It’s September 1st and it almost feels like somebody flipped a switch. The mornings are cooler, even though the afternoon heat and humidity remain oppressive. The very tippy-top leaves of the maple across the street have a reddish hue. I haven’t seen the kites in at least three days.

Penny and I have started to see cicada carcasses littering the sidewalks on our morning walks, their bodies all ashy and gray instead of the vibrant green of summer. We can still hear them screaming from the trees, but they seem to know their time is running short.

One Moment

I was riding shotgun in our Tacoma on a two-lane back road through fields of corn and cotton when I got the message.

It was from the uncle of a 14-year-old I followed on a KUIU-sponsored Gold Star hunt in Colorado. Alex Nehl lost his dad in Afghanistan when he was only two. On that trip, he was hunting antelope with his father’s rifle.

When I got back home to NC, I started digging into Alex’s father’s life, combing through obituaries, news stories, and memorial guest books, trying to piece together who he was beyond being a soldier. During that research, I learned CPT James D. Nehl had run into enemy fire to pull a wounded soldier to safety.

That wounded soldier made it home. Nehl did not.

That whole story was a feature on Outdoor Life’s website on Veterans Day 2024. (You can read it here.)

I was damn proud of that article. Still am.

The message said that my article had caught the attention of an Army general officer. And because of that, Alex’s father will be posthumously awarded a valorous award for his actions on his final day. Fourteen years later. To the day.

I sat there and cried while the ag fields zipped past the truck windows.

It just felt too big, and I seemed so small in the shadow of it.

The family has invited me to the ceremony in Washington in November. I’m going to try my damnedest to get there.

Field Notes

I never pictured myself being a crossbow hunter.

And yet, here we are.

I’ve been contracted to write some blog posts for Excalibur Crossbows, which means I have some very nice crossbows to shoot and photograph. So why wouldn’t I hunt with them, too?

Especially since we’re only 11 days out from North Carolina’s archery opener.

I spent a large portion of my summer nursing a shoulder injury that was so bad I couldn’t raise my arm high enough to apply deodorant, which can create quite the problem during summer in the South.

Also, shoulder injuries and compound bows don’t play particularly well together.

So I guess I’m hunting with a crossbow this year.

My birthday is only eight days away. I’m only turning 53, not 103, but it sometimes feels like my body has become a sort of cranky coworker who is always sending her bullshit complaints to HR. I’m tired of receiving her strongly worded emails.

I suddenly feel very old.

Doesn’t matter, though. I have crossbows to shoot.

In the Truck

The Tacoma is still relatively clean, which means hunting season hasn’t really started yet.

The console binos are still there, although the beans are getting too high to spot bachelor bucks in the fields. My rubber boots have taken up permanent residence, just in case.

And after somehow stumbling into a patch of chiggers this weekend, a spray bottle of Sawyer picaridin has earned a permanent spot in the rear pocket of the driver’s seat.

So, basically, the truck is in its transitional phase.

Still clean enough to see the floor mats. Prepared enough to ruin them at a moment’s notice.

Out in the Wild

If you happen to be roaming around free on the internet this week, here’s where you can find me.

How to Prep for Dove Season (MeatEater) -
Growing up, I used to think the dove opener was part of my birthday celebration. I still do. Here’s what you need to know before you head out for opening day.

Tennessee Poacher Receives Lifetime Hunting Ban (MeatEater) -
You know those deer mounts and turkey beards you’ve spent years collecting? Yeah. You can lose those if you do stupid stuff. This Tennessee poacher did, along with his hunting privileges for life.

Around Here

That’s all for this week. See y’all back here next Tuesday. Until then, find an excuse to get your butt outside.

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And I’m not a neglectful mom. I managed to keep four children alive until adulthood (then they were on their own). And unless you count that one time I almost left kid #3 at Stone Mountain, Georgia (totally not my fault) or that time I accidentally left kid #4 in the nursery at the gym (totally my fault), I’d consider myself a fairly attentive mother.

My first starter was Stanley. He was born in the late ’90s and lived for years in the back of my fridge. I only fed him when I wanted to make a fresh loaf of bread, which was about once a month.

This was well before I had internet access in my home, let alone at my fingertips. There wasn’t an online sourdough cult. And there just weren’t a lot of rules I felt like I had to follow. In fact, I was the only person I knew who had a starter.

Stanley was a total badass. Despite only rarely seeing the light of day, Stanley never failed to rise to the occasion whenever the family needed a fresh loaf.

I don’t remember exactly what caused Stanley’s demise. It’s faded from my memory in that mom-brain fog like so many things. He probably didn’t survive the big family move in 2004.

RIP, Stanley.
You were the real MVP.

Doughlene, like so many offspring (sourdough starters and otherwise), was born during the pandemic. When everyone was anxious, bored, and stuck in lockdown, bread-making turned ultra chic.

But baker’s yeast flew off grocery store shelves almost as fast as toilet paper. People who had never heard of Lactobacillus bacteria suddenly found themselves keeping strict feeding schedules for jars of flour and water on their kitchen counters.

I was one of them.

Doughlene lived a long and storied life, although not nearly as long as my dear, sweet Stanley. She was even featured in an article I wrote for Backwoods Survival Guide issue #30, “Going Sour: Getting Started With Wild Yeast”

When life returned to something close to normal, my regular breadmaking schedule fell apart. I forgot about Doughlene, and she ended up moldering in the door of my Kenmore. I tossed out the whole jar when it turned into a grayish-green sludge that smelled like a solid mix of sweaty feet and death.

The lesson from Doughlene: A sourdough starter can handle a solid amount of neglect, but only so much before it gives up the ghost.

I felt guilty about killing Doughlene, so I immediately jumped into my next sourdough starter. I probably should have given myself a little more time to grieve.

Doughly Parton never made it to adulthood, dying in her infancy before she even made a successful loaf of tangy bread.

While a mature starter can handle weeks, if not months, of neglect in the fridge, a new starter needs a little more attention. I wasn’t ready to give poor Doughly Parton my all. Honestly, she deserved better.

Because of young Doughly Parton’s failure to thrive, a good friend gave me some of her established starter, figuring I couldn’t screw that one up.

And I didn’t. For a while.

Dough Rogan thrived for a few months until I walked into the kitchen after a good feeding, already thinking about the warm bread fresh from the oven that would go with dinner. But I found my cat, Satan, face first in the jar.

When the cat heard me coming, he raised his head from the jar, Dough Rogan dripping from his whiskers. Realizing his sin, he immediately bolted, knocking the jar from the counter, leaving uneven sourdough prints across the vinyl tile.

The jar bounced once and then hit the wood cabinets, shattering across the floor like the aftermath of a violent crime scene.

Dough Rogan met his fate via a ritual sacrifice to the dark lord (AKA my demonic cat, Satan).

The moral of the story: Sourdough starter is food. My pets know this.

After Dough Rogan’s untimely demise, I figured it was high time I jumped off the sourdough train. It’s been over a year since I’ve kept a starter. But I’ve been craving a sourdough fix. And high-quality, real-deal, fresh sourdough bread is hella expensive.

Then came my daughter-in-law, , to the rescue. She gave me 50 grams of her sourdough starter, Breadrick.

My granddaughter named him Kenneth.

So Kenneth, the sourdough starter, has been a resident at my house for two weeks now. I haven’t killed him, and neither has Satan. He isn’t exactly thriving, but he isn’t struggling, either. I’d say his life is very firmly meh.

But he has made a pretty decent sourdough coffee cake. This weekend, I’m making some Kenneth chocolate chip cookies.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Long live Kenneth.

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The days are finally starting to shorten. We’ve had a couple of mornings that felt almost cool. I’ve pulled out the spent squash and cucumbers from the garden. Kohlrabi and kale are in the ground. Seasons are turning. Finally.

Here’s some of what caught my attention this week.

