Whatcha' Seeing?

Goose Island State Park, Texas - Facing Aransas Bay

 Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.

                                    ~ Mark Twain ~

During my  formative (some would say I'm still in them) years, my rambling years and then my bidness years, I was fortunate enough to land in some part of all of the lower 48 states. Traveling then, sometimes by Greyhound, by car,  by rail, and as a frequent flyer,  my impression was that travelers largely moved around un-noticed. Phrases and thoughts then varied from, "We're hungry - Daddy, I have to pee - to  wondering  what my commission would be."   Sightseeing was restricted.


Fishermen know when they encounter a curious stranger, whether stepping up on the dock or at a trailhead, they will always hear, "How'd you do?     Now, when traveling to and from in the Turnip Truck I have discovered that local interest is piqued and almost always creates a smile and the question:


                          "So you travel all  'round in that thing ...  Whatcha seeing?" 

Big 'Uns

Georgia:  Pronounced Jaw-Ja.   Where the Turnip Truck Driver graduated from college and learned with certainty that all iced tea is sweet.   Has the best song, 'specially when sung by Ray Charles.


North Carolina:  Livermush, biscuits and cream gravy, country ham and red eye gravy, and heart attacks.  Birth place of the Turnip Truck Driver, yet no monument exists.


Delaware:  Couldn't find it.


Rhode Island:  Where you hear from everyone (the sample was 100%) the departing words, "Have a good one." 


Wyoming:   Where in the East,  coal trains are longer than the last three minutes of a 
NBA  game. In the West it is The Tetons or as Al Bundy would say, "Big 'uns."  Then there is Jackson Hole where even money says you will buy a tee shirt.
                 

Along the Snowy Byway - Wyoming

New York:   Manhattan - Go there in August - the 212s are gone.  All the rest are either Upstaters or Islanders, and it goes something like this, "Oh, you're from New York?" The reply, " No, no ... noo, I am an Upstater."

Vermont:  Where a tie-died tribe from Haight Ashbury wandered America for 40 years  to finally end up in Brattleboro.                       

Otter Creek - Vermont

Florida:    For the Keys,  Tarpon, Bonefish, Permit and cheeseburgers in paradise. Miami is a freshly painted Havana with new cars.  Central Florida has traffic, Didneyworld and more traffic. In
North Florida, if you're traveling north from the rest of Florida,  "Hi Y'all and welcome to the Sowth!"

Louisiana:  The Book of Job

District of Columbia:  A vortex where all dollars go to disappear.


Nebraska:  The birthplace  of the phrase, "Are we there yet?"  I suppose that Nebraska was also the test market for those famous Burma Shave signs.


Arkansas:  The Turnip Truck's  home waters.  Tailwaters and lots of trout - Dry Run Creek, the best fishing for a kid, ever - a great guide, John Berry and a great fly shop, Dally's Ozark Angler, and the best fly fishing camping ever at Denton Ferry RV Park.  If you've never visited the Ozarks, contact me and I'll introduce you to the area's finest ... and would love to share a cold one with you.


Texas:   Where some high school football stadiums have corporate sky boxes.

Tennessee:  Starting in the Smokies - Jelly and Brookies.  In Knoxville, if anything positive happens, even a traffic light turning green, you'll hear a loud chorus of Rocky Top.  Nashville is best known for inventing line dancing and ironically where Country music died, but traditions remain.  In  Memphis you can experience the world's best Bar B Que, and you can visit The Turnip Truck Driver. 

                   

Brookies in the Smokies

Idaho:  One tater, two tater, three tater, four. Do not miss the Brown Drake hatch on Silver Creek.

Montana:  All fly fishers pilgrimage to the Madison River, where guides purchase collision insurance for their drift boats. To borrow a Yogyism, "No wonder folks don't fish here anymore, look at all the drift boats."

Kansas:  Everybody in the country waves, especially those driving a tractor.
                                                                        

States In White Should Prepare For The Arrival of the Turnip Truck
'cept Maybe Hawaii

Do not despair if your state was missed. The Turnip Truck will continue to travel and experience this wonderful country ... and comment to a country with a great sense of humor. 

