The last game cam “shot”, taken this past Friday morning of the pot bellied buck.

Saturday morning I went outside to wait for Colton and was chased back in because it was raining, not heavy, but a good sprinkle.  As he and I walked out to MaMaw’s blind, the rain had let up and a light north wind was to our back, this was perfect, since the wind was blowing toward the blind.  We took the long way, sneaking in and climbing a fence, but we reached the back of the elevated blind, climbed in quietly and waited for shooting time.

First out after the corn/protein feeder went off was a young 6 pointer, he browsed around, but nervously kept looking to our left into the heavy thick stuff, like he heard, or saw, something.  Ten minutes later behind the fence on the feeder, out walked “Pot Belly”, checking the wind and surveying his domain as I nudged Colton.  This morning he was using my .270 with some of Brad’s reloads, 115 grain BTHP’s smokin’ out of the barrel at over 4,000 FPS, a real white tail eliminator!  We didn’t look directly at the buck, didn’t take any pictures and “Pot Belly” took his time nosing around on the corn.  Finally he cleared the side of the fence, the .270 boomed, “Pot Belly” dropped in his tracks and I took this “shot” from the blind and next is a game cam shot of us backing the tractor up to the buck.
     
Here’s Colton with his trophy.  Talking with him Saturday afternoon, he was already boiling the head (outside of course) to make a European mount.

Below is a picture of “Pot Belly’s” front teeth, his incisors, he only had 2, the others being worn down and, based on his molars he was aged at 7-1/2 years well past his prime and ready for harvesting.

As we were walking back to get the tractor, Colton said to me, “You know Poppy this is the second nice buck you’ve helped me to get.  We’re going to have to do this more often.  See my post on October 18, 2011, “[First Buck]”, about Colton’s first buck.

Today, as this is being read, Colton and I are in MaMaw’s blind awaiting the arrival of either one of the 2 fine bucks that graced this corn/protein feeder yesterday morning.  First to arrive at 7:32 AM, (still haven’t fixed Daylight Saving on this box) was “Pot Belly”.  He’s an old buck, Mickey Donahoo, a taxidermist, guessed his age at 7 or 8.

He fed for over thirty minutes then at 8:06, a new buck came up with similar looking horns, maybe “Pot Belly’s” son?  This buck, not as hefty as his probable sire, had been wounded in the chest, not life threatening, but he has never been sighted in camera “shots” or visually.

They fed for a short time, then “Wounded” buck moved off, leaving “Pot Belly” alone to browse and he stayed around for a total of 30 minutes.
    
We will be waiting, in ambush, well before sun up and, hopefully, we’ll harvest either one of these fine bucks!

Wednesday morning, up well before the sun, in fact 3:30 AM, I hurried to dress and grab a bite of breakfast, then went to town and met Brian Jernigan and Patrick Berg, for the drive to the Honey Hole, a name accurately assigned to this spot by Brian.  This was a new one for me, duck hunting near Goldthwaite!  You actually think of the central Texas area a prime deer country, let me tell you it is that, but adequate fall rains can make this a duck paradise!

After a short drive we arrived at the Honey Hole, unloaded the truck and Patrick’s lab, Tank, loaded everything but the guns on his ingenious cart, pulled by him, of course and walked in over a half mile to a likely looking spot, then the work started.  Along with a “Mojo” duck, Patrick put out the decoys, while Brian and I set up the ground blinds and snuggled into them to wait for shooting time.

After being so busy, under our layers of clothes, we were sweating.  The temp was around 30, because we could see ice collecting on the “pull” cords, my feet were cold too, but as shooting time neared everything started to warm up!

The ball would start at 6:58, sun up, but for the 10 minutes before we could shoot, we were treated to a show of ducks, we’d never seen before!  Hundreds of ducks, big ones and little ones, buzzed by us, with some even landing among the decoys, you talk about apprehension as Patrick counted down to shooting time, “5 minutes, 3 minutes, 30 seconds,” then, “Take ‘um!”  In out excitement we probably took 7 or 8 shots, and only knocked down a single, green wing teal, but for the next 3 hours, we shot many holes in the sky, but still succeeded in getting our limits, 6 ducks each.  Even after all these years, I’m still not sold on steel shot!

It didn’t matter if we were covered up in the blinds, or sitting up exposed, the ducks still bored in on our spread.  The picture shows Brian, Patrick and the dog, watching some ducks flying to the right of us, and kudus to Tank, for doing excellent work retrieving the downed ducks!

