Dogs are amazing. They are loyal and will defend you to their death. They will give you unconditional love, asking for nothing in return. Everything interests them and they don’t seem to get bored, they just go to sleep when things aren’t exciting. People could learn a lesson from them.

Right now my two dogs, Ginger and Cinnamon, the spice girls, are trying to get at something under a piece of tin in my back yard. I have no ideas what it is. I have seen ground squirrels, skinks, frogs, snakes and all other kinds of critters in the area. They go from one side of the 20 foot piece of tin to the other, then to the end of it, trying to get under it.

Sometimes all I can see is a wagging tail as they get half way under it. And they are relentless, doing this for hours at a time, day after day. They even seem to try to work together, with one getting on top of the tin bouncing around trying to scare out whatever is under there to the other one.

Cinnamon, the brown sooner, is the one that usually catches critters and brings them up on the deck to proudly share her triumph. My dad called dogs like her that are a very mixed breed “sooners,” so many different breeds they would sooner be one as the other. Cinnamon adopted me at the gun club one night right after I lost Rip to a car.

Ginger is a brindled pit bull that showed up at one of my rental houses. She had part of a choker chain still on her neck and was skin and bones. It didn’t look like she had eaten in weeks. But even in that condition she did not fit the image of a pit bull. She was and is gentle and easy going at all times.

Dog have definite personalities and my two are no exception. Ginger is gentle and quiet. Not much gets her moving fast. Cinnamon is a ball of energy, constantly running around and getting into mischief. And they react totally different to guns.

The first time I got my 12 gauge shotgun out to keep a tree rat from gnawing into my attic I was not sure how Cinnamon would react. I knew Ginger would put her head down, go to the door and lay there, hoping to get inside after a shot was fired.

Not Cinnamon. She came running and got close to me fast enough to see or hear the squirrel fall. Then she ran to it, grabbed it and shook it to make sure it was dead, and brought it proudly to me. She does that every time I shoot and loves to get the squirrel. But she does not like to give them up. Instead, she eats them herself if I don’t insist on taking it and cooking it for myself.

The two dogs are best of friends most of the time. They sleep with one’s head resting on the other and play with each other, chasing each other around the yard with tails wagging. They will wrestle and roll around on the ground growling, but it is not a mean growl and their tails never slow down. They seem to be having fun.

But when they get treats they are jealous of each other. Every morning they get a big Milkbone and they have to sit down before they get it. As soon as one gets hers she will go to one end of the deck to eat it and the other one will take hers to the other end.

Rawhide chews are treated differently. Cinnamon will take hers and gnaw it up and eat it in an hour or so. Ginger will take hers, lick on it for a few minutes then ignore it. At least she ignores it until Cinnamon gets close. Then she grabs it and guards it carefully.

A few times one of them will manage to get both chews and try to keep them from the other. For a while any way. Before long the one with both will get distracted and it is time for the other one to get them.

Cinnamon loves to chase a tennis ball and will kind of bring it back to me. I usually have to grab her to get it so I can throw it again. She will run after it time after time. At least she will if Ginger will let her. For some reason, although Ginger will not go get the ball or even play with it, she does not like Cinnamon get the ball and bring it back.

Cinnamon will run after the ball and Ginger will chase her. Often, before Cinnamon can get to the ball Ginger grabs her collar and they are rolling on the ground. And if Cinnamon gets the ball Ginger will block her, not letting her bring it back.

Dogs are great pets and are wonderful to have. The can give you great joy and comfort you when you are sad. Owners, if you can really own a dog, should treat them with the care and devotion they give you.

The only thing wrong with a dog is they just don’t live long enough. I have buried three of mine in the back yard over the years.

I dread the days I lose these two.

Fishing and writing about it is a tough job, but somebody has to do it! Sometimes it is tougher than others. My Georgia Outdoor News assignment for the April Map of the Month article is Clarks Hill and my Alabama Outdoor News article is Wheeler Lake, two lakes about as far apart as you can get in those two states.

Unfortunately, the fisherman I featured in GON said the only day he could go was last Sunday and the fisherman in Alabama could go only on Monday. So I left home Saturday afternoon about 2:00 PM, drove to my place at Raysville boat club and got up Sunday morning and did that article.

