It isn’t hardly worth cheering, but it’s notable nonetheless: Scott County’s unemployment rate no longer threatens to be the highest such rate in the state…at least for now.

After being announced at a seasonal unadjusted rate of 18.8% in December (2nd-highest in the state), Scott County’s seasonally-adjusted rate dropped all the way to 17.9% in December. That rate rose to 18.3% in January, according to figures released yesterday by the Dept. of Labor & Workforce Development.

At 18.3%, Scott County’s jobless rate is good enough for 8th-highest in the state…and for the first time in over a year, it isn’t the highest unemployment rate in the region. That dubious distinction goes to Pickett County, which has an unemployment rate of 18.7%.

Total unemployment in Scott County rose from 1,550 in December to 1,560 in January.

With major layoffs coming that aren’t factored into that unemployment rate and won’t be for a few more months, our slide down the Top 10 list probably won’t last.

This morning’s fiery sunrise (looking east from the U.S. 27/63 intersection in Huntsville). Photo: Paul Roy.

Tennessee’s spring turkey hunting season opens in just three weeks. It’s time to take a look back at some memorable hunts and birds from past seasons…beginning with one of the most worthy adversaries of ‘em all: Ol’ Soft Gobble.

A wild turkey has six toes and short, dull claws. A wild turkey hunter has 10 fingers and opposable thumbs.

A wild turkey scratches through leaves and cow piles for food. A wild turkey hunter has battled to the top of the food chain.

A wild turkey has a brain roughly the size of a peanut. A wild turkey hunter has a brain roughly the size of a cantaloupe. A battle of wits between the two and the outcome would be . . . well, a no-brainer.

But that wasn’t the case with me and Ol’ Soft Gobble.

Every turkey hunter occasionally runs into a bird that gives them the slip and makes it personal. The hunter soon becomes fixated on that one bird; none other matters. “Season-wreckers,” some call them. And for good reason: Even the best hunter can find a bird that will eat up his entire season without presenting a shot if the hunter doesn’t have the willpower to concede defeat and find another bird to hunt.

Ol’ Soft Gobble certainly had all the qualities of a season-wrecker. He earned his name for his quiet gobble. If you weren’t familiar with him, you would almost swear that the bird gobbling on the next ridge was a jake. But if you had hunted this bird before, you’d just grin and say, “Nope. That’s Ol’ Soft Gobble.”

Put Ol’ Soft Gobble in a line-up with a dozen other longbeards and I’m not sure I could distinguish between them. But there was no doubting the old boy’s quiet vocalizations.

I do not remember the first time I heard Ol’ Soft Gobble. Likely as not, I mistook him for a jake. But as that season (and the next) rolled along, it became obvious that Ol’ Soft Gobble was one smart bird. A hunting buddy set up on the bird on several occasions. I set up on the bird on several occasions. On a few occasions, we both set up on the bird. But always to no avail.

Ol’ Soft Gobble had a penchant for roosting in the same place most nights. On the edge of a narrow, bluff-lined ridge-top, he would roost in a stand of white pines. Calling him into gun range was akin to talking a squirrel out of a hickory tree. The most seductive sequence of yelps, clucks and purrs were rendered useless by Ol’ Soft Gobble’s stubborness.

Still, unless he pitched off the bluff and across the creek, there was only one way off the ridge. It would seem easy. Position one’s self in the middle of the narrow ridge-top, a hundred yards or so from his tree, and intercept him as he leaves his bedroom for the happy scratching grounds on down the trail. But still Ol’ Soft Gobble managed to evade us.

When push came to shove, we devised a plan, placing two hunters a hundred yards apart to cover both routes of possible travel from the roost to the open woods. But when Ol’ Soft Gobble pitched down, he worked his way around the edge of the ridge among thickets of mountain laurel, gobbling occasionally to mock us as he headed for the deeper woods.

For the rest of that season and all of the next, one or the other or both of us hunted Ol’ Soft Gobble from time to time. There were times when he almost didn’t make it.

