Pest control, Australia-style

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



sporting? ethical? discuss.

Full use of the mouse resource

from boingboing

The Fashion of Taxidermied Vermin

By William Gurstelle at 8:55 AM February 26, 2010

Guestblogger William Gurstelle is the author of several books, including Backyard Ballistics and the recently published Absinthe and Flamethrowers. Here's his blog.

Avant-garde artist Reid Peppard has a line of bold fashion accessories for men and women. Actually, bold is putting it mildly. The fashion accessories are pieces of fashioned taxidermy crafted from road kill and pest controlled vermin. The mouse bow tie is a particularly powerful statement, I'd say.

What do you say Tidball?

Grouse Camp Mouse Control

here's a video for all you full-utilization-of-the-resource mouse thumb puppet fans out there. Enjoy.

Quality Deer Management: A Risk-Averse View

Will bigger, higher-quality deer lead to more traffic fatalities? From today's CNN postings.

Added On February 19, 2010

Nashville police say a deer crashed through the windshield of a car and killed a young girl. WKRN reports.



A risk-averse argument for smaller, scrawnier 80-pound deer. Makes the eating of toxic-laden ducks seem positively harmless.

More misadventures in backyard varmint shooting

Reynard meets his demise

Sluiced the first fox of 2009 yesterday. My daughter Sophia had spotted him while she was doing her homework on the kitchen counter. This one was tricky because of the tough angle he initially presented through the swingset. I also had a tough time setting up into position on the back mudroom steps because of my gunshy lab getting in the way.

Finally he moved away from the swingset, and I put a bead on him and fired away. He flipped over, but incredibly came back to life, got up, and started walking away with our less than one year old camper directly behind him.

I waited for him to clear the trailer's tires, with the knowledge he had but five feet to crawl off into the bushes. I figured the bullet would go through him and end up in the ground under the camper somewhere. So then I shot him a second time, and he was down for good.

Unfortunately these Federal Nosler tips do a hell of a lot of damage at 60 yards (or 600 yards for that matter), and when I arrived at the scene of the crime there was fox blood, guts, and tissue sprayed all over the side of the camper. What a mess.

And of course, in the five minutes it took me to get the hoses connected to clean it off, the little bits and pieces of fox gore had all baked hard and dry on the camper walls in the late afternoon sun. I didn't have a scrub brush so I used my fingernails.

What's more, is that of course all of our garden hoses had decided to crack over the winter, leaving me with an intermittently but nicely watered lawn along the hose path and severely depleted water pressure at the hose's end 100 yards from the house. I can tell you now that cleaning dried guts with reduced water pressure is like using a squirt gun to wash three day old dirty dishes.

Twenty minutes later the camper was clean and I was resolved never to shoot a fox in front of the camper again.

kids don't try this at home

COYOTE UGLY

I caught this big male crossing a field on the Canoga Creek Conservancy the other day. Since the season is open and I happened to have a .223 in the truck, I decided to take crack at him. He was about 200 yds out, but the 55gr full metal jacket found its mark. He ran to the edge of the field and it was all over.

See you in the field.

Eric

Varmints and other grousers . . .

Hadn't had a bloodthirsty day in a while, so pulled out the old varmint gun and went snipin' yesterday.

A Capstickian death in the tall grass . . .

The first photo is of a not-too-old male chuck who had moved into an old den under one of our sheds. I've been watching him for several weeks and had concluded he was likely a male when no younger chucks materialized. I did a sneak on him at first from around the house: he detected me and dove back into the ground for cover.

Twenty minutes later he wasn't as lucky. This time I did the full-blown military crawl out onto the turf and assassinated him at 62 yards. I then decided to put him on the woodpile as fox bait.

I eased into fox sniping position at approximately 7:45 pm. Two days earlier a guest had seen a fox in broad daylight between our two barns. I set up in our pole barn, hunkered down between our tiller, snow blower, and lawn tractor. nothing shoots like a Deere . . . .

the fox blind

At approximately 8:10 a woodchuck wandered out from the bushes that surround our big barn. I sat and watched him for five or so minutes, resolving to put him on the list for August.

At that point a fox sticks its head out from the exact runway the woodchuck had used, and it stood there craning its neck to survey the yard with the woodchuck just yards away.

Of course, I'm pointed in the wrong direction, having baited my brush pile out in the middle of the sheep pasture. Plus my small engine blind doesn't really do a good job of covering me up. Feeling exposed, I sat there watching the two critters for a minute, hoping the fox would move out and allow me to reposition to line up a shot.

A fox bait pile in the act of being ignored by foxes . . .

The woodchuck then lunged at the fox! startling it perhaps, but at any rate the fox ran out into the grass and behind a spruce on the lawn. I hurriedly repositioned, and then it came back toward the bushes by the barn (which are loaded with black raspberries at this time). I didn't have much time to line up, and he was just about to go back into the bushes when I touched off a shot--MISSED. Damn. I went over and looked at where he had been, and nothing. nada. zilch.

I went back to my seat in the pole barn, and decided I needed a better blind than a Troy-Bilt. Hastily I pulled four bales of straw down and placed them between me and the bushes the fox disappeared into. Back in action!