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.  ~  Maya Angelou

Blog, Blogger, Bloggier

Comparatively or Superlatively (cough, cough) speaking………

Turnip Truck Chronicles began as Notes on Facebook and  posts were shared privately.  Friends and family responded nicely, as friends and family should will do.  Due to an expanding number of friends on Facebook I began to discover their blogs and their recommendations for related readings.  I discovered a plethora ( some $2.95 words, too) of very entertaining web sites and blogs.  

With prompting and encouraging words from Jackson, I decided to give blogging a try even though I knew Jackson just wanted to see some new rivers for new stories.  Jackson, a Chocolate Lab, became the editor and house grammarian.  Too many commas, dangling participles or an incorrect idiom, blame Jackson.  To discover more about Jackson, look to one of the more popular stories, Tying The Jackson. It is a story not quite rivaling Old Yeller, but will bring moisture to the eyes to a grown man in freshly purchased wading boots with felt soles.

Turnip Truck Chronicles is a lot like Google and Facebook. We provide our staff with free meals,
 unlimited healthcare, even shots and chew toys. Long afternoon naps are promoted.

My first challenge was to determine who would be my reader,  other than close friends and relatives. I decided that I wanted my readers to be the same people I have met in a river , or stream side when resting a pool, or at take out parking lots. I valued most that these friendships began with a handshake, a smile or laugh and became cemented with tales and stories.  I started this blog a month ago - its purpose, to duplicate a live visit waterside. Expect  a handshake, a smile, a laugh and a story.  My goal is not to pen the equal of a great american novel - my desire is for the reader to think, "I'd enjoy fishing with that guy."

Turnip Truck Chronicles posted the first blog on or about the first of the year, 2012. I'll admit the blog would have never been posted if I had to know what the young geeks call code.  If HTML had been required, I would be a better fly tyer for it. I started with Google's Blogger.  The  templates seem to practice the KISS principle rather well. Also, the Blogger Blogspot site provides the poster with interesting feedback statistics and as more stories were posted, views increased and other bloggers of similar interests linked their readers to the Chronicles. Some friends told their friends and statistically the number of viewers began increasing at an increasing rate (a $2.95 economic theorem). 

Bar Chart Illustration Taken From a Politician's Estimation
 of Economic Growth - Not Representative of the Actual Performance
of Turnip Truck Chronicles

By the time you read this blog, Turnip Truck Chronicles will have experienced over twelve hundred views - I'm hoping many of those viewers actually read a story or two.  The stories posted  have been read in eleven separate countries, well only ten if you leave out Russia, which I am told real bloggers do.The largest referring site has been Facebook, then a recreational vehicle forum site, IRV2, and at third was Google search feeds.  With no former references by which to judge these statistics, I can only think, not a bad start. Friends and family are still saying nice things, the Outdoor Blogger Network featured Turnip Truck Chronicles and urged a visit with positive comments,  and I have even received a "well done" or three from some great blog writers.

Jackson raised an ear and cocked his head as he noticed that my normal stride had turned into a rooster strut. Clearly, the success of the Turnip Truck Chronicles will be known for the retention of the readers - views do not equal appreciation.  I have enjoyed  penning and posting  the stories and anything that keeps me from watching the news on tee wee or incessantly ($2.25) following the shade around the house and  keeps Jackson from dropping a throw toy at my feet every thirty seconds,  is a blessing.  I'll try to keep writing and keep Jackson editing  when we are not flinging a line and trout spotting.

Russian views notwithstanding, I remain (cough, cough) humble. The preceding sentence was inserted for my friends and relatives.

I thank you for reading or referring the Turnip Truck Chronicles and welcome any and all feedback.  At this time this venture is unfortunately  purely non-profit.  Here's the deal, when Turnip Truck Chronicles reaches Facebook subscriber numbers, we'll do an IPO and Jackson will ensure that the early subscribers will be cut in on the action. If you act within the next forty-five minutes and agree to tell a friend, we'll double your action.

Plus, if you subscribe  you will not miss a single future story.*  The teaser titles include:

Vermont Is Not Just For Liberals ...... uhh, Vermont

Hemingway's Longest Sentence? ...... Michigan

Rochinante Was Taken ....... Travels With Jackson

Fly Fishing The Parking Lot ...... Everywhere

Dry Run Creek Is For Kids, but  adults enjoy  it more ...... Arkansas


"Oh, They're Just Searching For Illegal Gringos" ...... Mexico


There Is No Such Thing As A Secret Honey Hole ..... Everywhere

* Good titles, huh? Stories alluded to above are subject to being finished.

