The Moment

"I feel like a heroin addict who just got a fix" I told Joe as I fumbled over a cup of cowboy coffee. The morning was "twilight-zone-still" as the crisp smells of aspen and juniper, mixed with a little dust and french roast, tried to stop my body from shaking almost convulsively. My first Archery Buck was presumably laying somewhere close by in the high desert of Modoc County. The shivers and shakes came in waves, receding to an unnoticeable condition and then peaking in a crescendo of shuddering; the mixture of a chilly morning and the adrenaline rush better known as "buck fever". Joe smiled, a veteran hunter, he knew the feeling well and nodded in agreement and slight envy. The "after shakes" are what motivate us to prepare, practice and perform for months in anticipation of "the moment of truth": that split second when the arrow is airborne, time freezes, and life hangs in the balance.
"Well, it's been about forty five minutes, if you hit him square, he should be ready" Joe observed, staring down in the dust for a hint of fresh track or blood sign. "I heard you hit him-you know. I told my wife you just shot a buck and she asked how I knew. Heard it from the bathroom window just before I got in the shower. Sounded like you hit him good."
"Right behind the shoulder" I commented with a confident aire though doubt loomed somewhere in the recesses. Too many blown stalks, peetered out blood trails and a coyote that disappeared two weeks ago after being hit squarely near the shoulder, have all cautioned me against any kind of early celebration. The buck had been hit well, yes, but I wasn't about to count chickens. All we had right now was eggs.
The night before, Joe showed me the bucks' favorite haunt, a much chewed upon clump of buck brush that the mule deer had been visiting every morning like clockwork. After setting up under an juniper tree where we figured they would meander for a good shot, it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to present itself. Sleep came sporadically that night and I awakened with a start. The slightest glow of dawn was apparent as I tied up my boots and slipped over-sized socks over them for stealth. I debated a sweatshirt versus my thin scent-lok and opted for the lighter. I hadn't practiced much with a heavier coat and didn't want to snag my string on it during the release so I went with the light pullover. I debated this decision often as I crouched in the soft bed of juniper needles, trying not to shiver.
"The Grey Ghosts" as they are known in this country, seemed to materialize from the terrain. Three bucks, the one you see here, and two others, slightly smaller and still in velvet, but with a few extra points on either side. I don't remember letting my guard down for a second and yet, without detecting movement or sound, there they were in an opening, making their way down the draw towards Joe's guest cabin and the popular clump of buck brush. I ranged them as they passed behind the sparse stand of trees and momentarily contemplated a stalk to cut the distance of 54 yards that appeared on my range finder. Gathering my breath through lips parted to avoid any sound, I thought better of it. Motionless, I was invisible but trying to sneak up on these deer would be a mistake. Their mule-like ears are like satellites, picking up the slightest noise from far off and putting them on alert. Though they don't see well, they are keenly attuned to pick up movement and of course, moving my position might move my scent trail although the wind this morning was all but undetectable. So I sat tight and stayed put, momentarily letting my gaze fall to the ground,When they first appeared, "the grey ghosts" as they are known in this calming myself by staring at rocks rather than antlers. When I looked up, it was like a dream, the buck I was after (completely velvet free, taller more symmetrical, larger bodied) was steadily moving towards me, abandoning the path the first two meandered along which would've taken them all out of range. Afraid to "stare him off", again I averted my eyes and began to make incremental and (hopefully) undetectable movements, setting myself up for a shot under the cover of the juniper. Finally he was in position and looking the other way. Joe had warned me last night to focus on just one and to not worry about the others-"it's like flock shooting, ya gotta pick one out and stick with it." I came to full draw and my upper limb brushed a branch with an audible "scratch". The buck looked up and froze. My sight pins danced. Shaking circles didn't match. I remember to breathe and then caught myself using my forty yard pin instead of my twenty. Time stood still as the Buck seemed to peer deep into my soul, calculating my intentions. Apparently convinced I was a part of the landscape, or at least a vegetarian, he dropped his head and continued feeding. Everything settled into place right behind his shoulder and at the instant he let his guard down to nibble one last tidbit from the buck brush, I released the arrow. "Whack" the impact startled me as it hit home reassuringly. The buck charged off in a stampeding bee-line down the draw. I heard a crashing and a "snap" as the buck stumbled and broke off the arrow somewhere beyond my sight. Tracking the sounds as long as I could and then waiting another five minutes or so after that, I retreated back to the cabin to try and calm my nerves-and put on a sweatshirt.
Joe eagerly and painstakingly picked up the track, intermittently urging me to keep my bow ready, "look ahead!" and then inviting me to check out the tiny drop of blood he found or the slightest fresh scuff of earth, then chastising me again to "keep your eyes up there!" I had to smile because he was as fired up about finding this buck as I was. But still, the blood was painfully sparse. Finally we found where he had "crashed" and recovered the bloody tail-end of my arrow. "Good" blood and some tissue wrapped the snapped end.
"How do you like my tracking so far?" Joe asked with his immutable confidence.
Making sure not to let him catch me looking down at what he had just pointed out I replied, "I like it a lot!" Finally Joe spotted the body (so much for my looking ahead) and after a cautious approach, pictures were taken and the work began. "Grab your knife", Joe said and I looked at him with a dumb smirk.
"That might've been a good thing for me to bring along eh?" Same goes for my little digital camera but then again, I never go anywhere without the cell phone. Joe let me borrow his knife and we had that buck at the butcher by ten a.m. that morning. The "Old West" butcher near Alturas does a great job for an unheard of price. "Buck Burgers" and "Buck Stix" are a popular request from my boys and my wife has even made quite a few crock-pot recipes with the burger. I could live off just the steaks and a little cajun spice. I love that we can enjoy the buck and honor him around our dinner table for months after the hunt. Young, big-bodied and Alfalfa-loving, the meat off of my first Archery Buck is divine. I've never been more popular with my carnivorous buddies.

