Firm Handshake

A firm handshake is a sign of self-confidence.  Recognize that some cultures keep the handshake going for longer than others.  Texas has long handshakes while New York tends be fast.   

Be cognizant of how you shake a woman’s hand.  There are plenty of non-verbal clues on what to expect when shaking a woman’s hand.   

Japan is completely different – you must know the seniority of the person before engaging.  If you’re not first in shaking hands with the people you’re meeting, pay attention to their approach.  Some like to talk while holding your hand, others don’t.   

If you're nervous or you have sweaty palms, dry em off before engaging.  Sounds funny but no one likes to shake a sweaty hand.  

At all costs, avoid the fishy handshake as it speaks volumes about you.  Don’t forget to smile.

For more information, here is a great article on the topic.
http://saleshq.monster.com/careers/articles/3505-the-abcs-of-handshake-etiquette. 

Far Fewer Blue Hats

Older veterans wear their colors with pride. My grandfather was no exception. Wherever he went, you'd see him proudly wear his USS Iowa navy blue baseball hat along with the requisite American Flag, WW II and USN pins. His hat and the hats of 1000's of Navy Veterans are like the cover of a great book just waiting for you to turn the page. If asked about the USS Iowa, my grandfather would show you the biggest smile you've ever seen, his baby blue eyes would open wide and say 'she was a great ship'. If you were so inclined, he would tell you a story or two about how his service changed his life.

As I travel through airports around the country, I've noticed fewer blue hats. When spotted, I make a point to ask them about their ship, hear their story and thank them for their service. You would be amazed the details these men remember about their experience. Understandably so. The words they use to describe their experience and ship will turn any ordinary airport conversation into a glimpse into the past. I've talked with dozens of them through the years.

There is definitely a protocol in engaging. To break the ice, I usually say - when and where did you serve? Which battles, what theater, etc. They use Navy talk and refer to things like 'shakedown cruise', dogging the hatches and polywogs. Enlisted or Officers, they have the same pride. I've spoken to Navy guys from USS Enterprise, USS Missourri, USS Wisconsin and countless Destroyer ships I can't all remember.

I am a WWII history nut so I know many of the battles their ships served in and that is a great sense of pride for them. Sadly, I think many assume Joe Q. Public doesn't know and doesn't care about their service. We are all so grateful to those who served.

If you're in an airport, train station or really anywhere, talk to the guys in the blue hats. They wear them for a reason. Open the book and you will be amazed what you learn.

Shook it Like a Rag Doll

Hunting dogs are a one of God’s greatest gifts. Watching a short-hair point, a golden flush or a lab retrieve is to witness one of the oldest traditions in the sporting world. A well trained pooch is on a mission and nothing stops them. They’re single minded when in the field or blind. Of course they can occasionally get distracted by rabbits or songbirds but most of them just chase these critters for the fun of it and quickly get back to the task at hand – finding the bird.

I’ve had the chance to hunt over some of the best dogs in the world. I’ve hunted wild boar in Africa with Airedales, Jack Russell Terriers and Blue Tick Hounds. I’ve seen Labs retrieve downed Black Ducks in the frozen Great Bay of New Hampshire. I’ve hunted pheasants in South Dakota with Saks, a wonderful Chocolate Lab and Brittany Spaniels in California.

Here in the Northwest, German Short Hairs are the most common breed for hunting Chukkar, Quail and Pheasant. My good friend Jim Crafton who runs a guide service in Central Oregon has some of the best Short Hairs pointers west of the Mississippi. On any one occasion, we’ll hunt over six or eight of his pups. They’re hard working, loyal and have an excellent nose for the bird. This week I hunted over a mature English Setter named Ace. Well mannered, beautiful dog.