Having our combined limits of 18 ducks, we knocked off a little before 10:00 AM, started picking up the decoys, folding the ground blinds, picking up all of our spent hulls and the last thing we added to the load was the “Mojo” decoy.  All of our movement didn’t deter the ducks from piling in, we probably had 10 to 15 other shots we could have taken, but having our limit, we declined!

Hot shooting, as this picture of Patrick, Tank and our limits, attests.

It’s a shame the young guys have to work, because I could do this every day!

In 1969, a close friend and I went in together on a 250, acre, duck/goose lease 4 miles north of Katy, Texas, right in the middle of the [Katy Prairie], see my post of January 29, 2007. This was my first hunting lease and for the next several years provided my family, friends and me with a world of enjoyment.  At 5:00 AM, using the back roads, it was a 25, minute drive to the lease from my home in Sharpstown, in southwest Houston.

The first hunt on the new lease found me hosting one of my employees, Norman Shelter.  Norman had considerable experience hunting the Anahuac area, east of Houston.  Norman and I arrived well before sun up and set out our decoys.  At shooting time, we were covered up with ducks, our calling skills weren’t even tested, and we had our limits by 7:45 AM, well before the first flights of geese.  We loaded up everything, took the ducks to a processing house in Katy, then changed into our business clothes and went on in to work.  This was almost too easy, but it gave me an idea.

Always getting into work very early, what harm would it do if for one or two days I got in around 9:00 AM?  If I took my business clothes with me, I could hunt until around 8:30, change clothes and head on in to work, also missing what I thought then, was the heavy traffic on I-10.  Even now with 12 lanes and HOV lanes, the traffic is unbearable and the drive from Katy to the Medical Center, where my office was at the time, takes over an hour!

Implementing my plan, not two weeks later, after a successful early morning hunt I was driving into the office on I-10 and tying my tie in the rear view mirror, when I heard a horn honk right beside me.  Looking over, I saw the new Cadillac, and oh no, I was caught, my boss, Tommy Walker, waving, smiling and driving along.  Tommy and another manager, John Maddley were smiling and waving to me, but I knew that when I got into work, I’d had it.  My drive on in to work was a nightmare, what was I going to do, lie, no way, I’ll just take my medicine.

Wouldn’t you know it, they parked right beside me and the first words out of Tommy’s mouth were, “Jon, did you move.  I thought you lived in Sharpstown?”  Jim laughed and said, “Maybe he’s got a girl friend out west?  Just kidding.”  Replying, “ No guys, to tell the truth, I’ve been duck hunting this morning and changed in the car while I was driving in.”  Tommy asked, “How’d you do?”

Nothing else was ever said about my early morning hunts, but on several occasions Tommy teased me about the way my car smelled.  In the summer he said it smelled like old softball clothes and in the winter, like rice field mud.

Authors note:  This is the same Tommy Walker that was shot in the eyes during a quail hunt 4 years later in central Arizona.  See my posts on January 13 and 15, 2010, “[Walking Wounded]” and “[Part 2 of Walking Wounded]”.

In Arizona, Jake Shroder, another Texas boy and I, enjoyed many years of excellent hunting and fishing together. Our search for quail, arrow heads, artifacts and bass, led us over the entire state from the beauty of the Mogillion Rim to the starkness of the Sonoran Desert and it also led us to find some, surprise, ducks. We found them by accident, on the McDowell Indian Reservation, not twenty miles from our homes in Paradise Valley.

We purchased hunting permits for $5.00 on the several thousand acres of the Reservation, the Verde River bisecting it, and, one afternoon, we were looking for quail on the flats besides the river, when ahead of us our Brittany’s, Candy and Rooster, flushed several green heads out of the water. The ducks flew right over us, and us, without duck stamps, held our fire.
Being first to remedy the duck stamp situation, two days later my dog and I were back along the Verde and up came some ducks, but about sixty yards away and too far to shoot. Noticing they jumped from the slack water behind a small island, my mind started clicking. What if I came out here early in the morning and put the decoys out right where the ducks jumped up? Not a bad idea, bring my waders, slip quietly in, put out the decoys, build me a quick blind, unlimber my call and I’d be in business.

