Driving with your Eyes Closed

This post is a public service message.  An interesting thing about Alaska in July is that it’s light out a whole lot.  Like it only gets somewhat dark around 2:30AM, and that only lasts for about an hour or so.  If you’ve got a concern about vampires, you want to summer in Alaska.

The only thing you need to be careful about is since it’s light out all the time, you kind get the feeling like you’re Uberman, and you can stay up for 23 hours in a day as well.  Listed below is a short story about the downside of thinking you have those Uber powers.

It’s the last day in Alaska.  We have a final fishing expedition for the prize game fish of Alaska, The King Salmon, “CHINOOK”!  The whole trip I have not caught one and I’m bummin over it.  We head out in the afternoon in a large rowboat with a small outboard motor.  We’re on a river that’s about a quarter mile across.  The King Salmon are running up this river and I hook one…a large one.  You have a small boat pole and you immediately stand up, bury the end of the pole into your gut and crouch over reeling.  Smokin Joe our guide is screaming at me the whole time.  I’m hearing a lot of words that start with the letter “F”.  His main words of encouragement for me are to, “Stand Up Straight!”  He tells me I look like a Monkey trying to have intercourse with a basketball.  (Actually he used one of the “F” words.)  He said that to me a lot…I guess I’m a slow learner. 

I was in awe the first time this fish’s head came out of the water.  It looked like a prehistoric animal.  When we finally got it in the boat and back to shore: “49 inches and 64 pounds.”  I’m so pumped; this fish is a monster.  Joe has radioed ahead and a guy is waiting for us at Joe’s dock.  He skins the fish right there, drops the meat off at the butcher shop and sends the skin out for mounting.  We pack up, and head to get some dinner and celebrate.

Dinner is over at about 11PM and we head to the butcher shop to pick up our weeks worth of fish we’ve caught.  He has everything cut up into filets that are vacuum-sealed.  He has these large think cardboard boxes that are covered in wax. He’s puts freezer packs in the boxes with the fish.  This will keep them okay for a couple of hours.  We have strict instruction:  When we get to the Anchorage Airport, (at around 3AM) we’re to go to the part of the airport that has large freezers (they cater to fishermen).  We’re to have them cut the straps on the boxes, leave the boxes open for 3 or 4 hours until our flights are ready, and then re-strap them and we should be okay for the flights home.

So it now time to hit the road.  Everyone is looking at each other trying to figure out who’s going to be stuck behind the wheel for the 3 plus hour ride back.  I’m still on cloud nine so I volunteer.  It won’t be a problem, hell it’s still light out.  Half way into the trip my Uber powers begin to wear off.  I’m starting to feel like a mere mortal.  Of course everyone else in the car is fast asleep.  I try opening the windows for a while but that get’s to be too cold.  I begin doing calisthenics with eyelids in an effort to stay awake.  Now we’re on a long straight patch of highway and it’s not really light out any longer…this is helpful. 

So when I eventually do expire and they happen to do an autopsy on me, they’re probably going to find that throughout my life, I’ve had a number of self-inflicted heart attacks.  This ride home would probably be one of the first.  Out of the back of my mind I hear a voice coming from one of the guys in the seat behind me.  He’s asking me why we’ve been driving on the shoulder of the highway for the last 10 minutes.  (I of course don’t have a great answer, as I’ve been asleep all that time.)  I now wake up and almost immediately go into cardiac arrest as I re-grip the steering wheel and get the car back onto the highway.  I would have been fine if I could have just stopped my legs from shaking.  I’m quickly relieved of duty…nobody has a sense of humor.

Eureka, we finally get to the Anchorage Airport.  It’s completely CLOSED!  Our fish will shortly be a Stinking Mess!  Dejected, we decide to go to a Budget Motel just outside the airport and get 3 or 4 hours of sleep before our flights.  At the counter I ask, “You guys don’t happen to have one of those industrial strength freezers on premise, do you?”  Answer, “Why yes we do.”  Long story, Short:  Fish made it back fine, and I had the Fire Department at my house when I got home, and tried to season a new cast iron skillet.