The Hill Country Of Texas

Guadalupe River - Devil's Playground

Wandering through the "Hill Country" as a Winter Texan, I find the Lone Star state no different from other defined places, except for a few divergences that really stand out. 

To start with, it seems like you see more dance halls than churches.  Texas will concede second place for music, only to Austria, and never to the 16th Avenue suits from Nashville.  The disparity between churches and dance halls is small and does not mean that Texans are not religious. The most popular bumper sticker is from the song by the poet laureate of Texas, Billy Joe Shaver, who wrote the Texas anthem,  If You Don't Love Jesus,  Go To Hell.    (enjoy the link below)  
                                        

Ever since Waylon and Willie became impresarios, Texas music has ruled the western "fiddle in the band" genre and has become popular as a mixture of western swing and outlaw music.   Nowhere else is that music more famous than in Luckenbach.  

Luckenbach General Store, Post Office, Local Bar and a Famous  Dominicker Hen

After a morning of drowning some streamers in the Guadalupe River, Jackson and I hopped in the toad and GPSed the hill country back roads on our way to the historic town of Luckenbach.   We passed farms roads, culverts, leaning mail boxes and a few double wides - I told Jackson we were getting close when I saw the sign, "See the World's Largest Armadillo! - 1 Mile."  I was expecting the usual for a famously nominated place - some gas stations, a Hardees and maybe a John Deere repair shop.  None of that. Only a small sign signaling a turn onto an even smaller two lane road that circled to Luckenbach - the locals call it "leavin' the bypass."  Nothing makes me smile more than being surprised in a reversal of thought - only one store, a great music hall, a couple of houses and graded, well mown fields (for concert parking). The Post Office, general store and bar all blended together into a small way station. The general store's best selling products were no surprise, tee shirts followed by entrepreneurial CDs from the local talent.  A couple of those entrepreneurs were picking requests in the bar.  The Luckenbach Music Hall was locked up so Jackson made a pee stop and whimpered a beg for a shot at a prancing  free range chicken - I told him no 'cause it was the City Bird and protected by law.

Back in Sattler, Texas and nearby is the historic Gruene Music Hall,  the oldest dance hall in Texas - pealing clapboard siding, wire screen windows, old plank floors, bar in the back, band in the front,  where the Texas two step moves counter clockwise. Earlier in the week I stopped by to have a cold Lone Star and discovered  that a few reserved tickets remained for a one night appearance by Randy Travis.  One cold beer, a tip, a reserve ticket and a $50 bill was gone.  On the evening of the concert I experienced a Pilgrim Alert:  a reserve ticket to Gruene Hall is solely determined by how early  you stand in line before the show - the "reserved" means only that you have a ticket of fire protection.   Randy did not disappoint.

Gruene Music Hall

Priceless!

  

Back Bar and Dance Floor

Randy Travis Live in Gruene

  

McMurtry's book and Bogdanovich's movie  The Last Picture Show has  Darwinized into modern day Texas.  In fact,  one could easily replace Jesus with "Football" in the cited bumper sticker and it would be just as popular. This evolution has produced extremes, from " a murdering Mom for cheerleaders"  to the television hit, Friday Night Lights.  In the deep South football is revered ... in Texas it is simply just "good bidness."  So how does Texas stand out in football?  Many of the high school football stadiums have corporate sky boxes.  High school!  Yes, sky boxes!  

Alubias Negros Con Maiz y SomethingOrOther

 Press One For Tex-Mex

If you're a Texan and you don't own a heavy duty, separated fire box,  meat smoker then you have just become a new resident either from Mexico, or high-tech California. If the smoker does not have 14 inch tires, it's too small.  Shelby County, Tennessee, my home base, is where preparing pulled pork and baby backs is a religion unto itself, and in no way is it secular -  Bar-B-Que heaven is in Memphis.  Texas, however, does get  a blue ribbon for Texas style smoked sausages and even their style of beef brisket. 

