Loading a good hunting dog into a vehicle can be quite a challenge. Every car ride offers the opportunity for another hunt, and the best bird dogs are well aware of the potential cause-and-effect of a drive in the family automobile.

The more the anticipation, the more the excitement of heading down the driveway and to the local state game lands. It is on par to a 6-year-old counting down every last minute to Christmas morning.

The car ride I shared last week with my 14-year-old Brittany, Shell, was definitely an emotional one.

However, we weren’t on our way to another pheasant hunt or to track down a covey or two of bobwhite quail. This trip was to the emergency animal clinic near Watsontown. Shell had lived a long life. She was suffering through rapidly declining health. It was time to say goodbye — to have her put down.

Why can making the right decision sometimes be so hard, so gut-wrenching and so painful?

The 30-plus minute trip from Middleburg to Watsontown through late-night darkness gave me one last chance to reflect on the life of a good dog and even better friend.

As she slept quietly on the seat next to me, wrapped as comfortably as possible in a towel and old sweatshirt, I stroked her head while driving northward.

“Thank you,” I said with a voice that sounded as if it was being strained through a bucket of gravel, “for all the great memories.”

And I shared aloud a few of my favorites.

Like the times that Shell was in hot pursuit of a pheasant, quail or chukkar and I called her name. She’d stop on a dime every time, no questions asked.

She’d hold a point longer than gold holds its value. I learned quickly that she was never wrong. There would always be a bird in the cover and she’d always patiently wait for me to produce it.

Shell would work a scent trail for an hour and be just as happy with the end result regardless of whether my Charles Daly hit its mark or not.

And while the life lessons she taught me in obedience, trust, patience and forgiveness are things I’ll treasure forever, the best memories I’ll cherish of Shell are those shared with others.

Like the agility classes my mother and I took Shell through one summer after I started college. The evenings were hot and it took some time and patience to work Shell through the obstacles one by one over the course of the summer.

But looking back, it was that time spent together that helped shape Shell into such a good hunting dog, and I realize now just how much I valued the extra time spent with mom.

Shell welcomed my future wife with open paws — literally. She had a knack for giving people hugs. Shell was there as we learned the ropes of early marriage and gave us numerous litters of amazing puppies.

She was pregnant with one of those litters at the same time my wife was pregnant with our daughter. A week after Paige was born, Shell gave birth to nine rambunctious puppies. Our small house was one busy place.

As our daughter grew, Shell was there each step of the way. We have pictures of her cuddled on a recliner with baby Paige. Shell was gentle and obedient enough to allow toddler Paige to take her on walks.

When we adopted our then-teenage son, Shell was there to welcome him. As he got into hunting, she was the one who tracked down his first pheasant. After the shot, she retrieved it to him with her tail wagging — just as proud to be sharing this special moment with him as I was.

And even in her older age, she took quickly to our newest family member, a 5-year-old girl whose adoption was finalized Wednesday — just two days after my emotional trek with Shell to the vet.

The tears were flowing freely as I pulled into a parking space at the emergency clinic. My trip down memory lane and the long one-sided conversation was over. I turned off the car and switched on the dome light.

Shell didn’t move. She was dead. She had died peacefully during our final trip together.

As our family laid her to rest in the back yard the next evening, each of us said a prayer and shared a few favorite memories. The girls each drew a picture to place in her homemade casket. Our son recalled how neat it was to hunt over her.

I realized at that very moment that a good hunting dog is so much more than simply a tool someone uses to bag a few extra birds, more than a companion in the field and even more than an extension of the family.

The best bird dogs are the glue that help bind that family together with stories, memories and adventures shared.

Thank you, Shell, for being there each step of the way.

And I know when my time comes to join you in the happy hunting grounds in the sky, I’ll find you surrounded by goldenrod, staunch on point and patiently waiting for me to catch up.

Transferring human characteristics onto inanimate objects, called personification, is a trick writers and movie producers use all the time. Just ask Lightning McQueen, Larry the Cucumber and … Bambi.

Of course, those who hunt deer would be quick to point out that deer are far from inanimate objects, but the concept is the same. Walt Disney and his team of illustrators didn’t just dabble in the personification pool when creating Bambi. They dove in with both feet, creating a little fawn that was more human than deer.

The result is an emotionally charged movie that can pull on a child’s heartstrings today as well as it did nearly 70 years ago when the movie was first introduced.

When Bambi’s mother is killed by an unseen hunter, we feel just as lost, lonely and scared as the little deer.