My hunt ended at sundown and starting the two, mile drive out, most of it in four wheel drive, low, I finally reached the main road on the reservation. For the drive home, I stopped to put the truck back into 2 wheel drive, but I couldn’t get it out of 4 low. Knowing that in 4 wheel, low I couldn’t drive it the 20 odd miles back on a hard top road, trying to rock the truck forward and backwards, still, I couldn’t move the shift lever out of low and even tried driving slowly and forcing it out, but nothing would work. Being stuck, I creeped up to the Blue Moon Inn, the local Indian beer joint, and made a call (no cell phones then) for Jake to come and get me.

All ended well. The next day I rented a trailer and “coaxed” some of my salesmen to assist me in recovering my truck. The repair job was minor, a worn shift lever and the
next Saturday morning, daylight found Jake and I on the small island in the Verde River.

He was on the west side and me on the east, about seventy-five yards apart. The 12 plastic decoys bouncing slowly in the current in front of me, when I heard, Bam, followed by a splash. Jake had shot something as I became alert and saw him wade out into the main current and pick up a Canadian goose, a real bonus. He yelled at me, “Beech, it came in real low, just one.” As I turned back around, without any warning, 2 mallards were hovering over the decoys and raising up, Bam, Bam, splash, splash, my new 20 gauge, over and under, had worked just fine!

While we were out of town during the summer of 1971, my trusty 12 gauge pump that I had shot for over 20 years, along with all of my other guns, a new TV set that I won in a sales manager’s contest and my brand new Buick Electra 225, had been stolen. The car was found undamaged the next week, but nothing else was ever recovered.

Retrieving one of the ducks proved to be a challenge. It had fallen on the edge of the current and had drifted down, getting stuck in a pile of debris. Picking up one duck and pitching it toward my makeshift blind, I began wading down the shallow river for the other. The water wasn’t knee deep, but I could feel the cold and the rocks were really slippery and me with no “Moses Stick” for balance, only my new, over and under.

Balancing as best I could and sliding my wader’s boots over the rocks, I happened to look up and coming around the bend of the river, right at me, were three mallards. Automatically, up came my gun and down I went, into the shallow water, butt first and the cold water rushed into the back of my waders and I uttered some unprintable words! Bouncing up quickly, the water pooled in my waders around each foot, but it was too late for a shot, I wonder what scared them off. Hearing Jake laughing in the distance, I uttered some more unprintables in his direction and let him know I was ready to go home and get in some dry clothes.

However, all wasn’t lost! The thieves who broke into my house and stole my stuff were finally caught in 1974, after they had opened a used furniture store in east Phoenix on Indian School Road. They had just committed another robbery, a TV and some guns, and, of all things, the latest victim showed up in their store, looking for a used replacement for his TV. Spotting a TV just like his stolen one, he looked a little closer and saw his Social Security number that he had engraved on the back. He left the store without a purchase, went to the police and thus ended the careers of a vicious gang of thieves. My guns went to Mexico and someone in the Phoenix area got a real good TV.

In 2003, while playing in a National Championship Senior Softball tournament in Phoenix, I had the opportunity to visit the McDowell Indian Reservation again. Taking the old stagecoach route over Reata Pass and down the east side of the McDowell mountains, in places the old road came within a stones throw of the Verde River reasonably close to our duck spot. Many changes have taken place, the Reservation now is very clean, new homes grace the area and I’m sure they don’t allow hunting any more, especially since they have a thriving Casino!

The last 4 days, Sunday through Thursday, have been drippy wet!  Not so much rain, but warm and foggy, misty, along with a few showers and all of this moisture totaled .8 inches of rain, Praise The Lord!  Around noon on Tuesday, during one of the breaks in the weather, I went out and sat in the mist for over an hour, seeing nothing, my hopes were high that I’d see a shooter, or even a spike, but nothing.

Not knowing if he’d been shot or not and hearing tales that maybe he’d been hit by a vehicle, the big 8 pointer, that I call “Pot Belly” showed up yesterday morning at 7:25 AM and stayed around for 12 minutes.  Both “shots” show him to be healthy, however, all this running around during the rut has trimmed his “pot” and now he’s a svelte, big buck!
     
Funny thing, this morning found me in Layla’s blind, where “Pot Belly” stopped by yesterday.  Climbing into the blind before the sun was up, I barely cracked a sliding window just enough to get the gun and camera lens outside and waited.  Just after sun up this nice 8 pointer came by, he’s young, but by next year he should be a nice one.

