GROUSERS: formerly Five Smart Guys Who Hunt and Their Generally Smarter Companions

Carhartt bird hunting coat on ebay

2012-01-27T09:32:00.002-05:00

one day left, high bidder right now is at $25. Size L. go get it!!

http://www.ebay.com/itm/Carhartt-Bird-Hunting-Jacket-w-bird-pouch-/120847568320?pt=US_Men_s_Athletic_Apparel&hash=item1c23138dc0

Orange in a can

2012-01-18T16:03:00.004-05:00

I appreciate the concern about my attire from brother grousers Kleinpuppy and Path Walker. Although somehow I missed the subliminal offer to buy me a new vest that Andy picked up on in reading between the lines of Pete's post . . . therefore I assume I'm stuck with the same old same old for the next ten or twenty seasons. (also forgot that Pete was there when I bought it new--Famous Brands, where else? and seeing as how Josh and I took hunter ed together in 1993, the vest is circa 1993.)

Here's how we rectify the faded-old-and-no-longer-legal-blaze-orange dilemma. The Filson Company's orange in a can:
When I'm hunting solo, I sometimes skip the new orange; but when I'm with some tree-swatting, covert-stealing flatlander from Pennsyltucky, I don my Filson orange in a can, and I'm good to go.

Fifty-four bucks from Filson.

Grouser Looking for a Sponsor

2012-01-17T20:56:00.005-05:00

Seeing Jim's faded vest in the photo with Phoebe - the same vest I helped him purchase c. 1995 - I realized that what he really needs is a corporate sponsor.

I don't consider myself to be a gear guy, but I do love my Badlands vest from Uplander's Warehouse. The ergonomic suspension system rides perfectly during long, grouseless trecks through the Pennsylvania woods. The game pouch can handle all the treed fool hens a man can shoot in the early Maine grouse season. My vest even has a slot for a "hydration bag" to slake the thirst that comes with missing grouse after grouse in northern Wisconsin coverts. And, the vest is extremely versatile. It'll handle timberdoodles too.

Goose dip - Late season Canadas in the Finger Lakes

2012-01-11T21:14:00.015-05:00

Bobby, my neighbor, and I made my annual hajj from central Pennsylvania to Mecca for the late goose season that the New York grousers know so well. I had wanted to introduce Bobby to this unique form of hunting, something he had never experienced in over three decades of Pennsylvania hunts. Despite sub-par weather conditions (perfect for spreading manure… but more on that later), Bobby came out of the experience, in his words, “hooked.”

Keith, Mo and the kids served up incredible hospitality, smoked appetizers and, manicures. Yes, Victoria’s Paradise Spa is open for service, with rates so low it was impossible to leave without a few French nails and a painful eyebrow wax. Service was the theme of our visit, enough to make a visitor ashamed of the inadequate preparations he had made for Keith’s Pennsylvania deer visit earlier in the season.

Keith and Eric had scouted hard prior to our arrival. Canada Geese were relatively scarce – warm weather scrambling migration patterns - and the birds that were around had not been flying much. A brief cold spell brought a partial dusting of snow, just enough to preclude the use of the layout blinds but not enough to allow for snow camouflage. Compared with past years, things weren’t looking good, at least by our guides’ standards.

Our first day of hunting offered some of the best conditions of this year’s late season. We camped in an island of brush, visitors positioned in the best shooting cover, guides huddled under an obtrusive tree. The guides conferred over the best configuration for the decoy spread. All contributed to setting the many dozens of decoys: nodding full bodies, flocked shells, the occasional blue goose pair. Bobby marveled at the innovation and the investment.

The Canadas were late to fly. The first few flocks to visit our field were suspicious of something. Hypotheses were rendered. Decoys were reconfigured.

At long last a pair descended into easy range. The Pennsylvanian’s unloaded blunderbusts. I recall shooting at one bird, watching it fly a few beats, then surprised as it dropped, stone cold dead. Only then did I take note of the shot that had followed mine. Even trapped under a tree Keith wasn’t going to take any bird for granted.

For the remainder of the day, birds arrived at regular intervals. Large flocks would not be decoyed close enough to pinch. Smaller groups succumbed to our shots, more often than not. At one point a lone bird flew around the brush island. It was high, more than 50 yards above ground. “Take him,” whispered one guide to the other. An audible click, 10 gauge safety switched off, followed by a roar. I looked to the heavens and the bird actually dropped into my field of view. The fate of Icarus. It was a singularly impressive and memorable moment. Smoke wafted from Eric’s gun. Pride emanated from the gun’s owner.

We racked up the birds. Ten in the bag. Everyone was able to lay claim to at least two. Easy cleaning at Kuneytown on Eric’s tailgate.

Kuneytown cleaning fest

Scouting at day’s end didn’t come as easy as did the bird cleaning. The guides worked their phones and drove down roads following hunches. No good alternatives to that day’s field could be found. So it was that we decided to return to the site of that day's success.

Day two brought Rich, force of nature. Day two also brought an unwelcomed odor (no relation to Rich but also a force of nature). We had been watching manure spreaders zipping from barn to fields at the end of the previous day’s hunt. Even with a hard freeze it was clear that the ground had changed from yesterday's condition: 8,000 gallons of frozen porcine waste now plastering its surface. With wind from the south and a late start, we had little choice but to set the "spread" on the brown frost.

There are times when we use the term “blue bird day” euphemistically. This day - clear skies and very light southerly breeze - brought bluebirds to our feces glazed field. No Canada Geese. We watched flock upon flock of snow geese travel by. We made wonderful conversation. We lamented Rich’s absence the day before the manure had been applied. The day BEFORE, when the Canada Geese actually FLEW from their lake roosts to the grain fields. One Canada Goose did eventually investigate the stench, but it changed its mind when a hail of steel frustration shooed it away.

With the sun came the thaw. Not a welcome thaw. A dangerous thaw. Trips through the decoys became hazardous, slick slurry blanketing the once frictional surface. Olfactory senses overwhelmed all others as the atmosphere became more and more pungent. In the miasma hunters became light headed.

We weighed options. Rich developed ever more concern over work he had abandoned at the office. We worked ever harder to focus on the wonderful camaraderie we shared.

Rich, searching for an escape back to the office

By the time we decided to cut our losses, the flock of decoys - once proud replicas of migrating avian magnificence - had taken on the rime of a swine lagoon. Decoy collection involved strategies seldom considered when waterfowl hunting. How to optimize travel between decoys? How to stack the decoys so that only a few, sacrificial shells contacted the fetid earth? When Eric returned with four wheeler and trailer his tires issued rooster tails of rancid muck.

Decoy trailer sporting porcine racing stripes

We walked back to the vehicles, marveling at the misery of this warm, sunny day. New Yorkers weighed the costs and benefits of cleaning older decoys. Pennsylvanians considered excuses for abandoning the gear they had worn that morning, if only to improve the car cabin air during the four hour trip home.

For the New York grousers, these two days of goose hunting may very well be ones they would soon forget, or would wish that they could forget. For the Pennsylvania grousers, the indelible memories of these hunts left no doubt that they would return in a year’s time. Regardless of the manure spreading conditions.

2012 'ku coup

2012-01-10T12:18:00.008-05:00

first bird in two years
in an undisclosed covert--
Sugar Hill's sweet spot

One pup left

2012-01-09T13:19:00.006-05:00

Posting this for Jim Caron, who bred Phoebe's sister this fall:

Hi Jim-

Any chance I could talk you into posting the attached photos of the last male pup I have available on your Grouser’s blog site?

All of his brothers and sisters went to new homes this past weekend but his prospective new owner decided at the last minute the timing was not right for him. I would be happy to send pedigrees, hip results for dam and hip/elbow/eye and thyroid results for sire. This little guy is 8 weeks tomorrow (1/10) and he‘s ¾ Llewellyn (sire is 100% registered Llewellyn with FDSB). My e-mail contact info for anyone with questions is jacaron@fast-air.net I could partially deliver him as far as Lansing on Feb. 6th if that would help someone who may be wondering how to arrange to get him.

The litter has been registered already with FDSB and he has first shots, dew claws removed and wormed. He will be a hunting machine by this coming Sept. and I’ll bet he will back his Aunt Phoebe.

I’ve also included one photo of his mom, my Daisy, after a short hunt around the house this past Oct. when she was 4 weeks pregnant. A solid memorable point on a grouse under a spruce that I proceeded to miss (followed up and got it though).

Thanks and feel free to send any photos you may have of Phoebe working the brush.

Jim Caron

So here are the pics, let me know if any of you are interested.

thanks.

L.C. Smith Crown “LONG RANGE WILDFOWL” – FACTORY L : Side By Side Shotgun

2012-01-04T19:08:00.000-05:00

L.C. Smith Crown “LONG RANGE WILDFOWL” – FACTORY L : Side By Side Shotguns at GunBroker.com

2011 late season waterfowl

2011-12-31T21:23:00.000-05:00

The 2011 waterfowl season has been unseasonably mild and a bit slower than years past in the Canoga Creek environs. The late season opener saw very mild temps and light winds, not optimal for open water. We hunted the bait ponds and shot four mallards. Nick handled the retrieving duties and made some miraculous finds in heavy cover.

The second day of season seemed to promise cooler temps and some weather, so a field hunt was organized on the Hoster field. Rich was in on this one, a tough, muddy, hardcore layout hunt in which we knocked down 9 geese and 1 duck. Three of the geese we knocked down made the end of the field and crash-landed in the gully behind my barn. They were unfortunately not found (no dog).

Day three found us accompanied by Dan DeLaywer of NY Ducks Unlimited ensconced in the comforts of Double Black blind on Cayuga Lake. Due to very late carousing the night before with Dan, we all shot very poorly for the first flights, but finally managed to scratch down a half dozen mallards between the group. Brant did the the retrieving and performed well. It was great reconvening the old crowd- Ernie, O'Connor, Riegel, Dan, Danielle, and myself.

Day four found us back in the bait ponds, taking advantage of a hard freeze that occurred overnight. We had planned ahead for frozen water and had set up a blind near a spring fed pond that almost never freezes, leaving a duck magnet when all other inland water is locked up tight. We shot 5 ducks- 2 gadwall and 3 mallards. Nick was on duty for the retrieves.

Day five, it was back in the ponds, as Rich had reported having been frozen out still at Double Black. Conditions were milder, but the ducks were still few and far between. We again shot five ducks, the bag consisting this time of 2 black ducks and three mallards. Brant did some nice retrieving, but there was nothing spectacular in that department.

Day six, the last hunt of 2011, found us once again in warm temps and very little wind. Though we were ready for a change of season, the ponds were the choice. the early flight was slow, but the action turned on after 1000 and we, once again, scratched down 5 ducks- 1 gadwall and 4 mallards. Brant made some great finds in heavy cover, including two blind retrieves, demonstrating a kind of coming-of-age wherein he is developing instincts and beginning to use his nose where needed. It was a great way to end the year.

Happy New Year to all grousers. Here's to a happy and healthy 2012.

Half Moon Creek - redux

2011-12-28T16:22:00.007-05:00

Quit work early to return to the creek for another round of jump shooting. No kids this time (still visiting grandparents in Arkansas). Much colder. But the ducks were equally accommodating.

Canoga's Tiger Lilly, soaking wet

after two icy, but short, retrieves

Half Moon Creek

2011-12-24T06:46:00.018-05:00

Looking out my dining room window you can almost miss the half-mile stretch of creek that runs through my neighbors’ fields. A line through grass at the bottom of the broad valley, it’s usually more void than body. Forced out of its meander long ago, the creek cuts deeply into the alluvial soils that bound it. Leeches have made their home in its warm, muddy stretches.

Even with all of its ailments and insignificance, there’s not a member of this blog who wouldn’t see this little creek's potential. I covet it, although I could never afford to buy the farm through which it courses. Looking upon it I imagine a healthy riparian system with pothole ponds, trees, brush, flowers and wildlife. Like much of the land around my house it is a blank canvas.

Occasionally, the creek provides hints of what it would offer when healed.

I left work around 2:00 yesterday, heading home to watch the kids while Kelly shopped for their Christmas presents. It has been a gloomy week at work, federal budget cuts finally coming to roost upon our lab, and I had hoped at some point for a cathartic grouse hunt over Lilly. Now I had my beloved kids to factor in. Grousing seemed out.

We’ve had a lot of rain this year. More than 60 inches in an area that normally gets around 40. Recent rains had flooded wetlands along the drive home. By the time I rounded the last bend I had hatched a plan for waterfowl, unlikely as it seemed.

I stopped off at Bobby’s, my other neighbor, with the offer to swap my kids for a hunt with him. He has three daughters who bracket my kids’ ages, so the proposition wasn’t as unreasonable as it might sound. Bobby had seen ducks along the creek earlier in the week, and was nearly swayed by the offer. But, he had work to do making his participation out of the question. I couldn’t muster the chutzpa to ask if I could just drop off my kids without some form of reciprocation.

I’ll take them with me I decided.

So it was that we three marched with Lilly across my little farm, past my equipment shed, and down the lane to Half Moon Creek. I let Lilly run much of the way, stretching out her long legs after a day cooped up in the house. She ranged widely. Before I knew it she had reached the creek by the bridge and was making for the water. I called her back. Here! Here! Here! She returned reluctantly. So much for a sneak.

Even so, I was committed to the plan to stalk the remaining length of the creek. Kids trailing by a few yards. Dog on heel. Occasionally poking over the bank to search its contents.

Nearing the creek we cut off the laneway, bypassing the stretch that Lilly had travelled. I was surprised by the noise of stiff feathers launching birds from near the bridge. Two mallards rose, not 30 yards from my position and only 10 yards from the spot Lilly had momentarily visited.

I wheeled, noting the kids – great kids – were exactly where I had told them to be, several yards behind me.

I picked the green head and shot.

The bird flinched, but kept flying. Off, down the valley with its mate. Lilly trailing at full speed.

Wait. While the hen headed skyward the drake remained only 10 yards above the flood plane.

Dog and bird covered 300 yards in seconds.

Then the bird wheeled down to the creek. Lilly hot behind.

We waited. After a minute I told the kids to wait in the open at the bridge so that Lilly would see them and return to them with duck if she found it. I headed down the other bank to help dog locate bird.

50 yards downstream I saw Lilly racing back to the kids. No bird.

Here! Here! Here! She snapped to me. Launched herself, 10 feet across the creek. Bank to bank. A spectacle of athleticism.