Fishing with a John Deere Tractor

Fishing for Alaskan Halibut is an experience you want to do…once.  Back on the Kenai, we all pile into Smokin’s Joe’s truck.  He’s trailing his 28-foot boat and we’re headed to the Pacific for Halibut fishing.  If you’re not familiar with what a Halibut looks like before it hits the dinner plate, this is it:  Think of one of those pancake looking Flounder or Flute, but imagine that it’s swum into a nuclear testing area, or it’s been working out with Barry Bonds for a decade or so.  The big ones, when you stand them up are taller than a man and weigh over 400 pounds.

When we get to the boat launch area I notice that there aren’t any docks.  It’s just the beach and the surf.  I also notice that Joe’s boat has a metal hull.  I’m thinking to myself, why would you have a boat this size with a metal hull?  Then things came into focus.  To keep the area unspoiled, they do not allow docks or any formal man-made launch areas.  So to get you boat in the water, it happens like this:  We all jump in Joe’s boat, and a guy with a very large John Deere tractor that has massive fork blades picks up Joes boat and marches down into the surf.  When it’s deep enough, Joe hits the gas and away we go.  It worked really well.

Now we’re cruising out on the ocean towards our fishing spot.  In July the weather in Alaska can go either way.  When it’s sunny its maybe 70 degrees…feels great.  On other hand, when its cloudy and rainy, its about 42 degrees, raw and cold…its miserable.  It was cloudy and cold that day.  It was drizzling a little when we first went out and the rain got steadier as the day progressed.  We get to our fishing spot and just like fishing for flounder on the Barnegat Bay in New Jersey, you’re handed a boat pole.  But unlike the 4 to 6 feet depths of the Barnegat, these poles have about 300 feet of line on them to get to the bottom of the ocean.  And instead of a reasonable size weight on the end of the line for casting purposes, this line has, (No Lie) a 9-pound Shot Put size weight on the end of it to keep the bait anchored to the ocean floor.  P.S. The Ocean is starting to get a little angry.

I drop my first line and wait about 20 minutes for it to hit bottom.  I’m biding my time and Eureka, I have a hit.  I set the hook and begin to reel in my Halibut.  I probably had reeled in about a hundred feet of line when my forearms begin to tighten.  After two hundred feet I’m in some real discomfort.  By the time I’m about to pull this fish into the boat, my forearms, wrists, and hands are screaming.  I get the end of the line to the surface and find to my complete amazement that the only thing I’ve been reeling in has been the shot put size weight.  I think to myself, (other than crying like a girly man) what am I going to do if I really catch one. 

I didn’t have to weight long.  About ten minutes later I caught a small 30 pounder and practically burst into tears.  It gets better, another 10 minutes and I catch another, this one’s just a little bigger.  By this point I’m in really tough shape.  I get the fish to the surface and into the boat and my forearms and hands are a knarly mess.  They’re completely useless; I’m figuring I’ll definitely need surgery to correct this.  So I’m done for the day now, which is just as well because the rain is coming down pretty hard and the sea, she is getting really angry.

A couple people caught some good size ones and when they did, Smokin Joe would come out with a rifle and shoot the fish in the head.  I personally thought that was a little over the top, and I guess Joe could see my look, so he says to me, “Stevie, you want a 400 pound fish flopping around your boat?”  As it turns out if 400 pounds flops on you, it can sting a little.  And if you’re like me and have no use of your arms, it can be really dangerous…shoot away Joe.

Now the sea is beyond angry, it’s totally pissed off.  Time to head in!  It’s pouring out and Joe’s metal hulled boat is being tossed around like a toy ship. Quite often we’re going airborne and then dropping like a led weight smacking down into the water.  (That’s something that’s always amazed me.  Whether it’s people jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, or Smokin Joe’s boat hitting the ocean…it’s still water…it’s a liquid…how can it feel like concrete?)  In any case we’re doing this a lot now, going airborne, then free-falling, and finally crash landing on a slab of cement.  Some people are getting sick, I’m concentrating on holding onto something to keep me from flying through the cabin of the boat…like Joe’s rifle.  At one point we hit particularly hard and Smokin Joe turns around, looks at us with his eyebrow raised and says, “That was a good one!!”  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just busting our chops. 