Then, after the feeder went off, up came a young 6 pointer, the 8 was still around and I got this nice “shot” of both of them.

The 8 trotted off in his quest for a hot, doe, but the 6 thought he’d stay around for some of the protein and corn.  Being lucky, having the camera out and focused, I took this “shot” of the 6 balancing on his hind legs and attacking the corn thrower. This one is smart, having figured out where the food comes from!

I wonder where I’ll be before the sun comes up tomorrow morning?

No, this isn’t about yours truly going 3 for 3 in a softball game, but about an unusual duck hunt one of my friends and I went on.

On Friday night in mid December, Bill Priddy and I met at our duck and fishing lease near Danbury, Texas, then went to the local caf© and ate a steak that I still remember and turned in early in preparation for the next day’s duck hunt.  Up well before the sun, we ate a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon prepared by Mrs. Atkins, wife of our leases’ guide/caretaker, stepped outside and were greeted by a calm, bright early morning, with the new day just a strip of orangeish light on the eastern horizon.

We went through the motions of loading the decoys and our guns, then followed them into the skiff, started the engine and putted out to our duck blind.  All the while, knowing that such a bright, clear, blue bird day would lead to, at best, not many ducks flying around.  There’d be a flurry about shooting time and, after that, it would stop completely.

We “hit the nail on the head”, because right at shooting time, had one flight of green wing teal buzz our decoys and we obliged by shooting 4 holes in the sky.  We waited for 45 more minutes, saw no ducks, then decided to go bass fishing.  We started the motor, picked up the decoys, putted back to the dock, oiled and put our guns up, got out our rods and reels out, replaced the outboard with a trolling motor, started fishing and not 50 yards from the dock, Bill picked up a small bass.

In a bad, old picture, Bill holds up my 3 for 3 on bass, showing the 2 big ones, with the smallest being behind the bass on the right.

Bill was using a motor oil colored, worm, rigged Texas style and I had on my trusty, yellow Piggy Boat, spinner bait.  A few casts after Bill had scored, I had a hard strike and was into a real nice bass.  Two jumps later I lipped it, hefted it up and estimated its weight at 2 pounds.  Another cast into the same spot, another hard strike and I was tied up with a real nice one.  No jumps, but several wallows later, along with a nice run, I lipped it, hefted it up and guessed, 4-1/2 pounds!  Two in a row, so I cast back into the same spot and was greeted with a bone jarring strike.  This one pulled out all the stops, runs, wallows and 3 jumps later, I lipped it, hefted it up and guessed 3 pounds!  Wow, 3 for 3, nice bass, 2,3 and 4 plus, pounds and Bill just sat and watched the show.

For a duck hunt, this wasn’t a bad fishing trip!

We had been on the Brady lease, for 5 years and the membership had been reduced, by choice, to 4 other hunters, along with their families.  During the deer season of 1992, our rancher said that because he liked us and knew we wouldn’t abuse the property, he was throwing in another 600 acres, at no increase in the price.  The only catch was that it was bisected by Highway 190 and, on the west, bordered the city limits of Rochelle.  The south side of the property had one big “L” shaped field bordered with very, thick brush and this area was the deer magnet.

The rancher and I went to visit thAe acreage, and to say the least, I was impressed because as we bumped along the rutted, dirt, track, the first animal I saw, less than one hundred yards away, was a massive buck, tall rack, heavy horned, with a minimum of a 20 inch spread!  The rancher said, “I’ve named that buck, ‘Big Boy’.  I see him all the time and I believe it’s time to shoot him.”  Of course, not expecting to see any deer in the middle of the warm day, so close to the highway, I wasn’t armed, so I just looked on in awe!

There is nothing that could have prepared me and the other hunters for the great number of deer that we would see on that property, right in town, although not a big town, and bisected by 190, a busy east west highway.  But one hunt stands out in my memory.

Shortly after receiving the bonanza, Brad and I were out to get “Big Boy” and by 3:00 PM we were in our hides, mine was nestled into a brush pile overlooking the short side of the “L” field and his was on one end of the long side, in a twisty, 4 foot, deep, dry creek bed.

Approaching 5:00 PM, we hadn’t seen anything but a few crows, and then, all of a sudden, coming out of the thick, brush, deer were everywhere, probably a hundred or more.  Brad was masked from my view but we both could see the north brush line, and there, looking out from behind a mesquite was “Big Boy”! What a majestic sight!