We hunted the final yards downstream. Another bridge crossed the creek. Lilly ran across it and under it. I could see her stop momentarily, scooping the bird up. I didn’t even need to call her. She came. Fleet, fluid motion. Bird in maw.

The drake was very much alive when she dropped it off. A crisp retrieve.

We returned to the kids, waiting for us at the bridge where I had left them. Cheers went up when I hoisted the bird. Mallard! Mallard! Then excited prattle about Christmas duck and Christmas presents and Christmas music and duck feathers on our Christmas tree.

We walked the long lane home. Half Moon Creek babbling behind us. Nearly bank full.

RIP God of Thunder

2011-12-10T15:09:00.004-05:00

Smokygold's Thunder God

July 7, 2000 - December 10, 2011

Rough day today. Thor had a seizure, out of the blue, this morning and never recovered. He passed away as I rushed him to the vet. He may not have been the best hunting dog I've ever owned, but he sure was the nicest. Don't think I'll ever find another like him. We've all lost our hunting buddies before, but it never gets easy. Give your hunting buddies a good squeeze for me and remember the Thormeister.

SJ

Josh is on to something

2011-12-05T10:05:00.001-05:00

Recently there was a request to start a "gun thread"... so here goes. I want one of these (thanks Josh) for Christmas:

PA Deer Camp

2011-11-29T21:20:00.002-05:00

This year's PA deer camp at Warrior's Mark Winery (Pete's Place) was highly memorable. We killed two bucks. Pete and Kelly fed me well and plied me with wonderful beverages. I had the best sandwich of my life (more on that later). I was serenaded by Pete and Kelly's beautiful children.

Pete and I had been talking about revising the deer plan for the Fie Woods and the Valley of Death since last year's inaugural deer camp. The lay of the land from my perspective is that you have a classic escape cover mature hemlock forest with blowdowns and blackberry brambles in the openings, with a steep ravine and meandering creek (sound familiar?), including thicket and marsh bramble in the bottom, surrounded by corn fields. This is a place to kill a big buck. But, as I gingerly tried to explain to Pete, you probably lesson your chances of doing that by charging headlong into the center of the escape and bedding cover first thing in the morning on opening day. A big buck may be killed, but it will be by the fat-assed hedgerow hunters surrounding the good stuff as the buck squirts out after being booted from his lair. Not optimal. A better plan, I argued, was to ease in, play the wind, and, since there are no elevated stands (a HUGE problem in terms of safety in that place), incrementally work down the contour, ambushing the deer coming in from feeding all night in the freshly cut corn fields (those that manage to survive the gauntlet awaiting them in the form of the orange-clad-woods-edge-pot-shots-over-the-big-field program).

Pete never really liked the plan. I think Pete, God bless him, would prefer a good view over a likely ambush. I noticed that Pete would go to great lengths to preserve a romantic notion that he was setting off into the pristine wilds to take on nature head to head, in the absence of all lesser men. In other words, seeing other hunters is a total buzz-kill for Pete. I can appreciate that. On the other hand, one can go lots of places within an hour of Pete and get really big woods, so the charade is lost on me. And, its opening day, a day to hunt wide-eyed and focused until sunset...views, what views? To me, this is a place where a handful of guys who have been doing the same thing for a long time continue to hunt, still fling a lot of lead over the field on running deer, and at least on opening day, few bother to get down into the good stuff. Though you may see other hunters, its a place to kill bucks. Pete has himself a honey hole to drool over. And, he has a "sense of place" and a history to contend with. So I get it, but am trying to contribute in some meager way in assisting in increasing "the take" a bit. Its fun and nutritious.

The area I was sure would produce early was downstream of the valley of death a ways. I hunted and scouted it thoroughly last year, making a lot of mental notes and memorizing the contours, game trails, blow-down openings, and so on. There is a point just above the "Duck bridge" where 5 heavily traveled game trails all converge in a bed of ferns. Twenty yards from this spot is a cluster of 3 big hemlocks in the shape of a triangle. There is a blow-down beside it. I made a blind there last year and I planned to get to it first thing this year, to hunt the escape routes early, as planned. The other hot spot was the blackberry bramble blow-down opening. I felt Pete should hunt that spot, as it had the most buck sign last year.

We hit the woods, as Pete reports, just before dawn. I asked about the flagging we agreed Pete would install prior to the hunt to insure a silent and confident entry in the darkness... Pete related to me that he gave the order but no privates executed it, so no flagging. This was problematic, as the timing depended upon the smooth, quiet entry. If our plan was to crash around in the crackling under-story of a mature coniferous forest, perhaps we should have stuck with the Pete plan, had crepes and champagnes at 3 am, and started walking shortly thereafter. At least we wouldn't feel rushed as we pushed deer out in to the next county. Undaunted, however, we soldiered on. At some point Pete leaned over to me and whispered "Plan B?" I responded that it was time to improvise, that we just needed to get in a 100 yards or so and then sit tight until it got lighter so we could stop making so much noise and pick a spot to sit/stand for the first 30 mins. We agreed on this, both of us doing a fine job of quelling feelings of a hunt gone bust. As luck would have it, we arrived in a blow-down clearing (the only one like this on this section of the ridge) totally overrun with blackberries. It was the one I hunted last year and wanted Pete to hunt. I recognized it immediately, having hunted over it for a few hours last year. I whispered excitedly to Pete... "This is the blackberry bramble blow-down. The main game trail is just below and down hill, where the buck sign was last year. This is a great spot," I said. "The other spot I was thinking of, Ambush Alley, is just 150 yards up stream, on this ridge, a little to the left. Do you want to split up and settle in?" I asked, anxious to let the woods settle and get my listening post up and going (I hunt predominately on audio mode, not visual). We agreed to split up, to hunt the top for a few hours, then work our way down to the stream below, and to Pete's hallowed valley of death (monster bucks DO live there, I am convinced).

I arrived at my spot, happy to have remembered things so well. I settled in. My phone buzzed as I rushed to my spot, so I retrieved it and saw two texts. Pete had seen another hunter and vacated the bramble blow-down. Damn! It was still dark enough that I needed to know where he was. I attempted to text back. No signal. We were out of communication, and had made no contingency plans. That was my error. I decided to focus on the hunt, and worry about reestablishing communication with Pete after the golden hour was over.

Fifteen minutes passed. There were turkeys clucking and putting and cutting. I saw a little motion in the distance, heard and sensed more motion, coming down one of the 5 trails towards me. Behind me , motion. I perked up, heard more. Gun up... doe. Cross hairs on her. Eased back to position of the first sounds, back up the ambush alley. Then, I was startled by a very close shot. Silence. No more turkeys. I cursed that jamoke. Probably poached a turkey. I later found out Pete had concluded his hunt by shooting a buck on the ambush alley. I stupidly sat tight for another two hours on that spot, while Pete gutted a deer, and then dragged it out. At 1000 I relocated. Down to the stream, as planned.

I saw deer running on the other side, saw antlers, but no shot. Too fast, too much brush. I ranged the area and saw that it was only 65 yards, so I stayed in that spot until 1145. While there, I noticed that young oaks lined the stream, and the deer had been digging for acorns. I then noticed a line of rubs on sapling hemlocks going up the ridge. I looked back at the water, and could see that the bottom lacked the dark green silt here, at this narrow spot. You could see little dimples in the bottom. A crossing! I got up and followed the buck rubs, then tracks, then located a switch back trail that joined the main trail back below the original blackberry bramble blow-down. There were fresh, maybe one or two day old rubs directly down hill from the bramble blow down. I decided to hunt here, given that it was noon, lunchtime, and perhaps Pete would circle back to the last point of contact to reestablish communication. I knew that one simply needs to set up with a favorable wind on a line of rubs like that and wait. Something will eventually happen.

I settled into my new blind, a nice fat tree with two crossed blow-downs in front for cover. I trimmed a little for shooting lanes, ranged a few landmarks, and listened. The shooting from the perimeter of the woods had slowed way down. I reached into my backpack for the sandwich that Pete had made. It was big and flattened a little, and appeared to be quality bread. I unwrapped the saran wrap a little and suddenly my deer sonar went berserk... I froze. Nothing. But now I was on alert. Finished unwrapping the sandwich and a beautiful little hunters sausage that reminded me of a lunch while hunting red-legged partridge in Spain. Sonar alert again... I paid more attention this time, scanning 360 degrees very thoroughly. Nothing. I returned to my sandwich, that Pete lovingly made, that I had been thinking about since 0930. I took a few bites... delicious meat and cheese and sun-dried tomato on rich thick bread. This was a high quality sandwhich, a true treat in the woods on a deer hunt. I looked down at my knees, at the lovely three-barreled wonder laying across my lap called a drilling, made by JP Sauer, that I had only blooded once, with Pete, on grouse, on the great Drowned Road covert near the "Thoroughfare Valley" along the Allagash in Maine. A fine sandwich and a fine gun. Deer hunting. Hard to beat.

I took another bite of my sandwich and noted that I was half way through it with a mix of pleasure and pain... chewed once or twice, and the deer sonar went off a third time. I froze, mouth full. I saw movement to my right. A deer... antlers - sort of. A half rack... 3 points. Dilemma... I promised Pete I'd shoot the first legal buck, since he mentioned that he was anxious to fill the freezer. But this was an ugly management buck, not what one travels all the way to a different state to hunt. And besides, I am eating my sandwich. He presented a broad side shot. I carefully set my sandwich down on my backpack. I peered through the scope, aware of the slight protrusion in my cheeks due to the sandwich I was waiting to chew and swallow. This is a chip-shot, I thought. Moved the scope and gun to the antlers to confirm three points. Good. Shall I attempt a buck with the drilling? He begins to quarter away. Yes, for the drilling and for Pete's freezer. BANG. Right barrel slug-- connects, but a little right on the quartering away shot. Hits left rear hip and angles nicely through vitals. He's hurt bad, but this is, as Pete calls it, the Jamoke-osphere... I need to anchor this deer. Breaking all of my own rules, I stand up and fire again. Grazing miss at 70 yards (poor shot selection with the second slug smooth bore). He's hobbling off toward the cornfields and a death in a firefight. I reach for a handful of 30-06 and note the exact position of my half sandwich... and off I go after the management buck. I catch up to him quickly, he is loudly stumbling forward, presents an 80 yard broadside. The drilling rifle barrel barks, and the deer is down. First ungulate blood on the drilling.

I quickly tag the deer, aware of an orange-clad perimeter zombie eyeing me only 100 yards away. After tagging, I grab the single antler and heave mightily, hauling the deer in a kind of sprint back to the blackberry bramble blow-down. I rush back to my blind only 30yards away, and savor the second half of my sandwich, and the sweet feeling of a buck on opening day, management buck or otherwise.

2011 PA Opener

2011-11-29T15:12:00.011-05:00

I have to admit that I prefer to be sitting in my deer stand around the time that Tidball chooses to roll out of the house on opening day. It comes down to aesthetics, more than anything else. Leave early and you are less apt to run across many of the deer hunters who descend upon Fye Forest on opening day. Building upon last year’s experience, Tidball had strong logic for the day's plan. I was happy to follow, with few delusions of my own deer hunting acumen.

The new plan, cemented the night before over 8-year-old bourbon (Tidball), delectable Canoga Farms venison sausage and turkey mousse, and 4-day-old gout (yours truly), had us parking a mile from the forest where we would hunt.

At 6:30 we were finally working our way into woods, dodging the mob of hunters who were readily identified by their 1,000,0000 candle power lamps and pungent cigarette smoke. Admittedly, the “mob” was not large (5 or so members), but their presence was disconcerting. I had preferred a different entry point through “the Valley of Death” precisely because we could avoid encountering members of mob. "Nonsense! Pure delusion," insisted Tidball. That approach ran directly through bedding areas and escape cover. Contaminate this refuge with our own scent and our quarry would flee elsewhere. So ran the logic of Tidball.

As dawn arrived we were revising his new plan (new plan 1.1) in light of the location of individual mob members, forecast of prevailing winds and scent cones(there were none at that point), and who knows what else. My skepticism was rising. Of Tidball’s many decision making variables, I accepted only his observation that mob rules require members to remain within 100 yards of the forest edge. We stumbled through the dark, arriving at a point that Tidball confidently proclaimed was one he had identified last year: “Ambush Alley.” This seemed unlikely given Tidball’s poor night vision and the large number of blackberry glades that looked EXACTLY like the one we were in.

We agreed that I would sit in so-called “Ambush Alley” (uncomfortably close to the mob) and Tidball would move another 100 yards along the contour. It was time to put the new plan 1.1 to the test.

No sooner did I sit down than a member of the mob stumbled by, not 45 yards distant, headed straight for the Valley of Death. I re-relocated, expectations reduced to zero (new plan 1.11). Finally it was quiet.

Within five minutes I heard the snapping of a twig. Too late to move again, I hunched behind a massive hemlock, waiting for this latest mob interloper to move on.

Footsteps. No, hoof-steps! In the din I could see, 10 feet distant, a small doe. She winded me. Snorted. Jumped back. Peered at the gouty blob at the base of the hemlock. What was that? She stepped forward, tentatively, then snorted and ran away. I took the opportunity to pull out cell phone and film, aware that by this act I was changing this elemental experience from a primitive aesthetic to a modern, made-for-the-blogosphere production.

Thankfully I felt no compulsion to tweet.

What a morning! Soon I could hear turkeys near Tidball’s location. What an absolute joy! With a clear view of my surroundings I settled in to one of the most active hunts in recent memory. Good on you new plan 1.11!

Spirits fully restored and senses at their apex for the day, I peered around, getting familiar with Ambush Alley. And there he was. 100 yards distant, down hill and walking steadily toward me was a deer. A buck. I looked at him through the scope. A six point. Perfect.

Calm, surprisingly so, I picked an opening in the trees but quickly decided there was too much underbrush to make a good shot. The little buck was unaware of my presence and there was time. I picked a different opening, dialed my scope to roughly 5x power, and waited a moment. He was there. I checked again to be sure that he had the required three tines on one beam, then lowered the gun to his shoulder and shot.

The report was massive. The first to break the morning silence. The deer toppled to his side. A few kicks and he was still. I fought the urge to run to him and waited, adrenalin finally coursing through my system. Gout cured, at least temporarily.

