Confessions of a Road Kill Addict

My predilection for road kill began when I was a very young man. While I was growing up in West Virginia, my parents owned a 1975 VW bus. One fall day two days before deer season opened, we were driving home from my grandmother's house when a nice-sized eight point buck jumped off of a hill and hit us. The deer was severely injured and after my father cleared it with the state police, a passer-by who was carrying a rifle in his truck, dispatched the deer for us. My dad and this other fellow threw the deer in the back of our bus and we took it to my Aunt Linda's house where my uncle proceeded to turn the roadkill into vittles. We enjoyed the meat all winter long. And until we got it fixed, the bus had a headlight that pointed up to the left. I guess it served as a warning to any more would be deer suicideists. Later in high school I got in on the action myself. My buddy had a VW Bug convertible that we used to cruise around town. Once, as we were driving to a football game, he ran over a large raccoon that had run out into the road. We pulled over to see whether or not we had killed it and saw that it was still alive, but barely. I had desired to make a coon skin cap for some time and thought this might be a good place to start. We looked for something to finish off the raccoon and soon decided on a 1 wood out of my buddy’s golf bag. I whacked the ailing critter and we wrapped him in a bag and I took him to my parent’s house. I skinned him and stretched on a board to dry out the hide. I scraped and scraped and eventually got all the fatty tissue off of the skin. I salted him down and days later when he was dried, I rubbed some boot oil in to keep the skin pliable. I had never eaten raccoon, so my mom helped me cook him. I stuffed him with some kielbasa sausage to add some flavor. Big mistake. I had no idea that raccoons were so greasy. That dude had more fat on him than Paula Deen’s sausage gravy and we ended up tossing it out. I have since found out that these critters need to be stuffed with bread or peanuts to help absorb the fat and grease. Live and learn. After joining the Army and being posted to Germany, I started fly-fishing and eventually tying my own flies. This is when I began collecting road kill in earnest. One popular fly pattern calls for the fur from the ear of a European hare. How convenient that I was living in an area that had an abundance of such creatures. On one particular field problem, I was driving for my commander, also coincidentally a fellow West Virginian and fly tier, when we came upon a large recently deceased hare. We tossed him in the back of the Humvee and while the commander was in a meeting I went about shaving the rabbit’s ears and saving the fur in a baggie. Also during this tour of Germany, I was able to acquire a pheasant hide because our housing area was overrun with the big colorful birds. Yes, it was a road kill. I didn’t get into bagging birds until later. We came back to the states for Thanksgiving one year and I was able to obtain several whitetail deer tails while visiting a friend in West Virginia. When I got back to our place in Germany, I dried them out and had them sitting on a book case on my fly tying desk. Once when my ex-wife came home with a friend she had went to lunch with, she discovered a pile of white and brown hair on the floor near the desk. Her friend shrieked in horror at the sight of the carnage. My dog Max had shredded the tails, but she thought that she was looking at the remains of a guinea pig or some other small pet. She wasn’t any more amused when she found out what it really was. As a going away gift from Germany, some members of my unit presented me with a stuffed toy rabbit sporting a sling around its arm, one leg in gauze, and two shaved ears. I have to say, it was very creative of them. The next place that I was stationed that offered a variety of critters was Arizona. I had a thirty mile drive to and from work on a lonely stretch of highway and came across a number of different specimens. I collected deer tails and coyote tails that I cut off of the animals on the side of the road. These I let dry out before storing them in plastic bags in my “fur tub.” I had learned my lesson and did not leave the skins lying around. The most unusual critter I got to skin was a six and a half foot long rattlesnake that one of my soldiers had killed with a tent pole. I tanned the snake hide and gave it to the soldier to make a belt or hat band. I dressed out the meat, fried it up and we had it for lunch later that week. Colorado, my next stop in the Army, provided a plethora of species. I collected fox fur, badger fur, elk hides. Some of these were honest to goodness road kill and some were animals that I killed while hunting. It was in Colorado that I added to my feather collection as well. I hunted two species of quail as well as pheasants. I also began hunting ducks in Colorado for the first time. My collection continued to grow. A friend of mine gave me feathers from game birds that he had killed and soon I had to get a larger container. I learned to use Borax instead of