South Texas New Year's

I know I'm weird but I can't think of a better way to ring in the New Year than tracking a wounded doe through the Brush Country of famed South Texas. Maya's uncle Andrew has invited us to The De La Garza Ranch along with the rest of the extended family, eighteen in all, to celebrate New Year's. Now, we're on our hands and knees, in the pitch dark, looking for tiny droplets of blood that will lead us to our wounded quarry.
It all started when Maya's Father Mike was remarried in Santa Barbara this summer. Sitting around a fire outside the pepper tree hotel, Maya had the brilliant idea of a reunion at the Ranch over New Year's. I believe everyone in attendance that night was reunited six months later under the lone star around a much bigger bonfire (everything's bigger in Texas). Gazing at the wide open Texas star scape and reflecting into my chilly microbrew I recounted the days events and considered it a blessing to be here.
Our flight out of Sacramento left at 6am that morning, not an easy task with two toddlers, luggage and car seats. I dropped the kids and Maya off at the terminal, sped back to the economy lot and jumped on a tram, not before nailing my noggin on the hatch of the freestyle hastily grabbing tanner's Thomas the Train sweatshirt (which I found once we returned home in the car seat bag, unworn). In the rush I forgot to note the parking location and paid for that later too but hey, we made it didn't we?
We nearly missed our connecting flight in Denver-which would've set us back a day-but instead sprinted (Maya carrying Sage and me dragging a belligerent Tanner) all the way across the airport, only to wait for an hour as crews de-iced the wings. I should probably omit the fact that Maya was ready to give up but I won't because this blog is "The Man's Side" and I'm proud of the fact that I didn't. "We're too late!" she cried, obviously unnerved and embarrassed by Tanner's wailing.
"We don't know that!" I retorted with my best Nicolas Cage impression. "We've just gotta get there!" The portly attendant asked us if we had heard her paging us as we breathlessly arrived at the gate, 15 minutes after the scheduled departure time. We chuckled to each other, giddy that the plane hadn't left us for a day in quickly-freezing-over Denver. We couldn't have heard a siren over Tanner's wailing.
We arrived in San Antonio two hours late but Aunt Andy was there with the De La Garza's Suburban and we were off for Catulla, home of George Strait and ground zero for big oil speculation. On the ninety minute car ride we witnessed no less than three accidents, one of which unfolded in front of our eyes in a cloud of smoke. It seemed obvious then that "The Big Guy" was definitely looking out for us. Welcome to Texas Baby! Let's go hunting!
If you've never been to South Texas, the landscape is thoroughly monotonous and impressive only for the fact that it seems to stretch endlessly into the horizon, an ocean of tangled branches. "Brush Country" pretty much sums it up. Different shades of gray interspersed with the occasional jolly green of a prickly pear cactus, smothered in a tan layer of dust, rolls out along lonely stretches of highway. Unimpressive of course, unless you are a hunter. The particular area where the De La Garza Ranch is situated is a world-renowned Whitetail Deer hunting haven, legendary amongst even the most casual hunting enthusiast. Hardware stores showcase feeders and box blinds on tall "quad-pods" that tower over even the tallest of camo and winch-equipped, four-wheel-drive trucks.
Word got out amongst the family of our harrowing airport travails and we were greeted as heroes at the ranchhouse, a white-washed and red-trimmed affair that seemed to sprout right out of the desert. Complete with snake-proof fencing it spoke to the weary traveler, beckoning him to a desert outpost after a long journey.
Uncle Andrew is instantly the friendliest guy you will meet and yet underneath runs a strong current. He is constantly on the go and always seems to have everything under control. His wife Christine belies the same electricity, a top OB/GYN, non-pareil amongst her peers, she epitomizes Texas warmth and hospitality. They make us feel welcome at once and Uncle Andrew is kind enough to broach the subject of hunting. "Oh Yeah, we'll set you up in the Rock Blind tomorrow. You should see a lot of game. Deer, Hogs, turkey, maybe even a bobcat or cougar."
The next day Aunt Karen and I post up in the rock blind before dawn breaks. The whirring of the feeder sounds off at 7am and ratchets up the anticipation. Something will be coming by soon it says. A doe materializes from the mist. A low fog has settled over the horizon and descends and recedes like the pulsing of a tidal swell. I set the .270 rifle up on the window and get a good look at her. The De La Garza's have a strict management strategy for their property. They harvest only one mature buck each year that meets their specifications. As such, it's important to harvest a few mature does each year to keep the buck-to-doe ratio up and thin the herd appropriately. The trick is to find a mature doe that isn't trailing fawns. Just as I started to seriously consider taking the mature doe, a young fawn stepped out from the mist. I told Karen that we wouldn't take this one and she thanked me for sparing her the agony. I teased her later that she was "holding me back" but after seeing the fawn, it wasn't a question. There is just too much game around the ranch to take anything other than exactly what you're looking for.
For the next two hours we watched a family of deer mill about, at times spooky and staring at the box blind, other times browsing contentedly only yards from our location. I noticed that the fawn had "nubs" and the other two deer were bucks. One was a small 2x3 and the other -"Daddy" we called him- had an identical but much larger and taller rack. There's nothing like observing wildlife from a hidden vantage point. I could tell that Karen enjoyed playing "hide and seek" with the family of deer and just watching them in their natural surroundings. Although we didn't find a doe or a hog that was suitable for taking, we definitely gained a better appreciation for the nature that surrounded us here in South Texas.
To be continued....

