragon-2 space vehicle riding on the SpaceX rocket Falcon-9. Its mission; to ferry four astronauts, three from NASA and one from the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency, to the International Space Station.

What makes this so historic? For the first time, international astronauts will be given a ride to the ISS via a vehicle created by a private company. SpaceX provides the Falcon-9 reusable rocket and the Dragon-2 SpaceCraft, while NASA and JAXA provide the passengers.

In 2011, NASA ended the space launch program, and ever since, American Astronauts had to catch a ride with the Russians to the International Space Station. So with this launch, America is back in the space exploration business.

As mentioned above, the crew is composed of three NASA Astronauts and one JAXA astronaut. Commanding the flight is Michael S.Hopkins, a colonel in the newly created Space Force, prior to being selected by NASA to command the Dragon Crew, nicknamed “Resilience,” Mike had served 28 years in the Air Force and has 166 days in space. Piloting the first operational flight of the Dragon is a rookie astronaut Victor Jerome Glover. Though he is a rookie to NASA, he is no rookie to flight. He is a commander in the United States Navy, a pilot of the F/A-18, and a graduate of the Air Force Test Pilot School. Next up is Shannon Walker, an American physicist; her first trip to the ISS was in 2010 onboard a Russian Soyuz TMA-19; she has spent over 163 days in space. Lastly is Soichi Noguchi, a Japanese aeronautical engineer, and JAXA astronaut. His first mission to space was aboard the STS-114 in 2005. It was NASA’s first “return to flight” mission after the disaster of Columbia.

The new rocket and capsule design are truly amazing. It invigorates the imagination with futuristic style, and touch screen computers for interior controls give an impression of science fiction. With newly crafted space suits and a crew of flight preppers that look like space ninjas, it makes you realize this isn’t the space agency of the 1960s or even the early 2000s.

While watching the event on NASA live TV, the excitement truly began to build as the count grew nearer to those iconic last 10 seconds. I could imagine how Americans felt watching Apollo 11 getting ready to launch to the Moon. Lingering in my mind was the notion that this was the first step toward revisiting the Moon and then on to Mars and beyond.

The importance of the reusable Falcon-9 rocket is the significant reduction of cost in space flight. Consider the idea of burning your car every time you got to work, then carpooling home. That is essentially what NASA had been doing this whole time. Worst then that, Americans were footing the bill. Now with the Falcon-9, we can reduce the cost and turnaround time to the next launch. In the near future, SpaceX is hoping to have a turnaround time of just over 24 hours. The only cost will be required maintenance and fuel.

The Dragon-2 crew capsule is equally as impressive. The interior is sleek, an excellent combination of white, black, and grey. With touchscreen computers, it is entirely autonomous. In fact, after a few hours of post-launch checks, the passengers have an 8 hour sleeping period scheduled, while “Resilience” pilots itself toward the ISS. In addition to these features is a full array of safety systems to keep the astronauts from suffering a terminal fate. If a Critical System Code alerts, the Dragon-2 will jettison the crew capsule away from the engines, engage the maneuvering thrusters to orient itself, deploy parachutes at a specific altitude, and bring the crew safely back down to earth.

Inside manned test launch, May 2020

With the launch right on schedule, the crew departed pad 39A, the same launch pad used for the Apollo 11 launch, at 7:27 P.M. Eastern time. As the control room began counting down from ten, I found myself counting down with them. A real feeling of American pride filled my soul, and a sense of excitement for the future put a childlike smile on my face. About 7 minutes after launch, Dragon separated from Falcon-9, and at about 10 mins after launch, Falcon-9 touched back down at a landing pad aboard a SpaceX drone ship at sea, named, “Just Read the Instructions.” At the same time this was happening, the crew aboard the Dragon Spacecraft, “Resilience,” was settling into orbit around the earth, waiting to link up with the ISS in 27 hours.

Unmanned Dragon docking with ISS

At about 9:30 P.M. 16 November 2020, “Resilience” will dock with the ISS delivering its cargo safely, bringing an end to this phase of the mission.