Tex-Mex is unparalleled and a blend of the best of all spanish cuisines.  A land that is home to as many chili cook offs as rodeos, and quilting bees.  Terlingua being the World Series champ equivalent for chili.  For the best Tex-Mex, a few words of advice to road food addicts, seek out the older sections of town, away from the by-passes and off-ramps and look for expensive cars in front of old run down buildings. There you will find the area's best use of a jalapeno pepper.

Not so much along the interstate highways, but along back roads,  one finds Texas is unique in another way - displaying "the"  flag.  In Texas, the state banner is the Lone Star flag and a majority of the time it is flown, standing alone.  Texans are justly proud of their state and  heritage and do not think the absence of the Stars and Stripes is an anti-American statement, but a clear expression  of the often heard phrase, "Don't Mess With Texas."  


Patriotic proof …  Texas is the begetter of three modern day,  U.S. presidents.  Not great debaters, but U.S. presidents, none the less.     If that is not enough proof, know then that Willie has his annual concert on the Fourth of July.                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                    

Cool nights, warm days, bluebonnet skies, good food, great music and a little fishing are with me and good Texans as I happily navigate through the hill country of Texas.  

There have been some recent Jett Rink sightings and I'm going to begin my search for him between Bandera and  Luckenbach.

For A Better Listen:      http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MbF0bc7iEs

For A Better Look:

Visit Texas Hill Country             http://www.texashillcountry.com/


Fly Fish Texas                 http://grtu.org/


Gruene  Hall        http://gruenehall.com/

Bandera ~ My Peckinpah Moment

"The Stranger Went Free, Of Course"

As a stocky,  only child, city kid,  I always dreaded the trolley ride with my Mom to buy the new school year's jeans, sized husky.  The offsetting balance to the husky aisle was that I would also get a couple of new pearl snap cowboy shirts. 

Home again, in old jeans  and a new shirt, I would become Roy (Trigger) or Gene (Champion) or Hopalong (Topper), and sometimes Randolph (Stardust).  My parents still favored Tom Mix (Tony) or Tex Ritter (White Flash) and although theatre movies trumped television, the Lone Ranger (Silver) and Tonto (Scout) gained ground when we got the second television set in the neighborhood.  Though they did not wear the husky sizes, my cowboy heroes also all wore new shirts with pearl snaps for buttons and cuffs.  

Emily, three houses away, became my Dale Evans (Buttermilk) and we could easily run through four rolls of caps in an afternoon.  I was a cowboy.

I crested the hill, and the wide dusty swale below contained  the shallow Medina River.  I squinted into a gunfighter's sunset and the next hill silhouetted  Bandera, Texas, the home of cowboys and outlaws.

No longer would my heroes wear brightly toned shirts with matching piping -no pearl snaps - no longer closely shaved with neatly parted hair, and never again would their hats be white.  I was still the same kid, older and my cowboys were now tanned,  leather skinned,  bearded, sweaty, dusty and dirty.  They had  been Peckinpahed.

As I crossed the bridge into Bandera, it was my turn to direct.  I gave Jackson an ears up when I yelled,  "Places everyone!"

First,  I had to visually erase the Gonzales Heating and Air sign. Then I blocked out the Harley parked at forty five degrees in front of the the first saloon.  I kept the riffs of a loud lead guitar, but eliminated a neon Corona clock. 

Bandera became the movie setting for my favorite western lyrics,                

  

             The Red Headed Stranger 

The red-headed stranger from Blue Rock, Montana

Bandera, Texas

Rode into town one day;

And under his knees was a raging black stallion

And walking behind was a bay.

The red-headed stranger had eyes like thunder

His lips they were sad and tight;

His little lost love lay asleep on the hillside

And his heart was heavy as night.

A yellow-haired lady leaned out of her window,

And watched as he passed her way.

She drew back in fear at the sight of the stallion

But cast greedy eyes on the bay;

But how could she know that this dancing bay pony

Meant more to him than life?

For this was the horse that his little lost darling

Had ridden when she was his wife.

The yellow-haired lady came down to the tavern,

Looked up the stranger there;

He bought her a drink, he gave her some money

He just didn't seem to care.

She followed him out as he saddled the stallion,

And laughed as she grabbed at the bay;

He shot her so quick they had no time to warn her,

She never heard anyone say:

Don't cross him, don't boss him, he's wild in his sorrow,

He's riding and hiding his pain;

Don't fight him, don't spite him, just wait till tomorrow

Maybe he'll ride on again.