We’re now approaching the beach, Thank God.  And I start thinking to myself, how is Joe going to get his boat out of the water without destroying it on the more than just sand beach.  Mind you the boat is still flying through the air as if we have training wings on.   I look in the distance and see the large John Deere tractor with the metal forks starting to make his way towards the surf. The plan is: Joe will drive the boat onto the tractor forks, and the John Deere will pull us out of the ocean.  Yeah right, and we’re all going to die trying.  I’m thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me, there is no @#$%^& way this is going to turn out good.  My first thought is as much as this is a very large tractor, what’s going to keep it from washing out to sea; he’s actually past the surf.  My next thought is whatever they’re paying this guy driving the tractor, its not nearly enough.  (I’m thinking this profession is similar to the clowns in bull fighting or the rodeo.  The guy who’s job it is to go out of his way to have a large menacing bull chase after him.  I don’t think those guys get paid a lot either.)  In the final moments of this maneuver Joe actually has to gun the engines to ensure he gets to where he needs to be.  As this is happening the anticipation inside the boat is kind of like going to the dentist with a very painful tooth that has to be pulled, and at the last moment the dentist tells you, “Guess what, we have no gas or Novocain to kill the pain, but just stay still, this will be over before you know it”…and the pliers go sailing into your mouth. 

That day I found another reason to respect Smokin Joe, (outside of this supreme knowledge of Grizzly Bears).  He delivers the boat onto the forks of the tractor…like he’d done it a thousand times, the tractor pulls us out, we go home in one piece.

 Tomorrow, the last day and last chance for CHINOOK!

How to Outrun a Grizzly Bear

We’re on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska…serious Salmon fishing.  Our guide is “Smokin Joe.”  Smokin Joe is just what you’d expect in a Fishing Guide from Alaska.  He is identical to Popeye in just about every way.  At one point during the trip, we’re doing a “fly in” to a remote part of Alaska for some Coho Salmon fishing.  Joe sets us up with all the poles, waders, and gear; drives us to the small seaplane and waves good bye.  On the way over he gave us some tips about what to do since we’ll be in a very remote area.  No roads, no hiking trails…no nothing.  Grizzly Bears were his main topic. 

(Quick sidebar: At Sequoia National Park (Absolutely Amazing Place) last year I sat through a bear presentation given by the Park Rangers.  It was mostly about Black Bears, which are small when compared to Grizzlies.  If you happen to run into a Black Bear the idea is to make yourself seem as large as possible and scream at them and make as much noise as you can.  They should go away.  If you happen to get the Stink Eye from one of them…run for your life.  

Grizzly Bears are a completely different story.  First and very important: Do Not, I repeat Do Not try to run away.  Grizzly Bears can run upwards of 45 MPH.  I think the guy who won the 100-meter dash at the last Olympics was clocked at a top speed of 25 MPH.  Do the math.  So the question is, what do you do? The plan of action with a Grizzly Bear (you’re going to like this) is to lie as still as possible, and let him graze on you hoping that he’ll either get bored or have his fill.  Then he’ll eventually bury you someplace as a future meal and wander off.  Once the coast is clear, if you still have legs, you run for help.  I’m listening to this presentation and thinking to myself, “Oh Come On, I don’t know about you, but I have problems lying still if someone pokes me in the side.”  I might have a problem executing this plan if a massive hairy animal with huge teeth is noshing on me.)