Yeehaw

It's Sunday and the spouse is throwing a "hot pants" party. Mr. Wheat called to save me, offering to let the boys ride one of the horses he tends on a local ranch. "Do they have rubber boots?" he asked. "Sure do, matter-of-fact, Sage has his on right now!"
We met Ron at the Ranch about 20 minutes later. I picked up my Pops on the way and grabbed him some boots too. John, the Rancher, wanted to give vaccinations to some of his calves as they were getting runny noses. The boys and I tried to stay out of the way and let the real cowboys round up the cattle.
When the horses were all saddled up, Sage got to go first and the grin on his face was pure joy, the most genuine smile I have ever seen him conjure.
Tanner was next and the resulting grin was identical. He got a little more excitement though as a passing car slightly spooked the horse and Tanner got to go for a brief trot. Ride em' cowboy! You can tell Ron has been around horses his entire life. The horses obviously respect him and he moves about them fluidly, without a wasted movement, brushing, saddling, strapping and leading.

After the boys got their fill-Ron showed his experience dealing with competing brothers and let them ride tandem-it was time for yours truly to saddle up!

I hadn't ridden a horse since before Tanner was born but I was much more excited than nervous. After being reminded that you always mount a horse on its left side, and having Ryan help me into the stirrup, we circled the corral and headed for the hills of Southampton. After crossing a slippery bridge, Ron led me up the hill and informed me, "They like to run up hill." About half way up, my saddle started tilting to the right. Being the novice, I tried to wrench it back into place with my hands on the pommel and the next thing I know, I was eating dirt.
The horse obediently stood there as I dusted the mud off my face and Ron re-settled the saddle. I thought of the old saying about "getting back on your horse" as I swung my leg back over the saddle on the slippery, muddy slope. We headed back up the hill and I used my legs as instructed to stay centered and balanced.
The view from a horse in the hills evokes images of the wild-west to be sure, but also this feeling of royalty. Like sitting on top of the world with a beautiful animal at your beckon call. I could instantly see how Ron commits himself to these horses everyday. They give back everything they get and then some. After reaching the top of the saddle, we head back downhill. This time I really put the brakes on and we pick our way down the trail, back to the reality of town and family commitments, leaving the majestic hill top and it's misty diversions at our backs.

