Basecamp Dispatch: Heat Dome and Fairy Wings

It’s been another sultry week here in the South. We hit 100+ degrees this week. But the “feels like” temperature reached 113. It feels like an insult that the weather people decide to clarify just how hot it is with the heat index. It’s not like the thermometers weren’t doing a fine job all by themselves.

Like everyone else currently smothering under this heat dome, my chickens are miserable. They just hang out next to the water dish like it’s an office water cooler, panting like dogs, making pathetic little clucking noises as they complain about the heat (and probably management).

Egg production has dropped off, and we’re doing our best to keep them comfortable. Their coop is shaded and they’ve been getting daily treats of cold macaroni and watermelon slices. We’ve even taken to dropping some ice into their water at midday. Thankfully, this week’s temps are expected to dip to a cool and refreshing 90 degrees. Small blessings and all that.

The garden is about the only thing that feels like being productive in this heat, and it is going strong. I’m still drowning in zucchini and now the peppers are giving me a run for my money.

None of them are pretty.

The peppers are spotted and flat in places and my zucchini are crooked and pale on one side, but they all eat just fine even if they would never make it onto the grocery store shelves.

I didn’t know I was a Noah Kahan fan. But here we are.

I’ve had his new album, The Great Divide, on repeat this week, playing like a soundtrack in the background of my life. It’s gloomy and depressing in the best of ways. And yes, I ended up crying in the Food Lion parking lot before wiping my face and heading inside to pick up cheddar cheese and Duke’s mayo.

I figured I could just blame my red and puffy eyes on a grass allergy.

Independence Day. Before the fireworks. My granddaughter Ellie is dressed in a striped dress with red, white, and blue glitter fairy wings. She runs barefoot laps around the potluck.

A family friend tries teaching her to play cornhole, a required skill when you live in the South. By the end of it, she’s almost tossing the bags straight instead of pitching them sideways into the crowd of people balancing paper plates of pasta salad and fried chicken.

But she would rather stack the bags into a tower on the board and then stand back to admire her work.

I sent out a whole heap of pitches this week, trying to fill up my Q3 writing calendar. This is a tough time of year for outdoor writers and July is a strange month to pitch hunting stories. It’s like trying to sell Christmas trees on Independence Day. Editors know the season is coming, but nobody’s quite ready to think about it yet. But my summer bills won’t wait for fall content.

If you happen to be roaming around free on the internet this week, here’s where you can find me.

Two Poachers Convicted for Killing Three Bull Elk in Coveted Montana Unit (MeatEater)

Poaching stories always piss me off, but this one really burnt my biscuit. Hunters play by the rules and sometimes wait years for a chance to draw a tag in units like this. Meanwhile, these poachers illegally killed three nice 6x6 bull elk that represented decades of habitat work, conservation funding, and careful wildlife management.

This week, I’ll be waiting to hear back on a handful of pitches, trying to stay ahead of the zucchini, and putting the finishing touches on Saturday’s essay. Until then, I’ll be writing, watering, and pretending the heat and humidity are building character. If they are, I’ll be eligible for sainthood by August.

I’ll meet you back here next Tuesday. Until then, stay cool.