The heart gets pumping when hunters later pursue Bambi’s love interest, unleash their blood-thirsty dogs and are careless enough to allow their blazing campfire to ultimately burn down Bambi’s forest land.

Never shown in the movie, the hunter is perceived as faceless, cold and unforgiving — just as vile a villain as Cruella DeVille, Skar, Cinderella’s evil stepmother and countless other antagonists in Disney’s large stable of films.

No wonder many hunters cringe when someone mentions Bambi. There are some who have taken time to research the slow decline of hunting and suggest it parallels the Bambi timeline.

But there is a scene in the movie that suggests a deeper meaning and a larger base of villain-hood. At one point, Bambi and his mother first visit an open meadow together. After some exploring and meeting new friends, the animals all run for cover when hunters barge into the scene, bullets zinging through the air.

Later, Bambi and his mother take a moment to reflect in a safer part of the forest. The young deer asks his mother what just happened.

“Man,” the doe responds, “has entered the forest.”

That man represents people in general. Not just men. Not just hunters.

Yes, hunters shoot and kill deer. Is it as traumatic to the real deer as it is to the personified Bambi and company? That’s a debate for a different day.

The point here is that while hunters do “harvest” deer, that is hardly the only threat we represent to deer and other wildlife.

What about the massive destruction of habitat for houses, amusement parks, parking lots, etc.? Everyone who lives in a home is guilty of taking habitat away from wildlife in some form or another.

What about those who drive cars? Thousands upon thousands of deer and other wildlife are mutilated on our man-made highways by our man-made vehicles.

Of course, the point here involves what Bambi really teaches our children, or at least what it should be.

Not that hunters are villains, but yet another piece of the predator-prey life cycle that has sustains life on this planet.

And that we all have an effect on the world around us.

Make yours count.

As gunshots barked in the crowded school cafeteria, students were quick to dive for cover. They all attempted to move away from the unexpected bullet-laced rage of a 14-year-old transfer student tormented by teasing.

Everyone, that is, except for one.

Brent Paucke emerged from under a table. Classmate Kimberly Marchese, 13, was nursing a gun shot wound to her shoulder. Elizabeth Bush, an eighth-grader, leveled her father’s .22 pistol at her own temple saying, “I don’t want to live. I should commit suicide right here.”

Paucke recognized Bush as someone who rode his school bus. He could tell she was close to pulling the trigger, and knew others could be in danger. Paucke advanced, talking to Bush as calmly as possible.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be like this. It can be better. Just put the gun down and give it to me.”

When Paucke was approximately five feet from Bush, she allegedly pointed the pistol at him. The principal walked in and told Paucke to move away. Instead, the freshman continued to plead with Bush, who finally put the pistol on the cafeteria floor. Paucke kicked it away from her.

The scenario played out 10 years ago in Williamsport at what was then called Bishop Neumann. The school has since been renamed St. John Neumann Regional Academy.

Paucke, a Boy Scout, was honored for his bravery by classmates, school officials and local police. He was named the first winner of Macy’s “Go to the Head of the Parade” contest and was an honorary participant in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in 2001. He was also featured in Boys Life magazine, a nationally distributed publication of the Boy Scouts of America.

While many know that true Scouts try to live by a two-word motto, to “be prepared,” it is the 12-word Scout Law that helps set the base for the character and leadership backbone that Scouting tries to teach young men. A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. Brent tries to live by each point daily, and many of which were on full display 10 years ago in the Bishop Neumann cafeteria.

A Scout since first grade, Brent’s mother, Debra, was the one who first encouraged him to get involved.

“Brent’s father left us when I was still pregnant,” she said. “I wanted to get Brent around other positive male role models doing manly things. I wound up helping out as a leader for the first several years until Brent moved up into Boy Scouts (from Cub Scouts). The experience had a major impact on him.”

Including on that fateful day in the Bishop Neumann cafeteria. When asked if his Scouting career helped him handle the life-or-death situation at school, Brent admitted it did “110 percent!

“It taught me how to be a man, the difference between right and wrong, how to keep calm in any situation and the feeling of doing anything in the world that I wanted to,” he said. “It gave me the confidence to stand up that day.”

And with that, he concluded he really didn’t have a choice when it came to intervening in the school shooting.

“I knew that if I sat there and did nothing and someone else got hurt, I would regret that for the rest of my life,” he said.

