Out of the Woods

By Mike Osterhout

Once upon a time

01/01/01 is the date and hunting season‘s a distant memory. This is where writing an outdoor column can get tricky. How can I compose a little anecdotal ditty encompassing an encounter in the woods when for the past three weeks I’ve barely been out of the house? The most interesting thing I’ve seen is three fat good ‘ol boys wallowing in the muddy Mississippi, trying to catch 50 lb. catfish by sticking their fists up to their elbows in the catfish’s mouth. My nephew Isaac and I watch this while sprawled out on my parent’s couch, clicking between ESPN 2 and MTV’s spring break re-runs.

We discuss my journalistic predicament as another slimy giant catfish is hoisted into the host’s flat bottom boat. Isaac suggests that we go back to Cancun and the bikini action, while I was glued to the fish wrestling. The mud-covered fat white men vie with the dung-colored bottom feeders for supremacy of the mighty Mississip. Who says TV is not an educational tool?

In the post-season wind-down material is when you find it, and these days it’s as scarce as a deer with antlers in February. It’s already the playoffs and I realize there are teams I’ve never even heard of occupying my New Year’s eve living room. The Browns are in Baltimore and have turned into some weird blackbird, the Colts moved to Indiana and even Tennessee has a team. I’m too confused and out of touch to catch up and how much of young girls dancing to “Who let the Dogs Out?” in skimpy bikinis can you watch? With a choice between football, Spring Break and wrist fishing, I opt for the fish. Besides, I have the remote.

The problem is once the catfish violating rednecks crawl out of the primordial ooze, the show switches to fly fishing in Patagonia. CEO’s and corporate lawyers lounge at a golden lodge, cradling their $7,000 split bamboo rods in anticipation of catching giant trout in crystal waters. It’s like watching paint dry. Rich people in the latest Orvis wardrobe do not make for good TV. Put a mud splattered fat man with a fish on his arm, reading the news from the middle of a river, and watch those ratings soar. I give up and toss the remote to Isaac.

Isaac suggests we look at the “Wild On” series (a bikini model who takes you from one drunken group of college students in various states of undress to another, all to the sound of “Who Let the Dogs Out,” with a more anthropological eye). You could call it “Wild Life,” he suggests, channel surfing. Then I spot it. “Stop!” I yell, grabbing for the remote. Krykey! Holding a very pissed off eight-foot cobra by the tail, while excitedly gushing into the camera on the various reasons this deadly snake has for sinking its fangs into the host’s leg, is Steve “The Crocodile Hunter.” And New Year’s Eve is “Crocodile Hunter Marathon.”

Years ago I saw Steve on some animal short video and never forgot how impressed I was. This guy in his Aussie accent and Pete Rose hair cut chews the camera up. His enthusiasm while dangling a black mamba three inches from his nose is so contagious you’re actually not rooting for the snake to strike. Much to Isaac’s dismay the marathon is just beginning.

Three episodes into the marathon and my interest is beginning to wane. Outside, the 18 inches of snow that fell the night before is blowing and drifting across the back deck. A lone crow swoops into some pines and reemerges with a raspy cry that can be heard through the thermal pane. My entire family, nine nieces and nephews, three brothers with wives, one sister with husband, mother, father and grandmother come and go as I try to formulate my column around watching this Aussie who looks like he’s on a coke bender catch fresh water crocodiles in a lake somewhere. “Pete Rose really should be in the Hall o£ Fame,” my other nephew, Wade, intones, peering over my shoulder at the note pad I’m scrawling on, and swiping the remote long enough to send us back to “The Booze Cruise,” a special report by guest host and playmate so and so, who giggles and mugs as the camera pans from one gyrating and soon-to-puke knucklehead to the next. “Who let the dogs out “ is being lip synced by the playmate.

By the time midnight rolls around everyone is asleep but me. The wind is letting up and the snow sparkles beneath the garage lights. A friend calls to wish me happy New Year, and when I mention how I’m struggling over my column she tells me that she always reads my columns to her little girl at bed time and that they are just the right length for putting her to sleep. I’m touched.

The house is quiet. Isaac snores quietly under the afghan on the couch next to me and the glow from the TV bathes the room in a soft, electronic shimmer. I wish her happy New Year, click off the remote, and as I pad off to bed I softly sing “Who let the dogs out? Who let the dogs out? Who? Who? Who?”

Happy New Year!