The Dog Days of Summer

Montana got sprayed by a skunk last week. We found a recipe to rid her of the odor and it worked on about 95% of the smell. Of course even 5% of a skunk's nasty devil juice is enough to keep her outside for the week so that's where she sits, outside. You've never seen a more attentive, plaintive looking hound in your life. She's got more patience than I do. I admit it, I'm bored.
My latest diversion is creating a mountain bike track in the green belt behind the house. Who cuts dead dusty grass and then shovels rocks for fun in the summer heat? I need a quarry. The DMV still hasnt' sent me the tags for my boat. I'm the dumbass who kicks himself everyday for mailing it into the massive Sacramento bureaucracy rather than braving the lines at a DMV but then again, standing in line at the DMV is about as fun as a rectal exam but at least I would have my tags by now and I could fight with my wife about something substantial like going Sturgeon fishing or taking the boat to a lake. There's no Salmon to chase nor Rockfish nor Abalone. But I know what it is: I've got my Deer Tags and I want to go scouting.
Sure my kids are a blast but I just get tired of "pretending" to be on Ax Men or Monster Quest. I mean, Tanner's all set to go-Camo overalls, boots, ammo bag, stick gun, etc. but he won't stop talking for five seconds! And his plans change by the minute. First he wants to be a scuba diver so I make him a tank out of a crystal geyser bottle and a garden hose. But wouldn't you know it, now he needs a trail cam to try and get photos of a chupacabra so he drags out the portable DVD player. Now that doesn't belong outside so I have to grab the real one for him and hope he doesn't dunk it in the pool. I used to think I would be one of those Dads who could say no to everything, and I still am to some extent, but I've also learned that just making him a damn scuba tank from a garden hose, baseball belt and plastic water jug is easier than convincing him that he doesn't need scuba gear for a 10" deep, blow-up backyard pool because you can't. The line between reality and pretend is thin indeed. I do enjoy going there for awhile but sometimes I just want to live in the real world without being attacked or on fire or playing super hero:)

Eagle Lake 2010

If it be said that I only write of hunting and fishing, let it be said, for these are the fuel for my existence.
Another Memorial Day has passed and thus another storied Eagle Lake expedition. It's no longer a trip as the family has grown as have the families of all those who attend. No longer can two or three dudes pack into a truck and make the trip like a pack of lone wolves on an extended hunt. Nowadays the packing is a two week fiasco. "Hon, do we need to bring the "Pack N Play" for the little one?" "Of course". Along with bags of toys, changes of clothes and night time stories. Actually the kids ended up on the short end this year. I brought: three fishing poles, my dog, my rifle and enough ammo to defend Waco for a few days, my guitar and song book and my fishing backpack and fillet board. The kids didn't get: the quad, the bike and trike nor their mini "Lightning McQueen" fishing poles (I don't know what they did with them and they scare me when they start flailing a hookless weight around each other). All in all we actually packed suprising light what without having to camp. The cabin we rented was recently remodeled and besides having to have "Lynyrd Skynyrd" turn our hot water on after I found some wires loose in the hot water heater closet, it offered most of the comforts of home. Plus it had a nice mule deer buck mounted over the living room, various fishing books and an old fly rod on the wall for the perfect ambiance. Oh Yeah, I never touched my guitar nor fired a shot from my rifle-next time I'll have to throw Tanner's bike on top of the pile.The Rivalry is still alive and well however. Lately it's been Heyman & Pattyo vs. Nelson and the Rings on this trip and thus it was this time around. Saturday morning began dubiously. Heyman needed a jump so he drove me back to my truck where I could grab my booster box. Once he was charged, he sped off and left us outside the no wake zone with a clogged impeller. Peanuts boat has been plagued with problems and he had hoped a new engine rebuild would solve his worries once and for all. Unfortunately, we couldn't get on plane with Archie calling it correctly from the first failed-full-throttle, "It sounds like something is clogging the impeller" he stated matter of factly. Rather than miss the dawn bite making the repairs, we limped to the tules and wet our worms. Final score for the morning, Heyman 5, Nelson/Ring 3. Even though we came up short, Heyman didn't have a limit and the foreign object was successfully removed from the impeller.
Sunday morning we got the jump on Heyman and the rest of the Tule Belle Duck Club. We knew we were early when Shrimp Island "The Secret Spot" didn't light up like times square and we got a front row seat to the hottest trout fishing on the West Coast. Peanut had two in the box before we could see without a flashlight. As he was re-rigging, I watched his bobber dunk and took my turn on his second rod. If you snooze you lose and it was someone else's turn anyways:)
We had a limit by 6:45 am. We took a victory lap past the Heyman and basked in the full moon of a Pattyo "Bare Ass". Oh sweet victory is ours!
Monday morning was more of the same and we were back at the Cabin by 7 cleaning our fish and packing up. The old saying really is true: time flies when you're having fun. And so it was that we were headed home, smelling of trout and already making plans for next year.