Over the next 10 minutes I suffered, fighting every natural urge to run to the downed animal, whooping and hollering my achievement. Compelled to wait by the admonitions of friends with whom I had long-hunted (you know who you are). After a few minutes I sought diversion. First I checked the time on my cell phone. 7:30. Then, well, I texted. Mind you this is something that I have only been introduced to in the past 6 months. Sitting in the middle of the forest, finally content that I had escaped the presence of the mob, I sought distraction (and connection) by texting. First Tidball, then Stedman, then wife, then father. As a distraction it worked. At 10.00000001 minutes I walked, as calmly as possible, to the downed animal.

Barely legal (3x2), but my trophy!

What followed that day can only be seen as pure irony, or poetry. I could not contact Tidball as his phone had no signal and quickly lost power. So I dragged the deer alone. Slowly. Gouty toe a factor. 44 years also a factor (see Stedman’s recent opening day post).

At 10:30 I was met by wife at trail head.

By 11:00 I had dropped off the deer at the local butcher.

I was back in the woods by noon. With no ability to contact Tidball I walked, and walked. Toward gunfire. Is that Tidball’s drilling? Toward blaze orange. What was Tidball wearing this morning? At one point, back in Ambush Alley, I flushed a turkey, 10 yards off. Apparently Tidball was 30 yards beyond the bird, gutting his own buck. This modern, cell-phone texting hunter walked right by. I sat for awhile, had an opportunity at another small buck, but my season was over.

By 3:00 I gave in to the pangs of gout.

A great hunt of complex aesthetics. A complete experience.

PA Deer Season Anticipation

2011-11-27T11:06:00.003-05:00

Cagey on the way

Tomorrow season opens

High of fifty eight?

2011-11-22T09:28:00.002-05:00

Famous Wife of Famous Grouser was to be stranded with kids opening morning, as the Famous Grouser in question had some sort of work obligation. Apparently there is an alarming
lack of babysitters willing to come over at 530am.

The NYSDEC or the Super Committee should do something.

Enter the StedmaNowlens and Julie in particular, saintly willing to watch four kids while Angela and I enjoyed opening morn. Opening Day Eve was thus filled with the usual trappings of deer camp: popcorn, chocolate milk (keep the rapscallions up late so hopefully they’d sleep in—it didn’t work), nerf gun fights, floor hockey (complete with hockey fights and penalty box episodes) and a suspicious looking character called ‘sponge bob’ something or other. Just a normal camp.

Morning dawned, as it tends to do around here. Contemplative halcyon moments of frantically fumbling with Angela’s rifle/ammo (.257 Roberts) in the garage, and then *out there*. I first sat out behind the barn and Angela opted for the driveway stand where she apparently had a monster buck doing jumping jacks in a santy-claus suit begging to be eliminated from the gene pool. I’ll let her tell that story as she wishes.I moved down the hill to the new orchard stand, to be closer to all of the action. Two does crossed the far end of the meadow @ 75 yards, moving pretty good, and I let them go. I was rewarded 15 minutes later with a nice doe working her way up the edge of the meadow. At 30 yards she was almost exactly broadside,
just barely quartering (“sixteenthing?”) toward me. Perfect.

Held right behind the right shoulder and touched trigger. She staggered, spun, and ran. Out of sight. But a big crash. This was good. Called Angela, waited about 15 minutes, and went looking. Clear scuff marks in the skiff of snow where she spun, but no blood. An easy trail of scuff marks, but still no blood. And there she lay: went about 30 yards and never bled a drop. No exit wound, but ribs busted up and heart cut in half.

Called up Julie and she and Colin (Angela and Andy’s youngest) came down the hill to share the experience, leaving Hannah in charge of the other two boys (these three [including both of mine] apparently lured by the siren song of the fire and the HD TV rather than the great outdoors). Sigh. Colin toted his double barrel just in case.

I was glad to have Angela’s help on the drag: that is a steep hill and a big deer and I am not the paragon of physical fitness I would like to be (sucking in the gut really doesn’t help that much when the chips are down).

PA Woodcock 2011 - Coming of Age

2011-11-21T20:27:00.012-05:00

It's been so long since I've last posted to the blog that I had to renew my password. Apologies abound. Many significant posts missed.

2011 was the year that I had hoped for my 3 year old german shorthair pointer. No, it wasn't the trip to Wisconsin, which was wonderful but primarily served to show me that I didn't know how to to hunt over my pointer. It was only on the last day in Wisconsin that Lou and I figured out how to work with Lilly. At home in Pennsylvania, it was the warm weather and a flight of woodcock who just wouldn't fly south that cemented the late Wisconsin lesson, helping to convert a (hopeless) flushing dog owner into a (reasonable) pointing dog owner.

In the past 10 days Lilly has pointed - really pointed! - at least 60 woodcock, and bumped a dozen or so more. We stumbled upon these birds one afternoon, in search of grouse on the game lands down the road. A fluke, as many good things in life seem to be.

That first afternoon was pure chaos. The cover was thick, often 6-10 ft high, making shooting impossible most of the time. Lilly bumped many of the birds, but she began to point after I yelled "whoa" in frustration. I shot two birds that afternoon. And she retrieved both to hand. GSP retrieves: saliva soaked birds that were well tenderized. Impossible for me to find on my own.

Lilly, with the cowbell Jim Tantillo gave her on her inaugural hunting trip in 2009. The cowbell disappeared on the first day of 2011 PA woodcock hunting, victim to multiflora rose, hawthorne, locust, something....

After that I recruited my neighbor, Bobby, to serve as gun while I handled the dog. Bobby is a wonderful woodsman but is as new to dog hunting as I am to being his neighbor. On the first day we began to work out our technique. Lilly would point. I would walk in to flush the bird. Bobby would shoot. We killed two birds that day. Out of 10 or 20. Who's counting? Lilly occasionally broke point to flush a bird. But that was rare and I would call her in, scold her, and we would try again. The birds were accommodating.

We repeated our afternoons, several times, always killing a few birds. The points accumulated. The bumped birds declined. A ritual evolved. We would end the day picking ticks off of ourselves and the dog, listening to woodcock twighlighting. The surprising gift of warm weather in November.

Last Saturday found us with a colleague who owns an English Pointer. The pointer, a sweet dog, hadn't hunted in awhile, so we left colleague and dog to their own ways and hunted the late afternoon. Lilly pointed. We missed. She pointed again and again. We missed again and again. At one point Bobby looked at me and remarked: "there's only one hunter here, and it's the dog, not us." Touche. Or motivation.

I shot my first bird of the day at point blank range. Lilly picked the bird up. Dropped it. Refused to retrieve it to me. It was only half a bird. Breasts salvageable, but no lower half. Even a versatile hunting dog has its limits.

We hunted until the light was waning. On the way back to the car Lilly pointed a bird while heeling at my side. She pointed three more until, in the dusk, I finally dropped one. Lilly found it, 40 yards off, and retrieved it to my hand. Much better tasting than the previous bird!

The shooting percentages this last week were dismal, but that's ok. A transformation occurred. Between hunter and owner. Ain't no one going to tell me she's not the greatest woodcock dog. Ever.

Opening of deer 2011-- a family affair

2011-11-19T22:15:00.000-05:00

Mo and I were up and in the stand before first light, sharing the double stand christened the Honeymoon Suite (you'll have to get the details on the name from Rich). We weren't planning to use the "Suite" for anything but deer slaying, and deer slaying we did.

The hope was to get Mo her fist shot at a whitetail. She was carrying her Savage 24C "Camper," loaded with Federal 20 ga. rifled slugs. I was carrying the trusty Ithaca Deerslayer. At around 8 am, I caught faint rustling to my right and picked up movement. As I am now a left handed shooter, the right side is my side, so these deer were coming up on the wrong side for Mo. I watched the deer work their way to within 20 yards of our stand, a doe and two big fawns, all the while whispering to Mo in hushed tones about the dark arts of deerslaying from tree perches. She was uncomfortable, as was I,with the notion of shooting across me, so we waited and waited for a shot for her to materialize.Our scent was being blown in the direction of the quarry, and they finally winded us, exploding in a confusion of "tail-up" fleeing deer. Mo later said it was pure chaos to her, that she couldn't really register what was happening. Meanwhile, I registered that a few meals over the Weber were attempting to elude their fate. I swung on the left deer, peering through the scope...fawn. Far right deer...fawn. Middle deer, big doe, running--- now broadside, running, lead it... a little forward... BANG. Dead deer. Mo said "Holy S@#t" or some such, beaming with exuberance and the thrill of all of that. I felt a strange calm, a sense of surprise at my gladness to have shared that moment with my wife and best friend.

We both sat back. I reloaded. She noticed this. "Will she get up?" she asked. "Not likely," I said, "but a buck might have been trailing her- we'll wait awhile. We sat together. I ranged the downed doe at 83 yards. After a while the inevitable question emerged... "are those fawns going to make it?" I thought about this. I said "They will nose around here a day or two, looking for Momma, and they will be on their own. She would have kicked them off in a matter of days or weeks anyway, as soon as she hit her estrus. The best plan is for you to hunt this area again tomorrow and have a crack at some young vittles." She was quiet and thoughtful about this for a few moments. I am sure as a mother, she pondered larger issues. Then she said, "for me, this is about food. A lioness doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about zebra orphans when its time to feed the family." I let that sit in the November air, smiling to myself and availing myself of the new-found pleasures of hunting with a partner.

Striper Idyll

2011-11-15T20:52:00.002-05:00

Before the talk turns to deer,

Some surf to go with turf.

A good time on the Jersey Shore.

Thanks, Andy

2011-11-14T12:26:00.001-05:00

Nov 12, 2011

Glad for the "nudge." I decided to take Andy's advice and "do the dog a favor" by skedaddling to a woodcock covert or two in the FLNF (one brand new one furthest north) between bow hunts this past weekend. Glad I did. Artemis and Victoria were glad I did, too. Especially poignant given that "Miss" recently had some serious health issues. We almost lost her over the summer, but she is back in her typically stylish form now.

Sat- 3 for 4 on woodcock. 0-1 on grouse.
Sun- 2 for 3 on woodcock. 0-2 on grouse.

Just the rest of this week for an archery buck. Then, the "freezer hunts" will commence.

Nov 12, 2011

Nov 13, 2011

The ADK Cocktail

2011-11-12T11:38:00.000-05:00

On a recent October gathering at Twin Moose in the ADK's, Kleinmans and Stedmans and Nolans and Tidballs and Siemers discussed the venerable Adirondack Cocktail and our facsimile thereof. Some of us might have even sipped a few (I seem to remember trying to find firewood in the dark with Pete, but stumbling somehow).

I finally found the official recipe, in a Cornell publication no less!

See: http://www.canogafarms.com/files/The_ADK_Cocktail.pdf

Timberdoodle Time

2011-11-11T09:06:00.005-05:00

Just 4 more days left in the NY woodcock season (last day Monday, November 14th, which coincidentally is the date of the Elmira, NY RGS banquet ;-)). The woodcock seem to be "in" in the ever-increasingly-shrinking Hector neighborhood, and the forecast of west/south winds the next few nights is not conducive to birds leaving in any big way (nor migrating in for that matter).

I had a brief and productive hunt with Brody recently -- moved 10 woodcock in about an hour and 45 minutes. Not big bunches, but rather a steady encounter rate of mostly singles. Same sort of thing we experienced in Maine.

Do your dogge a favor and get thee to a thicket!

Overdue on Wisconsin Grouse

2011-11-08T20:40:00.005-05:00

Quite a trip. I won't let down those of you who depend on my statistical acumen and accu-velocity in journal hurling. 25.5 hrs hunted (hooray), 108 flushes, 30 shots (Tantillo count; 21 different birds shot at), body count = 8 grouse, 3 woodcock.

Many of the days (save for the Kleinman incident of which enough has been written) have blurred into a kaleidescope of cover, flushes, dog work good and indifferent. As it should be. Some moments stand out, especially the morning in which I bid adieau to an old friend and celebrated the new. I wanted to scatter McPhee's ashes down at "the loops" and wanted to do it right. Neither melodramatic, nor shortarming it--each of these can happen in the presence of witnesses. I wanted the freedom to be as casual ("well, g'bye old pal") or as melodramatic as I wanted.

But I also wanted to hunt.

So Conley and I took a long walk down the old West Running Rd, to 3 Mile. We took the right spur off 3 mile. Just to limber the legs, you understand. About 4.5 mile walk from the cabin. One way. 15 minutes into the hunt, on New White City, I jumped a bird that arrowed off to my right. Nice and relaxed, high gun mount, elbow up. Fired, and off the bird flew. Nothing unusual there. But wait, what is this? It is my dog returning to me through the puckerbrush with a live bird in his mouth. Good boy: a first for him. After 3 mile rd, on the spur, Conley got birdy in a deadfall and up jumped a grouse. Again, relax, relaxed. High mount, elbow up, bang, dead bird. Conley made the retrieve. Nothing fancy.

One of the things I love about Conley--especially compared to McPhee--is that I do not have to command him much. It is really a pretty calm affair most of the time: a hand wave here and there, or a hunt 'em up. Lots of quiet and not much talk.

So we hunted back out the W Running Rd, covering groujnd already covered. Another flush or two. What I am trying to convey here is that it was a very orderly hunt: 5 fl, 3 shots, 2 birds in about 2+ hours.

And then I scattered McPhee's ashes. I did so near the entrance to the loops rather than way back in where I killed my first grouse over him back in 1994. The loops are closing up, being reclaimed inexorably by the balsams, and I wanted to be able to find the spot in my doddering years. I carved his name in a birch, stuck a spent shell on a branch nub, smoked a pipe, had a nip of something amber colored, and thought a bit about the old boy and the old days when I was young, just learning to be a hunter, a dog trainer, a husband, a man.

I asked McPhee for a little mojo for the last hour.

And it came in true McPhee fashion. Stats help here. Recall: Pre-McPhee Ash-Spreading: 5 fl, 3 sh, 2 birds. My totals when I exited the loops 1 hour later: 19 fl, 10 sh, 2 birds. Quite simply, all hell broke loose. As soon as I opened the bag with his ashes, a mighty gust of wind--I kid you not--sent them flying helter skelter: in my face, up Conley's nose (he sneezed). The wind did not diminish, and the birds became incredibly spooky: wild flush after wild flush. Doubles, even triples: some close, some far, some from trees. An my calm zen like demeanor revealed itself as a facade and promptly crumbled.

This is fair. I did not have many zen-like moments with McPhee and my sense now is that he is out there as the wind howls, and winter comes, and all the forest creatures and their pursuers wonder...what's next?