One Moment

It’s 68 degrees this morning. It feels like heaven after the long stretch of heat we’ve had. But it’s still supposed to hit 90 today, so I’m standing over the kohlrabi sprouts with a garden hose, trying to soak down the soil so they won’t fry later in the afternoon heat.

I catch a hum off my left shoulder and turn my head to see a female ruby-throated hummingbird hovering not two feet away. She seems intent on seeing what’s going on, curious about what the crazy lady with a garden hose is up to. Then she glides into the spray, pirouetting figure eights through the droplets.

Later I see her on one of the tiny bare branches high in the willow oak right outside my writing studio window. I watch for a few minutes, fingers hovering over my keyboard. She shifts, fluffs her wings, and changes branches. She runs her bill back and forth on the branch, shakes herself, and flies away.

In the Kitchen

I scorched a pot of venison kima last night.

For the uninitiated, kima is a South Asian dish with ground meat, warm spices, and tomatoes. It’s traditionally a fall dish in this house, but my taste buds have been craving warmer flavors. I was simmering it up, letting all the flavors blend, and I made the mistake of leaving the pot unattended.

My stove has been misbehaving for more than a year. Sometimes the oven buttons don’t work the way they’re supposed to, and the right front burner has a mind of its own. It tends to prefer a “hellfire” setting, even when it isn’t called for. You have to babysit it, constantly turning the dial up and down, like my grandpa used to channel surf Sunday mornings with his AM radio.

I had the pot at a good simmer with the burner turned down low. It had been on its best behavior for a good while, lulling me into trusting it. I left the room for less than ten minutes.

The rattle of the lid was the cue that something was off. I ran to the kitchen to find a stream of smoke and steam shooting from a gap in the lid. As soon as I lifted that lid, I smelled burnt meat and tomatoes. I started slinging curse words like a Waffle House cook slinging hash browns at 2 am.

I was able to salvage some of the stew, ladling off the very top layer, careful not to disturb any of the char near the bottom that would release the taste of ash. The stew was fine, although there was much less of it than I’d hoped for. I wanted leftovers for lunch this week.

I’ve been in denial about the stove for at least a year. Every time my husband brings it up, I give him an “it still works, doesn’t it?” We’ve only had this one for 22 years. My mom’s is much older and still going strong. But I think it’s time to admit we need a new one.

It’s just not fair.

At the Keyboard

This week, I got to tell the story of my Idaho elk hunt as part of an article on ultralight rifles I’m writing for Rifle Shooter. It took me right back to that ridgeline. I could almost smell the aspen and tamarack.

I remembered how hard I worked there, and how little I complained about it. I was quiet and capable. I did hard things because they needed doing. I felt completely alive.

I will never get tired of telling that story.

I miss the person I was in Idaho.

In the Field

My son Daniel and I went beaver hunting this week.

At least, that’s what we were calling it. Apparently neither of us is a very good beaver hunter. We didn’t see a beaver, let alone bring one home.

A friend has a very obvious beaver problem on his farm, and I want to help. But it also sounded like a good excuse to sit outside with a rifle before deer season. It’s been a long dry spell. I miss the woods.

I was also thinking about the possibility of beaver barbecue. But that’s beside the point.

So we sat on the tailgate Thursday evening and waited next to a quiet farm pond. We talked in whispers now and then, but mostly sat in the quiet of each other’s company. After a while, Daniel got up to get a different view of the far bank.

The sun was dropping behind us, and the last light was turning the grass and trees across the pasture a warm, greenish-gold. I sat there watching it, thinking the evening was worth the trip and the sit, beaver or not.

Then my phone buzzed.

Daniel had sent me a picture he'd snapped trying to catch that same golden-hour light on the pasture.

See you back here next Tuesday.

Until then, get outside.

~ Alice

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My son and I were helping a friend figure out what to do about a beaver problem. It mostly felt like a good excuse to sit outside holding a rifle. That and I had visions of beaver barbecue dancing in my head.

There was beaver sign everywhere: some trees missing bark, some half gnawed, some completely felled, taking neighboring trees with them in the process.

About a half hour before sunset, with no beavers in sight, my son took a shot at a nutria on the opposite bank. It looked like a clean miss, but we wanted to make sure we weren’t leaving an injured animal to suffer. We set off around the pond to check for blood. It seemed like a pretty straightforward task.

We did not expect to have to bushwhack through grass tall enough to make us wonder if we’d accidentally stumbled into the Amazon.

This was grass, but it wasn’t the kind of grass we usually mean when we tell somebody to go touch it. My son is 6’2”, and he couldn’t see over it. It was thick, almost woven together like a basket in places. And a green so vibrant that it seemed to pulse in that fading, golden-hour light.

There were some wild trails cut through the grass by deer or beavers or both. We stepped our way through on those narrow paths. Otherwise, we risked being swallowed alive. Still, it slapped our faces and tugged at our shirts, like it was actively trying to ambush us. It finally opened up right at the water’s edge.

There wasn’t any blood.

Is that what we mean when we say “go touch grass”?

I mean, it sounds like good advice.

Somebody spends six hours arguing about politics with strangers on Facebook? Go touch grass.

Somebody rages about how much some celebrity spends on her wedding? Go touch grass.

Somebody writes a three-paragraph rant about the proper way to hang your toilet paper? For the love of God, go touch grass.

But which grass?

Because I don’t think the people who regularly hand out that advice mean the grass that almost ate us on that farm pond.

They’re probably picturing a golf course lawn. Or the chemically-treated Bermuda grass outside the bank. Or the immaculate suburban front yard with very little biodiversity.

I doubt they mean an actual patch of the living world, where plants just get to do plant things without having to justify their existence by being attractive. Because the grass most of us are used to is human-installed, fertilized, watered, mowed, chemically treated, and cut to consistency.

Grass left wild is wildly inconvenient.

So instead, we take a piece of dirt and remove almost everything that would naturally grow there. Then we replace it with grass, often a species that didn’t originate anywhere nearby. We spend money making it grow, then spend money to keep it from growing too much. We yank out or poison anything else that dares try to grow there. We decide exactly how tall it should be. Then we drag a noisy machine across it because it had the audacity to obey its basic biological imperative.

That isn’t nature. It’s control.

A lawn isn’t particularly useful. It’s just something we want to behave. A million blades of grass, all expected to be approximately the same height. Anything else will get the neighbors talking.

But clover isn’t evil. Plantains aren’t plotting against your property values. Dandelions aren’t out to make you look bad. We call them weeds because they violated the agreement. They showed up where they weren’t invited.

Maybe that’s why that expanse of towering grass at that farm pond felt wild. Not because it was untouched. It wasn’t. There were beavers, nutria, deer, and humans all altering that landscape in their own sometimes not-so-subtle ways.

That grass felt wild because we weren’t invited.

Which is what makes “go touch grass” so ironic.

The advice is supposed to get us away from the artificial world for a few minutes. Put down the phone. Go outside. Reconnect with nature.

But the artificial world doesn’t end at the edge of a screen.

It’s right outside the door. It’s the lawn and the landscaping and the neat little edges to everything. It’s the expectation that nature should be accessible, attractive, and convenient. That it should be safe and play by our rules.

Nature doesn’t care if we like it. It doesn’t care if it’s pretty. It doesn’t care if we’re comfortable. And it definitely doesn’t play by our rules.

Maybe that’s the reality check we need.

Maybe we do need to touch grass.

The kind that grabs your shirt and threatens to swallow you whole.

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This week, we’re smack-dab in the middle of a heat advisory. The UV index is high. The temperatures are, too. The heat index pushes the “feels like” temps into the triple digits.

But my favorite roadside stand is selling boiled peanuts.

Chester’s is a local icon, and once you’ve had a taste of his nuts (get your mind out of the gutter), all others will seem subpar. It’s the first little hint that fall is coming, and coming fast, even though the weather still stubbornly says it’s summer.

