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Tip o' the Day

The retired forest ranger told of his experiences taking a group of boys out to work as volunteers on trail projects. "There's nothing wrong with today's kids," the man said. "They're just as good as kids ever were. Our problem is we've emplaced a system that won't let them work."

He's right. It's easy to recall how naysayers of my youth claimed kids of that day weren't worth the powder to blow 'em to hell. Isn't it ironic those same kids who were so reviled in my youth are (now that they are grandparents) so critical of kids today?

Like the retired ranger, I believe in today's kids. I believe most of them want to work; want to do a good job; want to be respected (and praised) for their performance. Their problem--what my contemporaries believe mirrors laziness and an unwillingness to work--is the same problem of youth of any age: they have trouble seeing work that needs to be done.

I hired young guides back in the days when I led guests to adventure in some of the ruggedest lands in all the northern Rockies. Without exception, those guides came to my outftt with a willingness to work and a driving desire to please. What they lacked was experience. How could they they possibly understand the importance of adjusting an off-kilter pack before it rubbed a sore on the horse's back without first soring a horse? How could they know to mantie everything possible the night before pulling out for hunting camp without experiencing the time gain on the following morning?

They couldn't unless they were told. Then they still had to be shown how to accomplish it. But Lord did they know how to work! They worked from daylight to dark, day in and day out. They worked for little money and few material rewards. They worked for the sheer joy of "being" part of adventure, "because" of a zest for the outdoors, and "for" a love of wildlife.

The second half of the old ranger's critique constitutes a definite problem: that we've emplaced a system keeping kids from doing the kinds of quality work they'd like to achieve. Three "ell" words preventing them are laws, liability, and litigation.

I once read a truth I believe to be especially appropriate for this thesis. I don't know its source and my delivery may lack polish, but here it is: "Generation after generation, the very young do the impossible because no one bothered to tell them it is impossible."

That's my final word on the youth of today, except for this: There are three requirements for top performance for all people: 1) work at something you want to do. 2) be praised occasionally for a job well done; 3) receive a living wage.

If you are an employer and wish to receive top performance from your workers, pays special attention to 2) and 3).

THE LONELIEST SOUND IN THE WORLD

It's my notion that the loneliest sound in all the world is the honking of a single goose flying in a fog. True, there's inspiration to be gleaned from the noisy gabbling of a high-flying, continent-spanning flock of Canadas winging their way on a blue-sky day. True, their honking sounds canned even though there's little rhythm to it--like a gaggle of excited schoolkids spilling from their bus at the beginning of summer vacation.

But separate a single goose from that flock and his lonely honking, though technically identical to those of individuals within the flock, takes on a mournful note not achieved by any other bird or mammal. Even the hollow mockery of a loon sounds positively upbeat alongside that of a single honker flying in a fog. The loon's crazed cackle, you see, ends in a statement, while the honking of a lone goose must be construed as ending in no other way than as a question; a question seemingly growing more frantic and frightened with each passing moment.

Other wildlife calls predicated to chill, inspire, or at least give one pause, is that of coyotes, wolves, mountain lions, and rutting bull elk.

The yipping of coyotes has been described as "querulous"--a description that has, I think, a modicum of merit. Sometimes. Even the brawniest dog coyote seems unsure of himself around bigger, uglier, or more savage animals. Sometimes, though, especially when they're yipping as part of a coyote choir, they come off as a mammalian rendition of a fiddlers jamboree. Whatever. But this I know: I've never been out in the big lonesome with another person who didn't pause to listen and think and feel when a far-off coyote besgins tuning up for choir practice.

Neither has there ever been a hunter whose adrenaline failed to gush when the ringing challenge from a rutting elk floated up from a distant basin. Still, the bull's is a challenge not even remotely akin to loneliness. He's telling the world that his harem is nearby and he's proud and his chest is filled with brute power, and by God nobody nor no thing better get in his way! Or he's telling the world that he's alone, lonely, and on the peck, pining because he has no harem and he's in the mood to take one away from any other bull who has one and thinks he's cock of the walk, and by all that's holy nobody better get in his way!

Wild sounds? What of the long drawn-out howls of a traveling wolf pack? I'm no expert on the big canine, but it seems to me the wolf is also making a statement; telling everything and everybody he's out there and that he intends to stay. He's admitting he might not be the biggest or toughest or meanest, but he's there! And collectively, if more than one, they're ending their statement by telling the world that given an even chance, they'll fear nothing and no one . . . ever!

That leaves the chilling cry of a mountain lion. Whatever his reason, no one experiencing that scream has ever described it as "lonesome." My one and only experience caused me to sit bolt upright in my sleeping bag in the midle of one of the blackest wilderness nights I've ever chanced to be chilled to the bone in. Lonely? You bet--I was darned lonely, even though there were four other sleeping bag slumberers nearby, two of which also sat bolt upright. (Incidentally, the two dogs we had with us--a hound and a Weimeraner--scurried into our shelter and tried to burrow beneath my bag.)

There are other wierd, possibly lonesome sounds sometimes heard in the big lonesome: the hooting of a great horned owl is one; so is the hollow knocking of a pileated woodpecker beating high up on a dead snag tree. But both these birds dote on being alone and only inexperienced neophytes would describe them as mournful.

Nope, it's the lone goose honking for his mates that's most heart-wrenching of all. It makes you want to light a lantern and set it in a meadow so the big bird could at least find a landing spot in which to rest before continuing on his lonesome way.

Roland Cheek wrote a syndicated outdoors column (Wild Trails and Tall Tales) for 21 years. The column was carried in 17 daily and weekly newspapers in two states. In addition, he scripted and broadcast a daily radio show (Trails to Outdoor Adventure) that aired on 75 stations from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean. He's also written upwards of 200 magazine articles and 12 fiction and nonfiction books. For more on Roland, visit:

www.rolandcheek.com

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