The confidence has helped take him to places he never imagined. Brent was actively involved in the local Scout council’s Order of the Arrow and was a staff member at Camp Karoondinha for several years — most recently as director of aquatics.

Now, Brent is entering his sixth year serving in the U.S. Navy and is stationed in Italy. During his various tours, he has been to China, Korea, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Dubai, the Phillipines, Hawaii, Bahrain and Iraq — “literally everywhere,” he said.

But for Brent, the journey started with a first step, and Scouting was the perfect springboard.

“Scouting is a way of life that lasts for generations,” he said. “It isn’t just Boy Scouting. It’s a brotherhood — a fraternity, if you will — that gives kids the moral foundation and confidence to do great things.”

For information about the Susquehanna Council of the Boy Scouts of America, go to http://councils.scouting.org/Council533.aspx or contact the council office at 326-5121.

Sheer determination, dedication to the hunt and commitment to follow through. She used the wind to help pin down her prey, a slow and steady gait to get into position without flushing her quarry and flashed a look of pride after the hunt was successfully complete.

She was a 31-pound, efficient, unrelenting hunting machine.

And no, I am talking about my 14-year-old Brittany — although I could have been. The bird dog and I had been on plenty of hunts over the years for pheasants and quail. She had done amazing things in the field and was truly the epitome of an efficient hunter. Except that in her late retirement, those days are well behind her.

On this specific day, I was hunting butterflies. My partner-in-crime was a five-year-old pre-adoptive child my family is hoping to officially adopt in the near future. This will be our second adoption, and as it was with the first, the outdoors have played a major part in the transition process.

Sarah (not her real name, but confidentiality is a vow that must be kept during the process) spent her first extended period tent camping with the family this summer. She caught her first fish and quickly added her second through 10th — all bluegills — at a small pond at the Central Pennsylvania Wesleyan Campground near New Columbia. She spent countless hours riding her bike and swimming and picking wildflowers and swinging on swings.

But Sarah’s major outdoor passion is hunting — even if it is more of the butterfly persuasion than for deer or turkey. There are so many parallels, though. Patience and determination are key. Being aware of the surroundings and observant enough to alter your approach are also important. Having a passion for being in the outdoors is paramount.

So what if you exchange a 20-gauge for a big pink net and a plastic mayonnaise jar with small breathing holes poked into the top? And while you may not be able to get much jerky or bologna out of a butterfly or caterpillar or other bug, you can still teach the concept of catch-and-release versus what is a true keeper.

And in that lesson comes something bigger. Something worth latching onto with the gusto of a hungry Susquehanna River muskie annihilating a minnow.

As of Saturday night, there were 211 children listed on the Pennsylvania Statewide Adoption and Permanency Network website — all of whom need a forever family.

All of them are keepers who deserve much more than being thrown back into the system.

Go ahead and visit the site yourself: www.adoptpakids.org. You’ll see kids of all shapes, sizes, ages and interests. See their pictures. Read their stories.

And these are just the tip of the iceberg. There are hundreds more that never make it to the website that are just as deserving of a new home — of a chance to catch their first fish or take a family fall foliage hike along the Ricketts Glen waterfalls trails or even someone to help them catch a butterfly or two.

Are you passionate about the outdoors? There are hundreds of young people across the state who’d love to share that passion with you. You just need to take the first step.

For more about adoption, foster care or other ways you can make a difference, go to www.adoptpakids.org or call Families United Network at 651-9016.

Did you know that there was an old lady who swallowed a fly? No one knows why she swallowed the fly.

But rumor has it that she panicked, gobbling down a spider to catch the fly. Of course, then she had a spider wriggling and jiggling and tickling inside her. So she swallowed a bird to catch the spider, a cat to catch the bird, a dog to catch the cat, and so on.

A silly story, but one that scientists seem to be reliving in regards to the dreaded emerald ash borer.

The insect, which isn’t native to the United States, was inadvertently imported to our country from Asia.

First reported in the state of Michigan, the emerald ash borer targets ash trees with wreckless abandon. The adult females lay their eggs on the bark of the ash tree, and the larva eventually hatch and bore through the bark into the tree. As they eat through the tree’s internal layers, they leave S-shaped gouges and consume enough of the trunk that the ash can no longer absorb enough nutrients and dies.

The emerald ash borer has invaded Pennsylvania en force. Our ash trees are under siege, not just in western counties and eastern regions, but right here in the Susquehanna Valley.

“The emerald ash borer is not going to stop for anything.