Texas-Style Spicy Soup

Texas-style spicy vegetable soup 

Growing up in Texas, there were a few things everyone knows almost from birth; first, Texas is the best state in the Union. Hell, I know folks who still call it the Republic of Texas and refuse to associate her with the rest of those Yankee states. Secondly, the only time it is okay to assume something is when you are assuming a Texan is carrying at least one firearm. Heck, it’s okay to assume a person’s dog is either carrying an extra weapon, is a trained weapon, or is carrying the extra ammo, in case there is a need to fight off a band of invading foreigners again. Lastly, but not least important, CHILI DOES NOT HAVE BEANS!!! 

Before any of you go off saying, “Well, I like beans in my chili.” That’s fine, but don’t call it chili; it’s now spicy vegetable soup. I know the next statement too. “Well, who made Texans the authority on chili?” Well, considering that chili was invented in San Antonio, Texas, I would say that ends that argument. Early in Texas history, a group of women referred to as the “Chili Queens” had set up an outdoor, brick oven, cabana-style restaurant. They specialized in chili-con-carne, literally translating into chili with meat, and served it to cowboys, soldiers, or anyone stopping by for a bowl. Hence, chili was born. In fact, as soon as you add anything to the chili, it picks up a new name. Need proof; add macaroni to chili, it is now goulash, add Fritos, and it becomes Frito pie, add beans, and it becomes spicy vegetable soup. Heck, I myself like beans; that’s why as a good Texan, I don’t refer to it as chili, but Texas-style Spicy Vegetable Soup. 

Last night, Friday the thirteenth, I decided to make some Texas Style Spicy Vegetable Soup. My lady had made the suggestion the night before. We did have some venison (deer) chili meat and some wild hog pork sausage that needed cooking, plus all the other ingredients required to complete the task. I will share how I make it, plus some tips I picked up in my years of experience behind a stove or playing Sioux chef for my mother or siblings. No, you don’t have to use deer chili meat or pork sausage; hamburger meat will do just fine. 

Things you will need: 

• Large soup pot with a lid and wooden spoon or something to stir with
• 1-2 pounds of your choice of ground meat. (Depends on how meaty you like)
• 2 tablespoons of olive oil or bacon grease 
• 1-2 yellow onions (again, if you want more, put more) 
• 4 garlic cloves
• 3 tablespoons Chili powder
• 3 tablespoons Cumin
• 3 tablespoons Sugar
• 2 tablespoons Salt
• 3 tablespoons Pepper
• 4 tablespoons Tomato paste
• 1 can of diced tomatoes, drained
• 1 8 oz can of tomato sauce 
• 1 can of black beans, drained
• 2 cups of beef broth 
• Cayenne pepper (optional I leave this out and just add some to my bowl)
• 1-3 six-packs of preferred beer or other adult beverage 

This is just a good jumping-off point for first-timers not sure of their taste preferences. Things you might add are chopped bell peppers or chopped jalapeños. If you do, toss them in at the same time as the onions. Also, feel free to play with the amount of spices used; again, this is just the basics.

Alright, first crack open a beer and take a sip. Then make sure you have all the ingredients; the last thing you want is to get knee-deep into cooking and realize you’re missing something and have to make a mad dash to the store or try to substitute with ketchup or beer. Trust me, I am speaking from experience on this one. 

With that lined out, take another sip of beer, place the onion in the freezer, then the unpeeled garlic cloves in a mason jar with the lid on, or a jar with a good cover. What’s this sorcery, you ask. Placing the onion in the freezer for about ten to twelve minutes will cause the juices to pull into the membranes of the onion, and so, when you go to chop the onion, it won’t cause your eyes to water or cause a flashback to the gas chamber for my soldier audience.

With the unpeeled garlic in the mason jar, shake the hell out of it with the lid on. I mean, shake it like you’re trying to break the glass with the cloves. It will peel the cloves for you. I learned this from my oldest sister about two years ago, and it has been a game-changer. I use garlic cloves in just about every recipe, so this trick probably would have added three years to my life that I had otherwise spent standing over a trash can.

