Sports: Outdoors

Some things are not worth writing

Bob Kornegay

I was fighting to stay awake during a writers’ conference seminar when the speaker brought me back to consciousness quicker than a steaming cup of old Della Boudreaux’s chicory-laced Cajun coffee.

“To earn the respect of today’s diverse audience, we, as outdoor communicators must experience and cover more frequently those non-consumptive outdoor activities we too-often neglect,” he declared.

In other words, we all write or talk too much about hunting and fishing and not enough about stuff that does not involve catching and shooting.

Okay. The guy’s probably right, especially where I’m concerned. But, hey, I’m not totally one-dimensional. I’ve written about hiking, bird watching, canoeing, and even how to tell a monarch butterfly from its viceroy lookalike.

But, where do I go from there? What do I say and who will read it? How many readers do I have who participate in all those “other” outdoor pursuits that don’t require a hook or a bullet? And, given the chance, would I advise them to take part?

Take hang gliding, for instance? I’ve done it and, if you’re a fool, so can you. What else can I say?

Hang gliding is a cut-and-dried testimony on behalf of “not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect.” If a caught-in-the-act mass murderer testifies in open court that he is also a hang-gliding enthusiast, he should be immediately declared insane and his jury dismissed.

It did not take long for a man born and raised in the flat coastal plain region of Southeast Alabama to realize he has no business leaping off a mountainside and trusting his fate to a few straps attached to a flimsy cloth wing. It took a two-hour counseling session with Dr. Jack Daniel to get me over it. I actually should have “consulted” the good doctor before I jumped.

No, I’ll not write about hang gliding.

Likewise with whitewater rafting. Been there and done that, too.

Section IV of Georgia and South Carolina’s Chattooga River will kill you, plain and simple. Those raging-water scenes in “Deliverance” are not movie magic, friends. They’re the real thing. I personally did not drown or bash my brains out on a rock for one reason: My “pucker” factor allowed me to clamp down tightly and hold the outer fabric of that rubber raft in a death grip. In fact, the outfitter charged me extra for the irreparable crease that remains in his boat to this very day.

Uh-uh. You’ll not read about whitewater rafting here.

You can also forget bungee jumping. I once overestimated the height of a deer stand while at the same time underestimating the length of my safety line. The result was a 12-foot plunge to earth at the end of a 14-foot nylon strap. Do the math and then picture someone of my mental ilk leaping from a gorge-spanning bridge or rocky crag.

Rock climbing, maybe? Nope, don’t think so. My son and I recently scaled a high rock wall ascending from the bank of a trout stream to the trail above.

I was just as young as Kyle at the bottom, but a great deal older upon reaching the top. Still, the climb went pretty well until about 30 feet up, whereupon my “brilliant” offspring cautioned me about avoiding handholds that looked like they might house resting copperheads. Fine time for a snake-safety lecture!

Even the “non-adrenaline” pursuits can be hazardous when I’m a participant.

Once, on a wildlife-observation hike, I reached into a hollow tree to extract a young flying squirrel. I thought my hand would emerge holding a cute, big-eyed nature-baby. Instead, it came out with a demonic, wild-eyed vampire gnawing on the index finger. I lost a nail, a pint of blood, and gained a healthy new respect for flying squirrels.

Put simply, I seldom write about non-consumptive outdoor activities because I fear them. With my track record, I would seriously injure myself just typing a story on, say, mountain biking, let alone doing it. I think I’ll stick with what I know best; at least until I’m too old to bait a hook or pull a trigger.

Besides, it’s like Cletus Monroe says, “You’re uppity enough writin’ about Yankee fish we don’t know nothin’ about. We sure don’t need you tellin’ us about how you swam with them seals in California!”

Actually, Clete, they were sea lions. But I get your point.

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