Fox-eye view of the blind:
note skill in straw camo placement

It didn't take long. About twenty minutes later this little boy appeared from around the back of the barn, nonchalantly walking over to the raspberries. He presented a perfect broadside shot standing still at forty-five yards, and I quickly dispatched him.

So peaceful in deathly repose . . .

I let him lie, thinking there might be yet another curious fox to come. Sure enough, around 9:30 another fox came slinking down along the pasture fence. This time the varmint was moving way too fast to even think about shooting, and he disappeared off into the darkness. I decided to call it a night.

View from the blind: where foxes come to die

on the alleged duty to save the pelt . . .

yo, Cabin Boy . . . I seem to remember a long-ago Maine grouse camp at Camp Haccamatack by the shores of Lake Spider-gitchee-gumee, where you entertained us (and kept us all awake half the night) attempting to do some kitchen animal control yourself.

I don't recall whether you saved the pelt that night? I do remember a whopping headache from having someone's hunting journal thrown at my noggin.

Ahhh, the memories.

Leave the drilling at home

Pelt quality issues . . .

the new sniper's nest

Update: on Friday I lost a second fox due to crippling. The fox was moving away from me and I took a 100-yard quartering away deer shot at him from my bedroom sniper's position, but unfortunately I hit him in the hind left leg, and he ran off into the underbrush.

I did send my gun-shy labrador to find him. Aldo rousted him out, and I came eye to eye with Reynard at five yards down on the creek's edge--but alas, I did not take a gun so as not to freak out the dog, and the fox crossed the creek along a log and went down a hole on the other side.

I thereby resolved to shorten the distance and to set up a new position in the shed closest to the sheep pasture. This shed is conveniently missing a single pane in a window at gun rest level.

the view from the sniper's nest:
bait stump at far right

Last night I staked out my red fox bait pile (hey, the regs did say, at any time, in any manner) and sure enough, at the stroke of 9:00 pm two foxes came peeling out of the barn straight to the stump to which I have applied with wire staples various scraps of freezer-burned meat.

fox bait: ethical? sporting? discuss.

At thirty-five yards I missed a completely broadside shot at the first one; the only thing I can figure is that in my eagerness to get "two for one," I jerked the trigger on the first one. Moral of that story: don't count your chicken killers before they're killed.

Then, as both animals circled around the brush pile to figure out where the noise had come from, one poked her head above the grass about 45 yards away. This time I hit what I was aiming at--a clean head shot.

neck-shot fox kit

Here's another issue for you from the animal control world. The pelt of the adult I took the other day (see the picture previously posted) was in fairly poor condition--either the winter coat was giving way to a summer coat, or the pelt was in bad shape following her giving birth to a litter. But compare hers with the coat of the young fox shot last night--there's no comparison. I'm not even sure one could sell the pelt of the previous fox.

So (I'm asking Keith primarily, I suppose, although I'd love to hear from others), how would that factor in to your thinking about full utilization of the resource?

for the chickens' sake . . .

Reynard, slaughtered in conformance to the law:

http://law.onecle.com/new-york/environmental-conservation/ENV011-0523_11-0523.html

§ 11-0523. Destructive or menacing wildlife; taking without permit.
6. Raccoons, coyotes or fox injuring private property may be taken by
the owner, occupant or lessee thereof, or an employee or family member
of such owner, occupant or lessee, at any time in any manner.

in memory of our chickens and our neighbor's chickens. at 92 yards by range finder from the kids' upstairs bedroom window. sporting? ethical? discuss.

chicken-killing Reynard meets his demise

Watch out you wily woodchucks . . . .

I've been meaning to be back in touch with Yeoman about his rifle advice from last year. Since our exchange here on the blog I have picked up two smallbore guns, a CZ 527 in .223 Rem, and a Tikka T3 Lite in .243 . (I also picked up a CZ .22lr military trainer, which I and my kids absolutely love.) Here's my report so far:

CZ 527 American
Yeoman, while I think I've come to agree with you about the CZ's overall quality compared with the Tikka, let me tell you that it seems to me CZ makes you work for it. This .223 CZ gun has a very rough bolt and very rough magazine feeding. The bolt was so bad that the gunsmith at the store offered to polish it for me as a warranty repair before I even took it home.

The CZ also makes it hard (though not impossible) to mount a scope, due to (a) the short action, but also (b) the clearance needed between the scope and the bolt handle. I ended up fitting a very nice 4x14.5 x40 Nikon Buckmasters scope on it, but I won't be able to put flip-up scope caps on it.

The good news is that the .223 shoots well and seems to like (so far) Black Hills remanufactured ammo with 55 grain soft points. The set trigger is also kind of fun to play with--basically a hair trigger once it's set.

So basically the main issue is that I've got to wait for the action eventually to smooth out after shooting it a bunch more.

Tikka T3 Lite
Here's more good news. This thing shoots. I've got a Nikon Buckmasters 3X9X40 with a BDC reticle I'm not sure I need. But lookee here--at 160 yards with Federal Premium 70 grain Nosler Ballistic tips:

These rounds will go an inch high at 100 yards and an inch low at 200 yards--about right for the fields around here. While 70 grains through a .243 seems like overkill for groundhogs, one thing I learned from the elephant gun video . . . it pays to use enough gun.