But years earlier, before I was imparted with this wisdom, there was Smokin Joe providing guidance.  Joe says to us, “Look, whatever fish you catch, make sure you put them in these large black plastic bags.  You don’t want the Grizzlies smelling them (they have pretty good noses it turns out).  He says if they do chase you, don’t try to run away.  He says whatever you do, don’t run around a tree.  He told us a story about some guy who tried that last year and got into a game of “ring around the rosey” that went bad.  I’m listening but not really.   I’ve been in Alaska for three days and have not seen hide or hair of a bear, let alone a big one, so I’m just not buying it.  We’re about half way to our fishing site and the pilot of the sea plane points down to a large brown object running in the huge marshy area below us.  It’s a Grizzly Bear.  He zooms the plane down almost as if he’s strafing the bear, which gets us very close and kicks the bear into high gear.  At one point it almost seemed like the bear was just about keeping up with the speed of the plane.  So now I’m thinking to myself,  “God that thing is really motoring, and he’s probably really pissed right now.  I sure hope we travel a good distance before we set down”…which we did.

The plane lands a good distance from where we’re supposed to fish.  We suit up, grab our equipment and head out.  We run into classic “Combat Fishing.”  As much as we’re in the middle of nowhere, every other Fisherman who wants Coho Salmon is at this fishing spot.  The Coho are trying to swim from the lake up the river and its insanity.  There are shoulder to shoulder fishermen, casting like madmen and very few rules.  We’re the last group to arrive and also the last group to leave.  For a long while its just the 5 of us.  We come up with a great idea.  Instead of listening to Smokin Joe (what the hell does he know) we form a small well of water off one of the river streams and place our Salmon in the water…to keep them fresh.  Who’s smarter than us? 

The quick answer is: at a minimum Smokin Joe.  All of a sudden out of the woods comes a good size Grizzly Bear.  We all go racing into the water as deep as we can with our waders on trying not to fall (its very cold…remember it's Alaska).  The bear walks over to our kettle of fish, picks out the largest one and walks off into the woods.  So now we’ve learned our lesson, we pack up our fish in the plastic bags and we’re doing some last minute fishing waiting for our plane to come back.  With that we see in the distance what looks to be a very large Grizzly Bear.  It’s walking the same path we walked to get from the plane to the fishing spot.  The bear’s a ways off, so no need to panic…yet.  Then the party ended abruptly.  I’ll make a long story shorter:  A Very Very Large Bear rolls into our fishing hole, she’s got two cubs with her and she’s not happy to see us still there.  (We weren’t aware that our reservation had expired).  She did not go after our bags of fish.  The Grizzly instead went fishing the old fashion way.  She’s jumping, almost charging at the Salmon as they’re approaching the mouth of the river.  As she’s doing this she’s getting closer and closer to us in the water…pushing us deeper and deeper into the lake.  It was almost as if she was telling us to back off, or you’re next.  Now we’re slipping on rocks because they’re covered in algae and slime (since no fool has every had to walk that deep into the lake).  We’ve got waders full of cold water, actually by this point I was standing in a comfortable pool of luke warm water. (When I get back Smokin Joe will have no choice but to burn these waders.)

Finally, the Grizzly and her cubs head up into the tree and brush covered mountains…in the same direction as the path we need to travel to get to the sea plane…which has now arrived.  The pilot is standing on one of the floatation devices waving to us to come over.  We scream at him to drive the plan closer to us so we can avoid running into the bear.  He refuses telling us the water is too shallow.  At this point we explain to the pilot in no uncertain terms what our situation is.  There might have been some expletives mixed in there.  Much to our amazement he didn’t seem to be concerned with our safety.  

Now we’ve been standing in the water for a while…even I’m cold.  We can hear these animals up in the mountains grunting and talking like bears, we just can figure out where they are.  I can’t tell you how many times we spoke the words, “Do you think we should just make a run for it?”  We’re at a point now where we’re all sizing each other up thinking, “Ya know, I don’t really have to run as fast as a bear, I just have to be the 4^th fastest out of the 5 of us.”  Finally someone yells, “GO!!!” and we all took off.  We pick up our bags of fish and race panic stricken into the woods as if a swarm of bees were chasing us.  We’re half way to the plane and the plastic bags holding our fish break.  Tons of Salmon go sliding back into the lake.  (It’s one of those moments where in the middle of shear mayhem, everyone looks at each other and had the same thought, “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!”  We put our sanity aside for a couple of seconds, reach our hands down into the water and try to salvage a couple of fish.  As we’re approaching the plane bizarre thoughts start running through your mind.  You’re imagining you and the Grizzly triangulating on the plane and it’s a race to see who can get there first.  You maybe at 20mph or the Grizzly with speed that seems to be able to keep up with a Twin-Engine Cessna.  We get on the plane with all body parts, next to no fish, but we take off.

