The Sportsman's Journal

2008

forward to year below

2009  |   2007   |   2004   |   Sportsman's Index Page 

2/9/2008

TWO SPORTSMEN GO FOR PORK
The two sportsmen are at it once again.

A project this week at DFG was to catch wild turkeys on the ol' Fryer ranch and outfit them with small turkey transmitters for study of turkey habits by turkey technicians. Itchy's and cohort, Phil assembled an elaborate falling net arrangement at the selected site up in Foley Valley. By description, it sounded to be much like the monkey trap fashioned by Red Buttons in the 60's John Wayne classic "Hatari!" With overhead net in place, corn bait under, and Phil in the blind with release switch at the ready, all was ready for the unexpecting birds. But who could have foreseen the plan to be foiled by a wild boar attracted to the corn! Not only did the swine disrupt the turkey trapping, but he would not abate when ordered to 'shoo' by an officer of DFG. This occurred not once, but on two separate days. Something must be done!

The tall sportsman contacted the stout sportsman and a plan was hatched to hunt down and dispatch this unruly porker. So this morning, at a 'comfortable hour', the hunters began at the bottom of Foley. At the second creek crossing, puma track were found... and fresh enough to see the creases in it's pads. On up the valley, a number of deer were spotted and a flush of poaching desire was raised in the stout one. However, the tall sportsman kept tight reign on the situation and the deer departed to safety. Now fresh pig tracks were spotted and the anticipation grew as our hunters neared the turkey trapping area. No swine to be seen... but lots of fresh tracks. The sportsmen continued following the spore up the valley, which became narrower and steeper. As the valley gave way to the ravine, the spore also vanished. The sportsmen elected to return down the valley in anticipation of hog encounters... which proved fruitless. Returning to the lorry at 3:15, the sportsmen did not cry defeat, but rather, what a marvelous adventure had happened on a warm winter day, and that Mr. Pig was still out there and there would be another day.

2/18/2008

SPORTSMEN PERSERVERANCE
Perseverance and eternal optimism are the key notes of our true sportsmen. Once again we find the tall and the stout sportsman, and this time, joined by the elder sportsman, in pursuit of the unruly boar of Foley canyon. With the elder sportsman joining the quest, the lads devised a strategy to outsmart the sly swine. As wild hogs tend to head down slope when startled, the plan was to send the stout sportsman up the heavily brushed and tick infested north ridge, while the tall sportsman enjoyed a leisurely hike along the open grass covered south ridge, and the elder sportsman delighted in a joyous saunter up the valley, along the brook, amongst the wild flowers, and with the greatest opportunity to dispatch the pig.

At the agreed upon lunch stop mid valley, the stout sportsman removed parasites and doctored his wounds, complaining not of his arduous trek. The elder sportsman fained exhaustion and embellished the tale of his ordeal up the meadow. The tall one arrived late... having taken a nap on the sunny southern slope. Not a pig had been sighted.

After the mid day meal, our three lads continued the pursuit. As no fresh spore had been discovered, a new tact was discussed and the sportsmen ventured off in a new direction with the intent of exploration for the upcoming deer hunting season. Up and over the high ridge the trio climbed... the stout sportsman, with the swollen and painful toe, did not complain and did his upmost to keep up. The wilderness trek of approximately ten miles was completed by mid afternoon with the sportsmen returning to the lorry for refreshments and dissertations on the lack of game spotted.

It should fall to record that all of the sportsmen were hunting with ancient, iron sighted, firearms of a bygone era. This distain for high tech modern weaponry indicated the moral distinction of these three true sportsmen. Hazzah!

3/7/2008

A SPORTSMAN'S WAKE UP CALL

Fellow Sportsmen,

This morning at six, I was awakened by the dog barking and Pam saying, "that sounds like turkeys". After procuring a cup of coffee and my " Lynch's World Champion Turkey Call", I cautiously made my way to the 103 degree hunting blind (aka hot tub). Yes, the vineyard was alive with plump gobblers and juicy hens! As I engaged in conversation, they became more apparent in the growing light... some flying out of trees along the creek, others strolling through the rows of vines. One bold tom was putting on the Ritz for a hen in the middle of Starr Road! When the septic pump truck came by they flew back into the vineyard. Some crossed and went down stream to other turks that were gobbling to the south. Three fine toms and a hen remained in the vineyard for some time. The stout sportsman was hot and wrinkled when he emerged from his 103 degree blind an hour later.

