The End of an Era

Recent headlines that Bass Pro Shop purchased Cabela’s empire for 5.5 billion dollars triggered lively conversations at our house. Like many folks, we’re wondering how our outdoor shopping habits will change. We frequently visited relatives in Sidney, so we had a front row seat to watch this corporation expand out of a red brick warehouse to its current multi-store empire during forty years of marriage. Over those years, I’ve written several columns about family adventures at this American landmark. Recalling our affection for Cabela’s led to memories about its predecessor—Herter’s.

Coincidentally, I happened to pick up a boxed 903 Herter’s deer call at a garage sale this weekend. When I handed it to my husband, he immediately recalled glorious hours he spent pouring through old catalogues to make his childhood hunting, fishing, and trapping wish lists. Watching him share these happy reminiscences gave me a peek at a boy filled with dreams of Daniel Boone-style adventures. I’m guessing this current generation of outdoor enthusiasts feels the same when they flip through Cabela’s catalogues.

As soon as we started talking about old Herter’s mailings, my husband could tell me exactly which ones he saved. He could also detail accounts of his orders of fishing lures and hooks as well as his hunting and trapping supplies that included decoys, traps, and a special knife. For a youngster who grew up a few hundred yards from the Kansas River in the Flint Hills, Herter’s offered the very best Canadian Guide-tested materials to guarantee success in the field and on the water.

 Hearing him recite this litany reminded me of distant days when delayed gratification ruled young lives. I heard disappointment in his voice as he recounted the high school canoe trip that took him and friends to Waseca, Minnesota—home of Herter’s actual store. Unfortunately, the travelers arrived after business closed and left before it opened.

Like many fellows who grew up during the 60s and 70s, he didn’t have much money, so he hauled bales, pulled weeds, and performed other farm chores until he fill out that order blank and attach a cashier’s check. From our earliest dates, I heard from relatives and friends about how hard my husband worked to reach his goals. When he bought my engagement and wedding ring, Herter’s missed his order until he replenished that account. However, until they closed, he relished reading and rereading each page of their seasonal mailing and planning the next year’s list

Like many friends, we began marriage with little more than a few hand-me-downs and a supply of old catalogues, traps, decoys, and fishing supplies bought throughout the years. Before we got on our feet, Herter’s went bankrupt and closed. Since then, we’ve diligently scouted auctions and garage sales to find remnants of George H’s outdoor empire. We’ve collected boxed deer, crow, duck, and quail calls along with the famed Bull Cook book sent as a Christmas gift from my brother. He shares my husband’s love of pouring through those old catalogues and finding memorabilia in dusty corners of second hand stores and garages.

The business deal between Bass Pro and Cabela’s makes me wonder if a new generation of outdoor enthusiasts will stash catalogues and treasure purchases carrying Cabela’s logo the way we saved our beloved Herter’s ephemera. It’s the end of an era. Who knows what will take its place?

Barbed Wire and Torn Jeans Go Together Like Peanut Butter and Jelly

Some people like to buy jeans with holes already in the fabric. I, however, prefer my new britches with only traditional waist and leg openings. Unfortunately, because I’m not good at crossing barbwire fences, I’ve ripped some fashionable extra tears in my denims.

 One pair had a rent in the upper inseam that I was able to mend well enough to wear them in public. The other I managed to catch by the seater, and no matter how tiny my stitches were, I couldn’t piece that “L”shaped rip together without a visible patch. Regardless of how many young folks buy jeans with intentional rips, it just isn’t cool to be in public only to realize your needlecraft failed, leaving your undies on display.

Despite initial appearances, this article isn’t really about torn jeans. They’re simply a result of ineffective efforts to get from one side of barbed wire to the other. People who’ve lived long in this country know fence crossing is an art. It isn’t something you wake up one morning to discover is your area of expertise. If author Malcolm Gladwell is correct, you’d need to climb over about 9,999 such enclosures before you were an expert. While I’m not sure that number is necessary, I know it takes practice to perform this feat without damaging fence, flesh, or pants.

Before you think about your own well-being or that of your clothing when crossing these barriers, you have to be sure the fence doesn’t get messed up when you either lift a leg over or stretch the top and middle wires wide enough to allow an  adult to squeeze through. Fixing fence is no fun, so you don’t want to set yourself up for stapling line back on posts or having to splice it. If you’re responsible, you aren’t going to mess up a landowner’s hard work and then not repair it.

Once you’ve made sure you aren’t damaging that wire barricade, you need to decide whether you have long enough legs  or  superhuman leaping power to get yourself over the obstacle without jabbing yourself in some tender parts. It’s difficult to maintain composure among a group of friends and hunting buddies when you’ve hung your inner thigh up on a metal projectile. It’s more challenging to act like everything is fine with your nether regions attached to that fence, and you can’t find a place to grab the torturous cable without catching hand flesh and ripping it as well.

If you can’t make it over the obstacle, you need to squeeze your hunting-gear-encased torso between taut lines and then drag your legs through one at a time. For folks who don’t practice yoga regularly, this is difficult. You’re also depending on a fallible human to spread those lines wide. Sometimes the responsible party gets distracted. All the apologies in the world don’t make it feel better when you’ve been twanged between two strands of barbed wire—and that’s after you get your clothes and hair detached.

I’ve ripped enough almost-new jeans to wonder if some outdoors person who wasn’t very good at crossing barbed wire fences was responsible for making torn denims fashionable. I don’t have to pay extra for torn pants. A trip out of doors updates my wardrobe considerably.