Deer so far

2011-11-07T16:21:00.003-05:00

Passed on this "spike horn" at the Log City property (Eric's new hunting property). It was an absolutely crazy hunting day. More on that later. Nothing in the larder yet, venison wise.

Birds so far

2011-11-04T22:44:00.025-04:00

Figured I'd fill space until Pete or Rich contribute the write-up on the Old T trip. Here's a summary of my bird season to date. Before I went to MN, I got Brody out hunting at the FLNF for a couple hours, moved 1 grouse, and Brody pointed two woodcock (2/2). I left Spy home when I went to MN -- I figured all that travel and crate time would be a bit much for a 14 yr old dog. In MN I was able to work Brody several hours scouting coverts and guiding a few hunters. (photos: MN double rainbow, Earl's ES Otto w/ Earl's DIY tricked-out mudflaps, Brody pointing a woodcock). On the way home I was able to hunt half a day. After I packed the car, the first stop on the way home was some paper company land in MN. Tried a couple spots ("fishing") but did not move any birds over a couple hours. The temp was nice -- 50s -- but it was very windy. The final spot was also on paper company land that had been cut periodically. Lots of stands of aspen from <5 old sapling to mature. I popped a grouse that I bumped. Wing-tipped him, and fortunately Brody caught it. Little while later Brody went on point where I saw a woodcock settle in. I walked up expecting a woodcock, but instead two grouse rocketed out simultaneously, away and high. I missed two shots at one bird. In about 15 seconds Brody was on point again. This time the bird came over me high and I dropped it behind me. Over the next 1.5 hrs we moved a few grouse (pointed, bumped or bumped by me) and a couple woodcock. Killed a pointed wc. The final action was a long walk to the beeper. I swung wide, and flushed a red phase bird about 30 yards ahead of Brody, and fortunately killed it. We hunted that place about 3 hours total. Brody handled nice -- I didn't have to talk much. I ran him w/ a beeper on point only, and a bell. Seems to work nicely. Got to have the beeper -- he's hard to see and ranges well out of gun range. The grouse seemed harder to handle this year -- sneaky runners and silent escape "hop flights" well out. The age ratio of grouse from the hunt was pretty heavy to adults. The birds I killed were two adults and one youngster.

Back in NY for a week, I ran Brody almost daily on the backyard woodcock. Just training runs, no guns. (photo pointing local woodcock on a rainy day). I hunted Brody one afternoon at the nearby state forest. Moved two grouse (no points) and one woodcock (pointed, bagged).

The last week of October I was in Maine. Work trip, but I was able to get out hunting a couple hours a few of the days. Had a great time in my old home coverts outside Old Town, but for the life of me I could not connect on a grouse! (just like old times). We moved on average 4 grouse and 3 or 4 woodcock per hour; got points on about 75% of the grouse. Did well on woodcock. Later, out in the vicinity of Grand Lake Stream, the woodcock were just as abundant but the grouse were more variable (1-4 per hour). I heard later that friends in Aroostook County were averaging 10 grouse flushed per hour... Anyway, I had the pleasure of hunting over a friend's springer, which served up a grouse and a few woodcock for me.

Back again in NY, the boys and I tried to find a backyard woodcock with Brody, with intent to kill, but we came up empty. I think our local birds had skedaddled. I got Brody out again to the local state forest, and in 2 hours we moved 4 spooky grouse and 1 woodcock (see Brody's mouth, below). Now with 10 days left in the woodcock season I want to get ol' Spy out for a last chance at a last bird -- a point, maybe a photo op, hopefully feathers in the mouth.

Learning from dogs

2011-10-27T15:47:00.002-04:00

I took Brant hunting for ducks this morning. He communicated a simple truth last night as I left him for a deer stand, in the rain. With his eyes he said... "when its raining, we hunt ducks." I believe he crystallized another "versatile hunter" maxim in that moment.

This morning, the hunt was a classic October duck hunt... a few birds flying around right at first light in the light rain, and then tapering off by 8:30 am. The hunters shot reasonably well, the dog retrieved reasonably well. But, for Brant, it was just a marvelous day... a hunting day. He was simply happy, blissed out, digging the "is-ness" of the dawn, the ducks, of the sublimity of the damnable pleasure (Tantillo 2002) of hunting. I sat watching him, studying him, his demeanor, from our shared spot in the tall marsh grass-- we were both sitting on the ground together, both watching the skies hopefully, awaiting the moment when we could do the next thing, the thing that we love slightly more (only slightly) than what we were already doing. He felt my gaze and turned his head to look at me. Thump-thump-thump went his tail as his eyes brightened, looking deeply into my own, and then he looked away, looked out over the waters. His could have been the eyes of any of my companions, as the ducks are setting their wings, communicating sentiments like "isn't this amazing?" I sat there processing the second lesson from Brant in less than twenty-four hours. Find ways to wag more and bark less, he seemed to say. Words to live by.

Fall turkey

2011-10-23T22:50:00.000-04:00

They were calling for a blue bird day. Nice turkey conditions.

22 lbs
7 & 1/2 inch beard
7/8 inch spurs

Durkin: Eternal debate over what's OK, what isn't

2011-10-23T14:08:00.000-04:00

Durkin: Eternal debate over what's OK, what isn't

Opening Day of Ducks 2011

2011-10-22T14:16:00.000-04:00

Given that scouting and field reports indicated low numbers of ducks on Cayuga Lake and higher numbers on small ponds, creeks, etc, I decided for the first time since living in Canoga-land to open the duck season somewhere other than the Double Black blind. I am glad I did (except that Rich was short by half the required team mental power in the "sheer-force-of-will-to-conjure-ducks-from-nowhere" department... but that is his story to tell).

The idea was to conduct a methodical, calm, safe, fun hunt for Danielle's (Eric's daughter) first duck opener as a licensed NYS hunter. No typical opening day "whipped-up-into-a-frenzy" blood-lust, no assault-style Mexican army barrages against hapless Wonder-bread eating young of the year mallards from up the lake, where one not quite green-headed fowl is claimed by 5 shooters who have all emptied their guns. No, we'll have that fun later (and that IS fun sometimes). This hunt was for Danielle.

We (Eric and I) debated about whether we should try the ponds at Kuneytown, at Log City, the new ones in my back fields, or at the Morehouse Bait Ponds (see Jim's map here (cat icon)). We decided, once again, for the "sensible route"... go to the place most likely to produce. Pre-hunt scouting confirmed the choice.

In the end, Danielle shot three ducks on her own, and "participated" in others. I was hoping to be a videographer, but lighting and vegetation made it difficult. So, I called ducks, encouraged, and took shots that Danielle and Dad (Eric) passed on (or rarely, missed). It was novel, challenging, and fun. I ended up with some memorable solo successes on multiple species, nice and unexpected rewards for patience and deference. We ended the day day with 11 birds-- 1 gadwall, 1 green wing teal, 1 black duck, and 8 mallards. Danielle's smile at the end of the hunt was priceless.

Montana outdoorsmen blog?

2011-10-19T10:51:00.001-04:00

Hello all - The move and adjustment to Montana has been treating me well. The learning curve is steep. Simply choosing a direction, any direction, to start exploring is daunting. Missoula has been welcoming and the streams cooperative ever since the record-breaking snowfall finally retreated. Between fishing trips and visitors to town, I've been weaseling my way into a few different groups out here, among them the HHA. In addition to a simply badass name, the group seems to be a very active, very forward-thinking group of conservationists bent on spreading the message and giving voice to outdoorsmen concerned with protecting Montana's vast, but surprisingly threatened, natural resources. One of their more recent projects is a blog, found here. Their goal is to draw traffic with hunting/fishing stories, but also as a platform for steering hunters/anglers toward current conservation issues. As for political influence, their legal structure allows for "accountability" of office-holders and agencies, but not outright politicking or advocacy for certain candidates, as you'll see. I share it here for your feedback. It's a new endeavor, with motivations right up "our" alley, and a work-in-progress; your thoughts would be appreciated! Hope you all are well and wish you luck in the woods and in the blinds!

Patrick Durkin column: Dogs, old friends revel in grouse, woodcock hunt | Green Bay Press Gazette | greenbaypressgazette.com

2011-10-16T08:40:00.000-04:00

Patrick Durkin column: Dogs, old friends revel in grouse, woodcock hunt | Green Bay Press Gazette | greenbaypressgazette.com

Salmon, ADK Camp, Salmon, ADK Camp...

2011-09-30T11:55:00.005-04:00

And on we go, in merry fashion. Here's a real big fish, netted in grand kamakazie style by the famous wife of a famous grouser.

ADK Bear Camp 2011

2011-09-26T23:12:00.002-04:00

Bear Camp 2011 has ended, and there are no bear steaks to distribute to Grouser friends. I had a great time, though, exploring the environs of my new ADK camp, christened Twin Moose.

I made camp with a friend two days before the opener of early bear season on the "middle landing" of the timber lands I am leasing in the Big Moose tract, near Big Moose station, Twitchell Lake, and Big Moose Lake. The weather was unseasonably cold and we spent the first few nights dealing with the hardest September frosts anyone up that way could remember. But it felt like hunting season, and all was well, so long as you had a mummy bag and some good whiskey. I had both.

Bear Camp on the middle landing

Another view of Bear Camp.

My friend Paul and I fished Twitchell Lake and scouted on the first day and probably spent too much time crashing through the thick stuff bushwacking the property lines. It is my opinion that we sent a bear right through the camp the day before the season, and I could hear my dog Artemis going absolutely ballistic like I have never ever heard her sound before. We could find no bear sign in camp, however.

Twitchell Lake at sundown.

On opening morning, we were up long before dawn and made a hearty eggs and sausage breakfast complete with Cagey's campfire coffee. We flipped for stand selection and Paul won the toss. He selected "the bench" stand, a stand up on a bench between two beech ridges. Its a great spot. That left me with the stand along one of the two beaver ponds on the lease, along a recently cleared logging road-come-snowmobiling trail. There was game sign of all kinds in the mud there a-plenty- deer, turkey, fox & coyote, and older not-so-fresh bear sign. And there were moose tracks.

After a few uneventful but stunningly beautiful early morning hours on stand, where I watched the frost melt from the leaves of the reddening maples and heard it rain down on the still lush forest floor like a spring shower, I was jolted from my reverie by the sounds of crashing brush and snapping twigs coming down the mountain to my south east. The sounds got closer and louder, and my heart raced as I raised my gun (the trusty drilling) and began to collect a site picture through the scope of a spot on the logging trail where I expected the dark and large sounding bruin to pop out. As I found a rest on the tree, the brush rustled and a branch snapped at the overgrown-with-brambles trail's edge. Any second. I saw movement. I saw a a dark shape. It poked out its head and there stood before me a massive brown horses head. I blinked. "What the f*#$?!" could be heard in the Adirondack wilderness. As my mind raced to make sense of what was unfolding before me, and as I watched through the scope, the "horse," after pausing a few seconds to make sure the coast was clear, stepped into the clear. The cross hairs drifted to vitals as this beast stood broadside. And then, out plopped one, then two, miniatures of the big long-legged creature, which I was now identifying as Alces alces americana. Now, I have seen a few moose, but never a cow with a calf, certainly not a cow with twins, and most definitely not within bow range broadside. This was just simply COOL.

The moose hung around abit, winding me, and causing me to remain frozen for as long as I could rather than make movements to lower my gun and try to retrieve my camera. They finally ambled off, to the north west, vaguely in the direction of Paul, who was about a mile away. The excitement was over by about 9:30 am.

I spent the rest of my morning hunt relishing what I had witnessed, and basking in the good fortune that was mine in seeing any moose at all in the Adirondacks.

Almost unbelievably, it turns out that about a half hour later, the same three moose passed directly under Paul's stand as well. He, though, was, er, resting, and was awakened by the sound of a rock being kicked. He opened his eyes, saw moose, and grabbed a camera. What are the odds?! The odds of me seeing a moose, never mind three moose, including twins at that, are slim indeed. But the odds of Paul seeing them as well, almost a mile away in thick country, the same day--- now that is damn near auspicious. Hence, the camp has been named Twin Moose Camp.

Cow moose and twin calves, 2011.

The following day's hunt was uneventful and I bid Paul a goodbye. I remained in camp for another few days, a week in total, exploring, paddling ponds, pointing and flushing grouse into impenetrable labyrinths of leafiness. It was bliss, but no bear.

The Cohos are Here!

2011-09-17T23:13:00.000-04:00

Salmon River 9/17/11: "sick with fish".

I did what I could do to help cure this unfortunate affliction.

Still Life of an Evening Well Spent

2011-09-10T13:47:00.003-04:00

The Salmon report:

water low and fishing slow.

But now I'm ready.

It was him or me!!!

2011-09-08T11:00:00.001-04:00

Not sure if I ever shared this. Enjoy. SJ

pre-season shopping

2011-09-07T12:55:00.002-04:00

Time to stock up on all the huntin' and shootin' gear you need this year, for you and the wife and kids.

Here's a neat gift idea...click to see more great gift ideas.

Time to get serious!

2011-09-05T16:27:00.001-04:00

Grouse season starts a week from Thursday here in Michigan. Wishing all of you a productive fall. Hope we can share some dark beer, fine cigars and great camp stories!!

SJ

Adirondack Trifecta

2011-07-12T07:47:00.006-04:00

He-men on the summit of Wright Peak,

Happy kids in the creek,

And Brook Trout in the pan.

Tori scores in the Brook trout department

2011-06-24T22:26:00.005-04:00

Father's day outing

Adirondack brook trout bliss

bobbers, worms, and smiles

Rod Serling's take on a man's best friend - Parts 1 and 2

2011-06-23T17:31:00.003-04:00

A few years back I was watching a Twilight Zone episode, and was moved to tears. For whatever reason, today I remembered the episode (recent grouse camp discussion?).

Here's part one:

And part two:

Quebec Fishing- EPIC!

2011-06-13T13:17:00.006-04:00

I spent some time with Kuneytown Sportsmen's Club members and friends, on a recent fishing trip in the northern reaches of Quebec, in the Reservoir Gouin area. It was epic. Seven fisherman caught over 700 walleyes in 4 days of fishing. Many blue walleye were caught, in addition to the much more common yellow walleyes and a handful of pike. Lots more pics here.

Charlotte's First Brookie

2011-06-02T11:37:00.004-04:00

On a recent May trip to the ADKs for brookies and turkeys, my youngest, Charlotte, nailed her first brookie, casting a Mepps Aglia from a canoe on Black Pond near Paul Smiths. She was thrilled; daddy couldn't have been more proud.