We are in damage control mode now — we are not in control mode,” said Sven-Erik Spichiger, an entomologist forthe Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture.

So how do scientists and environmentalists combat a threat so grave?

By repeating history, of course. By releasing another non-native variety of insect into our already struggling natural environment.

Minature stingless wasps known as parasitoids, to be more specific. They’re the spiders we’re all supposed to swallow to knock out the flies — or emerald ash borers, in this case.

And our neck of the woods is one of the trial areas. Besides two parks in Allegheny County near Pittsburgh, scientsts also recently released these wasps into State Game Lands No. 252 in Union County near Allenwood.

According to reports, several thousand were unleashed.

A parasitoid, by definition, is something that acts like a parasite, except they typically sterilize or kill their host. These wasps have a history of attaching to, and eventually killing, emerald ash borers. Their job is to seek and destroy.

Similar miniature wasps have been used to control pest insect populations in other parts of the world, and have been fairly successful. And, at least at the moment, there have been no major reports of the miniature wasps causing any unexpected negative side effects to people or the environment.

I am no entomologist, but I am pretty experienced in making mistakes and trying to patch things up. It usually doesn’t go well. The problems always seem to snowball. Just ask Mickey Mouse about his “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” experiences.

The concept of introducing a non-native insect into the local environment makes me wonder if we’ll ever learn our lesson, the same taught through the Leave No Trace movement. We need to minimize our impact on the ecosystem, not blast it with a new species.

In fact, this is actually the first time ever that parasitoids have been knowingly released into Pennsylvania’s ecosystem.

And while there are no known side effects of the miniature wasps, who’s to say we won’t feel the effects at a later date.

For example, what happens if the miniature wasps don’t just target the emerald ash borer, but also much more productive and necessary species of beetles and other insects? These wasps are known for extremely rapid reproduction — what if we wind up with massive swarms of them throughout area parks and gamelands? Will this cause an increase in predator species (such as birds), which may bring other issues? What if the miniature wasps affect the fragile balance local farmers have between their land, crops and natural elements?

And how would we deal with this new dilemma? Unleash some new species of bird that loves gobbling up miniature wasps? How long after that until we need to deal with the overpopulation of the new bird species? When does the cycle end?

For the little old lady who swallowed a fly, it didn’t stop until she died.

Let’s hope we don’t repeat her mistakes.

Or, that the Mule would flip end-over-end back down the near 60ish-degree slope.
Luckily, neither happened. Each of us were safely dropped off to post for the first of a busy day of late-season muzzleloader whitetail drives.

The countryside was beautiful. Thick hemlocks werecovered with a dusting of fresh snow. Deep gorges and large rock out-croppings with small caves likely were housing a family or two of hibernating bears.

The terrain was rugged in stretches, yet that only added to the overall experience. Making it more rustic, more of an adventure, more satisfying in the same odd way that hand-splitting firewood and processing your own venison can feel.

It’s that feeling that helped me fall in love with blackpowder hunting during the late season this past year. My father, brother and I had done it in the past. I had my own .50-caliber flintlock and all the supplies growing up. But I didn’t appreciate it back then. After nearly a decade away from the late season rite of passage, my father purchased a muzzleloader stamp for me this past Christmas.

My brother and a friend, Andy, had been successfully hunting the late season for years. The 15-man Glen Mawr hunt was an annual event for them, usually loaded with deer and shots taken, stories and some good-natured ribbing when someone’s gun misfired or a shot was missed.

So it was quite an experience to be a part of that hunt earlier this month.
Especially when a herd of at least six doe jogged about 50 yards in front of me during the first drive. They stopped to check out their surroundings. I fired at the biggest doe, standing broadside well within range for the muzzleloader. A flash in the flash pan, but no explosion in the barrel. Misfire.

I reloaded some flash powder. Another click, another flash, another misfire. It happened four consecutive times. The deer grew tired of taunting me and loped off towards an old logging road.

Using a safety pin, I poked out the hole between the flash pan and barrel powder just in time to notice a lone doe picking her way between the hemlock, following an almost identical trail as the first six. This time, my smokestick worked as it was intended, if only the dunce aiming it did a better job keeping it on target. A clean miss.

While I did not bring home venison that day, it was a success. It was more quality time spent with my brother in the outdoors. It was a good workout in some of the freshest mountain air you’ll find in the state.

We hunted several other times during the late season at other locations. Each time led to a story.