Almost dusk, the big deer moved to our right, 200 yards away, he was joined by another buck, almost his twin, and they moved down a fence line, passing from my view.  Brad’s M1A roared, and in his words, “Dad, the 2 deer were side by side and I hit the one closest to me. He hopped once and took off, jumping the fence.  He’s down somewhere over the fence!  Let’s go find him.”  One problem however, the property over the fence, wasn’t on our lease.

It was almost dark, our flashlights showed blood spattered on the ground where the buck was hit and climbing over the fence, more blood.  One problem however, not three hundred yards east of us in a nice, ranch house, a party was just getting started.  Cars driving up were casting their headlights out across the field, shining on us, while we were looking for the buck.  Here came some headlights, we dropped down, got back up, followed the blood trail, more headlights, dropped back down and finally, deer horns reflected in the headlights.

We found the buck, not a hundred yards from the house and it was a nice one!  We each grabbed a leg and slowly pulled the buck back to the fence.  Somehow, we ‘rasseled’ the 140 pounder over the fence and finally, could admire the buck, not “Big Boy”, but a real trophy, a perfect eight pointer with good mass and we guessed an 18 to 19 inch spread!  At the party no one noticed us, they partied on without a hitch, unbeknownst of the drama that took place in their host’s field!

We loaded the deer in the Jeep and headed for the closest processor, Richland Springs, 20 miles away.  Brad decided not to have the head mounted, (big mistake), told the attendant to just cut the horns off and (bigger mistake), he’d pick them up with the meat.  The next week when we stopped, the fine set of horns had disappeared given to one of the processor’s friends we were sure!

Two weeks later, the best deer hunter of our group shot “Big Boy”, knocked him down, but he jumped up, ran off, finally the blood trail petered out, the hunter never found him and “Big Boy” was never seen again!

In late 1974 we moved from The Valley Of The Sun, to Atlanta and my friends in Phoenix said that I left claw marks on the floor of my office as they drug me out. The first year in Atlanta was spent getting acclimated to a new job, new friends, new hunting and fishing opportunities and new schools for the kids. By the fall of 1976, I had met and hunted with several quail hunters and had hit it off especially well with one, James Walton, a neighbor and not in the computer business, but VP of an old, established, construction company.

James had two German Short Hairs, the older one, Crystal, an excellent hunter, was the mother of his young one. The younger, like all young ones was wild and rambunctious, but our dogs had helped to cement our friendship. Crystal hunted in close and Rooster, my Brittany, would range out a hundred yards or more. Both honored the others points and hunted dead until the bird was found or the “look-for” called off.

James and I had joined a hunting club that provided many acres of supposedly good quail hunting land. Our results were only fair, however, we did get to see a lot of the state. On this particular hunt, we had reserved a spot for Friday and Saturday, a several hundred acre track of harvested soybean fields along with some nice wooded cover. At the time, Brad was a sophomore in high school and his JV football season had ended, so I got him out of school on this particular Friday and we headed to South Georgia for some quailing.

Arriving near Thomasville around noon, we found our hunting area and made camp. We were staying out Friday night, which should be fun since the weather featured warm days and cool nights. We didn’t even think about the warm afternoons bringing out the rattlers.

Rooster, Brad and I took off to one side of the large bean field and James and Crystal went the other way. Shortly we heard, Pop, Pop, James had found a small covey and it looked like he’s got one or two. Brad and I proceed along the edge of the field not finding any birds, but toward the corner of the field, Rooster locked down hard on a point. Quickly approaching, whirrrrr, the covey, probably a dozen birds, broke wild before we could get off a shot. Marking the spot where the covey flew into the woods, all three of us Rooster, Brad and yours truly hurried after the birds, passing through where the covey was flushed, whirr, a late riser, Bam, and he fell to my 20 gauge, pump.

As Rooster and Brad continued chasing the covey, I saw my bird on the ground and ran over to pick him up. Retrieving the bird, I headed back toward Brad who was in the thick brush and not being able to see him, I headed in his general direction.

