The Senior Tour

The buggy rolled to a stop, and Steve and I surveyed the ground ahead of us.  It was a good looking draw, at least by Midland, Texas standards. More of a dry creekbed, it definitely looked birdy and manageable enough for us to put down our two older dogs for a brief run.  The sun was shining and things were warming up quickly, but this would only be a 45 minute walk or so.

Steve put down Em, his then-11-year-old black and white pointer, and I readied Dot, my 9-year old lemon and white counterpart.  I stopped to wonder how many birds these two old girls had between them -- the different species, scents, and locales that they've collectively hunted.  This walk would be dubbed the Senior Tour.

We loaded up with shells and water, and the brace began.  Neither dog was running the way they did back in their younger years, but they didn't need to.  Fanning out across the creekbed, they knew just what to do. Wisdom always trumps enthusiasm (at 43, I'm finally starting to learn that lesson).

Not five minutes into the hunt, Em locked up near a gnarly patch of prickly pear.  Dot was 30 yards behind, staunchly honoring (never a sure bet).  The covey of scalies rose, and two quickly fell.  I don't recall any remarkable retrieves -- there certainly weren't any from Dot, who only cares about living birds, a trait I've learned to accept in her older years.  Either way, we collected our birds and continued chasing singles for the next 30 minutes or so.  It was an impressive show, and all four of us were soaking in every minute of it.

I've killed more birds on a single walk before, and I've certainly seen dogs cover more ground than these two did.  But it's the memory of two veteran dogs that hunted with the prowess that only age and experience can bring.

I'm not sure, but I think that might've been one of the last times Em went to West Texas, having mostly retired from Steve's traveling team.

I got a text from Steve yesterday letting me know that Em had died in her sleep Wednesday night at age 14.  We spoke on the phone, and I extended my condolences, feeble as they were.  Nothing really helps when you lose a hunting buddy, save maybe the solace in knowing the guy on the other end of the phone has experienced that same pain, and is destined to again as long as he's got a bird dog.

That's the contract we all sign, willingly or not.  We'll miss ya, Em.

Contemplating 1, 10, and 41

May 14 oughta be a national holiday around here. 

For one, it marks the first anniversary of this little mishmash of thoughts known as 8 More Miles.  A little over a year ago, I promised myself that I'd carve out a little space (and time) for me to write about whatever the hell I wanted to write about, and do it somewhat consistently.  By that standard, I think I've succeeded.

Crazy and addicting things, these blogs are.  They are no doubt narcissistic -- a wonderful place to contemplate the glory of me.  But as much as writing my own posts, I love checking in on an almost daily occurrence to see what others -- yeah, those guys (and gals) to the right -- have on their minds. 

And the comments... well, they're what keep me doing this.  So thanks to those who have read and actively participated in this little endeavor.

The second 5/14 observance around here is Dottie's 10-year-old birthday (yes, I remember her exact birthdate, for reasons you'll soon learn).  She's about the best bird dog and companion that a guy could ever hope for, and traipsing this big country with her in search of birds has been more enjoyable than I could ever imagine.  Is she a "finished" bird dog?  It depends on your meaning of finished.  She's rock-solid on point, but once the gun goes off, she's in search of the next covey.  That's not her fault -- I'm no more steady to wing and shot than she is.

And I'm pretty certain she's got a couple more field years left in her, too.  She's still got the same drive she's always had -- but her lemon markings are whiting out and her eyes are slowly getting milky and starting to betray her youth.  Of course, that's much easier to notice when there's a 15-week-old mini-Dot chomped down on her ear.  I know that this fall, she'll provide tranquility in the chaotic midst of breaking in a new pup.

Finally, I'm 41 today (there's that narcissism again).  While last year's birthday was a two-day to-do with Reckless Kelly, I'm taking it easy this year.  There's not a damn thing I need -- I'm blessed with a fine family, close friends, an incredible job, a free country, and an abiding faith. 

So I think I'll just take the afternoon off, pick up my son from school, and hopefully he can shoot the Tom Turkey that's been teasing us all season.  Wish us luck.

Where'd My Paper Go?

Call me a grumpy old bastard, but does everything inevitably HAVE to go digital?

I say this as I make the acquaintance of my new 80GB Zune, a replacement for my 20GB iPod that some inconsiderate asshole helped himself to out of my truck a few weeks ago, along with a couple of nice hunting knives. To be honest, I'll miss the blades more than the effete devil spawn of Steve Jobs. Actually, the iPod itself was pretty nice... I just hated iTunes. Anyhow, I digress.

My music is all digital, and it took me forever to make my 1,000-plus CD collection that way. Now, those discs that I've been pridefully collecting since college are now collecting dust, resigned to ignominy in a hall closet. Liner notes? Forget about them. I'm one of those music nerds who like to peruse the artwork and band shout-outs, and I haven't experienced that since Reckless Kelly's 2005 Wicked Twisted Road (which was quite cool, since there were tiny little working dice embedded in the spine, and I got my own personal shout-out). And forget about walking into that great, but frighteningly weird, record store to browse. There's just no way that iTunes can offer you the experience of walking into a dimly-lit store replete with funky-smelling gonesh sticks, freaky King Crimson b-sides, and flippant attitude. Sure, digital opens up some amazing doors, and lets me have an entire record collection (records? yep, I'm old) in my truck at my fingertips. But at what price?