There was the time Andy shot at an old dropped-antler buck. Two small blood drops into trailing it, the buck was found dead along a fencerow.

The buck was nearly skin-and-bones and it had an old wound in its rear flank that had become infected with gangrene. While field dressing and later when processing the deer, Andy found that it had a damaged lung, but no entry or exit wound. He had missed, and the deer died from, we’re guessing, a collapsed lung while running. Due to its condition, Andy reported the situation to the game commission and didn’t take a chance consuming the venison.

Just a weird story.

And there was the time, about a week later, that we were hunting my parent’s farm near McEwensville. A drive by my father worked perfectly, and a buck worked its way directly to where I was hidden in a fencerow, walking quickly just 12 yards from where I was standing. I know because I paced it out after the fact.

I cocked the muzzleloader. I engaged the hair trigger. The buck was close enough I could almost whack it with the barrel of my gun. It was also close enough to clearly see that it was just one point short of legal. A large rack, it only had a big Y on one side and a single large spike on the other with no brow tines visible.

At that close, there was no denying I could have killed the buck with one shot, as long as there was no misfire. My finger rested on the trigger for a split second, and then I lowered the gun and simply enjoyed the view. He’ll be bigger next year, and even though I’ve endured a good share of ribbing about letting him walk away, it was definitely one of the best hunting stories I’ve had in quite some time.

And one, like tackling the Glen Mawr mountain, that I would have missed if not for having the opportunity to re-embrace and fall in love with late-season muzzleloader hunting.

If you have never experienced the late-season flintlock season, it is definitely something everyone should try at some point. The weather is a bit colder, obviously, than rifle season, but the extra snow makes visibility and tracking much easier.

Plus, hunting pressure is a lot less intense, making the hunt more of a strategic cat-and-mouse type game. Of course, the whitetail seem to find a way to outsmart the hunter in most cases, but the thrill of the hunt is much more intense, too.

Muzzleloaders are obviously much less consistent than the high-powered rifles many use during the main season. Dampness in the air can ruin the black powder and lead to misfires. There are a lot more things to keep aware of when hunting with a flintlock rifle, but that also is part of what makes the experience so much more rustic and exhilirating.

Of course, that also makes it that much harder to see the season slip away.

Any unexpected noise at 2:30 in the morning can be hard to ignore.

Especially if that noise is something scratching inside a metal stove pipe between your own oil furnace and the chimney leading outside.

I had just got home from a late night of work, and was getting clothes out of the dryer before hitting the shower when I heard it. Something was scurrying up and down the thick metal exhaust stack. When I noticed the damper door start to move, meaning that the unseen critter was trying to escape the piping into the house, I sprung into action.

While attempting to hold the damper closed with a metal fireplace poker, I started brainstorming what could be scurrying around in the pipe. A mouse? A rat? A squirrel? When an inch-long claw slipped out of the damper door I was trying to hold — I realized this was no squirrel. Lucky for it, we have been using our woodstove while giving the oil furnace a break.

The next morning, after deciding that pest removal services were obviously not made for those on a journalist’s salary, it was time to tackle the project personally. Armed with a flashlight, Leatherman, canvas leafblower bag, duct tape and the trusty fireplace poker, my wife and I took apart the galvanized exhaust pipe and finally found the culprit.

A screech owl.

I was expecting to see an oppossum or small raccoon. I was also ready to take any means necessary to eliminate the pest problem. But this was an owl. She and her feathered cousins helped keep the vermin population under control at la casa de Zaktansky. I just couldn’t bring myself to poke her with the poker.

So I called in reinforcements. Mike Dupuy, the falconer and birds of prey expert from the suburbs of Penns Creek, to be exact.

And despite an impending snow storm that night and an ice-covered driveway he was trying to tackle, Mr. Dupuy dropped everything and came to the rescue. He removed the 5.1-ounce (not even a third of a pound) female screech owl and planned to take her back to his spread for medical attention. But he didn’t stop there. He took the time to talk with my wife and 6-year-old daughter about owls. He let my daughter pet the owl. He took pictures and videos and even played the screech owl’s signature horse-whinny-like call from off his iPhone so my daughter knew what they sounded like.

It was apparent that Mr. Dupuy wasn’t just an animal rescuer, but also a people educator.

An owl encyclopedia

On Saturday, during a nearly hour-long phone conversation with me about our rescued owl friend, Dupuy rattled off more information about owls, hawks and other birds of prey than one could cram into a whole encyclopedia of Peterson Field Guides.