The Shark In the Dark

Young Tanner McDougal's was a happy young boy
Until his Daddy told him about the shark in the dark
The shark in the dark flies by the moon on the bay
thats what his daddy told him yesterday
Oooh the shark in the dark, is he mean asked the boy?
Will he chase me and bite me and steal all my toys?
Is he big? Is he mean? Asked young Tanner McDougal
That's when the shark attacked our poodle.
Our poor poodle monties never hurt a fly
Until the shark in the dark decided to come by
He came in the night as sharks tend to do
and when he ate monties we didn't know what to do
So Tanner took out his new home made sword
and then turned to his ship and climbed aboard
He manned the wheel and loaded the harpoon
Knowing the shark in the dark was coming soon
But when he came he didn't smirk or grin
The poor shark didn't even know how to swim
And monties was chasing him, biting his tail
And the shark in the dark let out a mournful wail
Oh please don't get me with your big harpoon
I only come out every seventh full moon
I'm the shark in the dark and I wouldn't hurt a fly
That's when Tanner's momma came by
She gasped at the scene and cried out, "What a Mess!"
This shark in the dark is surely a nasty little pest,
He hides in your closet and only comes out at night
Why I don't think that shark even knows how to bite
But Tanner was focused on the mission at hand
He pulled the poor shark from the water and up on to land
He seized the shark by it's rough skinned tale
and told that shark to leave the island, set sail
For the shark in the dark scares me no more and
he paddled the sharks bottom with an oar!
And he cleaned up the mess and he picked up the debris
Hurling all the sharks victims safely back to sea.
And victorious he settled back into his bed
Knowing that shark would soon be dead
For no sea creature can survive the dreadful mcdoogal stare
and besides no creature would ever dare
cross the young sea hunter aboard his trusty skiff
As his father waves goodbye from the top of the cliff
Now that the seaman has conquered his foes
He heads for adventure wherever the wind blows.