With your peeled garlic, mince two of the cloves and slice the other two. Now place the large pot over medium-high heat, and add the olive oil or bacon grease. While it heats, pull the onion out of the freezer and chop it up. I generally save half of what I chop for topping the soup after it’s done. Once the onion is chopped, add it and the garlic to the pot; let them cook for about 3-5 minutes or until lightly browned.

Get another beer while you wait. 

Now add in your meat, and with your wooden spoon or substitute stirrer, break the meat up and let cook about 5-7 minutes or until browned, occasionally stirring to mix the onions and garlic throughout. Take another sip.

Once browned, add the chili powder, cumin, sugar, tomato paste, salt, and pepper. Stir well, and guess what, take another sip. 

Let it come to a bit of a bubble, and then add the rest of the ingredients, mix well and allow it to go to a good boil. Might as well take another sip and replace the empty can in your hand with a full one. 

Once the soup is boiling, reduce the heat to medium-low and let it simmer uncovered for about 20-30 mins. Yes, you can take another sip.

Finally, turn the heat way down low and cover till ready to eat. In my personal opinion, the longer it sits, the better it’s going to taste, but after six beers, who really cares.

There you have it, ladies and gents, Texas-style spicy soup. I like to make cornbread with it, but that is your choice. If you try this and throw something strange in it, let me know. I’ll try anything once.

Something about Fishing (part one)

The Trinity River

I am not sure how old I was when I first started fishing: however, I remember precisely when I became addicted to the endless pursuit of a perfect strike and hook set. 

It was early summer in 1991; I was ten and ¾, so basically, I was 11. My father, a friend of his, Charlie Freeman, and I were out at a hunting property near Hico, Texas. Nothing was in season, but we were shooting the .22 caliber rifle and fishing the little stock tank. They were drinking Budweiser, and I had some “real” Dr. Pepper. After we ran through the ammo and cleaned the rifle, I grabbed my rod and reel and tore off to the stock tank. 

Okay, I’ll stop here for a second to catch up some of my readers on the terminology above. A “stock tank” is just a large water storage area made out of dirt and rock, built by ranchers to hold water, so their cattle can drink. They are often “stocked” with an assortment of fish to keep the ponds relatively aerated and living. “Real” Dr. Pepper was, as my father had told me, Dr. Pepper made with real sugar, bottled not canned, and was purchased at the first Dr. Pepper bottling plant located in Dublin, Texas.

Alright, let us continue. 

By the time I started fishing, it was late morning, and the temperature dial was steadily climbing toward that 100-degree mark. But, never underestimate the determination of a pretty much 11-year-old boy with a fishing pole.

I was using a large spinnerbait lure and making long casts out to the center of the tank, then reeling back in at different speeds, hoping to piss off a Largemouth Bass enough to cause a strike. After an hour or so with zero success, other than clearing the pond of moss and weeds, Charlie calls out, “Toss it under that tree to the left.”

Without delay, I did as instructed, and sure as hell, I caught the tree! With a few expletives whispered under my breath, I stood there bewildered at my current predicament. It wasn’t my first tree problem, but this time the lure was dangling precariously over the water on an extremely small limb of a mesquite tree. I had learned from a previous tree climbing experience, mesquite trees have thorns; so I figured, “the heck with it” and gave the line a quick tug, and much to my surprise, it did a couple of flips, unwrapping from the limb, and dropped right into the water.

Again, I stood there, bewildered at what I just witnessed. “I can’t believe that worked,” I thought. No time for self-reflection, though; the line on my reel was humming away, causing the drag to sing. I jerked back on the rod and set the hook, and the fight was on. My rod tip bent significantly enough to cause Charlie and my Dad to come over and watch the event.

Almost as if cued by a director, the creature made its unveiling to the audience. It broke through the surface of the water with a fury. It was at this moment I uttered my first words of profanity in front of an adult, “Holy shit!” I said.

My father responded instantly with, “What was that?”

I responded equally as quickly with, “No time to talk important CHit going on here!” He and Charlie laughed, so I figured I was in the clear. Time to focus! It only counts as a catch if you land it, and this whale was far from caught.