One Moment

The birds were quiet on Penny’s walk this morning. The heat already felt like a wet wool blanket, even though it was only 8:00.

It’s odd for the birds not to be singing at that hour. Maybe the heat is too much for them, too.

But the cicadas were screaming, their cries rolling like waves from tree to tree through the neighborhood.

On the Table

I made another big batch of pickles this week. Hopefully, this is the last one. Emotionally, I’m done. I think the cucumber vines are, too.

I honestly believe that if someone offers you a jar of homemade pickles, that person must really love you. According to my extremely questionable accounting skills, once I factor in ingredients, supplies, and my professional hourly rate, each jar of bread-and-butter pickles costs approximately $73.

In the Kitchen

My writing life takes me into the kitchen this week. I’m working on an article for BLADE magazine about Santoku knives, which means I have a very good excuse to put some knives through their paces.

They are sweet knives. So far, they’ve helped with pickle processing and meal prep. There really is something about using a top-quality knife that you don’t fully appreciate until you’ve used one.

And considering how much time I spend in the kitchen, I’m starting to think my knife drawer needs a few upgrades.

Field Notes

I went to my county’s meeting on Chronic Wasting Disease this week. Someone asked about the money North Carolina spends on CWD testing each year.

The Wildlife Commission biologist at the meeting gave a figure of $4.6 million. When I went looking for the number afterward, I found a 2024-25 report showing $1.64 million in CWD surveillance costs. I still don’t know what accounts for the difference.

What I do know is that the response to the question was essentially, “Don’t worry. It’s hunter dollars.”

I’m a hunter. That’s why I’m worried.

I want to know where the money is going, what we’re getting for it, and whether it’s the best use of our conservation dollars.

In the Garden

The fall garden is underway. Sort of.

I started the broccoli and cabbage indoors over the weekend. Carrots and kohlrabi seeds will go directly into the old squash beds sometime this week.

The cucumber vines are giving up, which means it’s time to clear the wreckage and make way for kale and cauliflower.

Meanwhile, the okra is still going strong. It’s like it thrives on the heat and humidity while the rest of the world withers. It’s just out there laughing as the rest of the garden fights a losing battle to stay green.

I’ll see y’all back here next Tuesday. Until then, stay cool and drink lots of water, especially when you venture outside.

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“What the hell are you cooking in here?” my son asked before he’d even shut the door.

The first time I rendered bear fat, I didn’t know it made the house reek. I was suffering from some heinous sinus infection, and my sense of smell was blissfully ignorant.

I know it now. The process is pungent for sure, but I don’t think it’s unpleasant. And it dissipates fast. It isn’t the kind of thing that clings to the curtains and the furniture for weeks on end after you’ve tightened the jar lids.

The thing was, I had half a freezer full of the stuff.

So I Took It Home

The first time I saw a bear butchered, I had no idea I was witnessing something I’d become mildly obsessed with.

It was the night before I killed my first, and I was standing on the sidelines gawking at a couple of hunting buddies breaking down a relatively small bruin. They peeled away great big blobs of blubber and tossed them aside into a waiting bucket. They wobbled with a wet thud every time a slab hit the pile. Somebody set aside a small bag for somebody’s wife, said she liked to make something akin to pork rinds out of the fat.

The rest went out with the trash.

The meat was heading for the grinder, but the thought of all that fat being thrown away made my stomach drop. It just felt all wrong.

Like I’d just watched somebody rob a bank or, worse, kick a puppy.

I killed my black bear the following morning. He weighed in at just barely under 300 pounds, a relative baby by Eastern NC standards.

I saved every scrap I could. I hadn’t gone through all that trouble to kill an animal only to have a good portion of it treated like garbage.

By the time we were done breaking down my bear, I had a couple of five-gallon buckets full of fat. It jiggled like cloudy, white Jell-O when I heaved it into the bed of my truck. I hauled it home, vacuum-sealed it in two-pound packages, and stacked it in the freezer. I had 14 bags total.

I had no idea what I was going to do with it yet. I just knew I didn’t want it to go to waste.

Then I Put It in the Crockpot

Turns out, rendering bear fat isn’t all that complicated. It just takes a crockpot, some patience, and a couple of days where you aren’t expecting guests.

I start by pulling a package from the freezer and letting it thaw a bit in the fridge. Once it’s mostly thawed, I cut it into one-inch pieces. I like to cut it when it’s still partially frozen because handling bear fat at room temperature is super greasy. It’s also not exactly a solid, but it’s definitely not a liquid. And the bears around here eat a lot of soybeans and peanuts, so their fat doesn’t always slice up all neat and pretty. It’s better to do the cutting when it’s almost frozen and slightly more firm.

Then I pop it all into my crockpot, set it to low, and wait. I stir it every couple of hours, and chop up any big pieces of fat as they start to brown. It takes about 24 hours for two pounds of fat to render down to beautiful bear grease. I call it done when about 90 percent of the fat is liquid, and the remaining solids have browned.

I let the rendered fat cool a bit and then strain it through unbleached coffee filters. (I set the cracklins aside for Penny Dog or a treat for the chickens. Sometimes it ends up toasted and sprinkled on cornbread, but we’re more of a biscuit household, so that’s a rare treat.)

Straining takes some patience, too. Bear grease doesn’t run through a coffee filter like water. It tends to come through in drips. Still, this part of the process is worth it to keep the burnt bits out of your oil.

At the end, I get about a pint of grease for every pound of fat I pull from the freezer.

Around here, I’m calling it bear grease. (I’m putting this in for you, .) I just don’t feel right calling it lard because, technically, lard comes from pigs. Besides, mine is this beautiful golden liquid at room temperature. Calling it lard feels like an insult. This is too much like art.

I keep mine in a Ball jar on the counter because I use it on the daily. It’s sat there for a few weeks without developing any off smell or flavor, but that’s my experience, not a food-safety recommendation. If you’re uncomfortable with that, stick it in the fridge.

Then I Started Cooking Everything With It

Of course, rendering a freezer full of bear fat would be a pretty dumb exercise if I didn’t have any idea what to do with the stuff. Thankfully, I have lots of ideas. And they keep multiplying.

I started simple, with some basic fried potatoes. Bear fat potatoes are now one of my all-time favorite breakfast foods.

I also regularly use it for popcorn. Not the microwave crap. This is the old-fashioned stovetop variety. Top it with some sea salt and some Old Bay seasoning, and it’s slap-your-mama good.

I have so much bear grease that I’m not afraid to experiment. It makes a darn good base for a roux, whether I’m making gumbo or gravy.

Bear grease brownies have been a win, too. Rich, fudgy, and just different enough to make people ask what the hell is in them, although I’m a fan of introducing them first. You can learn a lot about a person by their reaction to being handed a “bear grease brownie.”

Somewhere along the way, I also discovered that rendering bear fat gave me the softest hands in Edgecombe County. I don’t know if it’s the fat itself or just the hours spent handling it, but my hands are silky-soft like a baby’s.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that information.

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As much as my mind is already sitting in September, it’s still stubbornly August here. Summer continues to hang out like a sticky house guest who’s overstayed his welcome, leaving sweat stains on all the good furniture.

Here’s what’s been going on around here this week.

One Moment

I’m standing in my kitchen, barefoot, the windows fogged with steam, which is saying something considering how hot and humid the August evening air is just outside. I’ve pulled my hair back in a ponytail, trying to let the air get to my neck.

I’m sweating anyway. I can feel it slick on my nape. Tiny beads cling to my upper lip, gather around my hairline, run in a stream between my shoulder blades.

I pull the jars one after another from the pressure canner, setting them on a threadbare kitchen towel on the counter.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping. Ping.

A metallic song in syncopated rhythms. A small shout to the universe that the jars have sealed. That the sweat and the work weren’t for nothing.

I rub the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing the drops of sweat into my hair.

Satisfied.