I went back by my trailer, changed clothes and drove to Wheeler, about six hours away. I got a motel room, spent the night, got up Monday morning and did that article. Then I went back by the motel, changed clothes and drove home.

In 49 hours I drove 979 miles, fished two lakes and slept and ate in two states. That was just about two much. And the trip started so badly I thought the whole thing would be a disaster.

As I pulled into the drive of the boat club, three hours from home, I remembered the new electronic gate put up since the last time I was there. I also remembered I didn’t have a “clicker” to get in! Luckily another member was going in and I was able to get through the gate.

I called the club Commodore and he agreed to meet me in town when I went to get dinner, and bring me a clicker. Then I started looking for my trailer key. I always leave it in the glove compartment of the van, the only vehicle I drive to the club. It was not there or anywhere else in the van that I searched.

No problem, I leave a hidden key for just such problems. But it was not there, either. I either moved it or it got lost somehow. So I broke a window to get in, unloaded and went to town to eat and get my clicker.

The rest of the trip was better. I enjoyed fishing with Baylor Ronemus, a Clemson College Bass Team member. We just didn’t talk about football. At the Classic the Clemson team had a booth and I talked with the president of the club. He gave me Baylor’s phone number and said he had grown up in Augusta and fished Clarks Hill all his life.

The rainy cold morning was not real comfortable fishing but Baylor showed me some good spots to fish in April, and we caught three keeper bass and a hybrid. I was back at the trailer by 2:00 PM and left for Wheeler soon after that. Six hours later I got a motel room in Rogersville and got a good nights sleep.

The net morning I met Robb Young, a North Alabama College team member, before daylight. He grew up in Rogersville right on the lake and has fished it all his life. We ran around in the misty, cold drizzle for about three hours checking the spots that will be good in April and fishing some. But nothing bit.

I was able to get home from Wheeler by 3:00 PM, 49 hours after I left.

Holes have always fascinated me and I dug a lot of them growing up. But tunnels and caves draw me to them for some reason, and I always approach with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Some are much worse than others.

One of my first experiences with a real cave was a visit to Luray Cavers in Virginia. My family visited my uncle in Newport News each summer and we took a day trip to the huge cave on one of them when I was about eight years old. It was amazing to see in person the stalactites and stalagmites I had studied in school.

The water dripping from the ceiling and flowing under the walkways drew my interest. I was looking for fish in the pools and streams and wondering if they allowed fishing in the cave. The guide said there were some small blind fish in some of the pools but I couldn’t fish for them.

Another trip to Virginia when I was about 14 introduced me to man made tunnels. We crossed the newly completed Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, driving across it, turning around and coming back. We stopped at the visitor’s center on one of the islands and got information on it.

I have to admit, although the tunnels and bridges were amazing, my attention was mainly focused on the fishing boats around them. Uncle Mahue had taken us fishing in the bay for spots, crocker and flounder and I really wanted to be on a boat trying to catch something. I was just sure the bridge pilings and riprap around the tunnels would hold lots of fish I could catch.

Linda and I took a driving tour back in the 1990s, leaving Griffin and driving north to Wisconsin where we turned left and drove to Wyoming. We turned left again, drove to New Mexico then made another left back to Griffin. We saw some amazing sights from the badlands to Yellowstone Park.

In Yellowstone Park I caught some cutthroat trout in the Yellowstone River downstream of the lake. We through we would never make it back from what was supposed to be a five mile hike that turned out to be 11 miles round trip, but that is another story.

In Colorado we kept seeing holes in the sides of the mountains and we would stop at some we could get to and look at the old silver mines. I wanted to go into them, but danger signs posted all around them scared me too much.

I did get to go into a silver mine. Linda and I pulled up at a tourist trap that offered tours of a mine. We got there just in time to buy tickets for the tour that was leaving in a few minutes and went to the mouth of the mine where folks were loading on a mine train.
This “train” was a small engine ahead of cars that were nothing but wheels on a track with a bench type seat down the middle. We got on the last car, straddled the seats and were told to keep our knees and elbows tucked near our bodies and our heads down.

I had not really had time to look at the tunnel or think about what was about to happen. As the guide started moving I looked ahead to a small opening about five feet high and four feet wide. As our car entered I quickly realized why we were warned to keep tucked in. If our knees or elbows extended out they would hit the wall on either side and I could have reached a foot above my head and touched the ceiling!