Needless to say, turkey decoys have now been ordered as the season opener is but 3 weeks away!

4/4/2008

AS SEEN ON TV - THE SPORTSMAN'S ADVENTURES... TURKEYS!

Fellow followers of the Sportsmen's editions,

"As seen on TV"... So some of you have seen the turkey hunting shows on the Outdoor Channel, right! Well, by God it does happen that way... sometimes.

At 4 AM this morning, the Stout Sportsman, joined this time by the "New Sportsman", left Windsor to hunt spring turkeys on the 20,000 acre DFG parcel formerly known as the Fryer (aka Elder Sportsman) Ranch just north of Lake Berryessa. Let me introduce the New Sportsman. He is 56 (and Irish). He had never hunted in his life and murderous intent for 56 years had been confined to fish, snakes and frogs. This fall he took the required hunter's safety class with a room full of 12 year olds. He bought his very first hunting license. He bought a shotgun and a box of shells. He wanted to try hunting. He has not given in to the dark side of poaching. Yet.

We arrived at the lower end of Zim Zim Valley on the ranch at 5:38, well before daybreak. With a nip in the air ( frost mind you... not a racial slur) the hunters plodded off with thoughts of grandeur to the approaching day. Half a mile up the valley a tom turkey gobbles from it's tree roost. The intrepid sportsmen pushed on, past the sound, then headed up the canyon just beyond the sound of meat. Escalating the canyon, the sportsmen spied two fat birds high up in a digger pine along the ridge by the light of the coming dawn. Hot Damn! The trek continued to the crest of the ridge behind the birds. At this point the focused sportsmen came down the ridge above the turks and set up the two decoys, fabricated a blind with old parachute material and began calling, ever so softly to the birds below. It worked! A little after 7, the fan of a tom's tail was spotted ascending the ridge to investigate the visible decoys... one a sexy hen, the other a non deserving Jake ( aka adolescent male). As he approached, he challenged the Jake decoy for the favors of the hen decoy. In the ensuing battle, the turkey beat out the Jake decoy with his spur and wing beat. After that, he "victory danced" the hen decoy. After that he was shot by the new sportsman.

After the "whoop-whoop dance" that successful hunters often do, the two sportsmen settled back into their blind to see what would happen next. A little before 9, a large group of turkeys was spotted crossing the valley floor over a quarter mile away. While the sportsmen observed and called, another, closer turkey gobbled back. Soon the sportsmen were in crouched position watching the tail fan of another approaching tom. This bird, older and wiser, approached the decoys. at ten feet, he seemed to detect that something was amiss. Backing up two steps he raised his pink and blue head to the stout sportsman, who dispatched him forthwith. Two sportsmen, two fine birds, 9AM. As good as it gets.

The two sportsmen, toting 20 pound turks each back to the lorry, regaled in the splendor of the spring morning. After sandwiches and beer at 10 AM they continued up the Knoxville Road to find the Tall Sportsman in DFG regalia tending to the needs of wildlife habitat. Stories were exchanged and company parted for the drive home. This was truly a memorable hunt.

ETC:
No, the birds we bagged were wild. The New Sportsman had bought a box of shells. After downing his turk, I examined his choice of ammo... Low base 7
1/2 trap loads. Hmmmm... Well he did get it. I do believe Clarence was taking part in our adventure. The one I shot with 3" mag. #4's fell over and then, bleeding profusely from the head and face, charged me! Rather than damaging meat with a second shot, I grabbed him by the neck and the battle ensued. The photo I sent of me "holding" the bird up by the neck is that battle in progress. He is trying to spur me in the balls as I try to strangle him. After the photo, the New Sportsman relieved me of the shotgun so that I could pursue proper hand to wing combat. I drove the feathered dinosaur to the ground and drove my pocket knife deep into the top of his skull. Thinking him finished at last I stood up. So did he, and he proceeded to depart with my pocket knife embedded in his pate! Que lastima! Another tackle. This time the knife was used not on his tiny brain but the windpipe and jugular. Feeling somewhat like a Mexican TV wrestler (with camo mask), I abated the full body press and saw that both he and I were covered in blood.
He finally stopped. I'm getting too old for this... well maybe.