On the Homefront

I recently learned from a gracious commenter, who was guarding an imaginary gate like a border collie amped on cocaine, that there are apparently acreage requirements for calling yourself a homesteader.

Thank you for your service, Karen.

For the record, I’ve never actually called myself a “homesteader.” I have referred to my place as a homestead, though.

Full disclosure: I live in a house built in 1908 inside a small-town historic district on a tiny quarter-acre lot. Do I wish I had 40 partially wooded acres? Absolutely. But until I can swing that, I guess my chickens, raised beds, herb garden, and pantry full of pickles and preserves are going to have to turn in their credentials.

On the Table

Last week I had a big batch of bear broth simmering in the slow cooker. This week it went into jars. I was careful not to bother the pantry spider, but space is at a premium right now. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to evict her.

Thursday’s menu looked like this:

• Breakfast - bear hash with garden peppers

• Lunch - leftover whitetail stir-fry with garden zucchini

• Dinner - pulled wild turkey over mashed potatoes with fried garden okra

Really just a standard Thursday.

I like my food to come without barcodes.

Looking Ahead

This week, I’ll be pulling out the last of the zucchini plants, the few that survived the squash bug onslaught. It’s time to make room for the fall garden. Emotionally, I’m done with the summer veggies and dreaming of heartier dishes full of cabbage and turnips and collards. That comes with work.

If the bare garden sections at Tractor Supply and Rural King are any indication, fall planting doesn’t generate nearly the enthusiasm of spring around here. Fair-weather gardeners, I guess. Personally, I’m a huge fan of fall fare, so I’m obsessing in equal measure to my spring planting psychosis.

I’ll see you all back here next Tuesday. Until then, stay cool, work hard, and go ahead and step away from whatever gate you’ve been guarding.

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I saw a Mississippi kite sitting high up in a willow oak when I walked Penny this morning. It called out that unmistakable high, keening two-syllable whistle, and Penny and I both stopped in our tracks.

I watched the bird ruffle its feathers, cock its head in our direction, and then, just as it stretched out its wings, jump from the highest branch and catch the wind. It circled over us, still keeping one keen eye on the dog and me, its tail twisting and turning as it rode the sweltering August air current.

Then it just soared away, off to do whatever Mississippi kites do during the day, which probably doesn’t involve phone calls or emails or trips to the gym.

As I watched it disappear over the neighbor’s house, I felt a hot, bubbling jealousy swell up from somewhere under my belly button. Not because I wanted to fly. I’m pretty scared of heights, and I have a hard enough time getting my hair in a ponytail, so I don’t think I could pull off all those feathers.

I was jealous because that bird was just casually soaring away without toting any bullshit on its back.

Meanwhile, I needed to hurry up and do something. I had a step goal and protein target, vitamins I needed to swallow, editors to email, drafts to finish, phone calls to make, tomatoes to harvest, dinner to cook, a life to optimize.

While I’m so busy trying to be a better me by lunchtime, the kite just gets to be a freakin’ kite.

It’s so unfair.

Do you want to hear something ridiculous? I actually love most of those things. Maybe not the phone calls or the emails. But the other stuff, for sure.

I love walking the dog (although I wish she wouldn’t stop every ten feet to sniff a new blade of grass). I love writing. I love gardening. I like cooking and taking care of my body. I love building a career I’m proud of.

But the reason I felt so exhausted as I watched that bird soar away, wishing it would take me with it, was because I’ve allowed everything in my life to come with a checkbox.

It isn’t just a morning walk outside. It’s steps.

Eating isn’t just eating. It’s calories and protein.

The garden isn’t just a garden. It’s food that needs harvesting, processing, and preserving.

Writing isn’t just writing. It’s assignments, word counts, deadlines, and pitches. It’s a paycheck.

I’ve somehow turned everything I love into something I’m trying to win. I hate that I’ve put a little scoreboard beside each one.

This is probably why I get so itchy for hunting season this time of year. Sitting in a treestand for four hours watching nothing happen in a beanfield sounds like absolute heaven. Because I can’t optimize that time, and there’s nothing to count except songbirds and clouds until sunset.

And I know I’ll walk away from that first long, boring sit, feeling like I finally actually lived.

To somebody who doesn’t hunt, four hours staring at browning soybeans probably sounds like torture. To me, right now, it sounds like freedom. I’d have an excuse to just be. I wouldn’t have to answer anybody. I wouldn’t have to worry about tomatoes or deadlines or how to perfectly turn a phrase. I wouldn’t have to take a single step or count a single calorie.

I wouldn’t have to succeed. I wouldn’t even have to make the day count.

I could sit there until dark, eat my Little Debbie snack cakes, and come home with nothing but a sore butt and a handful of observations about squirrels and grasshoppers.

The problem isn’t that I want to accomplish things. It’s that I’ve forgotten how to do things without turning them into accomplishments. I really do like being the kind of person who gets things done, who is constantly trying to be better, who goes big or goes home.

But sometimes I think it’s okay to just go home without being big.

What if I stopped experiencing every good thing as proof that I’m succeeding?

And that beautiful, graceful Mississippi kite is out there living its best life. It probably doesn’t feel behind. It doesn’t have to set goals, build daily habits, or optimize its time. It probably never worries that it might not be living up to its full potential.

It just gets to be a kite.

That stupid bird doesn’t even realize how good it has it.

Neither do I most of the time.

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August is a weird month. It still feels hot and heavy, like summer. But I’m already prepping hard for deer season. This is the month of the big freezer clean-out, checking trail cameras, hanging treestands, knocking the dust off of gear, and sharpening the knives and the skills that have been sitting mostly unused while it’s been too hot outside to think straight.

One Moment

There is a spider living in my pantry.

She has built a web stretched from the bottom of the second shelf to the top of a jar of last year’s pickled okra. It seems like an odd choice of real estate, but it is where she calls home.

When I open the door, her long, delicate legs pluck the strands like harp strings as she scurries to the darkness behind the jar, startled by the sudden burst of light hitting all eight of her eyes. I’ve taken to only opening the door halfway, just enough room to add the newest jars of pickles and preserves, trying to salvage a little piece of her privacy.

Because who am I to judge where someone calls home? The okra belongs to her now.

On the Table

The deer season archery opener is less than 6 weeks away. That means we’ve officially entered “clean out the freezer” season. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

This week, I pulled a bear shoulder bone from the bottom of the upright freezer (the chest freezer is currently occupied by a bear pelt and a whole tundra swan, both waiting on an appointment with a taxidermist).

It is simmering low and slow with a couple of handfuls of vegetable scraps — onion skins, celery leaves, carrot peels, red pepper tops. Later this week, I will strain the liquid before ladling it into jars and then popping them into the pressure canner.

I’ll try not to displace the spider when I slide them into the pantry.

Field Notes

This week, my watch died halfway through a walk with Penny Dog.

I joked that the calories and steps didn’t count if they didn’t get logged on my fitness app. Like they were imaginary because no little screen had recorded them.

The joke bothered me after I sat with it a while.

Because the walk happened. My legs carried me through the thick Southern humidity while Penny chased interesting smells. Squirrels scattered up pecan trees, peeking around the sides to see if the dog might try a game of tag. We still upset the mockingbird that likes to yell at Penny from the crepe myrtle beside the churchyard.

Nothing about that walk changed because my watch battery died.

But I think we’ve convinced ourselves that things only count if we can measure them. Steps. Calories. Likes. Comments. Followers. Productivity metrics.

I’m not going to lie. I’m a data junkie. I love to track metrics. Data can be hella useful. But it’s a poor substitute for meaning.

Some things matter because they happened, not because they produced a number. Like my walks with Penny, fitness tracker or no. Like the bucks on my wall, whether they made the Boone and Crockett record book or not. Like the meals I cook from food I’ve harvested, calories and grams of protein be damned.

Like a spider tending a web beside a jar of pickled okra.

Because the really good stuff, the real stuff, is dang hard to measure.