We were told we would ride about a quarter mile into the mountain, which did not seem very far but quickly became a nightmare. Before we were 100 feet into the tunnel I had a panic attack. I had never felt claustrophobia before but I swear I could feel the weight of the mountain on me.

There were a couple of overhead bare light bulbs near the mouth, but after we passed the second one it got totally dark. I looked back and saw a small point of light behind us and I almost got off and ran toward it. I started talking to Linda and that calmed me down.

At the end of the tunnel the working area of the mine opened up and it was interesting to hear about how the silver ore was mined. And the bigger, lit cavern was great after the tiny tunnel.

At Clarks Hill there is a tunnel that amazes me. Up one of the creeks a high ridge runs out in a rocky finger into the creek. In the cove beside it near the back the ridge rises about 100 feet at a steep angle. Right at the water line is a round three foot tunnel opening. You can’t see the end of it with a strong flashlight.

I have no idea if it is natural or man made. I can imagine civil war soldiers tunneling in and making a hiding place in the ridge. Or it could be an old gold mine, there are many in the area but all I have seen are open pit type mines. I have often wanted to crawl into the tunnel but it is so small I could not turn around in it so would have to back out, and it scares me too much to try it.

I found the tunnel while fishing for crappie and bass in the cove and have caught a lot there. I probably would catch more if I paid more attention to fishing than to the tunnel.

I will never be a spelunker but I will always be attracted to tunnels and caves. Especially if there is good fishing around them!

Why are some people driven to fish and hunt while others don’t like either and some just go when convenient a few times a year? Some of us want to spend all out time in the woods or on the water. It is an obsession for many.

There are many kinds of hunters and fishermen. They range from dedicated deer hunters that spend all year planning, scouting and working to find their trophy buck. Most of those hunters seem to be solitary types that don’t really brag or show off their kills. They do it for the personal satisfaction.

At the other end of the group are the ones that don’t scout before season and don’t put much effort into planning. Some even bait deer illegally. They sometimes luck into a big buck that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They seem to be more likely to put any big buck they kill on display, parading it around town showing off to anybody that will stop and look.

Many hunters just go for the meat. We are more likely to shoot any legal deer for the freezer and hunt only enough to fill the freezer each year. They are careful with the carcass, making sure the meat is the best it can be when processed.

Fisherman have the same range. Some go a few times a year and don’t put much effort into it. They may have the best equipment money can buy but they don’t really know how to use the electronics they spent thousands of dollars on, their reels are not cleaned and kept in good shape and they seldom change line on the reels.

If they are bass fishermen they might do well in a tournament and everyone around the weigh-in that will listen hear in great detail how they outsmarted every fish they caught. But more likely they are explaining how they could have won the tournament if they had just gotten one more bite or if the time didn’t run out by the time they figured out what the bass were doing that day. And they explain how they missed every fish they didn’t catch.

Some bass fishermen are very careful with their equipment and keep it in top condition. They study their electronics and know how to use it to its maximum. Bass habits and patterns are studied and a lot of time goes into planning every tournament. And when they do well, as is usually the case, they are understated at the weigh-in, saying they lucked into the fish they caught. But those that know them know it was not luck.

Many fishermen go just for the food, too. Those fishermen are happy catching any edible fish in the water and keep what they catch for the frying pan. They usually know many ways to cook fish and take care to keep them on ice and clean them quickly to preserve the fresh flavor.

Most hunters and fishermen respect their quarry, but some don’t. If they catch a bass too short to keep in a tournament they may throw it in an arch back into the water rather than easing it back into the water to make sure it survives to grow bigger. They get mad when they don’t catch much, blaming everything from other fishermen to the weather.

Slob hunters bait deer and don’t make much effort to find a deer they wound. A good hunter will spend hours trailing an injured deer but they are more likely to make a good killing shot in the first place. They make sure their gun is zeroed in before season and take time to make a good shot, and they know how to shoot accurately. The other kind of hunter never checks his rifle to make sure it is accurate, takes shots they should not and then blame the gun.

Most of us fall somewhere in between the extremes. We spend enough time to be in a good place during deer season and might kill a big deer. Little bragging is done since we know killing a trophy buck was more luck than skill. And doing well in a tournament is a combination of luck and some skill, but we don’t feel a good day makes us an expert.