On one such occasion—it was Good Friday—he was apparently without his usual harem of hens and was somewhat responsive to my calls. But I had foolishly forgotten to silence the ringer on my cell phone, and an untimely phone call spoiled the day.

On another occasion late in the third season—when Ol’ Soft Gobble had to be at least four years old; a senior citizen in turkey terms—my brother and I managed to slip in close to the old patriarch and a handful of hens traveling with him. For two hours, we were within sixty yards of the old bird. He was spitting-and-drumming and strutting the entire time, putting on a show for his harem. A couple of times, we got good looks at him strutting just out of gun range. At times, the hens would wander too close for comfort. We’d be sure he would follow but were worried that the hens would bust us. It was nerve-wracking, and Ol’ Soft Gobble finally managed to give us the slip again, busting us when we became impatient and tried to shift positions.

Perhaps the most intimate meeting Ol’ Soft Gobble and I had was midway through the final season I hunted him. I was on the next ridge over from Ol’ Soft Gobble’s usual hangout when I heard the familiar, soft gobble ring out. I ignored it at first, but temptation eventually won out. I headed after Ol’ Soft Gobble’s roost tree yet again.

By mistake, I nearly tripped right over him. It was fully daylight and I just happened to look up and see the old bird sitting on a limb, nearly fifty feet up a large American beech tree.

I wasn’t sure why he had failed to detect my movement, but he stayed perched calmly on his limb. I was surprised to see that he was alone and, suddenly, I was brimming with confidence. Here I was, in bonafide shooting range of Ol’ Soft Gobble. He had no hens with him to spoil the hunt. What could possibly go wrong?

The problem was that despite the excellent weather, Ol’ Soft Gobble didn’t want to come out of the tree. Like many wild old gobblers, Soft Gobble was waiting on some hens to come calling before he would come out of the tree, and he stayed put on his limb until well after the sun had risen.

Confident that I was well hidden behind a bush, I gave a few soft calls to try and coax him off the roost. In the process, I managed to call up another bird. It wasn’t until I heard the sudden drum of a gobbler behind me—a low-frequency but unmistakable sound similar to a large truck gearing down on a very distant highway, preceded by a tell-tale spitting sound—that I realized the second bird had slipped in on me. Instinct took over and caution went to the wind as I whirled quickly with my gun in an effort to get into position before he broke into view. But he never showed himself.

Whether Ol’ Soft Gobble saw my sudden movement through the foliage or whether he saw me when I first slipped in on him, I’ll never know. But after another fifteen or twenty minutes on the roost, he decided it was time to go. Instead of pitching down, he sailed off the roost and was still sailing over the treetops when he went out of sight down the hollow. I am convinced to this day that the old-timer knew I was there the entire time and stayed put on the roost simply to mock me.

What became of Ol’ Soft Gobble is anyone’s guess. Mine is that he died of old age. I suppose it’s possible that he finally met up with a hunter smart enough to beat him at his own game, but I prefer to think that he managed to evade predators of both the two-legged and four-legged variety right up until the end.

I’ve hunted Ol’ Soft Gobble’s ridge a number of times since, never with a lot of luck. But whenever the wind is blowing away from me, or the spring foliage has thickened up late in the season, and a longbeard’s gobble sounds quieter than usual, I can’t help but think of Ol’ Soft Gobble.

It isn’t hard for a bird to give me the slip, and many have. But none have earned my respect like an old bird with a soft-toned gobble…none like that old “season-wrecker.”

How is it possible that America’s favorite Texas Ranger turned 70 today? Seventy! (And he could still kick the tail of a 21-year-old. Blind-folded. With one hand tied behind his back.)

Scott County’s own Anthony Smith discusses his new single and new album:

Seven years — and countless hits as a songwriter—later, he’s back for another run of success as a solo artist. Bringin’ Back The Sunshine, his new album on his own Krankit Records, is nearing release, and the first single and video, “Love Is Love Is Love,” is starting to make an impact for the Oneida, TN native. Needless to say, it’s a great time to be Anthony Smith these days.