Digital has even robbed us of the simple pleasure of the ticket stub. We went to see Gomez play last night, and my shitty excuse for a "ticket" was a printed out 8.5 x 11 piece of paper with a bar code and ads all over it. Nothing to save to prove to your buddies that You Were There When. Hell, I used to proudly put my now-obsolete ticket stubs in my now-nonexistent CD jewel cases.

Don't even get me started on the daily newspaper (they call it a "paper" for a reason, folks). It seems as though my local rag, along with countless others around the country, is falling victim to (among other things) free versions online. While I may also contend that lazy journalism might be to blame, I still miss having the tactile analog version to read with my cup of coffee. After all, have you ever tried to balance a laptop on your knees during your morning constitutional?

I am a grumpy bastard... I need to get off of this damned blog and get back to configuring my MP3 player and checking out a few message boards. Adios.

Obituary Overload

There's nothing like a bunch of punchlines dying to put you on notice, is there? Even as I write this, on the breezy confines of the Casa Scampwalker veranda, there are sirens -- a damned lot of sirens -- going hopefully to save some poor unknown bastard from the icy clutches of death.

But none of us escape it, do we? We make light of it -- mock it, really:

Farrah Fawcett goes to heaven. God grants her one wish. Farrah says, "Please take care of my children, and keep them from harm." So God strikes down Michael Jackson.

They say death comes in threes. Leave it to Billy Mays to throw himself in for free.

If God punishes us for whistling through the graveyard and making light of death, I'm a dead man bound for hell. But this recent spate of high-profile dirt naps has everyone thinking, doesn't it? How will the world remember you? Will you even be remembered? What's it all about?

Will you be remembered as the faithful, background sidekick like Ed McMahon? I'm still of the age that I remember Ed... always there... always quick with a laugh or a rejoinder (YES!) if Johnny's gag fell flat.

Do you hope to be eulogized like Farrah Fawcett, the bombshell that everyone wanted to be (or just plain wanted)? And though I never really paid attention at the time, she was by almost all accounts a good actress and fought a courageous fight against a horrible cancer.

Or are you going to be like Michael Jackson -- who somehow came to represent both the best and worst in humanity?

Hell, even Billy Mays, that (somewhat) lovable, loudmouthed huckster got his ticket punched. At least he knew what his life was supposed to be, and he lived it well.

But the death that brought it home for me was Marianne Stovall. She was an administrative assistant of mine back in a previous life, and she was only 58 -- but cancer doesn't care much about age, I guess.

Thankfully, I don't have a clue about when or how I'll die, and I'm not entirely sure what, if anything, people will remember about me. But I know I'm more attuned to it today than I was a week ago. And for that, I can thank Ed, Farrah, Michael, Billy, and Marianne. Godspeed. All of us.

"Life's Waitin' Up The Road For You And The Future's In Your Hands..."

My 40th birthday celebration is history, and as such, you sometimes need a day or two to reflect on what it all meant. (I also needed that long to catch up on sleep.)

Long story short, I rounded up several close friends and trekked to Manhattan to see Reckless Kelly play a show. If you know me, you know what I think about RK. If you don't know me, you can still know RK. Just go to their website or mySpace page and give them a listen. Then magnify that by 100 and you'll start understanding the energy they put into a live show. Hell, I even named this fine blog in their honor. But more on that later.

After one night of extended revelry in The Hat, the bulk of the group went back home while D-Dub and I followed the band to Lincoln for his 45th birthday celebration -- 24 hours after mine.

I could wax philosophic about all sorts of things, but instead, here are a few choice observations from the two nights on the road:

• Sharing your birthday with a handful of friends aged 26 to 45 is damned fun and more than a bit humbling. Thankfully, on this night anyhow, the younger set helped the old guys stay out of too much trouble. Thanks to the posse... I'd be proud to be yours one day.
  
• The So Long Saloon makes a damned fine bleu cheese burger.
  
• The RK boys once again proved that beyond being amazing musicians, they're all gentlemen. Your parents raised you right, fellas.
  
• The best place outside the Lone Star State to see a Reckless show is at Longhorn's. A consistently good, knowledgeable, and friendly crowd.
  
• Seeing Reckless Kelly without David Abeyta just ain't the same. Prayers to you and your family, David.
  
• Gravity isn't just a good idea, it's the law.
  
• Thankfully (for all involved), I've decided that I am a much better parent and husband than a musician or groupie. I'm still grateful that my wife lets me play rock star wannabe now and then, though.
  
• When the bus starts moving, it's time to leave.

Thanks to everyone for their well wishes and friendship. The older I get, the more it means.

*Blog post title from Wild Western Windblown Band, written by Bruce Hauser, as sung by Reckless Kelly

Soy Jodiendo Cuarenta...

That may be an incorrect translation, and forgive me for the self indulgence, but I'm 40 today. If you've been there, you get it. If not, then screw all of you. This video is a hoot... but fair warning, it's got some blue language. Ok, a bunch.

More on what I'm doing to commemorate in a while...