We get back to the mainland and Joe is waiting to pick us up.  Smokin Joe is not the kind of guy you want to disrespect in any way.  So naturally we completely lie to him about what happened.  Tomorrow, out into the Pacific for Halibut.

THE STINKER

It’s rush hour and I’m running to catch a subway.  I dodge the usual mopes without being overly rude and get down to the platform.  I’m dreading this ride because I know all of the cars will be completely packed and I’m going to need to put on my ugly face and muscle my way on. 

When I first started this routine, subway cars would come into the station and the people inside would always be packed in like sardines.  They’d all be jammed up against the doors with their faces plastered on the glass.  They look like they’re going to explode out onto the platform when the doors open.

But they don’t.  They just stare at you with incredulous eyes; and without saying a word, they’re screaming at you, “Are you crazy, where do you think you’re going to FIT!?!”

So this went on for a couple of days until I realized that I couldn’t afford to keep missing trains.  Hence the “Ugly Face” was born. Make that: ugly face, coupled with the “I don’t give a crap” attitude.

One day, I’m waiting for a train and to my complete amazement; a car pulls up in front of me and it’s practically empty.  This is a great feeling…it’s almost like winning the lottery.  No battles getting on, I even see open seats…this is going to be great.  The door opens up and I jump on as quickly as possible (pre-conditioned, it’s wonderful always being on edge).  The door closes behind me, and instantaneously I realize why the car is empty. 

A vile odor hits me in the face like a sledgehammer.  I turn and see the source.  It’s a “Stinker.”  One of New York’s finest homeless.  He’s camped out on the subway car seats.  This guy looks like he’s been outdoors fermenting for a couple of eternities.  I look at each end of the subway car and there are people jammed up against the doors trying to escape, but there’s no place to go.  I’m trapped too.  I’m now wondering how long I can hold my breath.  I’m sure if I inhale that’ll be it.  I’ll probably get light headed and pass out.  I’ll wake up wearing the bagman’s clothes and he’ll have my suit on. 

I now have a keen appreciation for what the soldiers in WWI went through when they were exposed to mustard gas.  Time is basically at a stand still now as the subway creeps along.  I’m thinking to myself, this stench is so terrible, it’s got to be permeating through my clothes, into my hair (what’s left of it).  It’s probably even seeping into  the pores of my skin.  I’ll probably need one of those body scrubs with a metal brush, the kind they give you once you’ve been exposed to radioactive material. 

And nobody says a word, they just stare at you.  It’s kind of like some Roman Spectacle, “There he is people, thrown into the subway car with a live Stink Bomb.  I wonder how long he’ll last?”

The subway finally makes it to another stop; I stagger out onto the platform followed by an invisible death cloud.  I realize it’s time to go home and change when I get into my office elevator and everyone in the car looks at me like I just pooped myself.  I didn’t like that suit anyway.

The Stalker is "IN" the House

One morning my wife had a couple of her girlfriends over for breakfast.  A minute or two after they left our house the phone rings.  My wife looks at the number on caller ID and its her own cell phone calling.  So she figured that one of the girls mistakenly picked up her phone and was calling to say she’d be returning it. 

When she picks up the phone there’s heavy breathing and a rustling noise on the other end.  So she hangs up.  But it calls back again, this time more of the same heavy breathing.  (Oh and before you decide to jump ahead, it’s not me)

My wife is starting to get a little freaked out, so she hangs up the phone again.  But Lord only knows why, she decides to call her cell phone back.  I guess she wanted to give the “perv” a piece of her mind.  (My wife will on occasion, make it her job to try to catch up with the raving lunatic on the road that has just cut her off and let him know how she feels…During these situations I’ve always found it works best if you just calmly turn to your spouse and ask a very simple question, “What do you think you’re doing?”)

