Gas Pains

Tom grew up in Milwaukee, bartended in Wauwatosa in the '70s and moved here in 1984.

Commentary, observations and musings about the outdoors, life in general and maybe Tosa politics and personalities will be the order of the day. He savors a lively debate as much as terrific cooking.

Hitting Our Stride

Artificial Joints, Friends, Girlfriend, Hunting, Life Is Good, Terrific Cooking

Making the grade.  Back in the saddle.  In the groove.  On track.

There are plenty of ways to describe the feeling that things are working out.  And I've been looking for an excuse to give that new hip a work-out and see if Girlfriend could still run with the other dogs and flush and retrieve birds.  I just finished my seventh week on my new and improved leg and Girlfriend is nearly fully recovered from her battle with an auto-immune disorder that knocked her down for the count beginning in November of last year.

It was time to see if both of us had any stamina for some serious play.

Sure, I know that a few of you have suggested that I simply go to the mall and shuffle-around in circles with the other mall walkers.  The truth of the matter is that malls make me edgy and nervous.  The only thing more annoying than a mall is Wisconsin Dells in July or Fish Creek in October.  On top of that you can't even take your Labrador retriever to the mall for a walk. 

You're probably thinking - What else? 

Get out of bed at O-Dark-Thirty and chase pheasants.

This last Saturday, Girlfriend and I invited ourselves to join Lawyer, Lawyer's Bro and Salesman to hunt birds in four degree cold and a stiff north wind.  

How cold was it?

I'm glad you asked that question.  Cold enough to bring tears to your eyes and freeze your fingers.  Take my advice - never stick your tongue on a frozen shotgun barrel.  No matter how much someone wants to bet. 


Get this - Girlfriend never skipped a beat.

And I walked (if the pedometer is to be believed) 2.1 miles in snow and on uneven terrain, up hill.  In minus 15 degree windchill.  I take that back.  I made that up about the up hill part.  It was flat.  Like a mall.  Only with fresh air and slippery spots.  When it was finally time to seek shelter from the cold and wind we had ten birds in the game bag between the four of us. 

Lest you think it couldn't get any better than that there was a country watering hole in a small town across the road from the Catholic church where we sought solace and warmth. 

Not the church - the tavern. 

About the tavern-keeper,  Salesman cleaned a couple of the birds out back and the exceedingly accommodating barkeep fried-up a batch of pheasant fingers for us.


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