I have long been the type to assign a nickname to just about everyone I cross paths with during my sojourn on this planet we call home. I am not entirely sure when this affliction first started, but I can trace its absolute peak back to a specific elk hunting trip with Son Number One — better known to the world as "Bubs" — back when he was just fourteen years old.  

We had never hunted the elusive Wapiti before, but through a mixture of blind faith and stubbornness, we soon found ourselves “ensconced” in an elk camp near South Fork, Colorado. (Go ahead and look that word up; it’s a great one to throw around to impress folks at your next neighborhood pot-luck dinner.) 

After a few freezing mornings waking up to frost on our sleeping bags, we frequently found ourselves driving into town to warm our bones and grab a hearty meal at the Hungry Logger Cafe. It was a bustling place back then, heavily guarded by a signature 40-foot-tall carved wooden Paul Bunyan character standing right by the front door. Hence the name, I suppose. 

Back then, hundreds of eager hunters descended on the tiny town, and nearly every last one of them carried a unique story or some unusual characteristic. Naturally, Bubs and I started making up names for them all. 

 For instance, we met an entire family — father, mother, and kids who were decked out from head to toe in mandatory, blindingly bright blaze orange. Their actual surname happened to be Ortega, so the moment they stepped into the woods, they permanently became the Orange Ortegas whenever we spotted them around the area. 

Then there was Gunnysack George. We met this character up on Pool Table Mountain, where he was roughing it out of a faded, old army tent. He flagged us down on the dirt road one afternoon to kindly offer us a warm pull from his whiskey bottle. We politely declined, but he got just close enough for us to notice he smelled exactly like an old, wet burlap sack. 

The naming habit never stopped after that, and my immediate circle didn’t escape the naming committee either. Our dear friends became Gidget and Moon Doggy after dressing up as the 60s surf icons for a local celebration of the 1969 moon landing. My daughter-in-law became Tinkerbell due to her nimble feet and dance team past. My daughter and her husband go by Capt and Cricket for what reason, I do not recall. 

Even my own father, a direct descendant of some famous founders of Dodge City, Kansas, earned the moniker Fast Freddy. The deal was sealed after I bought him his first-ever pistol, and he proudly posed for a photo wearing an oversized cowboy hat and a shiny tin badge. 

Then, of course, there is the ever lovely Miss Trixie. She earned her famous handle during a frantic, late-night rush to hit a newspaper deadline for this very column. Miss Trixie will readily tell you that I come up with names constantly for everyone. After all these years, I think I finally figured out why. 

It goes back to a famous memory course taught at our church decades ago. The gist of the system was remembering names through visual association. If you met a man named Jim Smith, you were supposed to picture a blacksmith hammering away inside a school gymnasium. Supposedly, that crazy mental image triggers the name later. It reminds me of the old joke about a man utilizing this exact method. He was trying to remember a neighbor's name while talking to a buddy. 

"It has something to do with a thorny flower," the man muttered, scratching his head. His friend, though not the brightest bulb in the pack, guessed, "Is it a Rose?" 

The first man jumped up with joy, turned toward the kitchen, and hollered, "Hey, Rose! What’s the name of that guy who delivers our heating fuel?" 

In reality, that joke perfectly describes how Ol’ Dutch operates these days. These days Ol’ Dutch doesn’t bother with memory exercises. Why would he? He’s got Miss Trixie. If I can’t remember where I left my glasses, my truck keys, or my train of thought, I simply ask her. She knows everything. 

Now, I freely admit Miss Trixie is the smartest person in any room she walks into. Which naturally leads folks to ask the reasonable question: “If she’s that smart, why’d she pick Ol’ Dutch?” 

Well, apparently every brilliant woman needs a hobby. 

I just didn’t realize I was hers. 

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.com