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.

My first Christmas goose

It was going to be a quiet Christmas spent in Colorado several years ago with just me and my son Tom. I was stationed with the Army in Colorado Springs and because of rent and other expenses I would not be able to afford to travel to Ohio or Kentucky to see my family. While I was on the phone with my aunt in Kentucky, telling her we would not be able to come for the holidays, she told me that she and my uncle would get the tickets for Tom and me. During the conversation I mentioned to her that I had been out goose hunting recently, but hadn’t had any success. She told me that she had a recipe for roast goose, but had never had the opportunity to try it. Before hanging up, I told her that I would do my best to get her one. My hunting partner and I went out a few more times to try and bag a goose with no success. The week before I was supposed to leave for the holiday, I was at work and bemoaning the fact that my friend and I had not been able to decoy any geese into our spread on any of our previous hunting trips. One of the pilots I worked with said that I didn’t need any decoys or guns, “just get a loaf of bread and a sack and head over to Centennial Park.” He went on to say that the geese in the park were rather tame and would come up and eat bread out of your hand.
I planned my initial foray into poaching, I mean goose-grabbing very carefully. I had a mesh equipment bag from my football playing days that I planned to take. It was about the size of a large grocery bag. I packed this with a half a loaf of bread that I had made with my new bread machine. I also took a piece of cord that I planned to wrap around my wrist and made a loop in the loose end to drop over the goose’s neck. A lock blade knife completed my arsenal and I headed over to the park. At this point, I still didn’t have a real solid plan formulated, but I thought I’d better pack more than what might be necessary. I parked in the lot near the lake and walked over toward a large gaggle of geese. It was near twilight, but was not quite dark enough to suit me. In spite of the extremely cold temperature, there were still a few people in the park walking the trail that looped around the lake in the middle of the park. I was positioned about fifty yards from a busy commuter route, and even though it was rush hour I didn’t think that I would be noticed. As I was kneeling and feeding the geese, I waved back at several couples that were waving at me as they walked the trail. “If they only knew my purpose here,” I thought to myself. Soon it was dark enough and the park was emptied of walkers.
I checked to make sure that the coast was clear and began plotting the abduction. None of the larger geese would get very close to me so that ruled them out. One of the smaller geese was very aggressive though, and that proved to be his downfall. He got greedy and came in close to grab some bread off of the loaf. I quickly swiped at him, but he proved to be faster and more nimble than I anticipated and easily moved back. The motion startled the other geese and they began to make a clamoring racket. This didn’t faze the young hungry one though, and he was soon moving in close again for the free meal. I swiped at him once more and this time I knocked him off balance. I hurriedly jumped on him and stuffed his head under his wing and then stuffed him into the equipment bag I had brought. I got up and began to walk swiftly back to where I had parked my truck. During my get away, the goose poked his head out of the bag and began honking. I grabbed his head and shoved it back in the bag and tightened my grip around the top. When I got back in the truck, I put the bag under my legs in the front and began driving away. I hadn’t gone more than a mile before I realized that I had dropped my knife in the park. “Shoot!, “ I thought to myself. I didn’t want to lose my knife and I didn’t want to leave any evidence at the scene. I tied the mouth of the bag shut and put it in the back of the truck on the platform.
At this point I need to describe my truck. It was a Ford Ranger pickup on which I had installed an aluminum topper. I had also installed a plywood platform over the wheel wells that I had then carpeted. This created more room for sleeping in the bed of the truck, and it was also good for storing rods and guns underneath, out of sight. Well, after I put the goose in the back on top of the platform, I ran over to the scene of the abduction and retrieved my knife. As I was walking back to the truck I could see the bag in the back of the truck hopping around. I thought this might be hard to explain if I were pulled over, so I put the bag with the goose under the platform. After driving to an undisclosed location, I dispatched the goose and emptied his innards. I had to go pick my son up at the airport, so I had to wait to pluck him and got him ready for his trip east. The temperature was below zero as I sat on the landing at the top of the stairs outside of my apartment. Tom sat inside next to the fireplace and occasionally glanced out to check my progress. When I finally got done, I packed him in newspapers and put him in the freezer. In the morning, I took him out and wrapped him in newspapers. I checked him in my bag, hoping I wouldn’t have to explain the large frozen lump I was carrying.
When we arrived at our destination and told my family how I had procured the goose, I didn’t think they were going to stop laughing. Nevertheless, they all sat down when the goose was prepared and shared in my adventure. He was young and tender and turned out very well seated next to the potatoes and green beans.
While this episode turned out well, I don’t recommend this as a suitable method for the harvesting of waterfowl. I must point out that both prior to and since this episode, all of my hunting and fishing adventures have strictly adhered to the posted wildlife regulations. My uncle Chris loves this story and I found out recently that he had told it to a group of people that he was seated with at a banquet. Apparently, all of them loved the story with the exception of a local fish and game official. Some people just don’t appreciate a funny story when they hear one.

Why a new blog?

I came up with the title of this blog some years ago. I have said for a long time that I would like to write a collection of fishing stories and title it "In Search of the Perfect Hot Dog." I arrived at this title during one of my fishing trips to the White Mountains in Arizona. The drive from my home in Benson, Arizona up to the mountains was a long one through a very sparsely populated part of the state. There weren't a lot of places to stop for something to eat along the drive, and gas station hot dogs were our only choice of sustenance on many occasions. While growing up in north central West Virginia, I had become spoiled with some of the best hot dogs I have ever eaten. As a result, I judge every hot dog against those that formed my opinion years ago. For the uninitiated, a good hot dog must be boiled and served in a steamed bun. It should have a generous amount of yellow mustard and a liberal amount of chopped yellow onions. But the most important part of the hot dog is the sauce. It is made with a hamburger and tomato sauce base, and can be prepared to varying degrees of hotness. It is not chili, it is hot dog sauce. I have enjoyed several styles of hot dogs, including a Chicago dog with pickles and tomatoes, but I always look forward to the hot dogs from Yann’s or Woody’s or T&L. I can’t eat the hot dogs from Yann’s as often as I would like any more because they are just too hot for my digestive tract, but the memory of the spicy goodness still warms my insides. This blog will be a collection of my hunting and fishing memories as I write them down. I’m sure that some of you have heard a few of them, but most of them will be fresh and previously untold. Please feel free to leave comments to let me know where you think they can be improved. I hope you enjoy them.