Out in the Wild

If you happen to be roaming around free on the internet this week, here’s where you can find me.

The Easiest Way to Catch Fish from the Beach (MeatEater)
Research for this one was hard work, and included a day trip to Pea Island Wildlife Refuge, which involved a lot of sunshine, surf, and solitude. Tough day, but somebody had to do it.

Build a Better Hunting Rig with UTV Upgrades and Accessories That Actually Matter (MeatEater)
This one is practical, especially if you are trying to minimize the number of steps your fitness app needs to track this hunting season.

Looking Ahead

This week I’m rushing to meet a deadline for Blade magazine on hunting knives. I’m also canning bear broth, working my way through freezer meat, and trying to get creative with the last of the garden zucchini (Zucchini spice cake with cream cheese frosting, anyone?)

I’ll see you back here next Tuesday. In the meantime, I hope you find something this week that doesn’t need to be measured on a screen.

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Five inches of rain changed everything around here this week. It was enough to get the river moving again, the water line creeping up the banks and finally covering the grassy islands that had started to stretch out along the middle of the trickling Tar.

The garden also appreciated a good drink. It looks a lot less defeated now. And for a few days, we got a break from the kind of heat that makes every Southerner question their life choices.

One Moment

I’m walking Penny in the misty afternoon rain. Tiny droplets feel like refreshment on my bare face, so I pull back the hood of my rain jacket and tilt my chin toward the sky. It’s been hot and humid for so long I’d forgotten what it feels like to breathe.

The weather makes the air quiet. No birds singing. No crickets. Just the occasional hum of a car passing by up on Main. But I catch the song of a cicada, like it’s flying from the top of the magnolia tree in the neighbor’s yard.

Cicadas don’t sing when they fly.

I turn my head, looking for the source of the cicada song, and I see it. One of the Mississippi kites flies from the top of the magnolia, the plump green cicada vibrating in its talons. I watch it sail through the gray sky, singing as it goes until the kite rests on the telephone wire overhead, the cicada still singing.

After the first bite, the song starts to slow. It fades to a whisper after the second. Just before the third, everything returns to quiet.

On the Table

I made bear fat zucchini brownies this week.

Ellie helped. She supervised the shredding of the zucchini, one of the last I was able to rescue before the squash bugs made their final assault on the garden. Then she dumped it into the dry ingredients. I measured out the bear fat and added an egg from the backyard chickens. Ellie stirred it all together. I popped it into the oven.

They aren’t the kind of knock-your-socks-off baked goods that feel like a religious experience when you take the first bite. They’re just solid brownies.

But when your hands have a part in nearly every ingredient, a humble brownie somehow tastes like more than a brownie.

Out in the Wild

If you happen to be roaming around free on the internet this week, here’s where you can find me.

How to Chicken-Leg for Blue Crabs (MeatEater)
I’ve been trying to find a home for this story for three years, and I’m thrilled it finally found one. It’s an ode to the way my cousins and I learned to catch crabs in the salt marshes of the Chesapeake Bay.

Looking Ahead

I’m working on two knife stories for Blade Magazine. One compares Santoku knives in the kitchen. The other asks hunting guides and custom knifemakers what actually matters in a hunting knife and what hunters often get wrong.

Hope you’re finding a little relief from the heat wherever you are. I’ll see you back here next Tuesday. Until then, get your backside outside.

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A year ago this month, I lost the position I thought proved I had finally made it in this industry.

After a Friday morning calendar invite ended with my layoff, I spent weeks floundering, lying on the floor of my writing studio with Fleetwood Mac cranked up to full volume in a vain attempt to drown out the feeling that I had somehow failed. I stared at the ceiling while The Chain played on repeat, wondering who the hell I was anymore.

I had spent decades dreaming about writing full-time for a publication like Outdoor Life, and I loved introducing myself as an OL staff writer. I read that magazine out loud to my Daddy when I was barely old enough to ride a bicycle without training wheels. Those pages helped shape me as a hunter, a writer, and in a lot of ways, the person I am today.

Landing a full-time staff job there felt like arriving. Losing it felt a lot like disappearing.

But after the dust and the panic settled, I felt something else entirely.

Relief.

Relief isn’t the emotion most people expect after losing their dream job. It wasn’t the one I was expecting either.

I loved the people I worked with. I loved being part of a team. I got giddy every time I saw my name in a byline. I also loved the steady paycheck, the health insurance, and retirement account that came along with the title.

But I felt like I was constantly playing a game of Twister, trying to bend my voice to write for the algorithm. I produced content because a calendar demanded it. Instead of chasing stories that fired me up, I’d spend days writing deals posts, updating affiliate links, or trying to shape something around whatever keyphrase Google decided to reward that week.

I loved that job. I also hated it in ways I didn’t fully understand until I was outside of it.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve been bending until you finally get to stand up straight. But standing up straight hurts when you’ve been hunched over long enough.

Freedom sounds great. And I wish I could tie this whole thing up with a cute little metaphorical bow about living my authentic creative life. But the truth is that freedom is terrifying.

The inspirational gurus don’t warn you that the same independence that lets you chase the stories you care about also means you are responsible for finding the money to keep chasing them. And nobody told me that freedom would come with so much dang paperwork.

I don’t miss the algorithm. I don’t miss writing things I didn’t care about because a dashboard told me I needed to.

I miss being part of a team. I miss being an integral part of a legacy publication. I miss having my name tied to all the greats who have had bylines there. And I really miss not wondering whether the next month will be a good month or a “maybe I should start selling pickles and preserves at the farmers’ market” month.

I’ve also learned that I’m not above bending over to pick up a dollar when I see one. Literal bending. Metaphorical bending. I want my writing to matter. But I also want to pay my mortgage, put gas in the truck, and buy ammo.

I don’t have the security I thought I had a year ago. But that security was an illusion anyway. I don’t think security is the right word for a full-time job when you realize your salary, retirement, and health insurance can disappear with a calendar invite.

That’s the thing I learned this year. Every kind of work comes with a cost. For the time being, this brand of freedom doesn’t give me sticker shock when I look at the price tag.

Because it feels good to stand up straight. Even if my knees are sometimes a little shaky.

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It’s been a week. The air still feels heavy like a wet towel. Thunderheads roll in each evening, looking grumpy and gray, but rarely dropping rain. At least not more than a few drops. Barely enough to dampen the garden.

But the air isn’t the only thing that’s felt heavy this week.

One Moment

I knead the Play-Doh in my hands, blending bright pink and navy into deep purple. Ellie is making “pizza,” pressing strips of bright green onto a flat disc of blue.

“Grandma. What’s your favorite color?”

I think for a minute, feeling the cool dough give between my palms.

“Sometimes it’s green,” I tell her, as I remember the bold green of the turkey woods, so vibrant it feels like something alive.

“But sometimes it is blue.”

She studies me for a moment while her toddler brain tries to grasp that favorites can change. That things aren’t always solid and permanent.

“Blue like this?” she asks, holding up a chunk of cerulean pizza.

And I think of the blues that have shaken me. The cobalt shadows of bluefish caught in the prism of waves against a Carolina blue sky. The kinds of blue that make my heartbeat quicken and my breath catch.

“No,” I say. “Like the color of your eyes.”

Around the Yard

The squash bugs are back. Of course they are.

I got complacent because my garden was thriving. I let my guard down when the zucchini plants reached waist-high, spreading giant palm-sized leaves to canopy the peppers. I spent too much time trying to keep from drowning in a zucchini harvest that seemed to double every day.

But I celebrated victory too soon. Early last week, I noticed it looked like a couple of plants had been moved sideways. I blamed an afternoon thunderstorm. But a couple of days later, I realized the leaves were thinning. By the time the first few turned crispy brown, it was too late.

I pulled out the Sevin and launched a last-minute counterattack, hoping to keep the bugs from spreading to the cucumbers. But I think the damage is done. I’m trying to salvage what I can.