The annual May 'Daks trip usually yields pretty good catches of trout, but with the heavy winter and crazy spring flooding, the creel was lighter this year. We did catch some very nice fish in the North Branch of the Mooser River Drainage, and of course, I caught a few on Black Pond, as is to be expected there.

The turkeys wouldn't cooperate, though I did voice-call a nice Tom away from two hens with Mo and the girls with me, to 10 yards...but it was after noon. He was SOOOO dead, at least in all of our imaginations. It was cute to hear Charlotte and Victoria whisper "bang" every time he stuck out his neck and gobbled thunderously. Next time.

DOUBLE!

2011-05-31T08:58:00.010-04:00

Nothing like waiting until the last minute. My brother, Chris, and I hunted Monday morning. Spring turkey season ended today. We had the whole month of May to chase turkeys, but due to weather, wary birds, and poor calling technique just hadn't been able to get it done. Monday was going to be it for both of us. We hunted a brand new location that we'd just gotten access to, but one in which we've see quite a few birds. Unfortunately the evening before we had a significant storm come through right before dark - 75 mph straight line winds and heavy rain. Turns out the winds knocked down what seemed like half of the mature trees in the woodlot we sat on the edge of and where we thought birds were roosting (didn't realize this until the sun came up).

Anyway, nothing gobbled from the roost anywhere around us that morning. About 6:15, Chris spots a Tom come into the field we were watching from the NE (to our right). Seemed responsive to our calling, but couldn't get him to come any closer than 100yds. Eventually a couple hens showed up and pulled him even further away. We sat there and watched the show for a couple hours. Figured we were screwed. Hens eventually decided to head to the NE (again back to our right), and toward a location that we might be able to ambush the Tom if he continued to follow, which he was. So we slowly backed into the woods from our location and tried to sneak through the woodlot. This is when we discovered all the trees laying on their sides. Trying to get into position was more of challenging then we thought. Chris and I separated as we made our way around the downed trees and to where we thought the birds would come through. By the time I got into position, the hens had already made their way through the field we were watching and into an adjacent field. Fortunately, we hadn't disturbed them. But still no Tom. Eventually I moved enough to where I could see Chris and he signaled that the Tom was still in the main field. We slowly continued to sneak into position.

The Tom had hung up in the main field, but was close. Another 10-15 yds and he should be in range. Unfortunately he decided not to follow the hens, but headed back in the direction he just came and away from us. That's when Chris noticed another bird. When I finally saw the other bird, it came running up to the Tom. They were both now 100+yds to our SW. Again we figured we screwed this all up. Chris and I stood behind the top of a downed tree and watched these 2 birds mess around in the middle of the field. Chris thought the other bird was a hen, but by it's behavior I thought it might be a Jake. Fortunately I had my rangefinder with me and could just make out the stub of a beard on the 2nd beard. Definitely a Jake. About that time I notice a hen had snuck out into the field to the north (almost behind us, to our right). Chris and I were exposed and assumed busted, but the hen just stood there. After about 10 minutes of just standing there like statues the hen began to feed. Chris then says, "hey they're headed this way and running!" The Tom and Jake must have seen the hen and were beelining it in our direction. Chris squatted behind the downed tree top and I set up off to his right. He says what's our plan - on 3 and you take the bird on the right? Sure! The two birds were on us in no time, moving left to right. They were at about 50-60 yds. The big Tom was in the lead. I had to wait until the Jake cleared the edge of the downed tree top, so Chris had a shot too. I now had a clear shot but the Jake wasn't in position yet. Unfortunately the Tom saw something he didn't like and I could see was starting to get nervous. The Jake needed to come forward another 10 feet, but about that time the Tom did a pirouette and was buggin out. No time for 1-2-3. He took my #5 Winchester Supreme turkey load right in the noggin and dropped in his tracks. This left Chris a bit out of position and he had to raise up on his knees to get a clear shot of the Jake. His shot was bit rushed, but found its mark. He knocked the bird down, but he needed a 2nd shot to be certain.

A fricken double on the 2nd to last day of the season. First time we took birds when we were together and we both took a bird. Very memorable!!!

Chris ended up taking a 15 lb Jake. Mine was a 24 lb Tom with a 10 inch beard and 1 and a half inch daggers for spurs!! Could have easily gone the other way, I just happened to be in the position to take the first bird and it was the big Tom.

Great way to end our spring turkey season!!

Dreams of Excellence

2011-05-23T08:23:00.004-04:00

Classic piece of the Nuge on public television discussing the second amendment. That's three great tastes that taste great together. Oh, there's some NSFW content (does that make it four great tastes?).

Starts and Ends in the Kitchen

2011-05-15T15:26:00.015-04:00

Two gobblers walked through the narrow opening between the fields, but at that distance I couldn't tell whether they were toms or jakes. I had done some calling at dawn from the front porch, but hadn't gotten a response -- maybe this was a delayed response to those yelps, two hours later. I drank the last of my coffee, put the kids' oatmeal bowls in the sink, and grabbed a camo shirt from the laundry. And down the road I went.

Keeping low, I scurried along the driveway, headed for a likely spot in the woods in the turkeys line of travel. Sat down against a too-small tree, pulled up the face mask, and gave a few clucks on the slate.

Within a minute the birds materialized over the knoll just inside the woods, coming my way. Purr, cluck. They continued forward, looking for me. About 35 yards out, craning necks, the gobblers surveyed my vicinity. A cluck from my mouth call put any doubts to rest, and they adjusted their path to put a little more distance between us as they circled around me, downhill, out of view in the woods. They weren't buying it.

A couple of clucks on the slate elicited a gobble downhill to my right. Minutes later, clucks were answered by a gobble, this time farther away and behind me.

I turned around, and gave several purrs and clucks, flapped a wing in the air and scratched it in the dirt. Cluck, purr, cluck, and I could hear the pitter patter of turkey feet running my way, downhill from me to my left, coming up the hill and getting nearer. When they came into view they were almost behind me. Kneeling, I twisted around 120 degrees to my left. The first bird stopped in an opening between trees at 20 yeards and I popped him in the head. The tom immediately took to the air as the jake flopped on the ground.

The jake was pretty small, with nubbins for spurs. That night we dined on tender turkey veal dusted with Emeril's, lightly marinated in Newman's family Italian, and grilled to a hint of pink, with a Finger Lakes reisling, wild rice & shittakes, and steamed asparagus. A couple nights later it was wild turkey/wild rice/wild mushroom enchiladas. Our first spring NY turkey, scouted from the kitchen. Natchur'ly.

Parts is parts, parceled, and PW focused on focus of cell phone camera.

2011-05-12T06:47:00.000-04:00

courtesy of Regional Biologist Andrew Path Walker Weik and YOUR Ruffed Grouse Society.

Pest control, Princess-style

2011-05-11T13:53:00.003-04:00

Pest control, Australia-style

2011-05-09T19:01:00.001-04:00

courtesy of a state Hunter Ed coordinator (ain't sayin' which one).

sporting? ethical? discuss.

Bumped 1 (one) grouse ...

2011-05-08T15:45:00.001-04:00

... on my walk this morning in WV. So, at least I got that going for me.

This is the real way to fish . . .

2011-05-06T05:10:00.000-04:00

. . . with swords.

courtesy of Mr Joshua "Voice of the USFWS" Winchell.

Is it sporting? discuss.

Tired of Vicar Hogging the Blog :)

2011-04-23T22:49:00.005-04:00

Got out fished by the wife yesterday on the Manistee River. Good times had by all!!

I got tired of looking at that dang salmo picture

2011-04-23T10:57:00.002-04:00

Shiners and bobbers.

The primordial pike slime

It smells like springtime.

I got tired of looking at that dang moose picture.

2011-04-11T10:50:00.002-04:00

2011-03-27T22:19:00.002-04:00

Hey Youse Northwoodsers...

Maine ain't Minn-e-sota, but it tain't so bad, neither.

Gitcher Moose applications in. Due May 13, but why wait???

Duck Hunt - Dogge Eye Viewe

2011-03-13T07:07:00.005-04:00

Remarkable video posted at Field and Stream

note: go to F&S for full wide-screen, hi-def goodness

Gatorade is for the Turtle Man

2011-03-09T09:35:00.000-05:00

this is awesome.

ethical? sporting? Discuss.

Cooking tips for Uncle Pete

2011-02-26T16:54:00.000-05:00

clearly this guy has Dr. Dirt in mind . . . he even uses the word, "flaccid."

Enjoy your bacon.

Grousers in Vegas, Baby!

2011-02-19T07:25:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the tardy report, but just wanted to let you know that Grousers were well represented (okay, just represented) at the world’s largest firearms and hunting trade show - the SHOT Show – held in Las Vegas in January. Path Walker ran the Ruffled Grouse Society information booth, providing show goers a wealth of information about wildlife and habitat conservation challenges and opportunities. He also showed himself to be a top salesman of RGS 200^th Anniversary Special Edition Magazine (with a reprint of an editorial by RGS first president, John Quincy “Road Hunter” Adams.

Joshua also attended the show because, well … I’m sure he had good reasons.

Anyway, after a hard days work, PW and Joshua dined at a very nice restaurant - Bouchon. Appetizers were excellent, but the entrees couldn’t hold a candle to a number of grouse camp specialties such as Pete’s Braised Woodcock Legs or Andy’s Basque Woodcock.

After dinner, which did include a flight of nice port and a quite good profiterole, PW and Joshua took a romantic stroll along a Venetian Canal, window shopping for high fashion accessories. A stop at a rare-book store convinced Andy that maybe his family’s first edition Jungle Book might not be the best thing to have his kids use as a chew toy.

All in all, an epic Grousers visit to the City o’ Sin. Enjoy the photographic evidence.

Andy manning the Ruffled Grouses booth.

Andy manning the fork.

Andy manning the Venetian canals (O GrouserSolo Mio?)

Joshua searching for the next Grousers Fashion Trends.

Colorado needs elk hunters

2011-02-18T14:37:00.002-05:00

This from our friends in Colorado:

2/14/2011
Division of Wildlife
DOW looking to elevate elk license sales

DENVER -- In a new effort to promote elk license sales and support the rural communities that depend on hunting, the Colorado Division of Wildlife is launching a national marketing campaign aimed at challenging hunters to elevate their game by tackling a Colorado elk hunt this fall.  
The "Elevate Your Game" campaign targets hunters age 30 to 65 using football terminology and themes to raise awareness of Colorado elk hunting opportunities. The integrated television, print and web campaign, developed with Denver-based 5-Stone Advertising, is designed to reach millions of hunters across the country between mid-February and April 5.  
Division of Wildlife Director Tom Remington said that while the campaign has a national reach, it's designed as a proof-of-concept pilot project to test the effectiveness of marketing to resident and nonresident hunters alike. The goal of the campaign is to increase elk license applications for the limited license drawing as well as sales of leftover and over-the-counter licenses later in the year.  
"The Division of Wildlife's ability to manage big game for Coloradans and visitors depends on hunters," Remington said. "Hunting supports tens of thousands of jobs in dozens of communities across this state. Investing in new ways to encourage hunters to hunt in Colorado is just a smart thing to do.
"  The Division is believed to be the first state wildlife agency to pursue a national hunter recruitment campaign of this type.  
Hunting, angling and wildlife viewing are important economic activities for Colorado and stimulate tourism to rural areas of the state. Wildlife-based recreation has an annual economic impact of $3 billion across Colorado and ranks along with skiing as the top tourism drivers. Hunting and fishing generate $1.8 billion, supporting 20,614 jobs statewide each year. In the state's top five wildlife-dependant counties, hunting and fishing account for between 5 percent and 12 percent of total jobs.  
However, during the past five years, the Division has seen the number of Colorado elk hunters decline by 37,500. Reversing this decline has become a top agency priority. An evaluation of the 2011 campaign will help determine if investing in direct outreach to hunters can convince more of them to hunt in Colorado.  
The campaign features a 30-second television spot that will run for eight weeks during prime time on The Sportsman's Channel and The Outdoor Channel, two premier national cable channels whose programming focuses on wildlife recreation. In addition, 5-Stone produced two 15-second web ads that will run on popular hunting and fishing web sites, such as FieldandStream.com, OutdoorLife.com and NorthAmericanHunter.com.   
A third campaign element is a full-page print ad that will adorn the March issues of Outdoor Life and Game and Fish magazines, which have a combined circulation of 1.3 million.   
Each of the campaign ads will direct hunters to a dedicated website, HuntColorado.org, which features a section on planning a Colorado hunt. In addition to web-based ads, the site hosts a video that guides hunters through the license application process and a second video on planning a Colorado big-game hunt. Other links will direct hunters to the Colorado Tourism web site for information on accommodations and the Department of Regulatory Affairs to find a registered outfitter.  
Tyler Baskfield, the Division's communications manager, said that the Division has increased its emphasis on customer service, with new products and services to ensure hunters get the information they need.   
"We're challenging hunters to 'elevate their game' with a Colorado elk hunt, so we're raising our game in customer service to make the whole experience of hunting in Colorado as enjoyable and as easy as possible," Baskfield said. "We have world-class hunting and we are ready to provide world-class customer service to match.
"  Hunters who visit the DOW web site will find an interactive on-line version of the new, user-friendly big-game brochure and links to "Elk Hunting University," a series of articles on the DOW web page that give hunters skills training and planning tips for their elk hunt.  
In addition, the Division has staffed up its call center with special customer service representatives who are knowledgeable about the Division's licensing process and Colorado hunting in general. Called "Hunt Planners," these hunting experts will provide the local knowledge and insider tips that can help ensure an enjoyable and successful hunt.  
Al White, Director of Colorado Tourism and the former state Senator from Hayden, said that the DOW's marketing campaign is an example of Gov. Hickenlooper's focus on supporting sustainable jobs in Colorado communities.
  "I'm very excited about the direction the DOW is taking with this approach of actively marketing and soliciting hunters to come to Colorado," said White. "I think the return on this marketing investment for the state will be phenomenal."  
"Hunting is a critical element to the Northwest Colorado economy and until now, our success has been based on word of mouth and trade shows," added Craig Chamber of Commerce Executive Director Christina Oxley. "This is a bold move that will benefit the entire state. Kudos to the DOW for being a true community partner and taking this proactive step.
" For a downloadable copy of the 2011 Big Game Brochure, visit the Division's web site at: http://wildlife.state.co.us/Hunting/  
To view a copy of the new on-line, interactive brochure with video tutorials, please visit: http://www.flipseekpubs.com/publication/?i=59966  
Elk Hunting University may be viewed at: http://wildlife.state.co.us/Hunting/ElkHuntingUniversity/

Petunia the Piglet

2011-02-16T10:36:00.000-05:00

Geezum, I leave you guys for a few minutes, and look what happens to the neighborhood.

