Ol’ Dutch did not go on a toot and get hammered to the gills — tempting as that might sound some days. Nope, I got a whole different kind of pickled this past Saturday. Somehow Ol’ Dutch was canoodled into participating in a Pickleball Tournament by a well-meaning and sweet-talking woman that I had a chance meeting with one day.  

She was so complimentary of my past playing skills that it made me want to pay the $10 entry fee right then and there. Which was highly unusual as getting this Scotchman to part with a shilling or two is not an easy task for anyone. But it seems that I am just like any man:  the way to get us to do anything at all is to brag on us. And that's how I found myself signed up to play.  

Not having played for two years and the same amount of years having been added to my age, I figured that I would probably not play all that well and would just be an anchor on an otherwise stellar Blue Team’s boat. But I did show up and even managed to win a few games and help out the total team score, but in several of the games that I played I really stunk up the court.  

I grew up playing tennis from the time I could hold a racket and kept at it in college, so I picked up pickleball pretty quickly. Muscle memory kicked in — thank the Lord — because regular memory? Well, that’s more like a leaky bucket these days. But I was proud I could remember the scoring rules, and which end of the paddle to use. Somehow, thanks to the skill of my teammates and a bit of dumb luck, we took home the gold medal. First place. I was prouder than a new dad with triplets. I may just start wearing that medal around town like it’s part of my Sunday best. 

I haven’t been able to make it to the regular pickleball mornings this summer thanks to working for Mountain Man Rafting — and Miss Trixie, who runs a tighter ship than the U.S. Navy. But with the Rio Grande dropping fast from a dry winter and rainless summer, I might be able to sneak away and play a bit before the monsoons hit. 

And speaking of monsoons, just like the traveling Rainmen of old, Ol’ Dutch has called upon the Heavens to send forth rain.  So, get your “believers cap” on and expect some wetness to move in and soak us all good. Normally Ol’ Dutch can stir up a real gully washer but this year I have been hampered in my efforts by working too much and not getting my divining rod out – aka, my fishing pole. You see, every time I get it out, the skies open up. It rains and rains and rains. So, I figure it’s time to stop all this “being responsible” nonsense and go fishing for the greater good. 

We sure need it. Fires are popping up all over the West, and just last week we had smoke thick enough to flavor your bacon. Fires from 400 miles away left everything smelling like a campground. Even Ol’ Dutch started to smell like a well-done brisket — which made Miss Trixie start daydreaming about a trip to Buc-ee’s.

Kevin Kirkpatrick spends his days fishing, hunting, ATVing, hiking, or making people laugh. His email is Kevin@TroutRepublic.com. Additional news can be found at www.troutrepublic.com or on Twitter at TroutRepublic.