“It’s great,” Smith says of everything going on around him. “The timing couldn’t be better. We’ve put together a great record. It’s been in the works for the past couple of years, putting this thing together. We launched Krankit Records just a few months ago, and we’re coming out with our first single, and everybody is just excited—like having a new kid or something.”

In a tin-foil-hat article normally reserved for right-wing blogs, an ESPN columnist claims that President Obama could be on the verge of eliminating sport fishing in America:

The Obama administration will accept no more public input for a federal strategy that could prohibit U.S. citizens from fishing some of the nation’s oceans, coastal areas, Great Lakes, and even inland waters.

And this guy says the ESPN writer is full of it:

As a sportsman who covers fisheries management and politics I do think there are many issues surrounding the Interagency Ocean Policy Task Force and its eventual recommendations that all fishermen should be aware of and concerned about.

But to go from concern to suggesting that President Obama is about to ban fishing in America is the most absurd and irresponsible thing I have ever seen a major news outlet publish. There is not even a remote possibility that a standing president of the United States will outlaw fishing in America.

There are two sides to almost every issue, and the proposed Roberta Phase II Landfill at Bear Creek in north Oneida is no exception.

On the one hand, the lifestyle that we live as a “civilized” society produces tons of trash each and every day; trash that has to be placed somewhere. And it’s impossible to blame the business partners of Roberta Phase II for seizing on an opportunity to make money. They’re good men; men who have dedicated much to the local community, not only professionally but through their personal acts of good will towards fellow Scott Countians. If you’re looking for something negative to be said about them, it won’t be here or by me.

On the other hand, it’s human nature to have a NIMBY (not in my backyard) attitude. If someone were proposing to build a landfill just down the street from me, I would be the first one to turn in my comment card to speak at the public hearing. You can’t blame Bear Creek residents for being up in arms about this proposed landfill. And you can’t blame Scott Countians who are, quite frankly, sick and tired of seeing this rural community used as a dumping ground by outside interests.

The primary problem here is the mandated permit process. Ideally, each county would be responsible for its own waste. As Scott County Republican Party Chairman Chuck Valentine said at Monday’s public hearing, let Scott County take care of its trash disposal, and let everybody else take care of their trash disposal. A simplistic approach to a complicated problem? Perhaps. But it certainly beats the alternative: Where counties can pay a little more to truck their waste away from their back yards and dump it in the back yards of their neighbors.

Unfortunately, no one can tell a private landfill whose trash it will accept and whose trash it will reject. And county and municipal governments have no say-so in whether a private landfill is approved.

Therein lies the problem. Local governments should have the authority to approve or reject a proposed landfill. Instead, the Tennessee Department of Environment & Conservation serves as the sole authority on the matter and can single-handedly approve or reject an application (though the department is mandated by state statute to issue the permit if the proposed landfill meets technical requirements).

It shouldn’t be this way. Say what you want to about private property rights. But the fact of the matter is that a proposed landfill doesn’t only impact the landowners. Their neighbors have to see it, smell it and, eventually, maybe even drink a little of it. Although water quality issues tend to be blown out of proportion in emotional public hearings, the fact remains that the EPA says that all landfill liners will eventually leak. It was telling that, at last night’s hearing, Dr. George Hyfantis, the engineer hired to design the landfill, was pointedly asked whether he could personally guarantee that the landfill would never contaminate the ground water and he could not answer in the affirmative.

The question fielded by Dr. Hyfantis was one of many inquiries lobbed by citizens from the standing-room-only crowd. Of those who took the podium, the lone voice of support for the landfill was former Huntsville alderman Wes Riggins, who correctly stated that “you have to put a dump somewhere.” Granted, 60 or 70 citizens showing up at the Oneida Municipal Building at supper-time on a Monday evening don’t represent the 22,000 or so folks who make up Scott County. But every measure of public opinion on this matter—whether it’s newspaper polls, public hearings or coffee-shop chatter—has found an overwhelming majority in opposition to the proposed landfill.