What all these dogs have in common is one thing – excellent training. Our lovely Black Lab, Shasta comes from a strong line of duck hunting dogs in Portland. Shasta has been in the field since she was seven months old so she’s not gun shy. She’s extremely intelligent but is a family dog first and foremost. Shasta is an ‘only child’ and is spoiled with countless squeak toys, balls and collars for all occasions. She’s is in decent physical condition and periodically I take her along into the field despite no formal training. She’s a Lab after all – I mean how hard can it be to find a bird with a nose that big.


We had a small group of five and four dogs – two hunting dogs and two pets. Shasta being in the pet category. Shasta followed Charlie, the Short Hair and Ace the Setter at a good clip. Periodically, they would hold their noses in the air and she looked at them like ‘what the hell are you doing’. Ace would lock up on a bird and in typical Lab fashion, Shasta would bumble along into the spot and flush the bird. I think the first couple scared the crap out of her. Made me laugh a mile away. There were plenty of birds and plenty of daylight so it wasn’t a big deal.

It was a typical December day in Central Oregon – temps in the mid-twenties, winds from the west and a fresh dusting of snow. The white blanket across the landscape made tracking our quarry interesting and fun. We saw quail tracks bunching up big coveys and pheasants running to avoid the dogs.

Round ten thirty, Shasta brushed up against a three foot sage brush and a loud flutter erupted with a pheasant airborne for the Eastern Cascades. I took a quick shot with my old Remington 870 which my grandfather gave me in 1976 and the big bird hit the turf. Shasta heads for the wounded pheasant and evaluates the situation. Like most downed birds, this one was winged and could still run. Shasta thought – ‘oh cool, I have a toy at home just like you..lets play’. She chased it down, put her big snoot round the bird and proceeded to shake it like a ragdoll. She shook it so hard I think she nearly flipped herself over. She thought she was being cute as she flipped the bird up in the air, picked up again and whipped her head left to right as to say ‘I got it and I’m gonna rip apart – just like my toy pheasant at home’.

I retrieved the mangled bird, scolded Shasta and laughed my ass off. She proceeded to do this several times throughout the course of the morning and provided a sense of entertainment for all those who witnessed this four year old puppy attempt to ‘retrieve’.

Note to self – never buy a dog toy that looks like a pheasant.

Never Trust Averages

On average, I’ve caught one Steelhead per year over the last six years. Oh, never mind the fact that I was zero for the first five years and caught six this year. You got that right, I was skunked for five straight years and finally hit the jackpot this year.

Last month, Todd Grigsby from Hyperion along with Todd Williver, Don Hundt and Bret Hodgert and I went Steelheading on the Lower Deschutes. We started just below Maupin at Macks Canyon and floated to the mouth of the Deschutes at the Columbia River. If you’ve never seen this part of the Northwest, it’s breathtaking.

Grigsby picked me up at the Portland airport and we headed over to Maupin to meet Williver. Don and Bret had floated down river that Thursday to find our preferred camp. Which camp you ask? One will never tell J. We arrived around 11pm and began loading our gear into Todd’s drift boat to ensure we would be the first boat down the river on Friday morning.

This weekend was a non jet boat weekend on the Deschutes but there were nearly 200 boaters passes for the weekend. 5am came early and we heard the trucks rush down the dirt road, we packed up our cots, threw our gear in the boat and started the journey to camp. Weather was perfect. Mid-70’s and overcast skies. Water temperature was warm but the river was pretty cloudy. Williver tried his hand at the river the night before with no luck.

We all agreed that we would push through and head down to camp. After a three-hour float, we arrived into camp before noon and it was all we could do to setup camp and get into the river as fast as possible. Don caught one fish the night before just outside camp.

Within 2 hours, Williver and I each had a 6lb Steelhead in the cooler. Amazing. Five years and zero fish – I was done. If I didn’t catch another fish, I would have been happy as a clam. Both fish were hatchery fish which means you can keep them. How do you determine if a fish is wild or hatchery? Very simple, hatchery fish from Oregon have their adipose fin shaved off when they are little. As you can see, these fish have no rear fin on their topside.