“Bark, growl, growl, bark,” from Rooster. “Dad, Dad, up here quick,” from Brad! Coming out of the woods and running towards the sound of his voice, I saw Brad straddle of a barbwire fence. Rooster was snarling and then he added a bark, bark, as I jumped around the fence, then looking down under him a big rattler was coiled and rattling! “Dad, there’s a big rattler right under me,” Brad shouted! Hurrying faster, I saw that he had laid his gun down on the ground prior to climbing the fence and the rattlers had treed him. He was right, it was a big one, coiled and making a lot of noise and at that moment, more interested in the dog. Rooster knew about snakes having hunted with me for 3 years in Arizona and bam, one shot from my 20 and the snake was done for!

Rooster was still barking as Brad was getting down from the fence. We stretched the snake out and he was a good 5 feet long and bigger around than my forearm. My aim was true and the shot shredded the snake’s head, leaving the skin undamaged. Brad said, “That snake could’ve bit me or Rooster. Let’s eat him Dad.” We both thought of an old Indian saying, “Eat your enemies and gain some strength from them.” Why not?

We cut off the rattles and saved them, whew, it smelled like urea, and the fertilizer plants in Pasadena, Texas. We skinned him, rolled up the skin for now and it really stunk! We gutted him and except for the smell we had a hunk of pretty, white meat. To eliminate some of the smell, I took a canteen of water and washed off the snake’s body. Later, I learned that snakes don’t have kidneys and liquid waste is secreted out of their body through the skin, no wonder the smell!

Most times when hunters have a close encounter with a serious predator or big rattle snake, the hunt’s over for the day, as was our case, however, we went back to camp and set out to preparing our supper, fried rattlesnake. Small problem, no corn meal, but we had flour in the camper, which should work just fine as long as long as the grease doesn’t get too hot. We cut up the snake into 1-1/2 inch pieces, then rolled it in the flour and wrapped up the 5, plus pounds of meat in foil, popped it into the cooler and waited for Walton to get back. Feeling confident we would get some more birds the next day, we saved the quail for back home.

Having heard James shoot several times, he and Crystal returned with three quail. He said, “You all came in early. What’s up?” We told him our exciting story and told him we were having rattlesnake for supper. He blanched and said, “I’m not eating any snake!” Not hesitating, we showed him the large quantity of white meat and began to fry the it and fries, the aroma turning him, he added, “It does smell pretty good!”.

After supper, James said, “That rattlesnake wasn’t bad.” He was right. All white meat, sweet and tender, not bad at all. We not only ate the snake, but the rattles now grace a special display in my great room, and, we made one hatband and one belt from the skin.

Real winter, 2 weeks early, has finally arrived in central Texas! It all started this past Saturday with heavy winds from the southeast, then the wind came roaring back from the northwest, not the 100 milers they had in California, but good strong wind and, praise the Lord, rain, almost 3 inches!

Friday afternoon, sitting in the Porta-Potty Blind I had a hot doe come by, soon a young 6 pointer, probably 1-1/2 to 2 years old, came by and he showed absolutely no interest in the doe. He wasn’t a shooter so I passed on him. Then, in the dark when I was walking back to my truck, I heard her bawling, the sound just like my “doe in heat” call.

Ignoring the impending storm lurking in the northwest, Colton and I went out Saturday afternoon, and seeing nothing except one small doe, we came in after dark and I settled down to watch the Oklahoma, Oklahoma State football game. By the way State killed and buried Oklahoma, too much offense! During the game, here came the storm with fog, thunder, lightning and a light rain that carried on through Sunday afternoon, but it also brought the cold weather.

Monday, the fog lifted, the temp outside was 27, cold feet weather, and I thought this would be a good time to get my truck serviced. On our gravel road, driving back from town, we saw 7 deer, one an 8 pointer, but he wasn’t chasing a doe. This made up my mind that if the deer were moving, I was going hunting! Shielded form the wind, sitting in the Porta-Potty Blind, despite my mohair socks, the cold was seeping into my work boots and not seeing anything, finally I called Layla and asked her to come out and pick me up.

Having wet and cold boots, I thought the first thing would be to clean them with some KIWI Saddle Soap and then put on a liberal dose of KIWI Heavy Duty Water Repellent. This won’t make them any warmer, but it sure will deflect the moisture! If you want any more info on their products visit KIWI at www.kiwicare.com. You can also become a fan of their Facebook page at www.Facebook.com/KIWIShoeCare. I’ve used their products for ages!

The skies are clearing and now the really cold stuff will follow, forecast for Tuesday night is 25, this will keep me in bed Wednesday morning, maybe I’ll go out Wednesday afternoon?