Professional fishermen and guides are a whole different category. They work at their passion so others can do well in the case of guides, or they can get sponsors and win money in tournaments if a pro. Some are slobs on the tournament trails, getting mad when they don’t win a tournament to the extent of kicking equipment, blaming other fishermen for “stealing” their spots, and generally making fools of themselves. Those types don’t keep sponsors long and don’t gain respect of others on the tournament trails.

These types of people are not limited to hunters and fishermen. You can find them in any sport from golf to football. What kind are you?

It is amazing how much worse extremely cold weather affects us as we get older. Now all I want to do is sit by the fire when it is freezing outside. I still make myself get out and do things, even going fishing on the worst days, but when I was a kid I loved the cold.

Squirrel hunting is so much better after all the leaves fall and the food for tree rats gets scarce. They have to move a lot more to find buried acorns and other things for lunch, and they are much easier to see in the trees.

When an oak is loaded with leaves a squirrel can go high and sit still and you will never see him. But with bare limbs you can approach the tree, throw a stick to the other side to fool him, and he will edge over to your side, offering an easy shot. And you can see them moving in bare limbs for a hundred yards where earlier you had to get within feet of them to spot them.

A couple of trips stick in my mind. Hal and I were easing through the dead leaves, making as little sound as we could, when we spotted a big black ball up in a oak tree. We had never seen anything like it. We could tell it was furry but it didn’t look like anything we had ever seen.

Hal and I both took aim with our .410 shotguns and fired on the count of three. The critter fell to the ground and, when we got to it, it looked like a squirrel. But it was a whole lot bigger than any squirrel we had ever seen. That was the first time I ever saw a fox squirrel.

Another time Harold and I were squirrel hunting and we saw something big and brown in a tree. It didn’t move. We could tell it was a bird but had no idea what kind. We started to raise our guns and Harold said something. I thought he said for me to shoot but later after fussing at me he said both of us shoot at the same time.

Anyway, I killed a great horned owl. They were not protected way back then, but we really didn’t know what kind of bird we were shooting, anyway. I kept that owl carcass around for months admiring it. I have no idea what it was doing on a low limb in the middle of the day and I have never shot another one.

We would have never have seen the owl or fox squirrel if the trees had been covered with leaves.

There is nothing quite as comforting as building a fire outside on a cold hunting trip and warming for a few minutes. I always wanted to be a pioneer and build fires by rubbing two sticks together or striking a spark with flint. But I never left home without some strike-anywhere matches.

One favorite place to build a fire was in our rock fort. In the edge of one of our fields there was a big rock pile about 50 feet long and 30 feet wide sitting 50 yards from the edge of the woods. There were huge rocks half buried in the ground and smaller rocks were everywhere. Over the years farmers had moved rocks from the field to that spot.

We build a circle rock fort about eight feet across and four feet high. Get down in the middle of it and you were out of the wind and well hidden. We had secret crannies in the rocks to store stuff and had built a simple fireplace. It even had what looked like a chimney but was so full of gaps between the rocks it was for looks only. Smoke came out everywhere.

We would sneak some eggs from the hen house, shoot a couple of birds and head to the fort for a feast. We kept an old tin can in it and would go to the nearby branch for water. It sat on flat rock on the edge of the fireplace and we could boil eggs in it in about thirty minutes.

Birds were plucked and gutted and put on a spit of green branches across the front of the fire. Slowly roasting a robin until it was golden brown gave off a delicious smell and it tasted good, but was so tough it was like trying to eat a good a smelling and good tasting inner tube.

Every winter we hoped for extreme cold. There was on big pool on Dearing Branch. Now by big I mean about ten feet long and eight feet wide. But when it got cold enough it froze over and we cold go ice skating on it. Ice slipping, really, in our boots. One time Joe, a little bigger than the rest of us, broke through and was thigh deep in freezing water immediately. We got mad at him for messing up our skating that day.

Our parents would not have been happy if they knew what we were doing and the possibility of getting wet, but in retrospect they probably did know. But since the branch was waist deep at its deepest, even on us boys, we were not in danger. And we always had our matches, heads dipped in wax to keep the dry, to start a fire and warm up!

Enjoy the cold weather like you are still a kid, if you can stand it!