Is it because winter persists, I’m aging exponentially, or because I hatched out nuts? Whatever the reason, I feel like I’m becoming nuttier. As I compose this historic manuscript, the price of a gallon of gasoline at Fastrac, Byrne Dairy and E-Z Mart is approaching typically outlandish European rates; $6.48 in the Netherlands, $5.96 in Italy, and $5.79 in England. Prices will no doubt be higher by publication day. Regardless of how high they climb, I’ll still be able to afford a Legendary Larry Burger and two icy Yuenglings at the Tavern. I don’t know how Saint Lawrence does it, but the price for a fill-up at the Tavern never seems to fluctuate. That’s nice, not nuts.  

You know what’s really nuts? Wisconsin Governor, Snot Walker, declaring war on teachers. He didn’t declare war on gluttonous NBA, MLB, PGA, or NFL players and owners, Wall Street bankers, Forbes 400 CEO’s, or Charlie Sheen. No, no, his cause celebrate is crushing overpaid, underworked, slovenly, low-life school teachers. According to Snotty, no-account teachers are the scum of the earth, always putting themselves first.  This guy has to be nuttier than I am. Who in their right mind would give a willing, qualified person a reason not to become a school teacher? Whose Snotty going after next? Firefighters, police officers, snowplow drivers, the Brotherhood of Railroad Signalmen?

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t appreciate my 5th Grade teacher, Mrs. Garrett, because she made me do my homework and pay attention in class. When I slacked off, she ratted me out to my mother, who in turn tied me to the whipping post. Mrs. G had the audacity to believe that I could become a productive citizen if I received a sound education. Okay, she was wrong about me, but she educated and inspired hundreds of other worthwhile citizens. I’ll tell you one thing, if that butt head in Wisconsin wins, so do the Chinese. Those folks are smart enough to place a higher value on teachers, than on producing NBA superstars. Except for Yao Ming, of course. He’s beloved by overpaid Chinese school teachers.

As we speak, my Camp Moosemaple bird feeder’s overwhelmed by an assortment of redpolls, chickadees, juncos, titmice, nuthatches and one hairy woodpecker. There could be some house and/or purple finches mixed in with the redpolls, but I’ll have to leave that distinction to neighbor Gary Lee, seen one finch, you’ve seen ’em all. All these voracious birds are driving me nuts because feeding them nonstop is slicing deep into my monthly Express beer stipend. But, Deb and the two cats heart watching them (now I can’t help myself, Leslie), so they serve some useful purpose.  I’ll bet if these slothful vagabonds wintered in Wisconsin, Governor Snotty would be giving them their walking papers, like yesterday.

I’m nuts over fresh eggs. Deb and I travelled down to Thendara one morning for coffee and brownies with Mart and Nancy Allen. We were treated to two dozen fresh, brown chicken eggs, right outta the coop.  Mart’s grandson, Forrest, kept the succulent, coq au vins at bay, while we pilfered their delicious end products. Actually, the cluckers were busy pecking at our snowy boots, as we robbed the collection box. Pretty nutty if you ask me. I may be nuts, but how do those extra large ovoids exit a chicken without breaking. Maybe, Caesarean section? While we were visiting, Mart’s son-in-law, Jim, stopped by. He was heading out with his beagle to annihilate the local varying hare population. From the sounds of it, Jim was closing in on the Red Baron’s record of 80 kills for the season.  That’s an ace 16 times over in my book. How come none of our avant garde local restaurants feature rabbit/hare on their menus?  Yum, fresh eggs and bunnies.

Deb and I both went nuts when we joined Inlet pal, Mike Wilson, for a snowshoe. He’d invested in LL Bean Trailblazer Step-In Snowshoes and we were impressed when we saw them in action. When we met at the trailhead, Mike jumped outta his Jeep and into his snowshoes. Mike and his sexy trail companion, Brooke, then waited patiently for ten minutes, while Deb and I grunted and groaned, tugging and tightening our neoprene bindings. I was pooped before we hit the trail. After we completed our exhilarating slog, downed a Larry Burger and returned to camp, I was on the phone to Freeport, Maine, ordering the step-in snowshoes. They aren’t cheap, but we aren’t getting any younger either. Nut jobs have notoriously short lifespans.  

I really felt like a nut when Deb and I followed Inlet Postmaster Mary Lamphear’s advice and tried our new step-in snowshoes on a round trip of Sagamore Lake. Mary, a Zumba dance exercise instructor, promised, “It’s a piece of cake; a nice little stretch of the legs. I do it once a week, backwards.” Okay, how about Paris Island obstacle course, Boston Marathon, Ironman Triathlon, 90-Miler and the Iditarod all in one. Who do we look like? Sherry Grimm. If I never wanted to show my face again in the Inlet Post Office or the Tap Room in Raquette Lake, we’d still be out there waiting for CASART to rescue us. But once we started, we knew there was no turning back. Shame is a powerful motivator.   

Fortunately, there were fellow trekkers on the trail. We leapfrogged along the way with Raquette Lakers, Ken, Wendy, and their three sled dogs, Larry, Curly, and Moe. Every time Deb and I stopped for a snack, which was incessantly, the dogs would catch up hoping for a handout. Fat chance, Scraps. Not long after they passed by, we’d catch up again while Wendy was tending to her Purple Heart size heel blister. Deb and I maintained a “piece of cake facade” each time we passed.  Once outta sight, we’d begin moaning and whimpering again. Three hours later, we staggered back to our vehicle, mostly dead.  At least I had the good sense to stash several medicinal libations in the cooler. I’m not that nutty, yet. (Note-We’re planning to step-in snowshoe Mt. Marcy.  But, that’s another lie.  See ya.)