This turkey hunting is almost better than deer hunting. I really do hope you retire to this part of the country. The ol' ranch is the Disneyland of true Sportsmen like us... Hard work yields great payoffs. This year the place is dripping with turkeys. The New Sportsman, the Stout Sportsman and hopefully, the Tall Sportsman will renew the turkey assault next week.

4/9/2008

SPORTSMAN'S LOG - TURKEYS AGAIN!

Once again, the Stout and the New Sportsman were up at 3:30 AM to stalk the wily turkeys of Zim Zim Valley. Arriving at the appointed embarkation point at 5:30, our spirited lads hiked up the valley in the frosty and moonless dark. At the same area where they first encountered gobbles the previous week, the calls were heard once more. Déjà? Up the side canyon they trekked until the birds were located and decoys set. Then the wait. Enticing yelps from the "Lynch's World Champion Turkey Call" were answered from two hundred yards away. As darkness faded to light, turks could be seen emerging from the oak studded far hillside. Slowly they proceeded across the slope, always to answer the calls of our 'lonely hen' ready for love, but not ready to commit to the engagement. After several hours, the Sportsmen realized the immediate conquest of the previous week was not to be repeated. Tactics and strategies discussed, the Sportsmen disassembled the blind, uprooted the decoys and moved on to Plan B.

Plan B was to set up on the edge of the valley floor in the general direction the flock was headed. This seemed a fine plan as the new blind was in the path of the rising sun. In the blind, resting against the trunk of an ancient oak, the Stout Sportsman would occasionally yelp with his call. The calls were answered by birds form afar...and this was good. Passive hunting best describes it as eyes would occasionally shut and a short burst of snores would erupt.

But rest would be forsaken by the New Sportsman's introduction of Plan C. Now, he had determined that the bird's responses seemed more distant than before and that the Sportsman should leave the comforts of the present blind and scale the wall of the valley to locate the flock. The Stout one agreed to the strategy and off they went. Half way up the slope, gobbles were encountered at a quite closer range. While the New Sportsman glassed the up-slope hill, the Stout Sportsman, struggling with his sore and swollen toe, worked his way into position with aid of a walking staff. As the Stout One carefully crested a small plateau, A tom turkey lifted skywards not 15 yards away! Not expecting birds in close, the Stout Sportsman, with shotgun slung over shoulder, watched slack-jawed as the magnificent opportunity winged to safety on the far hillside. After landing, it glided on foot effortlessly up the near vertical embankment, the sun radiated off it's copper coloured feathers giving it the appearance of an Aztec God with a very ugly head. Que lastima!

Returning to the Plan B encampment, the Sportsmen gathered up the equipment and proceeded up the valley with occasional calls to attempt to locate fowl. However, the hillside pursuit had so damaged the foot of the Stout Sportsman, that within a mile they decided to return to the lorry and call it a day. Once again the lunch of sandwiches, beer and Cheetos prepared by P.O.P. were greatly appreciated at streamside ( footnote: in Hemmingway's "The Green Hills of Africa", his wife, Mary was always denoted as P.O.M. for 'poor ol' Mary'... substitute Pam).

Twenty four days remain in the spring season and we shall persevere. Turkey on the BBQ this Friday.

4/18/2008

A SPORTSMAN'S HOMEWORK

Fellow Sportsmen,

Thursday evening finds the Stout Sportsman tending to his vineyard. A small dark cloud follows him as he was unable to hunt turkeys this week. Suddenly, from far off down the creek he hears the unmistakable sound of the gobble! Judging the approximate location of the bird, and assuming the bird is already in it's roost for the night, our lad strategizes.

As the roost tree is on private property and knowing this would constitute poaching, the Stout Sportsman does not shrink from the possibility of a close to home hunt! No, he also invites the New Sportsman to step over to the dark side with him. Friday morning at 5:30 our two lads set out in the cloaked of darkness, clad in surplus German military camo jackets. Across the road, over the fence and through the cow pasture startling the drowsy beasts into a bellowing stampede.