For example, the Eastern Screech Owl is the third smallest owl known, just bigger than the pygmy and saw-whet owls. Female screech owls are typically bigger than males, which is how Dupuy determined our flue-flyer was a she. The screech owl is in the same family as the great horned owl, but different than the barn owl. Typically, the screech owl is a gentle bird, trying so hard to blend into its enviroment, such as a tree limb, that people have been known to walk right up to them in the wild.

Screech owls are also cavity dwellers — they typically nest in dead trees. This is why Dupuy strongly suggests that if you harvest a lot of firewood on your property, it is a good idea to install a few screech owl nesting boxes about 12 to 15 feet off the ground so the owls have an alternative when their typical homes are chopped down.

Screech owls eat an abundance of small animals, such as mice, rats and squirrels. During the warmer months, they have been known to chow down on grasshoppers, crickets and moths. They have excellent hearing and sight, although they need at least a little bit of moonlight to see effectively at night.

Not a typical situation

As for the screech owl found in our stove pipe, Dupuy said it is hard to imagine how she got there. It is very atypical for a screech owl to wind up in someone’s fully vertical chimney, and he assumed that perhaps it had used the chimney to escape from a bigger predator, such as a great horned owl, and gotten injured during the maneuver, or stuck after the fact.

“Even though it is rare, this is a good example of why you should cap your flue,” he said. “Not only to avoid injury to wildlife, but also damage to your (heating) system.”

The screech owl is currently staying at Dupuy’s home as he attempts to rehab her and ultimately return her back to the environment.

“The tail feathers were matted, probably from soot, and she was nearly unresponsive at first,” Dupuy said. “No one knows how long she was in the chimney without food and she exhausted herself trying to escape.”

After feeding her a dead mouse later in the evening and keeping her in a warm place (at the moment a canary cage in his walk-in closet), Dupuy said the screech owl has become more animated and is showing more fear toward humans — a good sign in the healing process.

The next critical test before considering release back into the wild is to see whether or not she can fly correctly. Dupuy said that he will know better within the next 24 hours whether she will be a candidate for release or may need to take up residence in a wildlife refuge, such as T&D Cats of the World near Penns Creek.

Lesson learned

In the meantime, work has resumed in re-wiring the cap that belongs on the chimney flue that Ms. Owl had visited. On the surface, of course, this was an example of why it is important to maintain things such as chimney flue caps and to take other steps necessary to reduce human-wildlife crisis.

However, it was also a great opportunity to see a successful rescue in action and to meet another person with a keen passion for everything outdoors. It is reassuring to know that people like Mike Dupuy are out there helping to maintain and enhance our natural treasures.

For more information about Mike Dupuy and his work with birds of prey, visit www.mikedupuyfalconry.com.

Three-year-old Owen Resseguie, of New Berlin, swung the yellow-and-black claw hammer as hard as he could towards the tiny head of a small nail.

Below that nail, steadying it, were the fingers of an unpaid volunteer who was helping create his tenth consecutive bird house at the 2011 Icebreaker Sportsman Show at Christ Wesleyan Church near Milton.

Considering the long, long line of children and parents snaking out of the Sunday School classroom and into the hallway beyond, there were going to be many more bird houses created that afternoon.

On this particular swing, however, Owen hit his mark. The helper’s fingers were spared for the moment. A few feet away, another volunteer wasn’t so lucky.

Many people would consider helping waves of children build their own bird houses, and allowing each youngster to his or her own hammer in the process, a risky way to spend an afternoon. To others, it is extremely rewarding.

And, it is also one of the many reasons why I love attending the Icebreaker Sportsman Show each year. While other expos focus on the seasoned outdoorsmen and women, the Icebreaker does a great job of offering something for the whole family. In fact, there are just as many — if not more — activities for the children than there are for the adults.

While this type of formula may not work for bigger, more corporatized shows that primarily target the most serious of outdoor enthusiast — such as the Eastern Sports and Outdoor Expo in Harrisburg each February — the family-first feel of the Icebreaker seems an ideal fit.

It also highlights a critical aspect of the outdoors that many can overlook — the importance of getting young people excited about outdoor activities.

These days, a child’s world revolves more around SpongeBob than sparrows and PlayStation instead of playing outdoors. To kids nowadays, “Fish Hooks” is an animated Disney cartoon about talking fish, not those curved pointy things that can transform a lazy summer day by the local pond into a fish-catching adventure.