Fishing calmed down that Friday afternoon as the sun rose high in the late summer sky. Board games and card games were in order. Around 5:30, most were eyeballing a nap, and I was anxious to test the waters again. Williver brought along a 9’ one-man pontoon boat which was a perfect watercraft for reaching the schoal mid-river. It was quite a float rowing up into the fast water to land on the schoal at 10 knots per hour. Williver said to get to the top of the island and fish the seam back down to the rocks. Easier said than done. The water was ripping and was chest high. One lost footing and you were swimmin’. I pressed my way up river, got a good position and casted the nymphs into the seam. Within 5 minutes, I had the 2^nd Steeley on the line and was inching my way back to the island to land him. It was a nice hatchery fish about 26”. That’s the limit for keepers but I kept on fishing for the experience. Over the next 20 minutes, I hooked and landed three more Steelhead. Five fish in one day? I couldn’t believe it. I was feeling guilty so I rowed the pontoon back, but the fish had pushed through. Bret tried his hand at the seam but to no avail. Saturday morning, I hooked two and landed one wild fish.

By noon on Saturday, the fishing was completely done. After that time, no one person from our group touched or landed a Steelhead. The switch was flipped. The temperature of the river dropped and the skies parted making for a bluebird day .

This trip was a fishing experience of a lifetime. I’m very grateful to be able to pursue these awesome fish with such great friends.

Fishing in Cabo

Two hours out to the fishing ground from the Cabo Marina. We spend an hour catching Yellow Fin Tuna among the small herd of porpoises then it was off to find the big fish. Not 10 minutes later did we see a huge sailfish on the surface. The captain slowed down and the first mate casted a live bait fish on the line out towards the fish. Within seconds it was on the line and we were off the races. Omar asked 'Do you want to mount this?" Good question. Surprisingly, I passed. It was a 7 Foot Sailfish. It took us 20 minutes to get it up to the boat. Awesome!

Here is the largest of the three Yellow Fin Tunas. Suzanne and Parker had it for dinner that night and we packed the rest back to the California.

Trophies - A Collection of Memories

After four years of importing and planning, my African trophies arrived in Pleasanton by way of RCVL. Never heard of RCVL? They’re awesome and in fact their global headquarters is Pleasanton, California. RCVL stands for Rich Clayton Van Lines. After months of deliberation, I decided the best way to get my trophies from Iowa to California was, um, well, to drive them. Driving across country with nine African trophies in the back of a Penske Truck is a story for another time.

As neighbors and friends visit our home over the coming months they'll quickly realize (perhaps for the first time) that I’m a hunter. For those of you, see my earlier post on Why We Hunt. The obvious unstated question will be – Why would you want these dead animals in your house?

Why? Because they are a daily reminder of that once in a lifetime experience. Trophies remind you of your passion and the hunting experience. The weather, the people, the conditions, the angle, the obstacles, the distance, the terrain, and of course the animal and it’s surroundings.

Seeing these animals brought to life through excellent taxidermy from my cousin, Joe Meder puts the hunt in the present tense. You can see it all instantly. Hunting trophies (at least for me) aren’t for the record books or the collectible value, but for remembering the hunt and how truly blessed we are to have the opportunity to pursue these magnificent animals.

Yesterday, we hung the Buffalo, Gemsbuck and Waterbuck and I couldn’t help but drift away thinking about Africa as I looked at these beautiful pieces of art.

So when you come into our home, be prepared to hear at least one hunting story even if you think you've heard it already. It will be mostly true with a splash of embellishment just to make it interesting. With these great trophies, the subject is unavoidable. If you’re a PETA member looking for a donation, perhaps you keep walking and pretend you didn't ring our doorbell.