salt to preserve the hides and that I needed to microwave the skins to kill any bug larvae. I also had to shampoo and clean some fur to make it usable. I purchased a book on dying and bleaching materials and soon had feathers in all colors of the rainbow. I even have a couple of green squirrel skins. My most embarassing moment involving road kill has to be the time that I got stuck in a ditch when I had turned around in the road to pick up a fox that I had just ran over. I was traveling to Ohio to visit my sister and her family for Christmas, when not more than twenty minutes from their house a fox ran across the road right in front of me. I couldn't leave a prime winter fox hide to rot, so I did a U turn to come back and pick it up. When I performed the second U turn to head back in the direction I had originally been going, I got too far off of the road and couldn't get my little Ranger pickup back on the road. This was before I had a cell phone, so it took me awhile to get to a phone. My brother in law howled when I told him what happened. He and my sister came out and were soon followed by a friend of theirs who had an F-250 pickup. Well, I was soon out of the ditch and back on my way to my sister's. The travesty of the story is that I never retrieved the fox. I still collect skins of the animals I hunt as well as ones that are recently road deceased, but I only cook the ones that I kill myself. My family always inquires as to how the animal we might be eating came to his demise. I don't know if they are really concerned for their well being or if they just enjoy giving me a hard time. I have even been given a cook book on the preparation of road kill. I take it all in stride. If I'm going to have a strange hobby, I have to be willing to take the ribbing. Road kill is not for everyone, but I'm from West Virginia, so for me it just comes naturally.

Cheesemanburger in Paradise

My friend Dave is a retired army helicopter pilot that I got to know not long before his retirement. He and I became friends when we were both assigned to the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment’s aviation squadron, me as a Russian linguist and Dave as the Regimental Commander’s helicopter pilot. We met during an exercise at the Pinon Canyon Training Site in southeastern Colorado. I was lying on my cot in a large tent reading my fly-fishing magazines when he came in and asked if he could borrow some of my “fish porn?” I said “Sure, you like to fly fish?” He said he did and that he tried to get out as often as his wife would let him. For the next several nights, when we weren’t flying missions, we sat and swapped fishing stories over cups of field coffee. I found out that he was new to fly-fishing, but had really gotten the bug since being stationed in Colorado a year or so ago. This was the beginning of a friendship that lasted for the three years I was stationed in Colorado. It was not long after that first meeting that Dave took me to his favorite spot on the South Platte River, in Cheeseman Canyon, near the town of Deckers. The South Platte in the course of Cheeseman Canyon supports hundreds of trophy-sized trout. As a result, the river receives fishing pressure almost continually. The fish here tend to be very educated, meaning that the fly and presentation need to be very exact to get a fish to bite. There are two trails off of the road into Cheeseman Canyon. The first access trail, called the Gill Trail is the easier one and always draws the larger crowds of anglers from Denver and elsewhere. Dave had me drive past this first access point for about a mile or so and turn down a road that led toward the dam. He said that the walk down from the dam to the river tended to keep away most of the crowds. Actually, it wasn’t the walk in, so much as the hike back out that kept out the crowds. The parking area is a mile from the dam, and from there the trail winds down about another quarter mile to the river at a very steep pitch. Despite all the physical training we did for the Army, I would still work up a sweat on the hike out of the canyon. The sides of the trail are covered by large ponderosa pines and in the summertime, even when the air is dry, the scent of the pines is almost overpowering. The canyon directly below the dam is very sheer and narrow, with several large house sized boulders in and around the river, making the water swift and tumultuous. The trail that Dave led me down was very constricted and steep in places which made for a difficult hike. At several points the trail left the river due to the ruggedness of the canyon. After several minutes on the trail, we stopped so that he could show me the spot where he had caught his first fish on a fly. Here in the river, next to the bank, there is a large boulder. The pool formed behind the boulder is about fifteen feet long and ten feet across and appeared to be eight or ten feet deep. I could see several large trout holding in this pool. They were eating bugs that were being washed down the river. Dave showed me which fly to use and how to add some weight to the leader to get the fly down to where the fish were