Looky out. I 'spect they'll be coming for y'alls guns and dogs next.

Big Game sign-ups

2011-02-12T11:04:00.003-05:00

Don't forget to put in for the moose drawings in Maine and New Hampshire. They are both open now. I have put in for them both, and will put in in August for the PA elk hunt.

How did we miss this TV show?

2011-02-08T15:47:00.003-05:00

Kill It, Cook It, Eat It.

"Ever wonder where your food comes from? In each episode of "Kill It, Cook It, Eat It," a diverse group of participants is challenged to procure their main course the old-fashioned way: by hunting and killing their chosen prey, butchering it in the slaughterhouse, helping to prepare it in the kitchen, and ultimately sampling it at the dinner table. Some may enjoy the process while others recoil, but for each diner it's an intense journey that just may change their perspectives -- and appetites -- forever."

Carried by Al "Warm and Fuzzy" Gore's TV channel, CurrentTV, no less.

Mountain Lion Hunting in the Cascades vol. 4

2011-02-04T21:49:00.029-05:00

My hunt has come to an end. Today was a difficult day with rains and fog, though there were some great moments. The Pacific Northwest woods are certainly moody.

I spent the morning hunting back down by the Toutle River

and turned up nothing, though it was worthwhile in terms of scouting for future elk hunts. And the scenery was nice until it began to pour.

I was impressed with the mossy-rain-forest that was accentuated by the drizzle, and the aromas!

After lunch, it was back to the Toutle

River wildlife management unit high country. As usual, I saw many elk, including multiple big 5 x5 bulls, one of which I stalked just for fun within 100 yards. Boy, do cross-hairs on vitals with a quartering away shot on a 5 pointer at 100 yards get your heart pumping!

I also came across this tree that shows markings of a bear that had been scratching, and then was startled to climb the tree quite high. I have marked with red lines each claw mark on the tree.

We set up for predators first in a clear-cut down low next to Silver Lake. We had

a bobcat come in to about 200 yards, but it darted around some stumps and never gave a clear shot. Later, we set up on a narrow razor-back ridge. There were elk below us in all directions . When we commenced calling (electronic jackrabbit squeals), they scattered. About five minutes later, I saw 5 black tail deer running right to left below me about 200 yards. They stopped periodically to look back, and then sprinted ahead. My guess is cougar, and so thought the guide. An anxious 5 minutes passed, hopeful that the big cat would show, but alas... my hunt ends.

A final sight-seeing rarity occurred. Coming down from the high country, I saw a piebald black-tail deer, which was quite extraordinary. Despite the lack of a feline trophy, I have seen and experienced in intimate ways an extraordinary landscape, I have learned a great deal about elk, drank some great wine and coffee, and have met some interesting and memorable people. That is enough.

Mountain Lion Hunting in the Cascades vol. 3

2011-02-03T23:58:00.000-05:00

Hemingway says (about Africa) that "what's true at first light is a lie before noon." I learned some about that yesterday, and apparently so did my guide. It was announced this morning that we would henceforth focus upon the low country for cougars and other fur-bearers. Adaptive learning at its best.

My "guide" showed me an area on my map (good thing I brought that) where locals were reporting a marauding cougar. I was dropped off at an old logging tote road, and bid a good day. This is the luxury of the bonus payments for 1 x 1 hunts. But the wilds were mine, and I planned to enjoy myself, come hell or high water.

I came close to scoring on coyotes twice, but was lukewarm on the idea of shooting them. I saw bald eagles, flushed a grouse, jumped some black tail deer, a dozen mallards on some ponds, and

saw lots of good elk sign. I also saw what was later confirmed to be cougar scat.

I also killed a porcupine. I had come around a bend on an old logging road and there about 100 yards ahead was a furry creature moving about. I hoped bobcat, but an inspection with the 3 to 9 scope showed it to be a porcupine. I was told by my illustrious guide that while on timber company land (which I was -- the Weyerhaeuser St. Helens Tree Farm) I should be sure to shoot any porcupines I encountered. This poor fellow died instantly from a 7mm wsm at 145 yards. His quills will make many flies by a local fly tier.

Tomorrow is my last hunting day.

I hope to return to this area along the Toutle River, not only for the hunting, but to scout the Trout fishi ng.

Mountain Lion Hunting in the Cascades vol. 2

2011-02-02T23:54:00.000-05:00

Decided to go for higher altitudes today, find some snow, and then find some tracks. We headed for the ridge and canyon section between the north and south forks of the Toutle River, which peters out to the east at the base of Mt St. Helens. On the way up we saw more elk, and lots of rubbing trees. I set up in a few clear-cuts and tried calling for cougars or any furbearer, but to no avail.

When we reached the snow line, we immediately found plenty of sign, but all bobcat. Ever the undaunted opportunist, I switched into bobcat hunter mode and felt my optimism levels rise as we gained altitude. We were driving on a road that was covered with between 18 inches and 3 feet of snow, that had repeatedly frozen and thawed, so that it was a hard, thick cake. Every mile or so, when I saw what looked like fresh sign, I would get out of the vehicle and walk the tracks until I reached a good ambush location, such as an old log landing, where I had long shots in multiple directions. Then, I would set up a calling scenario and let 'er rip for about an hour. Twice I had motion, but

both times behind me and I never got a good look at what was coming in.

As the sun climbed higher, it warmed the ice road, turning it into a slushy luge course that made for some absolutely harrowing moments, one of which ended the days hunt. We narrowly averted a skid into a snowy bowl that would have been UGLY (as in a mile straight down, probably rolling many, many times, before coming to rest abruptly against the tree line resulting in sudden death.) In the process of not dying, we got stuck.

I remember looking up at the sun and thinking two things. One: This is the kind of thing that is characterized by cascading effects which can end in cold numbing death. Two: Slow death might be worse than sudden death.

I looked at Ray, my guide for the day, who isn't a guide at all, but a nice guy nonetheless. I had been telling him for about a mile that we were making a big mistake by challenging "chewy" snow, especially as high up as we were, and with the sun's warming rays. He said, moments before we almost slid off the planet, "If it weren't safe, I wouldn't be doing it. I ain't gettin' stuck. I don't want to have to walk out of here any more than you do." Truth is, he couldn't walk 100 yards in that snow. But I could, and would have to, for 6 miles.

So, after my mini-day dream, where the sky was beautiful and the snow was as white as a virgin's veil, and two things occurred to me (as above), I looked at Ray and said "It's 2:00 pm. The snow will only get worse for the next hour or two. We can try to get this thing unstuck, but, when we fail, I am going to have to hike out of here to get help." He nodded, cursing aloud, lamenting the straights he had put us in, and acknowledging repeatedly that he should have listened to me. I tried to ease his discomfort. "Its a beautiful day. How bad can it be be?" He looked at me with a small amount of fear in his eyes, and said in a low voice, "We are over 20 miles from a real road, it'll be dark in a few hours, there is no cell phone reception here, and I don't have the right extrication gear. I am sorry I got us here, but now we're fucked."

I though hard about this frank assessment. It occurred to me, as it often does in these kinds of situations, that at least, there were no snipers. And nowadays I add, no IEDs. However, Ray was right in stating the hard reality of our situation. I asked him how far he could go. He said "I'd be a fool to leave this truck. They'd find me wadded up." That, of course, left precious few options. I needed to ruck up quickly, get down the mountain, communicate our situation to someone (like the outfitter in charge) as soon as possible, and get Ray off this mountain to prevent him a very cold night at minimum (I shuddered to think of that ridge at 2am). Hoo-ah.

A quick inventory ensued. 4 bottles of water, a rifle, a handgun, 2 oranges, a stick of salami and some beef jerky. I checked my pack. Survival gear, 1 first aid kit, emergency blanket, whistle, compass, GPS (Rhino w radio), and a couple of knives. Good to go. I took a GPS reading and recorded the coordinates. "Ray, I'll take half the water, an orange and the pistol. I'll be down by dark I hope, and you'll be outta here by midnight. Stay warm, don't leave this position- you're on your own" (I'd been wanting to use that line for years). I shook Ray's hand and left at 2:15 pm.

It was pretty simple. I'd either make contact with someone at the first available cell phone signal and set the gears in motion, or I'd spend the night out here, and so would Ray. I tried to leave it right there in my head, and ignored the nagging realities of cascading effects. I recalled the last place I felt the vibration of my phone receiving email or text messages was about two miles a way, on a ridge where one could see Mt. Ranier, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and Mt. St. Helens from virtually the same spot. I checked my battery --going low fast with the temps and the constant searching for signal. I shut it off and began my march, snapping a photo of the stuck truck before leaving (above).

After about two miles, I arrived at the ridge. I checked signal, dialed the outfitter, and afterwards my wife, and related the situation, gave coordinates, and assessed options. Once that was accomplished, I was relieved. Now that someone knew where we were, we were in good shape. It took me about three hours to get down to below snow line, and the outfitter was arriving as I was taking off my pack. After a tense exchange with him, he was convinced that he couldn't simply run up there and fix things John Wayne-style, without making a bigger mess. I made it clear that I had no intentions of going back up there having just come down plus 5 miles, just to get stuck and have to spend the night in the snow. We debated for a few minutes, but my photos, description, and GPS coordinates convinced him easily to call in reinforcements. Ray was rescued from the ridge before 11 pm.

Tomorrow, we will return to the snow, but will not attempt to drive so far. I hope to find a good transitional spot to be well positioned for either mountain lion or bobcat. Stay tuned.

Mountain Lion Hunting in the Cascades vol. 1

2011-02-01T23:20:00.012-05:00

First day of a 4 day hunt for mountain lion in Washington State (Mt St Helens area, Toutle River Valley)... no lions, but lots of elk and blacktail deer today. Had the crosshairs on two different shooter bulls at 100 or so yards. What a rush, even though season is closed.

That's Mt Ranier above, and Mt St Helens in the background below. Saw some cougar sign in the clear-cuts, but no lower elevation snow means tough hunting. Spot and stalk mixed with liberal predator calling set-ups in likely areas. At least the scenery is trophy-class.

Wicksall setter breeding planned

2011-01-21T10:09:00.001-05:00

I know most of you guys with two year old dogs aren't in the market for a new pup, but perhaps some of our intrepid readers may be interested. The dam is a litter mate of my Phoebe. Here's the info:

I’m responding to let you know that a breeding is planned for late Feb. with pups ready to go in late June. I have attached pics of my Daisy and her sire Bandit who I also own. She’s the one next to me but as you can see the two are carbon copies. I have also attached a pic of the sire I plan to use for the breeding, Ben, who is owned by a guy that works in the same office I do. Both have passed the Penn-Hip with flying colors and Daisy is registered with FDSB, Ben will be within a month. Ben is a great uncle of Daisy which I want so I can hopefully have access to this same bloodline in the future. I do not plan to keep a pup but the sire’s owner wants first pick.

I’m taking reservations now and asking $550 and $600 with $100 down to hold a pick. I’ll refund the $100 if you change your mind but it’s the only way to develop a priority list for those serious about it. There are a few others ahead of you but you would be pretty high on the list at this point. I don’t anticipate them lasting long since I recently heard that several other breeders in the L.P. including both Bandit’s and Ben’s breeders are not planning any spring litters.

I can send Daisy’s pedigree but I need to scan it in which I have not done yet. I have the pedigree of one of Ben’s littermates if you want it but his will not be available until he is registered. This bloodline has quite a mix including Bondue and some Llewellyn. The line was developed by a group of woodcock banders in Mich. who wanted close working, cautious dogs. That’s what you will get- these dogs don’t range much over 50 yds. in the thick stuff but will stretch it out on the Montana prairies when they can see the handler better. There is no field trial in this line. The offspring should run 40-55 lbs. and if they are like their parents they will be very personable. I want them to go to hunters only but they make great family dogs too. My two greet my whole family every morning and act like they haven’t seen us for a month the way they carry on.

Feel free to call me at work or home if you wish to talk more. Also let me know if you want the pedigrees and hip results. I also have more pictures- Ben made the cover of the MI hunting guide in ’08 with his owner and owner’s two daughters (bottom photo).

Daisy is owned by Jim Caron of the Michigan DNR, in Crystal Falls, Michigan (U.P.), and I can put anyone who's interested in touch with Jim. thanks everybody.
Jim

Tori wants a beagle...

2011-01-13T22:43:00.000-05:00

January Harvest

2011-01-07T12:32:00.006-05:00

I've been exploring a bit lately, searching for coverts closer to the new farm. Yesterday felt like Christmas when my neighbor suggested I use his property as a gateway to the public land just over the ridge. Hunting right out the back door!

Drove across Half Moon Creek with high hopes and parked the car next to a dilapidated deer camp . Within five minutes dog and I were drawn to a copse of young white pine. She pointed, then relocated, muscles slowed by whatever hormone it is that paralyzes an excited pointing dog. Another solid point.

I stepped forward as the grouse broke from top of a pine, five yards high and 15 yards ahead. Up went the SKB. No snag of the gun butt on my clothing. No forgetting the safety (as I had the day before). Stock planted solidly to cheek. Smooth swing from left to right. All very deliberate.

The bird tumbled. Pure joy. I called back the excited dog. Lilly, here! She had not seen the bird fall and was well beyond, having followed its trajectory. Returning to me, she winded the grouse, picked it up and came straight over. Perfect. A beautiful cock bird with full ruff.

Canoga's Tiger Lilly, fit to explode with excitement, SKB and

Grouse

The remainder of the hunt yielded no more birds, but we found some very nice cover. All five minutes from my stoop. And access to 100s of acres of game commission and Penn State land. I plan to return soon, taking advantage of last night's snow.

Cock bird, skinned and quartered, with crop contents (raisins, bar berries, greens)

Experiencing the sublime

2011-01-06T21:58:00.004-05:00

concealed in demarcation

quarrels over birds

in the goose fields

A confessional history lesson: on interdependence, reciprocity & proof

2011-01-03T17:15:00.006-05:00

It is the New Year, and I am all for a bit of stock-taking and cleaning out the closet, some musing and reminiscing, and perhaps even some meddling. I note that multiple posts have gone up, been commented on, and have come down (perhaps they end up in a lock-box on YouTube- special handshake only, or on the Solo Grouser blog...). This has been noted by other Grousers as well. One Grouser was in the middle of watching the latest Ballet Boy-esque, mealy-mouth criticaster, greedy's greatest block-buster when it suddenly disappeared! But I saw it, and the highly ethical comments, and I am in a mood to bury a hatchet, one way or the other.