The fight continued long enough for Charlie to go over and replace their now empty beers; as he returned, I was wading out in the water to free the beast. I stride out of the tank, fish in my right hand, pole in my left, and my chest extending three feet before me. Charlie took my rod, and I removed the lure from the fish’s mouth. I stood there in front of Charlie, and my Dad, holding my trophy. No photos were taken, but a photo could not have captured the moment well enough anyway.

That night around the fire, I wasn’t just a spectator to the stories; I now had my own. Charlie and Dad sat there, listened, laughed and engaged me in conversation. I was now not just my father’s son, but one of the guys.

It was at that moment though my real addiction began. I would seek that feeling feverishly, and although I would go on to catch many more fish, none would compare to that moment, until my mid-thirties, and then that feeling would come rushing back, and I would be that almost 11-year-old boy again. 

Around the age of twelve, I saw a movie that would change my fishing quests forever, “A River runs Through It.” The movie introduced me to a new fishing style, fly fishing. The beauty of a fly fishing cast is what captured my imagination. It showed that there could be more to fishing than just throwing a lure in the water in reeling it in. There was an art to fly fishing. Perfecting the cast in order to present the fly in just the right manner, so it sits on top of the water coaxing a fish to rise then strike. This gave casting as much enjoyment as catching a fish.

From “A River Runs Through It”

However, I wouldn’t begin fly fishing till around early spring of 2002; there just wasn’t much of a demand for fly fishing gear in Fort Worth, Texas, so getting my hands on some never presented itself. Now twenty-two years old, I was working as a plumber, and every payday, I would go to either a local home improvement store and buy a new tool or go to a sporting goods store and cruise the fishing aisles looking for something I couldn’t live without. Sometimes, if I didn’t have bills or other expenses to pay, I would do both. On a Friday night, prior to hitting the bar for the weekly gathering of friends to play some pool and shed our shoulders of complaints built up from the workweek, I stopped by an “Academy Sporting Goods” store. While roaming the fishing section, killing time, I turned a corner, and hanging there before me was a box with the words, “The Scientific Angler, Fly fishing combo pack.” I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, my hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and a huge smile started to creep across my face. I looked down the aisle to make sure someone else wasn’t about to steal my prize, and with hands trembling in excitement I picked up the box. Equally as shocking was the price tag; it was only fifty dollars. I nearly ran to the checkout line and had the money out before I arrived in front of the teller. I pulled out my cell phone and called one of my friends, telling them, “something’s come up man, I’m not going to make it out.” I got in my truck, and on the drive home, I called my boss and told him something had come up and I couldn’t work this weekend after all.

I got to my apartment, poured myself a drink, and unwrapped my present as though it was Christmas morning. I would spend almost the entire night tying knots, getting my fly reel set up with the backing, floating line, and a leader. Keep in mind this was before the YouTube era, so there weren’t any videos I could watch to assist me with setting up my new toy. Luckily, the box came with some decent information; it also came with an assortment of flies to use as artificial bait. About two o’clock in the morning, I was ready but had to wait for the sun. I went ahead and got dressed, thought about where I would go fishing, and imagined what I might catch. I looked down at my watch, and it was now half-past two o’clock. I remember thinking, “damn sun, can’t it hurry things up a bit.” I tried to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t let me. Finally, it was six; I got my gear loaded in the truck, and headed out. I stopped to get some coffee, then headed to the Trinity River. I sat on the bank, drinking my coffee, waiting for the fish to start hitting bugs on the surface. I stepped out into the shallows of the river, and just like that, I found out casting wasn’t something I could just do. I spent the entire day learning to cast. Through trial and error, I finally figured out a cast that looked okay and got the line out. I didn’t catch anything though, except my ear and the middle of my back. A few weeks later I would catch my fist fish on a fly rod, and though it was exhilarating it still wasn’t quite the same.

This would be the beginning of a new journey in the fishing side of life. Through this time, I would learn, we do not go fishing just to catch fish, but for a deeper reason. I would also realize there is just something about fishing.