As it turns out, her cell phone is ringing, and the ringing is “IN” the house…like coming from a room right off the front door. 

It only gets better.  (As I hear this story in my mind I’m banging my head against a wall thinking, “Just Run From the House, Run as Fast as You Can!”)  Instead of running from the house like a mad woman, she decides to walk towards the front door to “investigate.”

Phone is still ringing, she turns the corner into our den and there…is the Hairy Beast (our dog Murphy).  He’s got his smelly snout in my wife’s coat pocket scrounging for left over treats.  As my wife enters the room, he quickly pulls his head out of her coat pocket… with the cell phone in his mouth. 

At this point Murphy’s probably thinking, “Crap, if I only knew how to dial 911...because I think I’m going to need it in a couple of seconds.”

Flying Skis

After a long cold day of skiing my son and I were at the mini van hastily preparing for our two and a half hour ride home.  It was freezing out and we were in a hurry…big surprise huh?  I put the skis up on top of the roof rack and my cell phone rings.   I reach into my ski jacket, work through a number of layers and get to the cell phone before it stops ringing.  It’s my bride and she wants to know how things are coming and when she could expect us.  I’m my usual charming self and rush her off the phone.  I race to the back of the van, get my ski boots off and take the rest of my ski clothing off so that I have a comfortable ride home.  We jump back into the van throw on the heat and head out.

I get about a ¼ mile out of the parking lot and question myself…”Did I close down the latches on the ski roof rack?”  I think to myself, “I must have, what kind of a Block Head wouldn’t close the latches down?”  And to reinforce my belief, I’m thinking I probably would have heard the skis rumbling around up there.

I’ve now been driving for about 20 minutes and I’m getting on a significant highway…and its still bugging me.  Did I close the latches?  Now I see a service turn off from the highway.  For a split second I think maybe I should just pull over and check it out to be sure.  Nope, I’lI have none of that.  I’m making good time, its toasty warm in the van now, who needs to stop?  At this point I’m thinking to myself, I’m going over 65 miles an hour, if the skis weren’t locked down, there’s no way they’d be staying on top of the van.  I’m also thinking if they weren’t locked down, I’d be getting the “High-Sign” from other drivers letting me know I had an issue up top.  Kind of like in the movie “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” when John Candy gets onto the highway with Steve Martin going in the wrong direction...and people are trying to warn him by screaming at him, “You’re going the Wrong Way!”  Candy or “Dell Griffith’s” classic return line, “Oh how do they know where we’re going, they’re drunk.”   Seconds later he gets squished between two 18 Wheelers.

We’ve now been driving for 40 minutes.  We’re merging onto a stretch of highway and its six lanes wide now.  If you want to keep up with the 18 Wheelers you need to be going at least 80 miles per hour.  I finally think to myself, “They must be locked down because there’s no way….”

With that last thought I heard “Lift-off”.  I look in the rearview mirror and see four skis bouncing down the highway behind me.  At that point I felt like if I had put myself in the same category with block heads, I’d be insulting the block heads.  The absolutely only saving grace was that I didn’t impale anyone; otherwise this blog would probably have been written from Cell Block C at one of the charm schools in PA.

I pull over to the left hand median.  I tell my son to stay put and I get out of the van and go search for slightly used skis.  I come across my son’s rental skis.  They’re actually still locked together and look pretty good.  Then upon further inspection I notice the back end of the skis are shattered…And that my friends is why we opt for the rental insurance.