What surprised me most is how guilty I feel. Not disappointed. Not defeated. Guilty.

I know this sounds ridiculous. They’re zucchini plants, not puppies. They don’t get excited when they see me. They don’t care whether I checked the leaves every morning or stood over them in the evenings with the water hose, swatting mosquitoes from my arms and legs.

But I knew every one of those plants. I’d tucked those seeds into peat pots in February. I watched the first leaves push through the soil.

And now I feel like I’ve failed them. That failure has had me staring at my bedroom ceiling at 3 a.m. for days.

What I’m Carrying

I haven’t written about Silas in a while.

When your child is somewhere dangerous, you learn to be careful with words. Saying things out loud makes them feel more real. And reality isn’t something I can deal with right now.

But this weekend was hard.

When we learned that two service members had been killed in Jordan and another was missing after ballistic missiles struck U.S. installations in the region, my stomach tied itself in knots. We don’t know exactly where Silas is, but the news tells me that members of the 82nd Airborne are somewhere in the area. That makes every headline feel impossibly heavy.

Then his sister told me she had exchanged messages with him overnight.

They were talking about Olive Garden breadsticks.

The knot loosened. But only a little bit.

Saturday night, he called me.

“Tell me something normal,” he said.

So I told him about the squash bugs and Ellie. And then we talked about treestands.

With the property freshly logged, we discussed where we think the bucks will travel and where we should position our stands. We wondered if our favorite treestand would still be worth sitting in come September. The one where I killed my ten-pointer. The one where he killed his biggest buck ever last year.

Or November. Which is when he should be coming home.

I won’t pretend talking to him makes having him so far away easier. There’s still a knot in my stomach that I know won’t completely untie until he’s safe home on American soil. But for a little while, he was just my son talking about deer season, and I was just his mother, not thinking so much about the news.

But I’m beginning to think the stupid squash bugs aren’t what’s keeping me up at 3 a.m.

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I wrote this one almost exactly a year ago. It still feels relevant. The bucks are in velvet. The evenings are thick with heat and humidity. And I’m still creeping down county backroads with my binos, looking for deer I have no business being this obsessed with.

The binoculars live in the center console now. That’s how you know what season it is.

Most evenings, I’m out on the back roads with the windows down, creeping past peanut fields and soybean rows like some kind of heartbroken fool. I ride slow, scanning the edges for the flick of a white tail or the rise of velvet antlers. It’s not hunting season—not even close—but I’m already turning twitchy.

You see, I miss them. I need to know what they’ve been up to. I’m like a creepy ex, stalking them after a bad breakup. I know it’s over. I know it’s not time yet. But I can’t help myself. I count down the minutes until I can see them again, like some lovesick idiot who never got the hint.

The crops are tall and thick now, a deep verdant green that hums with heat. The air hangs heavy in the evenings, humid and hazy, turning the light all syrupy like honey. That light lays itself over their red-gold flanks like it was made for them. I don’t get to see that color in the fall—by then their coats will have faded to a dull, grayish brown. But now, in this middle season, they glow. That coppery red against the green fields? It guts me every time.

I’ve been watching a couple of good bucks that hang out in the open field behind the dentist’s office. They are magnificent. Tall, symmetrical racks still in velvet. Graceful necks. Big, broad chests. I’m obsessed. And not in any useful way. I know I won’t get to hunt them this fall. Most of the deer I play Peeping Tom with live on land I don’t have permission to set foot on. So it’s not scouting. It’s not even pretend scouting.

It’s something else. Reverence. Worship. Devotion.

That’s what keeps pulling me back out here, night after night. Not just the thrill of seeing a good buck—though I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it. It’s the feeling I get when I finally spot one. That sudden silence in my chest. Like the world hit pause and handed me a secret. Like I’ve stumbled into something private and perfect.

For a few minutes, everything else disappears: the squash bugs chewing holes in my garden. The new file on my laptop labeled Wedding Plans for my youngest kid. The ache in my chest that she’s suddenly old enough to be planning a wedding. And that slow, relentless passing of time I can’t seem to hold onto.

The deer don’t care about any of that. They move like they always have—careful, quiet, completely present. They don’t miss me at all.

Eventually, the golden hour fades, and the air shifts from honeyed to gray. I ease the truck around and slide the binoculars back into the console.

I should probably break it off.

But I know I’ll be back tomorrow.

Same time. Same road.

Still stupid in love.

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This week brought a slight reprieve from the heat. The heavy humidity that’s been hanging over us finally broke into evening thunderstorms, which the garden loved but the dog absolutely did not.

Amazing what you notice when the weather finally invites you back outside.

One Moment

Penny and I head out for our morning walk, and it almost feels cool. Last night’s rain scrubbed some of the humidity from the air, and the thermometer hasn’t quite hit 75 yet, which feels like relief after the three-digit temps last week. The world looks washed clean, every shade of green turned up. It smells like clean mud and the late-blooming cape jasmine from the neighbor’s yard.

The cooler-than-usual temps have brought out the chimney swifts, which we usually only see swooping and diving in the evening as the sun sets, the bats fluttering in between them. There are dozens in the sky this morning, like little cigars with wings against the lingering gray clouds.

Two young kites split the flock, zipping through the middle like fighter jets. They turn somersaults in the air, changing direction on a dime as they try to snag a cigar for breakfast. The swifts split around them, then close ranks again behind them. They don’t seem particularly scared, just miffed at the disturbance of their early-morning meal.

Penny and I stop to watch. One of the birds stops chasing the swifts for one moment to hover over us, its tail twisting in the air current to hold it in place like a helicopter. The bird cocks its head. One bright eye considers us before it turns and goes back to chasing breakfast.

At the Keyboard

Last week, I was standing in front of my pantry trying to decide what to fix for dinner. Somehow, that ordinary moment turned into an essay about the difference between consuming a life and participating in one. (You can read it here, BTW)

It was partly inspired by ’s recent post, “Tapas,” where he touched on something I’d been circling around recently — how little modern humans participate in their food. But the more I wrote, the more I realized this idea extends well beyond the kitchen.

The response surprised me. Maybe because so many of us are feeling the same pull toward a life with more connection and less consumption.

On the Shelf

I spent Saturday wandering through six used bookstores around Raleigh with my husband. This is a dangerous hobby for people who already own more books than shelf space. The haul did not disappoint.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which is usually when I find the best things. Used bookstores reward patience. You walk in hunting for one title and leave carrying home a stack of stories you didn’t know you needed.

A few that refused to be left behind:

The View from Rat Lake by John Gierach, because apparently I needed another voice reminding me that fishing is rarely just about fishing.

About This Life by Barry Lopez, because I’m trying to learn from writers who notice what the rest of us walk past.

Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, because apparently it was time I finally got around to reading it.

The House of Sky by Ivan Doig, because I am eternally drawn to writers who understand that a place is never just a place.

Right now, these are the ones sitting on my nightstand arguing for my attention. Gierach is currently winning, but the others are making a strong case.

Looking Ahead

This week, I’m heading back to the coast for some saltwater stories.

I’m working on a piece about chicken-legging for blue crabs, an old-school method I grew up with on the Chesapeake Bay. It’s satisfying when you can catch dinner with nothing more than a piece of chicken, some string, and as much patience as you can muster.

I’ll also be spending some time on the Outer Banks with a surf rod. Officially, it’s research for another story. Unofficially, it’s an excuse to stand on the beach in my bare feet and call it work.

I’ll see y’all back here next Tuesday. Until then, get your butt outside.

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It was 5:30, and I was standing barefoot in the middle of the kitchen trying to figure out what to whip up for dinner. I had a karate class to teach at 7:00 and a stomach that was quickly moving from hungry to hangry.

I’d already pulled a package of ground venison from the freezer on the back porch. The label read “Alice 7-pointer 11/25.”

But putting together a meal that was quick, easy, and actually tasted good felt like something outside my skillset. The empty stomach was not helping my creativity.