The large oak trees at the far end of the pasture was the Stout one's approximation of the fowl's roost. Hunkering down along the stream, our boys waited for the coming dawn, occasionally sending soft yelps from the "Lynch's World Champion Turkey Call". As the blackness yields to light, the calls are abruptly answered from above! The hunters are practically under the gobbler's roost tree! Que Lastima! Calling back and forth continues at a nerve jarring pace, but our lads cannot make visual contact. Plus, there was no time to set out the decoys. The boys hug the ground and do not move, except for the calling. With a mighty lunge, The flying dinosaur glides like a winged garbage truck to the pasture below. His landing is 40 yards from our hunters... maximum shotgun range for such a massive bird. One more call to see if the turkey can be enticed to come closer... the gobbler turns away toward the open range. Now or never ... on the count of one, two thr...BOOM!The Stout Sportsman unleashes the hell of magnum #2's. The New Sportsman is at the ready should the first discharge fail. Mr. Gobbler crumples to the ground. The time is 6:15. Bird collected, the sportsmen skedaddle after a brief "whoop-whoop" dance. A five minute walk home to a hot cup of coffee... does it get much better?

Later in the morning as the Stout one plucks his prize (only two pellet strikes; one broke his neck...thanks Clarence), his eye is drawn to the six deer feeding in the horse pasture beyond the vineyard. Thoughts of A-Zone season just around the corner... more homework.

4/23/2008

A SPORTSMAN'S PERSERVERANCE...

Hey, do you remember the name of that old Eagles song...what was it...

Dawn's early light once again found the Stout and the New Sportsman trekking the dark cold path up Zim-Zim Valley. It had rained that night and the anticipation of 'turkeys in the mist' was present in the foggy, semi-light. Up the valley, past the old land marks, our two hunters pressed forth. On and on they went, calling and listening... no replies. A couple of hens, down for the morning drink at the stream; now zig-zaging their way back up the ridge. No gobbles are to be heard. Walking and calling, our lads press on. At the upper end of the valley, the boys make one last pleading call... and it is answered from behind. After locating the distant fowl, decoys are set and calling begins. Some time later two toms are spotted 400 meters off. After heated calling, the toms lose interest and disperse like two old men, no longer on the hunt for 'the girls', instead heading off for the golf course....hmmm. Our hunters reposition and call again, but to no avail. The turks are later routed off of their 'golf course', and scurry up the hill far ahead of the Sportsmen.

Down-trodden, wet and tired, our lads head back down the valley in a light rain...stopping occasionally to call and listen. Half way back, a tom is spotted along the creek at 100 meters and walking away. Our boys have not been seen! Now, scuttling like beetles across the desert sand, the Sportsmen shorten the distance to the fowl. The Stout one ascends small ridge and sees two turks working their way downstream at 50 meters. As he breaches the ridge, another fine tom is below him at 35 meters! Eye contact is made between predator and prey! Que lastima! No time now. The Stout Sportsman shoots, and shoots and shoots again... The turk falls, flopping in the creek! The New Sportsman discharges a volley at the other retreating birds. Up the escarpment the birds ascend, followed at distance by our lads. The New Sportsman gets a parting shot, but to no avail.

The bagged bird was sporting a "Wild Turkey Federation" transmitter for studies of turkey behavior. This was returned to the DFG officials along with two other transmitters that were found. They were off of birds also in the study. Unfortunately, the hunters who bagged those birds did not have the moral fiber to return them.

Oh, yes, that old Eagles song... "Take it to the LIMIT... One More Time"... this being the third and final bird of a three bird limit for the Stout Sportsman. Thank you very much... you too Clarence. Another hunt this season?... why, that would be poaching, right?

5/12/2008

SNOW SPORTSMAN

Stone Sportsman,

Well, we did miss your smiling face this weekend for the grand " 2008 Lodge on Willow Creek" opening. The Tall one arrived first and had the deck shoveled off by the time the Stout one arrived and the Elder arrived at half past... Dinner was the Stout one's rendition of home made pork and beans. It was received with thunderous applause... all night. Saturday morn, all chores were quickly attended to such that the sportsmen could practice marksmanship skills. And practice they did... and did... and did. The Tall one found a kindred spirit in his new deer rifle and became a decent shot in no time... with some set backs from his "Jack Benny" scope. This matter may be rectified if he can once again pry open the rusted hinges of his purse to up grade! The Elder had so many rifles to shoot from recent acquisitions at the land of green felt tables. Que Lastima! The new Steyr .308 proved magnificent. The Browning A-Bolt .284 was also proficient. A Swedish military automatic, who's name I cannot pronounce, was troublesome and nearly repeated the operator destroying techniques of his Egyptian rifle of two years ago. The Tall and the Stout sought refuge behind the lorry. Several ancient .22's were also exhibited to varying degrees of success.