So this post is wordy. And long-winded. And there are no cartoons. My apologies in advance. I hope to dispense with a facile bully-pulpit and a large blind spot (for the non -gender confused wordsmiths, facile means: Appearing neat and comprehensive by ignoring the complexities of an issue; superficial),while at the same time, fixing something, or at least setting facts straight, once and for all.

The following is both a confession and a history lesson that apparently is needed.

The bottom line is, sometimes I feel guilty about the fact that I facilitated a reality where many of my out-of-town friends hunt my neighbor's properties, even when I am not with them. I worry that those neighbors accommodate this situation because they are, in fact, very generous and big-hearted people. I worry that such an arrangement is not fair, and that such unfairness may jeopardize important elements of interdependence in my community. I am sure those friends would say that I should not worry. That is why I count them as such good friends. And yet, I do worry.

My continued emphasis on reciprocity comes from an honest concern about fairness and interdependence. Before I came to Canoga-land, I counted some of the original "5 smart guys" my friends. Since I met them in 2001, they have become some of the best friends a guy could have. When I arrived in Canoga-land in 2002, I met some other great people through Mike O'Connor, who taught me as much about ducks as Ernie has taught me about geese (in truth, they tolerated me because they loved my dog Fiona--just ask them).

My neighbors (Ernie, O'Connor, David, Robert, and Brent) were and are very generous with me here in my neighborhood when it comes to hunting, farming, or other neighborliness (like when Mo was hurt-these neighbors and friends met every imaginable need, like I hope to do for them some day). It is my neighbors/friends who originally hosted a complete stranger in Criticaster/ Greedy/Ballet Boy (on my request) and others at their hunting spots, or their farms. My Canoga-land neighbors have become some of your (original 5 smart guys) friends--that is great. We've all become Grousers of a sort. That truly makes me happy. But I live here in Canoga-land, and while some Grousers do, many, most of you don't. The Canoga-land denizens are all people that I deal with all year long, not just two weeks of hunting season. Like it or not, there is a give and take, there is reciprocity, everywhere in the world.

There are two coinciding historical events that complicate, or at least add complexity to this; (1) my decision to strike out on my own to hunt waterfowl so as not to burden my neighbors and friends with greater numbers of hunters and decreased satisfaction regarding calling, decision-making, etc., and (2) my good fortune in having been invited to hunt the Morehouse baitponds by the property owner.

There was a time when repeated complaints of "too many people" came from the land of the dozer pile, and "too much calling." Being the newcomer, and sensitive to the wishes of the elders in my community, and not insignificantly, the owners of the location and decoys for field hunting geese, I gave thought to how I might go on my own. I spoke of this conundrum with Eric, the very first person I met here in Canoga-land, who hunted only a few times at the dozer pile. We decided it would be best for all parties involved if Eric and I joined forces and struck out on our own. We invested in our own rig, pooled our decoys and invested in more, and secured properties other than my own property, mostly away from where my neighbors liked to hunt.

An exception to "away from where my neighbors like to hunt" is the location of the Morehouse baitponds. It is right next door to the dozer pile. I am fortunate to have been invited by the owner of the Morehouse bait ponds (Marty) to be one of the few people that have permission to hunt there, along with Eric, who happens to be my hunting partner, friend, and right-hand man to Marty. Marty enjoyed a memorable opening day hunt with me in one of my duck blinds on Cayuga Lake--come to think of it, so did my good friend Ballet Boy, the same day.

That exception, the fact that Eric and I can hunt the Morehouse ponds, has caused problems for me (and certainly Eric, too), since I can't give other friends permission to hunt there. I have permission to be there, but not to bring in others. So, between the original problem of too many hunters and decreased satisfaction, and the ensuing conflict over access/privilege regarding the Morehouse ponds, it was clearly best not to take advantage of the goose hunting wonder that is the dozer pile. Why? Because it doesn't seem fair. I care about that. This decision was not without its downsides, in that certain social rituals would be missed, like the post-hunt campfires (which have become more infrequent in any case).

So, prior to whatever it is that Ballet Boy is inadvertently or purposefully stirring up in my community, the situation was this:

* My friends and neighbors from anywhere, including the southern end of the lake, have a standing invitation to hunt my blinds in Canoga Marsh. Most have taken advantage of that and I hope will continue to do so. Is there reciprocity expected? Certainly. Most everyone who hunts those blinds participate in it's maintenance and upkeep, including camouflaging it and decoys.

* I have a standing invitation to hunt the dozer pile with Ernie and O'Connor (unless there are too many other people, like family members, which should always have priority).

* Mobile field hunts coordinated and hosted by the Illegal/Cagey gang are usually limited to four people, a number we feel is optimal for concealment and effectiveness/efficiency of setting up and taking down the spread. On occasion we accept invitations to other properties to double up spreads, which may mean more people.

* Deer hunting and turkey hunting is different.

So, what I have learned while living here in Canoga-land is that reciprocity is a good and worthy thing. It is a cornerstone of interdependence. It is how agrarian communities operate, how rural communities stick together. The reciprocity remarks I have made to Ballet Boy are to be taken as gentle reminders of how the system actually works. Yes, everybody seems so generous! Thank an ancient agrarian cultural construct called reciprocity for that. Now, so that unbelievers who are experts in ethics and right and wrong living can feel more comfortable with this history lesson, here is a wordy excerpt:

Independent thinking alone is not suited to interdependent reality. Independent people who do not have the maturity to think and act interdependently may be good individual producers, but they won't be good leaders or team players. They're not coming from the paradigm of interdependence necessary to succeed in ... organizational reality.

Stephen Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, 1989

Whatever the reason for the skewed discourse on goose hunting (which has gone a bit beyond friendly competition by anyone's measure and can arguably be looked upon as fomentation of animosity and side-taking) I want to distance myself from all of this and say publicly that I am deeply grateful to Mike Ernst, Mike O'Connor, Brent Murray, and Robert and David Thompson for their generosity to me, my family, and even my friends since 2002. This extends beyond hunting, and all of these men and their families know what I am talking about. I know that each of you would brush this all off and dismiss it, saying that my friends are your friends and are welcome anytime. That is why I am thanking you.

To my friends from out of the immediate area, I love it that you love it here. I love hunting with you here, or anywhere. I love it that you are friends with my neighbors! I love friendly competition, and grousing as much as the next guy. Hell, I love YOU guys. Ballet Boy, you know I have skin that is plenty thick (Rhino, elephant?). I know you do too. I know I am an interloper to Grouse Camps and Cornell and all that you hold sacred, and that legitimacy is negotiated. I know sometimes it makes you as mad as Hitler, er, I mean hell. But all of that aside, let me know if I am ever messing with your community and your place in it. Rattle a bit, like I have been rattling. And try to tread lightly, and not on me.

I'd like to bury the hatchet on this over-exaggerated and overly-sensationalized-by-media mogul-Tantillo rift, and I would certainly like to get back to the quaint notion of friends hunting. I am sure that my sentiments will be satirized once again, and that is fine. But I said what I mean, and this post won't be taken down, privatized, etc. at least not by me. I may not throw a journal, but I will certainly let the words stick, come what will, cost what it may.

I was asked by Jim once to comment on why I hunt, and I said: I for one don't hunt to prove anything, but to get back to an elusive something. Thanks to this landscape, and unconditional friendships that solidify within them, I always feel a level of fulfillment, of being "at my limit" in the satiated sense. I am proud of my farm, and my hunting, and my friends. Viva la Canoga.

Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps there is proving. Perhaps the "hero of every hunting story" problem that Rich described is a reaction to the fear of not being a hero in any story at all. Perhaps hunting helps us prove that we can be heroes, through mastery and persistence. Perhaps, when the noise of "constructive criticism" and the onslaught of suspicion by even your closest allies that you really are illegitimate, a fraud, a fake, an imposter and interloper, becomes almost deafening, perhaps it is then that the proof, the antithesis, the null hypothesis, is in the well placed shot and all that went in to it and becomes of it. The irony is that perhaps that cannot be shared or truly appreciated except for by a very few.

All well and good.

I want to end this though. I would not have posted the picture of opening day waterfowling had I known it would lead to these perturbations. I regret it now, and all that has gone with it. There shouldn't be hard feelings about the privilege of hunting. Life is way too short for that in my opinion.

So, Ernie and O'Connor, I am sorry about any rift. I "left the party" because I thought it was what was required. Afterall, you weren't the first Grousers to have kicked me off into the stormy sea with the infamous phrase "You're on your own!" My absence now should not be taken as a slight, despite all grousing and what not.

JT, despite your acerbic efforts to stir the pot and find enjoyment at others' expense disguised as good clean fun, I love you like a brother. I am absolutely convinced that you understand the difference between personal ribbing and the whole interdependence thing, and that you will respect my feelings about this as a matter of principle.

Finally, let us ponder the words of T. S. Elliot-- "For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning."

So I hope to put the so called rift, the worries of reciprocity, and all the rest, to rest, at last. I welcome thoughts on this from those involved.

Anyone else, sorry to have bored you. Happy New Year Grousers.

New Year's Eve--Picking the last drake

2011-01-03T09:54:00.003-05:00

Awesome times in 2010. Closed out the year with more limits on ducks (see the movie- best with sound).

Totals- 48 geese/ 67 ducks-- total waterfowl in 2010 second half- 115

The smoker is in over-drive

Originally filmed on Ernie's couch...

2010-12-28T23:42:00.002-05:00

Geico changed the image of the person on the couch to protect Jim's fragile emotions... Thank goodness for the loving support Jim get's from the dozer pile boys!

Opening Day Waterfowl (2nd Half) 2010

2010-12-27T19:59:00.003-05:00

24 geese

40 ducks

8 hunters

Strangely Jim wasn't there to claim geese. Perhaps he was comfortable in a sauna talking alot about hunting. ;)

Happy Holidays from the Grousers

2010-12-22T10:35:00.000-05:00

apparently this photo has been circulating on the Information Superhighway lately. Happy Holidays.

Excellence in outdoor media award for 2010

2010-12-21T11:50:00.000-05:00

definitely hunting-related. Apparently the full-length feature film was released on December 3, 2010.

I want to hunt the ruffled grouses . . .

2010-12-18T14:08:00.004-05:00

this excellent video comes to us via our favorite local northeast region Ruffled Grouse Society biologist. enjoy.

If the video doesn't show up in your browser, click here to watch it on xtranormal.

Tagged Out

2010-12-13T11:57:00.003-05:00

9 points
14 1/8 inside spread
very nice mass at the bases and throughout
easily my 2nd best deer to date
currently in third place in the Kuneytown Big Buck Challenge

Got a coyote earlier in the morning.

Sarah Palin versus Aaron Sorkin

2010-12-10T19:00:00.001-05:00

Don't know if you guys have been following this story, but here's the Sarah Palin clip of her taking six shots at a caribou that has sparked a lot of discussion/debate/criticism this week.

Aaron Sorkin let loose with this expletive-laden diatribe against Palin: "In Her Defense, I'm Sure the Moose had it Coming."

Now, the most fun yet: Rutgers law professor Gary Francione--he of the ultimate pro-animal rights position--writes to Sorkin saying "I Hate to Say It, but Sarah Palin is Right: A Response to Aaron Sorkin."

I haven't had this much fun since I was reading for my A-exam.

Gun hunting ban in primitive areas?

2010-12-10T17:38:00.001-05:00

Have you guys heard about this? Kind of puts the damper on wilderness designations if it goes through.

U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance
801 Kingsmill Parkway, Columbus, OH 43229
Ph. 614/888-4868 • Fax 614/888-0326
Website: www.ussportsmen.org • E-mail: info@ussportsmen.org

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Contact: Greg R. Lawson (614) 888-4868 x 214
December 10, 2010 Sharon Hayden (614) 888-4868 x 226

Forest Service to Consider Banning Gun Hunting
in Parts of Huron-Manistee National Forest

(Columbus, OH) - As a result of a recent anti-hunting court ruling, the U.S. Forest Service is starting a formal review of its Management Plan for the Huron-Manistee National Forest to consider banning hunting with firearms in some areas.

In September, the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the Forest Service’s regulations required that it consider banning hunting with guns on lands designated as “semi-primitive.” The Court found that the noise associated with gun hunting could harm the quality of the recreational experience of hikers, backpackers, and cross county skiers.

Just as troublesome, the Court ruled that the Forest Service was required to consider closing these areas to gun hunting in places where there is other public, non-Forest land nearby that is open to gun hunting. This could require the Forest Service to close lands currently open for gun hunting when other state or federal hunting lands are opened.
The court ruling has prompted the Forest Service to start a formal review of the Huron-Manistee Management Plan. Primarily, the review will focus on whether or not hunting with guns should be banned on the “semi-primitive” areas.

Sportsmen will be given opportunities to submit comments to the Forest Service throughout the review process.

“This court ruling is a major threat to hunting on these lands and across the country,” said Rob Sexton, USSA vice president for government affairs. “Anti-hunters will likely use this ruling to try and force the Forest Service to ban gun hunting on other Forest lands.

On October 26th, the U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance and a coalition of nineteen other leading conservation groups sent a letter to the Forest Service requesting that it rewrite the regulations the Court used to render the anti-hunting decision.

The USSA will keep sportsmen apprised of when and where they can submit comments on this issue.

About the U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance
The U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance is a national association of sportsmen and sportsmen’s organizations that protects the rights of hunters, anglers and trappers in the courts, legislatures, at the ballot, in Congress and through public education programs. For more information about the U.S. Sportsmen’s Alliance and its work, call (614) 888-4868 or visit its website, www.ussportsmen.org.

Better start writing your Congressional reps . . . .

Local deer photo

2010-12-10T16:42:00.004-05:00

wow. just ran across this photo in the Ithaca Journal . . . out of Hector.

from the Journal:
"The Seneca Buck

11/20/2010 8:08:59 PM|Vannmiester

This buck was taken by Jamie Vann of Trumansburg. Grossed an amazing 175 5/8 in. and was taken in Hector National Forest."