The yellow-haired lady was buried at sunset                                                 

The stranger went free, of course,

'For you can't hang a man for killing a woman                                                 

Whose trying to steal your horse.

This is the tale of the red-headed stranger

And if he should pass your way,

Stay out of the path of the raging black stallion

And don't lay a hand on the bay.

Satisfied, I finished, "Cut! That's a wrap!"

With my directing debut complete, I stopped to enjoy some of the old buildings, let Jackson pee on a hitching post, and when leaving Bandera, laughed as I once again passed Gonzales Heating and Air and read the sign's tag line, "Since 1997." 

Epilogue:

With each line of the lyrics,  I completed my fantasy of producing and directing the The Red Headed Stranger story.  Many years before Willie Nelson and band came to our small town. The night before the concert we were groupies in the lounge at the Mission Hills Resort. The entourage, sans Willie,  arrived just minutes before last call. With the band restless with only one drink, my wife, Barbara, asked the bartender to call the owner, a friend of ours.  She was able to influence the sleepy owner to empower the bartender and keep the lounge open long enough for Willie's band to fully water their thirst. While she was receiving cheers from the band, I was debating SEC versus Southwest Conference football with an entourage member in an orange "hook 'em horns" jersey. Turns out,  he was Willie's personal manager, BC.  BC, grateful while sipping his fourth drink, invited us to ride with Willie's caravan into the fair grounds the next day.  Barbara had lunch on the bus with sister Bobbie and Willie, and I drank cold, band beer and we enjoyed the concert back and side stage with BC. It was during the chorus of Red Headed Stranger that I told BC that I would love to produce a movie of the song. He chuckled, and said that the movie was already in the final stages of planning. 

It was made, but it wasn't Peckinpahed, not like I, the cowboy,  would have directed.

Red Headed Stranger Album:  

• Copyright: (P) 1975, 1986, 2000 SONY BMG MUSIC ENTERTAINMENT
• The Red Headed Stranger - recorded by Willie Nelson - written by Edith Linderman and Carl Stutz 

Bandera - an instrumental by Willie Nelson - written by Carla Bozulich

Tying "The Jackson"

Jackson

Jackson became a traveling and fly fishing companion via my granddaughter and her birthday party held at the local animal shelter. Instead of an hour of bedlam at Chuckster Cheeseter,  my daughter asked the young celebrators to bring a bag of dog or cat food in lieu of a present to the local animal shelter. The fun?  Each kid would get an hour to play with the pet of their choice. When I heard of this my first thoughts - this party program rivaled any scam that Wall Street hedge fund traders could possibly invent.  Sub-prime mortgages, sophomoric compared to this marketing idea.

Catelyn, my granddaughter,  was granted first choice and an hour was spent with Jackson.

It seems that Jackson had quite a "ladies man" reputation within a ten mile circumference of the shelter. The previous owner paid  a $50 Animal Control fine for the first offense - rumored to be a very blond Golden Retriever with a sexy bark.  The second time caught cost his owner $100.  The third time became a "three strikes and you're out," ruling.  Jackson's owner said keep him.

Catelyn then spent the next four days - maybe it was three - convincing Poppy, that would be me, to bail Jackson out. The plea, "Poppy, I'm praying every night that you will go get Jackson,"  Evidence in the photographs - it worked.

When it came my turn for Jackson's tag and title, he came "fixed" and out the door the shelter charged $85.  Jackson came home to join three Black Labs and became Snook's intern on the Turnip Truck.

Not A True Rise - Jackson Said,  "He's Feeding On Emergers."

 He fit right in and bonded to me - some call it the "Bail Bondsman's Syndrome."  In no time he got to visit some nice rivers and quickly became the greatest trout spotter of all times - all times!  As soon as trout spotting field river trials are invented, he'll become the grand champion. Too bad he cannot pass along these unique spotting genes - I could make a fortune in stud fees not to mention the endorsement contracts from Orvis.

Ushering A Trout To The Net

 It's Time For The Net

As a tribute to Jackson, I've fashioned a fly tying recipe with the main ingredient being Jackson's chocolate hair and underfur as the fly's body dubbing.  The hair is a natural, buggy nymph brown that was collected with ease using a Furminator (shameless mention to have Jackson become the barkster for the Furminator). If, in the near future, you see a paid Furminator ad blogside, you'll know it worked.