Dinner at the Lodge Saturday was the Tall one's rendition of mallard on the barby and it was magnificent! All retired that evening well oiled. More squirrel shooting and target shooting on Sunday before departure. Good time had by all. Anticipations running high for the upcoming deer season. BRUCE, GET YOUR C-ZONE TAG NOW!!!

6/28/2008

SPORTSMEN AT THE LAKE

Last summer the Stout Sportsman and the Elder Sportsman engaged in a new realm of fly fishing at Lake Almanor... the fabled 'Hex Hatch'. This is a time around the summer solstice when the Hex, a bright yellow mayfly, the size of a V.W., comes to life by the thousands on the surface of the lake. The bug's life cycle changes from a primordial worm in the lake's muddy bottom, to a grub striving for atmospheric conditions. When reaching the lake's surface after sundown, the grub splits it's suit, emerges as a winged dinosaur and takes flight! The fish know this. The birds know this. The bats know this. Even fishermen know this.

Assault on the fish population of Lake Almanor had been strategized for some time. The Elder Sportsman, who had embarrassed the civilized world the previous year by attempting to fish from a float tube, had purchased a fishing kayak in a vomit green color picked out by his wife, Patty. The Stout Sportsman was well appointed in his tan kayak complete with red and green running lights and bourbon flask. The Tall Sportsman donned the float tube and did appear as a large domestic duck entering the water for the first time. There were other sportsmen involved. Keith, son-in-law of the Stout, and his friend Kyle, embarked the adventure in a canoe ( note that these sportsmen of the future have, as yet, not been Knighted into the Sportsmen's inner sanctum... names pending approval and resolution). The canoe proved a disastrous choice as fly-casting by two anglers, at night, sets up harmonic rhythems that can capsize even larger craft.

Sportsmen in place, sun sets, bugs emerge, and all hell breaks loose! Ever fish in the lake is present and slurp bugs as fast as possible. Ospreys fall from the skys with talons stretched forward to the fish. Bats descend upon the hapless insects. Fishermen beat the water with their hex imitations hoping to land fish... not bat nor osprey. Ahh, the delicious exaltations of the hunt! Bellows of delight and 'awshits' of defeat. The hatch is over all too soon and sportsmen head to shore. Three fine trout and a smallmouth bass of record-class proportions. Bravo!

Emboldened by their success, the sportsmen head back the following night. The younger sportsmen replace the canoe with the "Lizard," a shop-worn old green rowboat previously owned by fabled fisherman, Bill Greentree. The hex bugs were less in numbers this night and fishing activity slackened. At night's end Keith was the winner with a fine 19 inch rainbow.

9/10/2008

SPORTSMEN IN ZIM-ZIM ONCE MORE...

The Stout Sportsman and the New Sportsman executed an early morning assault on the Valley Zim-Zim today. The valley was theirs alone as hunting pressure is waning as the season winds down. The tact was to split up and parallel the valley at mid elevation until 10-10:30 then return at a higher elevation and meet at the lorry at noon for sandwiches and beer. The New took the west and the Stout hunted the east. At half past 8, the New caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Slowly turning he sees a fine fat forked horn, broadside at 30 yards. Buck fever, in a catastrophic dose, overtook the New Sportsman a nano second prior to his shot. Spasmodically, his shot went high! Que lastima! The plump buck weighed his options of the three trails in front of him, chose one and walked up the hill through the chemise. Levering another round into his rifle, the New, now chattering like an electric typewriter, waited. The delicious forky reappeared at 50 yards, broadside and halted forward movement. The New Sportsman fired again! This shot went under! Que lastima uno mas tiempo! The magnificent buck, who could endure no more embarrassment, hung his head and wandered off into the brush.

Now, we all (or most of us) have been there... glory lost by nerves shattered... hard and steady, instantly replaced by loose and runny!... From Russell Crowe to Jerry Lewis in the blink of an eye! Few things can un-man you faster than a close encounter with one's quarry. The easiest often is the most difficult. On the brighter side, this episode has locked the New Sportsman into the clutches of deer-mania for many years to come.

A few other deer were encountered during the hunt. However, many turkeys were seen... probably 50 or so on the DFG land. On his trek, the New Sportsman found the bleached-bone carcass of an expired turkey still sporting a Wild Turkey Federation transmitter. This will be returned to the DFG via the Tall Sportsman.