But the court of public opinion doesn’t matter in the landfill approval process. TDEC representative Tommy Himes said as much when he told the gathering of concerned citizens at last night’s meeting that the state has already “tentatively approved” the landfill. The only thing that can derail the process, he said, is if technical information can be offered to the contrary; if something can be said that indicates the landfill would violate the state’s clean water and solid waste disposal standards. Folks who turn out for public hearings, for the most part, aren’t experts on clean air or waste disposal standards. They can’t offer the contrary technical information that the state is looking for. All they can do is offer an impassioned plea that trash not be dumped in their back yard. Their opinions don’t fall on deaf ears. But they might as well.

And what we’re left with is a landfill that Scott County and its leaders have no voice in. A landfill that will accept trash from 11 neighboring counties in addition to Scott County. A landfill that will collect somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,500 tons of trash per day…taking only 2.5 years to fill to capacity. Roberta Phase I is nearly full. Roberta Phase II (24 acres in size) will be full in less than three years. And, by the admission of the engineering firm, another landfill will be applied for, and then another, until the entire 308 acres is eventually filled to capacity.

And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

The NIMBY arguments might not be grounded in sound technical reasoning. But if Scott County is going to be used as a dumping ground for our neighbors’ trash, is it too much to ask that we be given a say-so in the matter?

Even as a standing-room-only crowd turned out at the Oneida Municipal Building tonight in overwhelming opposition to the proposed Roberta Phase II Landfill, Tennessee Department of Environment & Conservation spokesman Tommy Himes said TDEC has “tentatively decided” to grant the permit application.

Tonight’s public hearing was conducted by TDEC in response to written requests by area residents. The landfill, which would be located on a 24-acre parcel adjacent to the existing Volunteer Regional Landfill at Bear Creek, was applied for by Oneida businessman Johnny King.

Dozens of residents turned out for the hearing, with several taking the opportunity to voice their displeasure at the prospects of a new landfill, which as proposed would accept solid waste from 12 counties across the region and would be a candidate for TVA fly ash disposal. Officials with Tennessee Citizens for Wilderness Planning, the McCreary County (Ky.) Water District and Town of Oneida voiced their opposition to the proposed landfill.

However, Himes pointed out that unless technical information can be provided to show why the landfill shouldn’t be granted, TDEC is required by state statute to issue the permit.

If it seems like I’ve been slacking when it comes to pounding the pixels (to steal a quip), it’s because I have been.

The first of many spring projects at my house is to turn the basement into living quarters. And like any remodeling project, it’s slow going: Demolishing the existing finish work (wall paneling and carpeting), moving wiring, moving plumbing, cutting concrete, moving doors, building walls, etc. Me and my crowbar were close companions all of last week…until Friday, when I was finally ready to start being constructive rather than destructive.

Slowly but surely, it’s coming along. I have one more wall to build and everything will be framed in. After that, it’s a matter of finishing the plumbing and wiring and then I’ll be ready to start doing finish work. I’m not a carpenter, but I can manage when it comes to a hammer and saw. It’s the wiring and plumbing that I struggle with. If I tried it myself, I’d either burn the house down or flood the basement. So I’m leaving that to those who know what they’re doing…good help is hard to find, though. *cough, cough*

It will be for me:

As I stood there looking like a Roy Orbison impersonator in my specially polarized glasses, I made a mental note to call my wife and apologize for the money we’ll be dropping on 3-D televisions in the next few years. Because, no matter how attached you are to your current HD flatscreen, you’re going to want to throw it in the trash once you see sports in 3-D.

This is not meant to serve as an advertisement for ESPN or for any of the consumer electronics companies whose products I may mention below. I’m not receiving any promotional equipment or reward of any kind; in fact, I’d be fired if I were. This is just a warning for all of you out there who, like me, can’t resist the lure of the Next Big Gadget.

Sometime between five and 10 years from now, most of us will watch our sports in 3-D, and we’ll wonder why anyone bothers to actually attend the games.