Another Great Moment

Last month Hunter decided to try out for Cheer Captain. Not surprisingly, it’s a rigorous process involving recommendation letters as well as making your case to an independent panel. It’s also not a surprise that Hunter was voted 8th Grade Cheer Captain. She put a lot of effort into her submission and it’s very rewarding to see her focus on achieving and accomplishing a goal. We now have a basketball court in our backyard just so she can practice her new cheers. The girls just returned from Cheer Camp where they got first place in two of the three competition categories. She modeled her new uniform and is excited to lead the Harvest Park Cheer Squad next fall. Go Patriots!

Seat 24D

So it's a routine flight from SFO to DFW, right? Not a chance. We pulled away from the gate after boarding and already there was a terrible stench coming from the rear lavatory. The kind that burns your nose hair. What did they eat?

It's a short flight, I have an important customer presentation to write and I need a cloths pin for my nose. I decide to close my eyes but shortly am awakened by Billy Bob in two seats over who's snoring so loud that the sound caught the flight attendents attention five rows back. This was a snore that could only be induced by severe amounts of alcohol. My first clue? Dark shades.

OK, I'm up, I'll just burn some time and do the USA Today Soduko puzzle..no now what? The toddlers were getting restless in the row in front of me. Mom was exhausted just getting them on the plane that she didn't have the energy to settle them down. Shrieks and food everywhere. Cute little red heads. Oddly the distraction was welcome compared to the snoring from the fat guy by the window.

Meanwhile across the aisle from me, a young college girl decided that the stench from rear of the plane was too much and puked all over herself. I'm happy to report, there was no collateral damage in 24D. I get up, get her some puke bags and advise the flight attendant. With a puke bag in her lap she's playing peek-a-boo with the baby in row 23.

Little Joey, son of Billy Bob is sitting next to me in the middle seat. Not sure what he had for breakfast but he lets a huge fart rip. You know the kind that makes your underwear vibrate. He smiles and execuses himself to go to the lavatory. Good luck buddy. I can't believe he made it back.

I swear this is a true story. I couldn't believe it. OK, we're 1 hour into this flight so I should get to my presentation. Oh - look at that, my laptop battery is dead. What a surprise. I resort to writing it the old fashioned way - pen and paper.

If you ever think business travel is extravagent, remember this story of Seat 24D.

Tracy 70 Mile Loop

Below is our 72 mile loop out to Tracy. 2.5 hours out and 4 hours back. We had a 20-30 mph headwind plus a 6% grade coming back. Ouch. My face is still soar.

Who's Your Crawdaddy II

Spring brings many things, but in Pleasanton it brings Crawfish...by the thousands. No they’re not from our creeks, arroyos or bay, they’re flown in fresh from the bayous of Louisiana for the annual Who’s Your Daddy Party.

Together with our great friend’s Paul & Paula Mezzetta we hosted our 2nd annual crawfish boil complete with Huge Ass Beers and Hurricanes. If you've never been to New Orleans, these are the basic food groups on Bourbon Street.

This years festivities brought a bit of excitement when Fedex delivered 70 of the 110 pounds of the little critters. Plan B – get more alcohol, no one will notice. Oh yeah and perhaps we just a few wings.

The 2nd Annual Who’s Your Crawdaddy Party was a huge success. There were plenty of repeat guests from last year but we also had a fair share of crawfish virgins. This year we had 65 friends and family and by the looks (and sound) of it, a grand time was had by all. There were Crawfish Races, Gambling and a small bit of drinking. Who will ever forget Sandra Oh’s shriek when she won the dice game? My hearing has never been the same.

Most guests knew very few people at the party but somehow they got know others quickly mounds of fresh boiled crawfish staring at them. Of course there are no directions on how to consume these little buggers. It’s hilarious to watch veterans teach virgins how to suck the head, twist the tail and pinch the meat. I mean really funny. I’d sure like to know who was demented person who went into the bayou, picked up one of these little crustaceans and said – yeah we can eat that.

Click here to see photos from the party. Thanks Sandy. No need to worry, I’ve sent this link to all your employers. Your HR department should be calling you shortly.

Thanks everyone for coming. We had an absolute blast. Counting the days to Who’s Your Crawdaddy III.