To be continued…

When Soldiers say Goodbye

In movies, we often see the tear-filled moments when soldiers leave on deployment or are re-deploying from a mid-tour leave; when watching the soldiers leaving, the loved ones are usually crying while the warfighter remains calm and stoic, giving his loved ones a rock to lean on. What about after that; what about the time between the car and the plane? Whether it is sitting on the flight line waiting to board for a first deployment or sitting in the International Terminal of an airport to re-deploy from mid-tour leave on the tenth deployment, those minutes can feel like the longest minutes in life.

If you haven’t read my previous blogs, then stop reading this one and do it! I am kidding, kind of. To give you some of those who haven’t some background, I am a veteran of the United States Army Infantry. I have two combat deployments, one to Iraq and another to Afghanistan. Each was a yearlong with a fifteen-day leave in the middle. I have personally experienced the moments I mentioned above, and so with Veteran’s Day around the corner, I thought I would share a little insight into those unspoken minuets.

Now obviously, I cannot speak for every soldier, so if you are a soldier reading this and thinking, “That’s not how I felt at all.” Then send me an email telling me how you felt, then write your own blog.
The night before, a deployment is generally spent on the phone talking to significant others, family members, or close friends, saying things like T -8 hours, thought I would call and check-in. A few buddies and I went out to dinner, laughed, and joked about the probable shit show the next day was going to be like, while also allowing our minds a few moments of peace before the realization of what was happing had time to set. After dinner, we went back to our now sterile rooms, in the barracks, to get some rest. I had said all my in-person goodbyes while on pre-deployment leave, so I just made some calls to check-in. After several beers and completing my calls, it was now just me and my half-drunken brain alone together. I can assure you most of my unit did not sleep a wink that night. The anticipation of finally putting our training to the test, the anxiety of the unknown, the curiosity of whether we are as good as we think we are, and the excitement of going on a life-changing journey were all a mixed cocktail guaranteed to ensure a sleepless night. While on the phone, though, none of those emotions showed through. No, I couldn’t show hesitations or doubt. I had to be confident and sure that I was the best, and no other fighting force could stand against my guys and me.

My Buddy Big H catching some ZZZs before boarding the Buses to the Airfield.

When we boarded the busses that would take us to the flight line the next morning, there was an uneasy murmur amongst the passengers. No one was really talking, just some deep sighs, the hum of earphones buzzing with music, and stares out the window. The mind was back and now sober with more challenging thoughts. It sinks in, “I am an infantryman; I am not going over there to play video games and experience the happy ending seen at the end of a movie.” No, your mind pierces through those joyful thoughts with the unadulterated truth, life rarely has a happy ending; that’s why we go to movies to get away from real life. So my mind starts giving every possible finish at breathtaking speed, and most of the endings were not great. There are worst things than death, and the mind can reveal all of them.

When we arrived at the Air Field terminal, we put all our duffle bags and rucksacks on pallets and shuffled through a corridor of screens where we received our last-minute shots. Things like Anthrax boosters, Penicillin, Small Pox, and so on. We moved closer to the flight line with every step, and every step drew us nearer to our unknown fate. Then we emerged into this wide-open waiting area where we could see our rides sitting on the Tarmac. Two huge 747s were sitting there with their noses pointing towards us like boatsmen eager to carry us to the underworld. Now volunteers were selected and ordered to the flight line to load baggage onto the plane. I remember thinking, “Really, we have to load our own luggage; this must be what it’s like to have to dig your own grave.” Just when the hour of departure was arriving, we were notified of a delay; we now had 12 more hours to wait. We would break up into our familiar cliques and pass the time. Finally, we boarded, and the medics passed out the Ambien, and a few minutes later, I was asleep. By the time I woke up, we had landed in Germany, and all the anxiety had passed.