The Furminator

The Jackson Recipe(s):

Hook -         Tiemco 2457 #12,14,16,18
                      If a purist - a barbless hook hand-filed from a '55 Chevy Bel Air hubcap.  

Thread -       Brown Uni Unwaxed 8/0

                      If a purist - dyed threads from Bibb overalls, Circa 1951. 

Bead -          Copper Colored Tungsten, sized to hook
                      If a purist - a copper BB, center drilled, see Popular Mechanics August, 1966

Ribbing -      Copper wire, sized small

                      If a purist - the center strand of copper wire from a lamp cord.

Tail -            Pheasant Tail, bunched pheasant tail fiber tips
                       If a purist - the same but secured with the opposite hand.

Dubbing -     Jackson's Furminator extracted underfur  blended with Cinnamon Ice Dubbing

                      If a purist - belly hair from a frightened mole  on a bananas only diet. 

Thorax -       Pheasant tail folded over Brown Ice Dubbing and add PT wing tips.
                      If a purist -  substitute some more frightened mole hair for ice dubbing.

When all is said and done, at the end of the day, and the truth of the matter is (political year you know) that "The Jackson" is simply a Bead Headed Pheasant Tail Nymph ... BUT dubbed with the miracle working hair of Jackson's underfur.  For this reason alone we are offering "The Jackson" for the low, low price of $19.95, plus shipping and handling. BUT! if you act today, we will include another Jackson fly for FREE - you only pay an additional shipping and handling fee.

Heh, heh,  Just  Wait'll  I Learn To Cast

If you enjoyed this little story, drop a few bucks and some feed off at your local animal shelter,  or even better, host a birthday party for little kids.  Jackson, the shelter and the little kids will love you for it - not so certain 'bout their parents, though.

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, 

he will not bite you; that is the principal 

difference between a dog and a man 

~ 

Mark Twain

More Secretive Than Area 51

"You Drive, I'm Gonna Nap For Awhile."

Snook's wiggles told me that the long drive and his naps were over and he was ready to fish.   Me too.

I wish I could say  he sniffed and pointed the way to the fly shop, but like most pilgrims, we asked for directions.   Landmarks were easy,  the Wind River on one side of the road and the Absaroka mountains on the other side. 

We were in Dubois, Wyoming.  When entering and first seeing the "Welcome To Dubois"  sign,  I started practicing my Tennessee French ….. "dieu bwoi"….."du bwa" …."doo....",  oh hell, ......... I'll just ask.

A four block run to the fly shop where the owner, easily recognizing a stranger,  said, "Welcome to….."Dew Boys."

"Thanks, so that's how you say it?"

"Yep, fools a lot of folks, yes it does." 

"I'll need a license and hopefully you'll send me and Snook here  to an out of the way stream filled with cutthroats." 

"I can do that - try a few of these attractor flies,  I suggest some bear spray, and you'll head South for a little better than five miles to Spence's sign, turn left and follow the gravel then rut road for twenty miles until you run into the East Fork.

"Spence's sign?"  

"Yep, you'll know it - Jerry Spence - that buckskin fella that was on TV all the time talking 'bout  O.J."

"Ah, that Spence."

We left with everything but the bear spray - I factored in and would be counting upon Snook's negotiating skills.  We followed directions and sure enough, we came to Spence's sign.

Spence's Sign - No Caption Necessary

I laughed, the nation's universities have too many lots of prestigious law schools where too many barristers are educated and yet here in "Dew Boys,"  hidden away is the Trial Lawyer's College,  where the skills of plea bargaining and capturing forty percent of the settlement is expertly taught.

And yes, in an place more secretive than Area 51.

We took a left turn at the Spence sign, drove twenty beautiful miles of gravel road and Snook roamed in a skinny water section of the river - no bears,  and I caught and released a few cutthroat.

Snook in the East Fork of Wind River in the Absaroka (Absorkies) Mountains

Caveat Fly Flinger - Now, with more experience fishing in bear country and having read of many tragic bear attack stories, I have learned that bears do not negotiate well, especially with dogs.  I suppose,  'cause they do not have to.  

Buy bear spray when fishing the backwoods.