Tanner's First Day Skiing

When I received my ski instructor initiation over a decade ago they explained why we must be courteous to all we encounter because skiing is a hassle sport. First you pack an endless list of necessities, most for the expected encounters and others for emergencies or the unexpected. Then you get into your car and drive for several hours. If you're lucky, the roads are clear but the ski conditions are marginal. If there is snow falling, you may be delayed for a number of hours in your car, waiting for the plow to lead you and a thousand other "lowlanders" into the mountains. When you finally get to the ski "resort" of your choice, you're greeted with lines; Lines for rentals, lift tickets, lift lines and then a lunch line to pay $12 for an overcooked cheeseburger. I was always eager to hold the door for a Mom or Dad, arms filled with undersized skis, followed by a little bug in ski clothes either crying or asking pestering questions but I didn't envy their experience in the least. I knew all this and yet we ventured forth in spite of it all, determined that we could beat the odds and still find a way to enjoy ourselves.
This would be my first time skiing in about five years. I'd like to blame it on the kids or Maya with whom my experiment to turn into a ski-bunny failed miserably, but the truth is, I didn't want to come to terms with the fact that I too had become a pitiful lowlander. No longer could I hitchhike to work with my snowboard, lead a charge of screaming youngsters down the mountain and find hidden honey holes of powder at lunch. Gone were the days of hiding from the last ski patrol so we could drop off the backside of diamond peak and snowboard home. Now I was looking to rent ski's at sport chalet and searching the internet for deals of lift tickets.
My wife and I pride ourselves in planning ahead-having "our stuff together" if you will. A friend of ours had been offering his cabin in tahoe-donner for the last few years and so I decided to take him up on it. Better to stay for a few nights than to try and drive the marathon-like 6hr round-trip drive in one day with a full day of skiing sandwiched in between. Next, we rented skis in advance and found that we could pick them up early, use them a day and return them late the following day for a one day rental. Then it was off to the supermarket. We loaded up on snacks, drinks and planned out our meals for the next three days. If all went according to plan, (since we could use our friend's guest pass for a discount, Tanner could ski free and all we (make that I) needed to do was shovel the driveway for a free two night stay at the cabin), we could pull this trip off for less than $200 dollars including gas for my hogging F150.
We ventured forth on the Sunday after school let out. We arrived at the cabin early enough but the driveway was covered in packed "sierra cement" at least waist high at it's lowest point. I parked the truck on the side of the road and mountain manned it to the porch where I uncovered the snowblower and let it rip. A half-hour later, with a sweaty jacket and fleece hat abandoned on the pack ice, I had plowed a path to the street and ushered the family into the cabin. Two hours later I backed the truck up to the porch with inches to spare on each side. I might be complaining about all this if it weren't for the fact that I was lovin every minute of it. Free cabin, fresh air, a great excuse to get two hours kid free doing man chores. Priceless.
We settled into the cabin and made ourselves cozy. The plan was to play in the snow that afternoon but the wind picked up and I forgot how much quicker darkness comes to the mountains. Snow started to fall and it wasn't until after dinner that Tanner and I suited up (or at least I did as Tanner had been wearing his new snow bibs for the last week straight) and headed out to make a sled ramp in the driveway. Of course the practicality of a sled was lost on him and so we had to put on the ski boots and skis and learn how to make a pizza slice shape with his skis. Another advantage to renting in advance was that Tanner could practice and get familiar with the equipment before the moment of truth on the mountain. He seemed to like making "french fry" shapes with his skiis better. When he positioned his skis spread eagle and asked, "what's this called Daddy" I couldn't help but reply.
"That's called CRASHING Tanner."
The next day, even the best laid plans couldn't help us. We couldn't find the resort. The GPS took us to the cross country area. We did find great parking but I remembered why I snowboard, ski boots make my feet and calves ACHE painfully. To top it off, the snow began to fall in flurries and yesterday evening's wind had only come up stronger today. Still, Tanner was game and we went through the drill: get on the shuttle, go potty, get lift tickets, zip up jackets and go. I took my first trip on the "magic carpet" and the slow standing intensified the painful aching in my boots ten-fold. I skied backwards and Tanner hung onto my ski poles for dear life as we slowly waltzed back and forth down the hill. Maya had Sage in "the backpack" weathering the blizzard like a trooper. I didn't think my feet could take another ride on the magic carpet so I took Tanner's inquiry about the lifts as an opportunity. Maya looked at me incredulouosly-"He can't go on that!"
"Sure he can, I've taken hundreds of kids on those things. He'll love it".
And he did. We whooped and hollered for about a minute at the exhiliration of being lifted up a mountain on a flying bench. Our enthusiasm was short lived as the stinging snow assaulted our exposed, pinky cheekbones. I tried to cover Tanner's face but it probably just scraped the protective layer of ice off his face. We made it about half-way down the run before I had to scoop him up and ski. We headed to the lodge for snacks and a break from the hail's stinging onslaught. I didn't feel guilty at all taking up a spot in the cafeteria with our brown bag lunch and mountain of snow soaked ski gear. Feeling defrosted and re-energized, we rounded up the circus and headed out for one more hurrah. This time I put Tanner in front and wrapped my ski pole under his armpits. As long as he kept his hands on his knees, he had the right balance point and I could still steer. I think he felt more comfortable being able to see where he was going. We made two more runs, no carrying this time and we were fit to be tied. I don't think he really "got the hang of it" but he had a blast and thinks he's "the greatest skiier in the world" urging me to announce it to everyone at the bottom of each run.
The next day we headed to the sled hill. The sun came out in glorious fashion, reflecting brilliantly off the six inches of powder yesterday's storm had dumped. For $14 dollars we got to sled all morning on a perfect groomed run complete with banks and an area to walk up. We had a blast. Tanner even took out a few sleds and Maya bruised her right-rear cheek in a terrific crash. We headed home that evening tired and content. Sometimes as a parent I realize that the greatest achievements sometimes are in not trying to make them grow up too fast. I hear they will be before you know it anyways.