NPR is now Nimrod Public Radio

2010-12-09T09:06:00.002-05:00

For Some Girls, The Ultimate Goal Is To Kill A Buck

Heated blinds!

Baiting!

Texting while hunting!

Girls hunting!

Cats and dogs, living together ... mass hysteria!

Man, sleepy.

2010-12-03T22:57:00.002-05:00

taking tomorrow off. maybe the whole d*mn weekend.

Even God rested on the seventh day.

Thanks for the whisky, PW.

Newsflash--the Wild Harvest Table on the Radio

2010-12-02T09:41:00.004-05:00

Hello fellow grousers. I may have mentioned to some of you that Mo and I are making a big push to get the Seneca Wild Harvest Table more squarely on the Cornell Cooperative Extension map. We are succeeding in incremental ways as far as the bureaucracy goes (DEC and Federal Formula Funds both look promising), but perhaps better in the "local buzz" category--check out Mo's radio interview this morning here.

What to do with a gunshy lab

2010-12-02T06:26:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking this year we may just dress him up as a Christmas tree and put him on an extended sit-stay for the month.

jt

p.s. wondering if Santa Paws has brought the Pennsyltucky hunters any venison yet?

Too late for turkey day

2010-11-30T14:55:00.000-05:00

counted 38. They never seem to be around when you're looking for them, though.

Two more days

2010-11-27T06:57:00.003-05:00

Until the Pennsyltucky rifle opener. Driving home last night, 10 pm, 0.25 miles from the Valley of Death, my deer hunting ground. What's that in the headlights? An apparition? Phantom? Fantasy? 10 points with tines scraping tree tops. Into the Valley he slinks. I, KG and Ben will lust for his soul in the days to come.

It takes a village...

2010-11-26T14:26:00.004-05:00

Thanksgiving on the Tidball ranch; a fantastic tradition that brings together family, friends, land, sky, and the creatures therein. Jim and Keith, each having shot multiple deer, felt sorry for my state of deprivation (22 hours in the stand and no deer seen) and devised a plan to push something past me.

The morn dawned grey and windy, strong out of the SE, so we drove around to the W of Keith’s back field and worked our way E. I wore my throwback hunter red and black plaid Woolrich coat that belonged to my grandfather. Jim and I each sat on a fencerow, and Keith chose the hickory lot. A brush-busting neighbor paid me a visit, having managed to sit on his stand for an entire 20 minutes!! After departing, he pushed out a couple of deer a couple hundred yards away. My deer shotgun is pretty low tech (smoothbore and no scope). It is more like bowhunting (gotta upgrade) so a few hundred yards feels like the next county. Probably they had been working their way right to me, but at least I had seen deer.

We regrouped. Keith had seen deer as well: a buck and four does. I still hunted my way along the N fenceline toward a good stand just off the corner of the field and with a good view as well of the big gully. A buck jumped up when I was about 30 yards away, but flashed through the thick stuff and was gone. No shot. I settled into the stand and Keith and Jim began a slow push toward me. Movement in the brush along the fenceline. A coyote! Despite farm protocols that suggest I should take advantage, I really didn’t want to shoot the dang thing.

I still wanted a deer.

About 5 minutes later, from where the coyote disappeared, I caught movement. A doe (or so I thought), working her way toward me, down in one of the smaller gullies that drop into the main branch. About 50 yards. She was coming closer but I saw that if she stayed in the gully, she would soon be below my line of sight. She showed me some chest and I held behind the shoulder and touched the trigger. She tumbled, letting out a bloodcurdling bawl that Jim heard from a couple hundred yards away. She lunged to her feet and then crashed down again, and lay still, white belly toward me. I sat still for 5-10 minutes, watching.

Dead deer.

I still hadn’t moved, but then suddenly she was on her feet, lunging away, too thick for a shot. I called to the boys and told them to watch out. Jim walked toward me along the fence, where I had last seen the deer. I still expected it to be dead along the fenceline.

A single shot from Jim. “Great,” I thought, “the finishing shot”. My heart sank, though, when Jim’s shot was followed by another, 10 seconds later. The deer was on the run, the chase was on, and my role was that of the guy trying to piece it together from afar. More shots from the gully. A call from Keith. “The deer is down!”. Relief. Followed by more shots. “What the ****?”

The deer was running the gully, with Jim following and Keith racing to outflank. He made it, to the promontory that overlooks “possum flats” where we dragged out his deer a couple of days earlier. The deer was trying to climb out of the gully to the east. If he made it to the open field, he’d be across route 89 and into the marsh on the other side. Keith hit him again, from ~150 yards across the gully, and down he went.

Only to get back up again.

To be hit at last from Jim. Bang. Dead deer.

Mostly. After yet another shot in the neck.

I have never seen an animal that wanted to live so much, that fought so hard, as this guy (as he turned out to be a button buck). Altogether we hit him five times. I surely am not proud of this, but I am proud of how well we coordinated as a team. Without the team effort, he surely would have not been ours. Much to be thankful for here—the winter meat yes, but so much more.

shortest. writeup. ever.

2010-11-24T08:40:00.001-05:00

appointments over -
three o'clock home and in stand
four thirty . . . deer . . . bang

The 2010 NY deer opener (southern)

2010-11-22T09:26:00.007-05:00

(This is an abbreviated version of the post at http://tidball.blogspot.com/2010/11/odd-season.html)

Saturday was the opening day of the firearms deer season. At around 7:30 am, I missed a moving buck, a very wide and thick 6 pointer, at about 90 yards in cover. This buck was just hammering on a small button buck, literally kicking his can all over the place. I watched this big old buck throw the little feller into the air with his antlers, chase him down, and pin him to the forest floor. When the shot (80 yards or so, moving- high winds) finally, briefly, presented itself, I was surprised and frustrated by the miss. The day's frustration continued with increasing heavy winds, and the hunting pressure from neighboring farms, as it seemed every time I got settled into a new location, within an hour bright orange blobs could be seen in my upwind scent cones.

I finally decided to finish the opener in a newly installed, safe, two person ladder stand in the "square wood" otherwise known as the "hickory lot." This stand has a great view to the east and the south east of two large fields and a hedgerow. As I entered the little grove to climb into the stand, I kicked up two deer, but I could only hear them and see their tails. About an hour later, two deer, does, appeared at the end of the large field I was hunting over, out of range. They were feeding relatively comfortably on the clover. I watched them for quite awhile through the Nikon BDC scope mounted on my Ithaca Deerslayer II. They finally drifted out of the field and into the gully. Ten minutes later, another doe appeared, this one moving more purposefully toward the gate at the far southeast corner of the field. After 5 minutes, another deer appeared- the big 6 pointer.

The wind was blowing from the West, from behind me, to the field and the deer. I had not noticed any of the three does from minutes earlier obviously "scent" or "wind" me. However, as I had an aerosol can of "Buck Bomb" given to me, I thought I 'd see how well it works by spraying some in the air and hoped it would drift down wind to the buck and lure him my way. I sprayed, and within a minute, the buck could be seen scenting the air, nose high, in my direction. He immediately began to move towards me, closing the 300 yards step by step.

At about 150 yards, the buck veered slightly left (south) and was concealed by the thin hedgerow that runs perpendicular to the line of woods where I was positioned. The sun was setting, a big full moon was peaking in and out of the clouds. I assumed the buck was marching toward me. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes elapsed. No buck. I resigned myself to the fact that he had been dissatisfied with something and lured elsewhere. I packed up my satchel, slung the gun over my head and shoulder behind me, and prepared to descend from stand. Just as I extended my foot to step down to the first rung, I heard leaves crunching steadily, from behind the hedgerow where I had been expecting the buck. "It's him!" I nearly said out loud. "Better late than never." I clumsily removed my gun, knocking my hat off in the process. I settled in to a shooting position and tried to calm my nerves.

The bright moon and lingering sunset gave decent light, which was improved by the light-gathering qualities of my scope. I watched the end of the hedgerow intently. The sound of shuffling leaves grew louder . I could see feet, legs. The deer paused. Head movement. I could see an antler. "It's him!" I thought again, almost out loud. He was hanging back, sniffing. I needed two steps for a 15 yard shot at vitals, broadside. He took ones step, still partially obscured by the tangly brush of the Buckthorn and other hedgerow miscellany. As he bobbed his head I could make out his profile, tall antlers, points, some thickness... he stepped again. A clear shot at vitals. Bang. The Hornady SST was on its way.

He jumped straight up, and then went running. I shot four more times at him running, later learning that three of these running shots connected. The final shot downed him in the middle of my field, out about 150 yards. It was done. I descended the ladder, slightly shaky and well adrenalized, was smiling as I walked up to the big buck... but he got smaller as I approached. I stopped, paused... "that's a different buck" I said aloud. I walked closer, knelt over him, gently took the tall but juvenile antler, and chuckled softly. "Sorry boy- a case of mistaken identity" I said.

Apparently the original big 6 point deer, when concealed by the hedgerow, was met by the smaller 8 point 1 and 1/2 year old buck. Whatever transpired, time elapsed, and one buck went one way, one buck went my way. The smaller one went my way and is now headed towards the sausage maker.

I believe this is the same buck as pictured below from pre-archery October trail camera shots. He was supposed to benefit from QDM. Instead he fell victim to classic buck lust and "eager orange" as I call it. I have been struggling with that since the kill, but have resolved to be thankful and move on, perhaps wiser. In any case, as I have been told, you can't eat antlers. He'll be tasty. I will remember him for what he is and isn't, and for the Opening Day hunt under a full moon that I wasn't going to get to experience, but did.

Day two of the opener dawned sunny and with little wind. I set up in the second of my three two-person tree stands, the one that faces south down in the gully. I set Rich up in the "Quickie" stand that overlooks "The Bedroom," a deer bedding area that has traditionally held big bucks every year. My goal was to fill the first of my 2 DMPs (the second is for a different WMU). At 7:30 am, I filled that tag with a nice, neat, single 50 yard chip shot that anchored the deer in her tracks. In the picture, the white spot in the center is the doe's belly. Rich helped me gut it and drag it out. There will be feasting.

McPhee: Feb 6, 1996 - Nov 19, 2010

2010-11-19T12:43:00.004-05:00

McPhee has joined his hunting companions Abbey, Cody, Fiona, Ginger, and Taga on the other side.

He loved well the Wisconsin grouse woods; the big water, prairie potholes and coulees of Alberta; the rocky hills of Pennsylvania; and the marshes of the Finger Lakes country.

He gave us almost 15 years. He loved us and we loved him. We'll see you again, old pal.

No longer "just" the cook

2010-11-18T21:17:00.013-05:00

So I was feeling slightly fraudulent with the attention the Wild Harvest Table has been getting and therefore being asked the question, "do you hunt?", to which I had to reply, well I fish, but I am more the cook. So last weekend I accepted the invitation to go on a squirrel hunt with my family. Cagey set me up with his beloved LC Smith 20 gauge and our oldest daughter had her .22 Chipmunk. We set off for the wood line in the front field. We noted that there suddenly weren't any squirrels to be found when you are actually hunting them, but then we saw one up ahead. Our guide hurried us on. He told us to wait as he went around the huge cotton tree to push the squirrel to our side and not to worry as long as we aimed high. Sure enough, the squirrel came around to our side up high in the tree and I shot. "BOOM", yes the gun tip went up, but the squirrel was shot. He scrambled/fell down the tree and started across the ground. Damn. I shot again. Now he was clearly hit hard and feebly moving away slowly. I have no more shots or ammo to reload, so I call in the sharp shooter with her .22. "Quick, take the squirrel that is getting away (unless I choose to go pick it up, I realized in hindsight)...shoot it in the head", I plead to my daughter. Aim, fire, and the squirrel is quickly dispatched. We now have squirrel to add to our Thanksgiving larder, and I am no longer just the cook.

Kuneytown Youth Hunt!

2010-11-15T00:50:00.001-05:00

My next bird dog

2010-11-11T17:48:00.000-05:00

apparently a new breed of bird dog is being developed:

from Terry's Diary.

Dispatch from the Front (archery deer hunting obsession)

2010-11-10T11:18:00.002-05:00

Ambush nearly successful STOP 20 meters but obscured by cover STOP target is a "shooter"STOP presented "quartering toward" shot oblique STOP shot declined, reference ROE STOP target has exfiltrated STOP will reengage at 1500 STOP regaining radio silence FULL STOP

Trail Cam recon

Honor the hunt by hunting with honor

2010-11-06T13:11:00.002-04:00

Some of you know that I've started writing again. For better or worse.

Latest entry at the Fair Chase blog: http://fairchasehunting.blogspot.com/2010/11/honor-hunt-by-hunting-with-honor.html

Yes, but is it sporting?

2010-11-04T15:52:00.000-04:00

You labba dabba guys never cease to amaze me. When will you learn that your stupid pet tricks will never measure up to the True Greatness that is the Pointy-Sissy-Dogge. harrumph.

Cobalt skies

2010-10-27T17:59:00.004-04:00

Stolen poem - picture taken after a long, very cold day of fishing the Gallatin River outside of Bozeman last fall.

A Blessing

by Ken Hada

After three days of hard fishing
we lean against the truck
untying boots, removing waders.

We change in silence still feeling
the rhythm of cold water lapping
thankful for that last shoal of rainbows
to sooth the disappointment
of missing a trophy brown.

We'll take with us the communion
of rod and line and bead-head nymphs
sore shoulders and wrinkled feet.

A good tiredness claims us
from slipping over rocks, pushing rapids –
sunup to sundown – sneaking
toward a target, eyes squinting
casting into winter wind.

We case the rods, load our bags
and start to think about dinner.
None of us wants to leave.
None wants to say goodbye.

Winter shadows touch the river cane.
The cold is coming. We look up
into a cobalt sky, and there,
as if an emissary on assignment,
a Bald Eagle floats overhead
close enough to bless us
then swiftly banks sunward
and is gone.

Requiem for Herter's decoys

2010-10-25T13:41:00.001-04:00

Yes, it's sad but true, Herter's decoys are no more. As reported on a number of hunting sites, including http://www.yellowdogpatrol.com/2010/09/cabelas-discontinues-herters-decoys.html

In Herter's and KGT's honor, I spent some time yesterday repainting some Herter's 72s that were looking a little beat up. Better keep an eye on the Pennysaver and Craigslist for now on, 'cause they ain't making any more of these.

Cabela's is starting to garner a reputation as an evil empire. Hard to believe.

jt

p.s. And in case anyone's wondering about the size of those neck bands . . . take a look at the videos on takeem.com .