So it was refreshing to see so many young people running around the Icebreaker show on Saturday with big smiles on their faces. They were carrying bird houses and pinecone-peanut butter bird feeders with visions of bluebirds and cardinals dancing in their heads. They got to shoot bows and arrows at a 3-D deer target and balloons and BB guns at iron animal-shaped targets. Kids were fishing for trout, casting fishing rods for prizes and creating plaster casts of animal tracks.

For most of a day, these children were out of the house, away from the TV and video games and soaking in a variety of outdoor information, activities and fellowship with others.

In that vein alone, the show was a massive success.

And that doesn’t even include the numerous shooting competitions for adults, quality vendors, tasty and affordable food, the petting zoo, seminars, door prizes and opportunities to network with others who share a passion for the Valley’s outdoors.

Such as the numerous volunteers who made it all possible. Those who baited hooks, set up tables, served hot dogs, organized the activities and worked so hard behind the scenes. Those who patiently worked with each child on the shooting range and creating nature-friendly crafts. And, yes, even those who put their hands in harm’s way for what may seem like a simple bird house.

Because we, as outdoor enthusiasts, know that our outdoor treasures will soon be in the hands of the next generation — and it is hard to hold onto much when those hands have a death grip on an XBox controller.

It is amazing how just a few words can crush someone. How they can hit harder than a Muhammed Ali uppercut, totally unexpected yet so devastating.

I was a teenager at the time. My father, younger brother and I had hunted deer religiously every season for years at the Montour Preserve public hunting lands. We were lucky to even see a deer those days, not to mention seeing a deer in the right season and in a safe shooting position.

We grew up on a small farm near McEwensville, milking cows, raising chickens and turkeys and pigs and a pen full of pheasant for a small game hunting preserve that was more hobby than business. For me, deer season paled by a long shot to small game hunting. The endless standing/sitting in sub-freezing temperatures, the lack of deer to keep the adrenaline pumping and the super early mornings — getting farm chores done before changing into hunting gear and beating the sunrise to our usual hunting spot.

So, one year during an argument over something so silly I can’t even remember what it was about, I dropped the bomb. I bypassed floating like a butterfly and advanced directly to stinging like a bee. In the heat of the moment, I announced that I was done hunting deer. It was a waste of time.

The shot hit its mark. My father’s face told me so. A lifelong, super-avid hunter who pursued deer every year in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania when I was little, and someone who harvested more deer in more ways than a squirrel frantically collects acorns before a hard winter, my father lived and breathed hunting.

He was with me when I was six or seven and shot my first squirrel with a specially modified youth-sized 410 shotgun. The same squirrel that he proudly had mounted and today sits in my family room nearly three decades later. He was there when I shot my first rabbit, which is currently sitting near the mounted squirrel in our family room.

To him, hunting was equal parts tradition, providing food for the family’s table and building lasting memories with family and close friends in the hunting party. So, his oldest son suggesting that deer hunting was a waste of time was far worst than being hit below the belt. It was a moment I’ll never forget, not because I had temporarily ended the argument, but because of that hollow, in-shock look that seemed to paralyze my father in his tracks. I had never seen that look before. I never wanted to see it again. I had crossed a line and learned something in the process. That hunting was more than shooting a deer, but ran much, much deeper.

When opening day rolled around that year, I was with my brother and father in the woods, watching the squirrels and daydreaming about girls while watching the fields on either side of me. I had a new outlook on hunting that season. Instead of praying for a trophy buck, I had decided I’d just be happy to see something, anything. The surroundings seemed more alive than ever. Birds fluttered from branch to branch, chipmunks scurried across the ground and the weather didn’t seem to be so cold and bitter.

About two hours into the opener, a nice-sized five-point buck ran into the field to my right and stopped, broadside, about 70 yards away. My .308 Winchester sealed the deal in one shot. My first deer. My first buck. My father’s face was beaming, our argument and my hurtful words fully in the rearview mirror.

Some 20-odd years later, and I was out again this past Monday for the season opener. My brother, myself, my adopted son — using my trusty .308 — and a few friends. My father did a small drive for us later in the morning over a small mountain. He no longer carries a gun, but instead a small walking stick. My brother got a seven-point buck that we all helped process later that evening. I didn’t have a shot at any legal buck, but we saw plenty of deer.

But the highlight for me, outside of spending some more time with my father and brother in what has now become a long-standing tradition, was watching my son savor the hunt while making smart, responsible decisions. He passed on a shot at a Y-buck, one tine short of the legal standard this year. I could tell he didn’t even consider it. I was so proud. I realized later that my hunting experiences have come full circle.