feeding. I also placed a strike indicator, sort of a fly-fishing bobber, at the top of the leader to help me tell when the fish took the fly. I cast the fly to the head of the pool and watched the indicator as it drifted through the pool. Dave said the key to fishing this pool is to watch the trout where you think your fly should be. "If you see one of the fish move toward your fly, then set the hook." After several false alarms, I managed to hook one. I instantly knew I had a fish on. The tip of the rod was bouncing up and down and I could feel the energy of the fish deep into the butt of the rod. The fish quickly took off downstream out of the pool. I had never hooked a fish this large on a fly rod and didn’t exactly know how to slow him down. I let him take as much line as I thought I could before I jumped in after him. In a scene reminiscent of A River Runs Through It, I followed the fish down the river until I got him into another section of slack water and was able to land him. Dave was jumping up and down the whole time, yelling at me to “stop fooling around and land the son-of-a-gun.” I don’t know who was more excited, me or Dave. The fish was amazing. This was no hatchery fish. Since 1976, the last time this section of the South Platte was stocked with trout, it is has been designated as Gold Medal Water by the Colorado Department of Wildlife. The regulations require catch and release fishing only. This fish had been born in this river, as had his parents and their parents. This was the first large wild rainbow trout I had ever caught; it was at least eighteen inches long. None of the hatchery fish I had caught previously could prepare me for the rich colors of this fish. The deep red that ran down the sides of the fish reminded me of the inside of a ripe summer watermelon. I had Dave snap a quick photo before I slipped this beautiful creature back into the river. It quickly swam away, and it was now Dave’s turn to try and catch one of these awesome fish. I don’t remember how many fish we caught that day, but I was hooked on Cheeseman Canyon. The hiking and fishing were challenging, but the reward of seeing the vibrant colors of these wild fish made up for the sweat and exertion. During my time in Colorado, Dave and I made several trips to fish the canyon. After each trip we would stop off at the Wild Horse Saloon, just outside of Deckers on our way home. We would celebrate our successes and failures of the day with hot cheeseburgers and cold beer. This small, unassuming roadside bar was my favorite place to eat in Colorado. It was poorly lit and tended to be a little smoky. The rough sawn wooden walls were covered with dollar bills that had been signed and stapled to the wall. Some had quotes, and one that really made Dave laugh said, “skunked, now drunk.” I may have had better meals elsewhere, but a burger in the saloon meant that I had fished the canyon. Don’t get me wrong, they were good burgers, piled high with cheddar and bacon and thick slices of tomato. This beauty of beef was served on a toasted bun next to a mound of crispy seasoned fries. The beer was ice cold and the perfect compliment for this meal of kings or tired fisherman as the case may be. They were just the thing to sate the appetite for the drive home. Once we were pleased to enjoy some barbeque that the local fire department had set up for a fund raiser at the saloon. The sliced, smoked brisquit was piled high on a large Kaiser roll and smothered in a spicy sauce. I don’t know if I enjoyed the fishing or the barbeque more that day. My last trip to the canyon was taken not long before I left for language school in Virginia. The day was typical for September in Colorado. The sky was the perfect blue with a few high clouds and it looked like it was going to be a warm day. The drive up to the canyon was as scenic as I had remembered. The aspens were shimmering in the wind and the air was clean and dry. We headed in to the trail below the dam. We each hooked and released a few fish and enjoyed our last trip together for the foreseeable future. I was making a pot of coffee before our trek back out to the truck, when I saw a shadow pass over the river. I looked up to see a bald eagle making her way down the canyon. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. Dave had to be at work early the next day, so we were not able to stop for our customary burgers and beer. I left Colorado a couple of days after that and didn’t see Dave again for a few years. I later saw on the news that Cheeseman Canyon was burned during the Hayman fire in the summer of 2002. The Wild Horse Saloon did not survive and burned to the ground. More than just an old tired building with a few scribbled on dollar bills burned up in that fire. I have since read reports that the canyon and the fishing are coming back. I hope to get back to Colorado soon to see the canyon and catch some of those beautiful, challenging fish. I don’t know if they have rebuilt the Wild Horse, so I may have to find a new eatery to celebrate my return to this special place. Maybe there’s a quirky little hot dog place nearby. One can only hope.