I stood there with the pantry doors wide open, staring at the shelves. Ball jars of bone broth, fig jam, and bread-and-butter pickles lined up beside a bag of jasmine rice, a can of Rotel, and a jar of Duke’s mayo.

I was waiting for inspiration to hit.

I was surrounded by food I had hunted, grown, cooked, and preserved, but in that moment I was just a hungry person staring into a pantry hoping dinner would reveal itself to me.

I reached for a jar of pickles, thinking maybe smash burgers sizzled up on cast iron. Topped with some Dukes and some pickles. It could work.

When I twisted the lid on that Ball jar, the pop sent me back in time.

I am poking seeds into peat pots in March, when the mornings are still frosty. Then I’m gently moving the seedlings to the raised beds and praying they can handle the stress. It’s a week later, and I’m wrapping them in grocery bags because the forecast calls for freezing overnight temps.

And then it’s a May full of trying to save them from squash bugs, pulling the copper colored eggs off with packing tape, careful not to crumple the leaves.

By June, I’ve kept the bugs at bay, but am battling a drought. I stand in the yard at sunset with the garden hose, soaking the plants while I swat blood-drunk mosquitoes from my bare legs.

And then there’s the thrill of snapping the first bulging cukes from the vines and the afternoon spent washing, slicing, packing into jars, pouring hot brine and sealing them to eat on a day when summer is a memory.

And the label on that package of burger isn’t inventory. It’s memory.

I’m huddled in morning light, shivering, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my camo jacket, trying to keep them warm. My breath puffs in silvery clouds that frame my face when he steps out of the brush. My heart races at the sight of those antlers in that golden hour light. I steady my breathing, knowing I owe the animal a steady hand before I squeeze the trigger.

Don’t get me wrong. My pantry isn’t a museum of self-sufficiency. There’s a can of Rotel sitting right beside the homemade pickles for chrissakes. I like it that way.

But it struck me that the only things in my pantry capable of transporting me somewhere else were the things I’d had a hand in. The Rotel didn’t remind me of anything. It didn’t take me back to the aisle in Food Lion with its fluorescent lighting and piped-in 80s music. Neither did the Duke’s or the jasmine rice.

Not because my pickles are better, or healthier (although they might be), or more virtuous. My preserves and venison burger weren’t valuable because I had put them in jars or wrapped them in freezer paper. They were valuable because I had been there from the beginning. Because I had participated in their story.

We buy bread we’ve never baked, vegetables we’ve never grown, meat we’ve never seen outside a plastic tray. We replace things instead of repairing them. We can spend hours watching someone build a cabin or forge a knife without ever making anything ourselves.

We can buy almost anything without seeing where it began. That is an incredible privilege. But it’s also a subtle loss.

Convenience isn’t the enemy, but it does have a cost that doesn’t show up on the store receipt. We’ve gotten so good at outsourcing the work that we’ve almost forgotten how much the work gives us back.

And it slowly convinces us that participation is optional.

Maybe that’s why twisting off that pickle jar and reading the label on that package of venison felt less like making dinner and more like opening a photo album.

Because the things we participate in become part of us in ways the things we simply buy never do.

I eventually made the burger, topped it with Duke’s and the pickles, and scarfed it down before heading out the door to teach karate. It was satisfying in a way a lot of meals just aren’t. Not because it was the best burger I’d ever eaten, but because it held a little bit of November frost, golden-hour light, June heat, and mosquito bites.

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It’s been another sultry week here in the South. We hit 100+ degrees this week. But the “feels like” temperature reached 113. It feels like an insult that the weather people decide to clarify just how hot it is with the heat index. It’s not like the thermometers weren’t doing a fine job all by themselves.

Around the Yard

Like everyone else currently smothering under this heat dome, my chickens are miserable. They just hang out next to the water dish like it’s an office water cooler, panting like dogs, making pathetic little clucking noises as they complain about the heat (and probably management).

Egg production has dropped off, and we’re doing our best to keep them comfortable. Their coop is shaded and they’ve been getting daily treats of cold macaroni and watermelon slices. We’ve even taken to dropping some ice into their water at midday. Thankfully, this week’s temps are expected to dip to a cool and refreshing 90 degrees. Small blessings and all that.

The garden is about the only thing that feels like being productive in this heat, and it is going strong. I’m still drowning in zucchini and now the peppers are giving me a run for my money.

None of them are pretty.

The peppers are spotted and flat in places and my zucchini are crooked and pale on one side, but they all eat just fine even if they would never make it onto the grocery store shelves.

On Repeat

I didn’t know I was a Noah Kahan fan. But here we are.

I’ve had his new album, The Great Divide, on repeat this week, playing like a soundtrack in the background of my life. It’s gloomy and depressing in the best of ways. And yes, I ended up crying in the Food Lion parking lot before wiping my face and heading inside to pick up cheddar cheese and Duke’s mayo.

I figured I could just blame my red and puffy eyes on a grass allergy.

One Moment

Independence Day. Before the fireworks. My granddaughter Ellie is dressed in a striped dress with red, white, and blue glitter fairy wings. She runs barefoot laps around the potluck.

A family friend tries teaching her to play cornhole, a required skill when you live in the South. By the end of it, she’s almost tossing the bags straight instead of pitching them sideways into the crowd of people balancing paper plates of pasta salad and fried chicken.

But she would rather stack the bags into a tower on the board and then stand back to admire her work.

At the Keyboard

I sent out a whole heap of pitches this week, trying to fill up my Q3 writing calendar. This is a tough time of year for outdoor writers and July is a strange month to pitch hunting stories. It’s like trying to sell Christmas trees on Independence Day. Editors know the season is coming, but nobody’s quite ready to think about it yet. But my summer bills won’t wait for fall content.

Out in the Wild

If you happen to be roaming around free on the internet this week, here’s where you can find me.

Two Poachers Convicted for Killing Three Bull Elk in Coveted Montana Unit (MeatEater)

Poaching stories always piss me off, but this one really burnt my biscuit. Hunters play by the rules and sometimes wait years for a chance to draw a tag in units like this. Meanwhile, these poachers illegally killed three nice 6x6 bull elk that represented decades of habitat work, conservation funding, and careful wildlife management.

Looking Ahead

This week, I’ll be waiting to hear back on a handful of pitches, trying to stay ahead of the zucchini, and putting the finishing touches on Saturday’s essay. Until then, I’ll be writing, watering, and pretending the heat and humidity are building character. If they are, I’ll be eligible for sainthood by August.

I’ll meet you back here next Tuesday. Until then, stay cool.

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Summer has lain in here like a thick wool blanket. It’s the kind of heat that makes me grumpy, strains the thermostat, and makes me rearrange my schedule.

Penny and I have shifted our walks until after dark when it’s ever-so-slightly cooler. The garden has gone from “meh” to “holy cow that’s a lot of zucchini.” And I’ve spent more mornings than I’d like to admit reading in the glorious embrace of air conditioning.

Garden Report

Zucchini season has officially arrived! We basically went from “oh look, a little baby zucchini” to land squarely in the zone of “what am I supposed to do with twenty-seven of these?” I stopped some neighbors walking by yesterday and shoved a half dozen zucchini into their arms before they could get away.

In the South, if you accidentally leave your car unlocked overnight this time of year, you’ll wake up to find someone broke in and left a pile of zucchini in the passenger seat. Nobody needs that kind of vandalism.

I’m trying to sneak a little zucchini into every meal, which makes breakfast an adventure. Yesterday’s solution involved several loaves of zucchini bread. Tomorrow, it could be zucchini pancakes. I’ll let you know.

From the Freezer

I pulled the last package of elk steaks from the freezer this week and cooked them up Hibachi style. I stood over the stove and popped the bites in my mouth like candy straight from the cast iron. I burned my tongue. But sometimes life is worth a little pain.

