Mark Hastings joined the Register family years ago, working in advertising with his father, Jack, and Ray Blohm. Before long he became advertising manager, and retired a year ago.
Early on we became fast friends. We spent many a day hunting, fishing, trapping and following other adventures.
I think a few will bring a chuckle, maybe a few belly laughs, at a time when levity is in short supply.
Trapping was special, which we attacked with vigor.
Since we mostly trapped muskrats and raccoons, our outings had us wading along ponds and creek banks. I wore hip waders; Mark opted for chest waders, held in place by a pair of shoulder straps, which made shedding them a little trying when nature called or an accident occurred.
Once, he was wading along a large pond’s dam north of Iola and stepped in a hole. His waders quickly filled with ice-cold water. When he struggled out he ballooned, a little like the Michelin Man. Back in the truck, after draining the waders, I didn’t say a word, just cranked up the heater.
We also had muskrat traps in a pond near the airport. A couple of the little rodents’ houses (feed mounds) were in waist-deep water and Mark ran the traps before coming to work. My vacation had expired and I was eager for a report. Finally, a little off-color, he came in the door. For some reason, perhaps the early morning cold or the chill from reaching underwater to retrieve a muskrat, he suffered a scary spill. Back on bank, “I thought I was going to die,” Mark reported. After lying down a few minutes, he recovered and drove home.
Then there was the time Mark was checking a set of traps along Deer Creek, he raced back to the truck out of breath. “We got a cat!” he hollered. “Turn it loose,” I replied. Turns out, it was a bobcat.
Going by a quarry while setting traps, Mark came up with this line: “I’ll bet there are muskrats in there wearing little hard hats and using miniature jack hammers to build dens in the rock.” I almost ran off the road laughing. Anytime we repeat the fantasy, we’d both break up.
We were so hungry one day, we grabbed a jar of sardines meant as bait and polished them off. Man, did they taste good.
Fishing east of Colony on Deer Creek on warm summer’s day, we didn’t have a water jug and soon became parched. I considered a swig of creek water, which looked cool and fresh trickling over rocks in a shallow, but thought better of it. Adjacent fields were doused with fertilizer, herbicide and insecticide, and the water was likely anything but clear. Back at the truck, we hurried to a small park west of Colony and nearly drained a drinking fountain. In our minds, that saved our lives.