Fast forward about four months, and I am going through an abbreviated version of the above events. I was returning to Iraq after a mid-tour leave, and my father and brother were dropping me off at Dallas, Fort Worth International Airport, Terminal D. We had a going-away party the day before and had once again had the goodbyes. However, only my father and brother took me to the airport because other family members felt it would be too hard to repeat goodbye, and deep down, I was glad they had made that decision. My strength was waning, and I was fearful my face might soon start to show the anxiety building. I exited my brother’s Chevy Suburban grabbed my bag, hugged my brother; I could hear him trying to hold back tears, unsuccessfully; I told him, “I’ll be alright; it’s going to take a lot more than a guy in a dress and flip flops to kill me.” He chuckled, gave one last squeeze, and let go, then turned and walked to the driver’s seat. I turned to my father, he shook my hand, told me to keep my head down, and that he loved me, which may have been the first time I had ever hear him say that. I responded with, “It’s hard to see the enemy with my head down.” With that, he simply smiled, but he knew what I was doing. I was lightening the mood to project calm, put them at ease, and mask my nerves. I turned away from them and headed to the escalator to go up to the departure desk. About halfway up, I turned and watched as my brother and father drove away, feeling alone, nervous, and once again anxious. Only now I knew what I was returning to, and I didn’t really want to go back. To this day, part of me thinks if my brother and father had touched the brakes, I would have run back down the escalator and jumped back in. Still, I had a sacred duty, and I knew that there was no walking away from it, so when I got to the top of the escalator, I marched to the gate counter and handed the lady my orders, I could feel my legs shaking, but at least my hands weren’t. She gave me a smile and pointed me towards the chairs; I went and sat down, and once again, I was waiting.

As I sat there, more and more soldiers began to show up, although none I knew personally. About an hour before departure, high school students from Aledo High School arrived to show us off. While I understand their intentions were good, but I must admit it wasn’t very well received. They were asking questions like, “Are you excited?” or, “What is it like over there?” Just when I had settled in with my anxiety, I had to throw the mask back on and try to answer their questions with confidence and pride. Once they left, the feelings of being alone and missing my family came rushing back in. I didn’t throw up as it shows so often in the movies, but I did start to shake and had to hold on to my belt to keep the shaking in my hands from showing. Finally, we boarded the plane, and like a light switch, those emotions were turned off, and I was able to focus on the future objectives, and before we took off, I was already asleep.
From the things I heard while in the military, some of the most frequent times for soldiers to go AWOL, absent without leave, is right before a deployment or right before re-deploying from mid-tour leave. I have not yet seen these moments talked about or shown from a soldier’s point of view in movies or other media types. It is possible because it is something soldiers rarely talk about, either because we forget about them or don’t want to show the world our moments of weakness. But here it is as I experienced it these two times, which the other times were relatively the same. So this Veteran’s Day, when you see a veteran and go to thank them for their service, keep this in mind; for some, the most challenging thing was when, as a soldier, they had to say goodbye.

Packed and Headed to Afghan one last time.

About Me

I am from a big city with a small-town feel located in the north-central grasslands of Texas. Fort Worth is a town rich in history. Getting its start as a military outpost fighting against Indians, it would transition into one of the main stops for cowboys moving cattle from south Texas to Kansas. A little over a century after Fort Worth was born, I came into the world.

Summers in Texas are always on the warm side, but in 1980 records were set. August seventh would be one of those record-breaking days, and that night I was born. I came to a relatively large family, with two sisters and two brothers. I was the last of five, and quite the surprise. My siblings ranged in age at the time of my birth, starting at seventeen down to thirteen, leaving them with a new sack of potatoes to lug around everywhere they went.

My early years were filled with discovery as it is with most children of that era. Nintendo was new, and televisions still had knobs and bunny ears, so the last place I wanted to be was inside. From about five till near seven years of age, we lived directly across the street from a railroad track. Not a broad street either, a road barely large enough for two cars at a time. Across the street, along the bottom of the railroad track, was a little creek that the neighborhood kids and I would often fish for crawfish; on the other side of the railroad track was a park and playground we would sometimes visit if we could get an older kid to go with us. I often think about how many times we would place coins on the tracks to have the trains smash them, or the time I caught a bucket full of crawfish and put them in the bathtub to keep as pets. Between the trains and my mother, it is truly amazing. I am alive to write this down today.