It tasted as good as I remembered. Maybe better. Which makes the whole thing that much worse.

There’s still elk burger and stew meat in the freezer, so all is not lost. It takes a while for a family to work its way through an entire elk, after all. But those steaks… Man, I’m gonna miss them.

Kitchen Notes

I rendered another batch of bear fat this week. I’ve barely (bear-ly?) put a dent in my freezer stockpile. I’m thinking I’m going to have to start giving it away with the zucchini.

Outside

As Penny and I were leaving the house for one of our nightly walks, I noticed a cicada had climbed its way onto the cement steps. I figured it was just the casing, the chrysalis they leave behind when they come out of the ground and transform into the palm-size green bugs that scream about the heat from the oak trees in summer. My cousins and I used to throw them at each other in my grandparents’ yard when we were kids.

But when we got back, we found that the shell wasn’t empty. A giant emerald cicada was pushing itself out of that tiny shell, writhing and wiggling its way to freedom. Birth is hard. Even when you’re a bug.

I’ve lived in the South for more than half a century and never had the privilege of watching a cicada emerge from its shell. I’ve seen thousands of the empty casings clinging to trees and fence posts. Never the becoming.

What I’m Reading

I didn’t mean to spend June swimming in a bunch of other people’s writing. But here we are. One essay led to another until I realized I might have a problem.

I read them in the mornings over coffee, sometimes on the porch before the heat settles, while the hummingbirds bicker over the feeder. Other mornings it’s already too hot and I stretch out on the couch with the AC running.

Penny always bumps in close, asking for a very specific kind of attention that involves my fingernails and her backside. It’s a steady routine. Quiet and boring, which is probably why I enjoy it so much.

Here are three pieces that stayed with me long after I closed the tab.

– Unhindered

Christine’s writing is hauntingly beautiful across the board, but this is one of her best. The line, “Until I find a better way to be human...” has been rattling around in my brain for days. It doesn’t read like philosophy. Instead, it feels more like permission to not be perfect, which is something I struggle with on the regular.

– When the Hunt Is Enough

This one made me wish I were a bird hunter. It’s also a beautiful reminder that the hunt doesn’t have to be anything more than the hunt, and that success doesn’t have to be measured in productivity.

— The Practice

I’ve struggled to write about the weight of taking an animal for food without dressing it up or flattening the experience. This comes as close to truth as anything I’ve read.

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I’ve spent a lot of time scrolling lately (Don’t judge me. I’m having a hard time), and somewhere between the cat videos and ads for Ozempic, I’m noticing a trend.

People and brands really like to use the word “authentic.” I’ve seen it in bios, brand pages, captions, product descriptions. But I don’t think it means what they want it to mean.

I think they’re trying to convince the masses that they are true and honest and real. But the way they use it, it doesn’t really mean much of anything at all. It’s more of a signal than a description.

I was on a media trip with Realtree back in March to cover a collaboration with the brand and Crown Royal. On the second morning of the trip, I pulled up to the Realtree Farm packed in a bus of lifestyle and fashion journalists from big cities and big publications. The long drive wound through big loblollies and around food plots to a timber-frame clubhouse. A bunch of Realtree execs were leaning against their Silverados, just shooting the shit while they waited for us to get there. They were wearing ballcaps and camo like they’d just rolled in from a hunt.

One journalist leaned forward and said, “Wow. These guys really live their brand.”

For a second I didn’t know what she meant.

She wasn’t complimenting them. At least not exactly. She seemed genuinely surprised that the people behind the brand looked like the people in the ads. SHe might have thought they deliberately got dressed that morning to try and match the logo.

But I sat with those Realtree guys at dinner the night before. We chatted about turkey hunting and swapped trail cam photos over fried fish and cornbread.

Which is why I ended up raising my eyebrows just a little at her comment, even if I didn’t say anything out loud.

No, I remember thinking. They just live this.

That’s the thing about Realtree. The company exists because Bill Jordan was a hunter long before he was a businessman. The company grew from that life. It didn’t invent it.

I can’t fault her. She was just seeing exactly what her world had taught her to see.

I’ve been rolling her comment around in my head for months now, and I don’t think it was about Realtree at all. It just showed how often regular life gets interpreted as performance these days. Maybe because so much of what we see online is mostly performance.

Once I noticed it, I started seeing it in every scroll. A brand posts a dog hopping into a truck bed, and I figure it’s probably staged. An influencer captions a picture of a back porch and a glass of sweet tea with the word “authentic,” and suddenly I’m wondering if she even drinks sweet tea. I’m guessing how many takes it took to get the sweat just right on the Ball jar.

Was that thirty-second video life?

Or was it content?

And do they have to be different things?

I know advertising has always existed. But I’ve started to look at everything in my feed like it’s advertising. I find myself watching what might be ordinary moments and wonder what that moment is trying to sell me. That makes sense when I’m scrolling past everything in thirty-second clips.

You used to learn who people were by watching them, not by reading their Instagram bio. You noticed how they treated a cashier, whether they returned borrowed tools, whether they stopped to help someone on the side of the road. If they gave you their word, you believed it because they’d already proven it a hundred times before.

Authenticity wasn’t something they shouted from the rooftops, even if they were laying shingles. They didn’t need to. If you spent enough time around them, you already knew.

Somewhere along the way, authenticity stopped being something other people noticed and became something we started claiming for ourselves. Maybe that’s why the word keeps showing up everywhere. It’s trying to do the work that a life used to do.

I know that you can try to replace reputation with branding. I just don’t think it’s as convincing.

The more someone insists they’re authentic, the less interested I become in the label. I’d rather watch how they live.

A life has always been better proof.

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This week, my granddaughter has repeatedly informed me that she is Ellie. Not Booger. Not Shortie. Not any of the dozen nicknames we throw at her.

She just giggles, throws up her hands, and says, “No. I’m just Ellie.”

She doesn’t try to argue. She’s just setting the record straight, sometimes shaking her head like she can’t believe the grownups in her life keep forgetting this simple thing.

Then she stands in it, completely certain of who she is.

Man, I wish I had that kind of confidence.

I’ve spent a lot of years trying on labels. I’ve worn mom, wife, daughter, hunter, writer. My current favorite is Grandma. They’re all true, but none of them feel quite as simple as what she’s doing right there.

Ellie isn’t trying to be anything else. She isn’t adjusting herself to fit whatever name someone else tries to stick on her. She isn’t trying to be anything other than what she is.

She’s just Ellie. Plain and simple.

What I’m Reading

I’ve been rereading All Over But the Shoutin’ this week. Lord, can Rick Bragg turn a phrase. But none of them feel borrowed. They sound like they could’ve only come from him.

Maybe that’s the lesson. Finding your voice isn’t about inventing one. It’s about having the confidence of a two-year-old and declaring, “No. I’m just me.”

Outside

It still feels like it’s a bazillion degrees outside. It’s the kind of hot that makes the air feel like a sweater. The air is also so thick and damp you almost have to breathe it with a spoon.

I pulled the first zucchini and squash out of the garden, along with more cucumbers than I can keep up with. That means there’s a big ole batch of pickles in my near future.

Then I hit a small farm pond this afternoon and caught some of the tiniest largemouths I’ve ever seen. They weren’t much bigger than the jig I was throwing, but they slammed it like they owned the whole freakin’ pond.

Maybe I need the confidence of a three-inch bass.

What I’m Carrying

I’m trying to carry the confidence of a two-year-old and a three-inch bass. I suspect they both can teach me a thing or two.

Where I’ve Been This Week

Hunters Lost Nearly $60,000 in Illegal Alaska Moose Hunt Scheme (MeatEater) -
Prosecutors say nearly 40 hunters who thought they were booking the adventure of a lifetime lost almost $60,000 to an illegal guiding scheme that left some of them stranded in rural Alaska.

What to Look for in a Hunting Camper (MeatEater) -
The right camper can make a great year-round base camp.

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