So why do I hunt?

I hunt to put food on the table. We live in a fast-food environment, but even fast food costs money and we’re all looking for ways to cut corners. Venison provides a tasty and much cheaper (not to mention healthier) alternative. So many who complain about hunting have no trouble grabbing a cheeseburger at McDonalds or purchasing a sports car with authentic leather seats or doing countless other things that require byproducts from animals that were raised in sometimes less-than-ideal situations.

I hunt because of the quality family time. Getting to see my dad in his element, watch my brother successfully harvest a buck and see my son shoot his first doe. As I’ve said in previous columns, there are few activities more telling than taking a youngster hunting. Life and death situations where decisions need to be made in a split second. You don’t get that sort of moral litmus test over a family game of Parcheesi.

But most importantly, I hunt because of the tradition and heritage. Because hunting and outdoors run deep in my family’s veins. It took some ignorant comments and some hurt feelings in the heat of an argument to realize that.

Written two years ago …

For those who missed it, gas prices jumped considerably during the past week. July 4th is tomorrow, we fuel-guzzling Americans know all too well what that means.

However, before you start hyperventilating or popping some Paxil, just remember that it could be worse. Much worse.

You see, Exxon and Chevron have nothing on Mike’s Bait Shop.

Mike’s provides live bait to be sold at convenience stores in Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, New Jersey, and other eastern states. Obviously, if you are shopping at a convenience store you aren’t shopping for value, but for the convenience of not having to run the extra five miles to a larger store. For that convenience, you expect to pay a little extra for your loaf of bread, gallon of milk, or Snickers bar.

But paying $3.89 for a dozen Canadian nightcrawlers is just plain ridiculous, no matter where you buy them. You can buy one gallon of milk, one-and-a-half gallons of gas, or three loaves of bread for the same price as 12 worms.

However, that’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. According to various online sources, the average nightcrawler weighs approximately one gram. (Seems a little light for a nightcrawler, but who am I to question information found on the internet?) So, for $3.89, you get 12 grams of worm.

That converts to $9.20 an ounce, or $147.14 per pound of nightcrawler.

That may be short of the gold standard (currently $913 per ounce of gold), yet nightcrawlers, at $9.20 an ounce, rank up with plenty of other high-end products.

Silver right now is selling for $14 an ounce. Ritzy perfume Chanel No. 5 can be found for sale online for $11 an ounce. High-end pure maple syrup sells for 57 cents an ounce. Whitefish caviar sells for $6.75 an ounce. Black Truffle Puree sells for $13.71 an ounce.

Pretty disturbing, especially if you’ve driven on a local rural road at night during a soaking rainstorm. During the 20-mile drive home from work the other night, I must have killed well over $1,000 worth of worms.

At least fuel prices aren’t as unbearable as they were last year. Goodbye gas-gouging, hello worm-gouging.

Who is confronting the live bait industry? Who’s protecting us small-time, procrastinating fishermen who forget the bucket of garden worms at home and swing into the Turkey Hill on the way to the trout stream?

Of course, the only real solution is to take matters into our own, individual hands. Buying your worms in bulk drops the price considerably. Taking a little time in the backyard with a shovel helps out even more.

While roto-tilling our garden this spring, and taking care of a septic problem, we made an extra effort at the Zaktansky homestead to harvest the worms we found while digging. They currently live in a neat styrofoam worm habitat my wife purchased for me two years ago.

There are plenty of alternative live bait options online. For those who like fishing with waxworms, which is my bait of choice for trout fishing, there is a waxworm breeder kit for $24.95 at www.waxwormkit.com. According to information at that site, you can use the kit to raise “hundreds—even thousands” of waxworms.

Not only does this sound like a neat family project (yes, to some of us raising little white worms that resemble maggots can be considered neat), but it is a good investment. At the convenience store, two dozen waxworms are $3.89. That means for the same price of a waxworm breeding kit, you would only get six containers—or 144 waxworms.

No matter how you personally deal with the treacherous economics surrounding live bait buying, there are two lessons here. Some pre-planning, getting back to basics, and doing more for yourself isn’t just a smart way to prepare for a fishing trip, but also makes a wise lifestyle choice for those trying to tackle bigger economic situations.

And the other lesson?

If a pound of nightcrawlers costs $147.14, just imagine how much you are worth!