Sometime in 1987, we moved six or seven blocks away, and though I could still see the tracks when I looked down the street, it was out of my allowed roaming range. So the friends that I had made I said by to and a new set came into the picture. I also was starting my first year of schooling. Because my birthday was later in the year, my parents decided to have me begin a year later than usual. I would attend Saint Andrew’s Catholic School, where I would learn the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and that not all children are my friends. Sometimes a bloody nose is needed to settle things out.

I would leave Saint Andrew’s and enter McLean Middle School, where I spent 6th through 8th grade, mostly uneventful it was more of a transition to prepare me for the real excitement of high school. Most of the time spent in middle school, I watched the clock so that my friends could hop on our bikes and ride around town till the sun went down and the street lights came on.

High school was a whole new beast, though. The school I went to was huge, some 3,000 kids attended R.L. Paschal High School, and incoming freshmen were targets for graduating seniors for the first few weeks. The Saturday night at the end of the second or third week is when the Howdy Dance took place. A come to peace moment when hostilities between freshmen and seniors came to an end, and first-year students could breathe a little easier. The Friday before this, however, was freshmen jack-up day. I can only describe this as a day of a hunt, where seniors are the predators, and freshmen are the prey. The rest of high school was pretty average, I guess. When not in a class, I was learning the art of social gatherings, balancing work and fun, and trying to shed a boy’s skin and emerge into a man. I worked at Colonial Cafeteria throughout high school, which unveiled a joy for cooking I had not known before and gave me my own money that allowed new freedoms.

After graduating, I went to work for Geep Mechanical, a construction company that specialized in plumbing, welding, heating, and air conditioning, as well as ductwork. I would fall under the plumbing side of things and work for them until 2006 when I moved to Manhattan, New York, for a little less than a year. Shortly after returning to Texas, I joined the United States Army as an infantryman. I’ll write more about those exploits at a later date.

That’s a little about me; there will be much more my readers will find out as time goes on, but I’ll leave it there for now.

The Great Outdoors

Hello everyone, I am Michael. If a person is going to create a blog about the great outdoors, he had better have some experience in the subject. To start my page about the beauty and hazards of the wilderness, I will give a little background about myself to show my humble qualifications to write on such a general topic.

First of all, I am Texan. Ok, that’s it enough said, correct?
Kidding, I did grow up in Texas though, spent my summers and some school weekends or holidays exploring this vast state with my dad and his friends. Whether it was hunting during the proper seasons, fishing any water hole big enough to get a hook wet, or just camping around a fire looking at stars, listening to the old guys tell stories, my outdoor experiences started young. I must admit, lots of learning the hard way, and though I am now 40 years old, I still bear a few scars from my youth. When I finally entered high school, and my dad gave me his car, my new found freedom opened the door to new adventures.

I know you are thinking, “spoiled brat, his dad gave him a car.” Guys, he gave it to me because no one else would buy it. It was a 1986 Nissan 200sx. I got it in 1996, and it was very rusted; it had a four-cylinder that I am pretty sure had a miss in one and low compression in the other, but hey, it got me where I needed to go, and the ladies didn’t care what kind of wheels I had they just liked that I had a set.

While in high school, I rode bulls and worked as a busboy at a local cafeteria. My sophomore year, I had gotten promoted to working on the serving line, and shortly after that ended up in the kitchen working as a baker. What does this have to with my experience in the great outdoors? I now had cash to blow on stuff like a tent, sleeping bags, fishing poles, tackle, oh, and most importantly, GAS! Oh, this will ruffle the feathers of some of my younger readers; my sophomore year fuel was only $0.90 a gallon. However, the minimum wage was also only $4.15 per hour, so it broke even. With some jingle in my jeans and an excellent co-Ed group of friends, hiking, camping, and fishing trips became a common occurrence when everyone’s work schedule allowed. Sometimes I would go off solo, head off somewhere, and spend a weekend on my own, letting Mother Nature tell me her secrets and show me there is more to life than work.