10/7/2008

WILDLIFE UPDATE

Strong scent of the skunk outside a few minutes ago. Head lamp and Mr. Snappy in hand, I venture forth. No skunk, but a one eyed 'possum! He retreats into the open door of the water tank house. Fearing a ricochet might rupture the 2300 gallon tank, I let him off the hook. Reporting the incident to Pam, she directs me back into the darkness to kill the 'possum. Pam hates 'possums. The headlamp reveals the horrid animal! Bang once... bang twice... he is slain! Tomorrow the buzzards (ladies in black) shall dine and I will have to clean the rifle once again. Damn exciting over in these parts.

10/15/2008

THE NEW SPORTSMAN FINALLY...

...bags his first buck!

Yes siree, by God! It has been quite a year of hunting for the New Sportsman. On his first ever hunt of any kind, he bagged a fine tom turkey (using size 7 1/2 target loads). On his first deer hunt ever, the lad encountered a good sized buck but declined to shoot for he lacked the experience to know that he had but one chance to score, even if it was not the perfect shot. Later in the season, he had the perfect shot at yet another stag, but this time, ol' "buck fever" took control of his ability to aim, and he missed AT A MERE THIRTY YARDS, and then again at sixty yards. Disgusted, the deer walked away. With resolve, the New Sportsman hunted on to the end of the 'regular season'.

However, yesterday morning, fate with antlers came his way once more. Switching from his trusty Winchester 30-30 to his Ford Explorer, the New Sportsman scored a center-punch grill shot on a fine, fat spike while on his way to work (the New was on his way to work, not the deer)! Que lastima! The trophy was sent spinning unceremoniously down 100 yards of two lane black top. After removing the deceased animal from the centerline to the shoulder of the road, inexperience once again reared it's ugly head. Confronted by other drivers who stopped to gawk at the mishap, our lad unfortunately chose to follow the letter of the law and left A GOOD FIFTY POUNDS OF DELICIOUS MEAT, there by the side of the road. Crocodile mentality and sea gull virtues have as yet, not been firmly instilled in his judgment making process.

The New Sportsman can, for some time to come, relive the excitement of the hunt by gazing upon his shattered grill with the tiny tuft of deer hair stuck in a crack and ponder the true meaning of 'wonton waste of game'.

12/23/2008

IT'S BEGINNING TO SMELL ALLOT LIKE CHRISTMAS...

So, last night late (1AM) Robin and Keith arrive home for the holidays from Fresno. Robin had finished her last final of her senior year the previous Thursday. Now, when you send your kid to an ag. school, you should watch what you say in jest.

Anyway, I got up late this morning and went out of our room and down the hall. As soon as I opened our door I smelled poop... fresh poop. I started checking the floors in every room, quietly cursing Robin's little dog, Ozzy, as the probable pooper. Upon entering the living room, I am confronted by a crate with a 40 pound pig. Pig grunts... yeah, he's real." Merry Christmas Dad!!" Now, to be blind-sided by a gift of live pork in the AM, in the living room, before coffee, is a jaw-slacking experience. Dumb-founded, I begged for coffee but was told I had to immediately open other gifts right then! One was a pig feeder. One was a pig waterer. one was a book on raising pigs. Coffee...pleeeeeease! With things now coming into focus, I realized that this was pretty cool. Apparently a few weeks ago, Robin had called Pam to ask what to get me. As it was evening time and I was watching the news with a hi-ball in hand, the question of, "what do you want for Christmas?" was responded with, "heck, I don't need anything... maybe a pig or some chickens, uck, uck, uck...". Be careful what you say. Uck, uck, uck...

So, as I was going through the logistical, 'what, where, and whens' in my pea brain, Pam and Robin had it all figured out. The pig would reside in our horse trailer for up to two weeks while I prepared more suitable accommodations. So, it's off to the feed store for bedding straw and 'pig chow'. Mr. Pig is now living in the lap of swine luxury!

Let me get this straight... this is not a pet! This is pork production! With all due diligence, this will be 250 pounds of muscle-pumping pork on, or around the first of April... at which time, he will follow true to his name...C.W. (aka "Cut 'n Wrap" or "Christmas Wish"... depending on who you are talking to and their dispositions on the realities of the world around us).