Karl Seckinger

Karl "Trout Whisperer" Seckinger is an outdoor enthusiast and resides in northeastern Minnesota.

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Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: December 26, 2012 - 8:53 AM
In 1917 a British soldier named Desmond Morton was shot right through the heart. An amazing thing is, he not only survived his war injury, he lived until 1971 with the bullet still inside him going on to leading a rather distinguished life. Saint Augustine, and pardon me if I don’t quite get the quote right, passed on a bit of wisdom, telling of fire’s action, proving gold, and fire’s action, consuming the chaff. How fetid water aroused, would refresh the vile stench, and perfume aroused, would release wonderful aromas. Winter is here and in my part of the world I would say it’s been on the mild side. Tame, manageable cold and a friend and I decided enough snow flakiness. My buddy has one full length leg and the other do to an injury is missing below the knee. Tent and gear loaded in a poke. Menu selected, axes sharp, attired in wool and wonder to wander into the mild winter we did snow a-go. My buddy loves to cuss so I left him to tend to the tent. I like to make my own noises so with firewood in mind, off with an axe I was deadfall and down, bound. Duluth pack of popple kindling, one sled of Norway pine half logged and I can tell you my red wool shirt was wide open. I got back to the tent and it was taught tight shut. We split some soup, and then wood and I mean lots of wood until the sun started to set. With a belly full of warm dinner I found my bunk and hunkered in. My buddy was wrestling his sleeping bag and a wool blanket on the other side of the tent and telling me about trying some fishing in the morning because he thought we had plenty of firewood to last the next three days. Anything after that was left to the night because I slept like one of those frozen logs outside, I didn’t move. In the morning the first thing I thought was it was cold. I didn’t hear any snoring. It was dark. I asked if he was awake. No response. I got out of the only warmth I had and kicked the coals alive in the stove, stoked it full. Just as I shut the stove door, he said thanks. I borrowed one of his cuss words. The trout whisperer
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