After high school, I began working as a plumber; I worked a lot of hours but also got paid quite well. With better pay and my own place, I could purchase better gear and go on bigger adventures. I would use long weekends or vacation time to head off to some new-to-me location and let the fresh air cleanse my soul. I rarely received much time off working as a plumber; however, I had many older gentlemen as coworkers, and they would help plan my next endeavor. These years took me to places in Oklahoma, New Mexico, Louisiana, Colorado, and some unique areas right here in Texas.

In 2007 life took me on another crazy turn. I joined the United States Army as an Infantryman, 11C for those curious types. Now 27 years old, I realized quickly soldiering is a young man’s work, and surprisingly 27 wasn’t considered a young man. I persevered through basic training where it became apparent the camping I had been doing wasn’t quite “roughing it” as I thought. Oh, and all that “hiking” I had been doing, haha yeah, no longer as impressed with myself as I had been. It wouldn’t end there in Fort Benning, Georgia; no, the army had much more in store for me. I received orders for my first duty station, Fort Drum, NY. For those unfamiliar, allow me to educate you on the joys of what is known as the “North Country.” Located an hour north of Syracuse, there was still snow under the trees when I arrived in mid-May, and the unit I became assigned to had a polar bear as their mascot. It became painfully clear long and cold winters lay ahead.

Fort Drum, New York is home to the 10th Mountain Light Infantry Division. It boasts a rich history of mountain combat and extreme cold weather survival. Sounds pretty awesome, right? When watching it on television, it is, but when actually training to be those elite soldiers, it’s miserable. I received my first lesson in cold-weather training in January of 2008. It was a clear early morning about 0500, 5:00 A.M, and a crisp -20 degrees. The unit loaded up our rucksacks with half a house, climbed into the back of a personnel carrier, and drove out to a training site. The trucks’ backs were not covered or heated, leaving me to believe I would die of hypothermia before ever getting to participate in the upcoming field training exercise. It was at this moment I sent up a most unusual prayer, “God, please have my deployment be to Iraq.” We conducted maneuvers for two weeks, working on drills ranging from linear ambushes to urban and mountain warfare. My company commander bestowed some resounding words to me that I have never forgotten, “McGarrey, if you think you’re good at something, try it in waist-deep snow; only then will you be able to call yourself a master.”

God would grant me my wish; less than a month later, I would receive orders to deploy to Iraq. I had received my baptism in ice; it was now time to receive it in the fire. I imagine God sitting up in heaven, hearing my request, and laughing hysterically. While Fort Drum regularly plummeted to -40 degree weather, Iraq tipped the scales at a blistering 125 degrees. For an entire year, I slept under the stars of the Iraq desert, surviving sand storms and watching for camel spiders were as important as keeping an eye out for hostiles.

I would return from Iraq with a new experience in desert survival and a change of duty station. I was going to the 101st Airborne Division, located in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. While with the mighty Screaming Eagles, I would have many more training events that would further add to my outdoor living experience. Through rain and snow, rarely do I recall training in nice weather. Sleeping to the sound of rain hitting my poncho tent became such normalcy that when it stopped raining, I would wake concerned I may have died in my sleep. While with the 101st, I deployed to Afghanistan, hiking the Himalayas was now something I could mark off the bucket list. My travels through Afghanistan would offer opportunities to camp in the mountains, often at altitudes over 12,000 feet. I understand it was a war zone, but some of the mountains’ views were truly breathtaking.

After returning from Afghanistan, I would bring my military carrier to an end. Eight years was enough, and now 35 years young, I wanted to get back to enjoying what was left of my youth. I returned home to Texas and began fly fishing. Often going up to Broken Bow, Oklahoma, and camping in Beavers Bend state park. I would fish until I had three good-sized trout, then head back to my primitive campsite and clean them up next to the water. I would find a nice flat, large rock, wash it off in the river and place it in my fire to use as a skillet. I would salt and pepper the trout, toss a couple of rosemary twigs and some lemon slices in its center, close it up and place them on the rock skin still on. If I have ever had a better meal, I am not certain when.

I still enjoy the outdoors but not as often as I would like, but now that I have begun this blog, I will endeavor to have more adventures to share.