My skis were another story.  I run further down the highway and find them.  They’re separated and a couple of lanes deep.  (First, you have to understand I really liked these skis…a lot.  I got them the season after the disintegrating ski boot incident, and they had been bery bery good to me.)   It’s dark, freezing cold, and cars and trucks are whizzing by at mach speeds.  I’m trying to time my run out into traffic to retrieve my property.  What it reminded me of was a Movie from 1999 that starred Steve Martin and Eddie Murphy call, “Bowfinger.”  There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is directing a “C” movie. He has Eddie Murphy’s mentally challenged character run back and forth across the LA Freeway, almost giving him a heart attack.  Just as I’m about to make my move, two large Tandem Tractor Trailers run over my skis.  They ran over them so hard, they crushed and ripped the bindings right off the skis.  (So, like the ski boots from a couple of years before, this is a lost cause.) Then naturally I wake up and think, “Oh yeah, I have a wife and two kids; and one of them is a couple of hundred feet up the highway.”  I get back to the van and have a most enjoyable ride home.  (When my son is grown and in therapy, this trip will be talked about in great detail.)

The first guy I went to for new skis lost the sale because he couldn’t  keep the smirk off his face.

Of Mice and Men

So ‘just” a few years ago I was home visiting my Mom.  It was winter and my Mom had a practice of using the unheated garage as a second refrigerator.  The left over Christmas Turkey was sitting out there.  I came out into the garage a day later and noticed bite marks on the Turkey carcass…large bite marks.

I get out my ruler, check the radius of the bite marks, do some less than scientific calculations and come to the grim realization that we have a rat that’s about two and a half feet long feasting in our garage.  I quickly go to the hardware store and ask how large are the very largest traps they carry…I need something that can handle an animal with nuclear proportions.

I get the traps home and bait them up with hunks of cheese.  Naturally one of the traps snaps on my hand practically crippling me.  This actually turned out to be a good thing because the anger helped me overcome my extreme fear of having to deal with the King Kong of Rats. 

I check the traps the next day.  Nothing.  Even worse, practically all of the cheese is gone.  So not only am I dealing with a large predator, but he’s also got a high IQ.  I suggest to my Mom that maybe she wants to sell the house.  She asks me knowingly if I’ve solved our problem out in the garage.  I wince and tell her its time for Plan B.  The only problem was I didn’t have a Pan B.  I walk back out to the garage, open the door and there he is staring me in the face.  He’s brown and white and very large, I could have easily put a saddle on him.  Think Ben on Steroids.  I close the door quickly and give a good friend a call for some help.  My friend Mike has a high-powered pellet gun, actually a pistol.  Cranked up this pistol can put a metal pellet through a 3/8” piece of plywood.  Mike will be right over…I’m feeling better.

One major issue was our one car garage had about 20 years of crap jammed in the back where Ben Sr. has been living.  So its not like he’s going to come out and give us a clear shot.   The plan was that I’d start pulling things out of the garage with Mike standing ready, pistol cocked.  At one point Mike is looking behind himself, towards the garage door opening.  I ask him what he’s doing.  He says, “I just want to make sure I have a clear path out in case he tries to flank me.”

We’ve been at this now for over 20 minutes pulling things out.  I’ve discovered his bachelor pad.  He’s got food from the last three major holidays stashed away, some comfortable bedding, and I think he might have also figured out how to get my old 8-Track player to work.  It’s very tense now as there are only four car tires left up against the back of the concrete garage wall.  I pull two tires away and still nothing.  I get to the second to the last tire and he appears…and he is PISSED.

What happens next probably occurred in less than 5 seconds, although it seemed like an eternity.  (Does anyone remember the Monty Python movie where the Knights are given the order to dispense with the rabbit; but shortly afterwards one of the most famous Monty Python lines is spoken by the head of the Knights, “RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY!!!)

There is a frenzy of metal pellets being sprayed along the concrete wall of the garage as Ben runs back and forth at a very scary speed.  To make matters worse we hadn’t exactly thought through what would happen once we started firing the metal pellets against concrete at close range.             Plan B has gone horribly wrong.  We're now standing in a shower of “friendly fire“ as the metal pellets are ricocheting all over the garage.  In between all of the screaming and hands covering faces, Ben Sr. escapes out of the garage unharmed.

After checking body parts and making sure we could still see with both eyes, we retire for some well deserved beverages.  I know though in the back of my mind that he’ll be back.  And I was right.  The next day the only things left in the garage were the four traps, and one of them was closed on X-Ben Sr.  Victory was mine.