Watch out you wily woodchucks.

YiCote

My daughter, Victoria, has a knack for hearing them. She hears them howling here or there around the farm and draws our attention to them. Always has. When she was younger she'd say "Shhh...listen...Yicotees!"

I was planning to ice fish today, but it got too warm and the ice got to lookin' a bit too rotten for me. As I was looking out over the mighty Cayuga thinkin' how today wasn't a good day for a swim, I chuckled aloud thinkin' about coyote fishin', as was recently described on this blog. And then my friend George showed up, itching for a coyote hunt.

So, we went out for the afternoon, him toting a .222 and me a .223. George's wife Ann enjoys a walk about in the woods as much as anyone, so she joined in. It was about 3:30 pm when we lit out for the gully.

We crunched along in the hardening snow, aware that we were making a hell of a racket. We got to the "hidden field," recently "baited" with unsuccessful lambing efforts. Nothing but red tailed hawks. We discussed it. I ended up deciding to climb up into the cedar tree deer stand overlooking the hidden field while George and Ann took a walk.

I spent about an hour watching flight after flight of geese. More hawks checked out the bait pile. Checked the watch, it was a quarter to five. And then, way across the field to the west, out came a runnin' a coyote... not a flat out run, but kinda lopin' along, yet faster than a trot. I guessed the range to be about 300 meters, so I dialed up the scope to 10, and got on 'im. Movin' left to right, I led him good and let fly. Bang. Wouldn't ya know, I dropped him there. At the shot, another coyote appeared, but as the first still had its head up, I passed the shot, not wanting to expend rounds.

The second coyote approached the one I had hit, and the hit coyote attempted to join the escape, but was clearly badly hit in the back hip. Try as it might, it made slow and difficult progress toward the hedge row and cover. I tried two more shots but didn't seem to connect. I yelled for George and let him know the direction of my downed animal. He was on the trail quickly, as I unloaded and climbed out of the tree. George easily found the blood trail, and as I ran up to the hedgerow, out of breath, we could both see the crippled coyote in the next field, still trying pathetically to get away. George had his gun up, but sportingly asked me if it was ok to give the coup de grace. As I was out of breath and still quite a bit back, and the animal was clearly suffering, I gave George the green light. He ended it cleanly at a range of about 75 meters.

The coyote had a beautiful coat. It turned out to be a female. We went back to the point of impact, where there was a clear break in the tracks in the snow, as well as blood and hair. I paced back to my shooting spot 349 paces. Given that it was snowy, I would say confidently that my shot was plus 300 meters, but not necessarily 349.

More Opening Day 2007

Well, I wish I would have seen some antlers in the neighborhood, but it appears that the boys at BC camp cleaned 'em out! Congrats to Jim, Kevin, & Ernie.

My hunt was interesting, though not in the buck department. At about 8:30 am I heard footsteps over my right shoulder and watched out of the corner of my eye as a coyote trotted right through my shooting lane at about 70 yards. Clicked on the red dot, moved the safety, raised the gun...bang. Dead coyote. The picture below is dedicated to the Cabin Wear fans among us. Actually, it was taken the next morning after church as I was getting ready to take my prize to the taxidermist.
























I spent the rest of the Opening Day morning hoping for deer, but saw nothing. Moved around a bit, tried a new stand when the corn cutting in adjacent fields began. Nothing. Finally, with only two hours until dark, I decided to move out of the gully and high-tail it to the lake, to hunt the clover stand by the marsh. No sooner had I climbed into the stand and took my look around when I saw movement at the south end of the field. Out trotted a little flat top, nervous as hell, twitching the tail and looking about anxiously.

The deer obviously wanted to cross the field and get the heck out of the state land, and so it headed more or less on a bee-line straight for me, stopping for nervous mouthfuls of clover along the way. At about 60 yards, the deer winded me and stopped short, facing me almost directly. I briefly studied the shot and the needed angle while turning on the red dot and flipping the safety. As the deer's ear twitched I raised the gun, found my predetermined spot on the deer's chest...bang. The deer cartwheeled and lay still. Upon closer inspection, the bullet shattered the front right shoulder as it slashed through both lungs and exploded the heart, angling slightly down ward and towards the left rear quarter, almost exiting mid-ribcage on the deer's left side. I smiled...textbook. Yippee ki yay.

Looked at the watch; a little more than hour to go. Might as well get back in to the stand for the last hour. As I climbed up, looking at the deer laying in the clover, I noticed motion back towards the state land. A flash of white. Binos up. After a brief scan, I found that the white was attached to a bushy red tail. Fox! He was coming right at me, apparently winding the fresh blood of the recently deceased. He almost reached the deer, and then moved to my right, obscured by a veil of grape and Virginia Creeper vines. I could see him mousing, apparently not interested in the deer. He was drifting further west, soon out of range. I thought I might as well give it a whirl. He was emerging in a kind of opening in the thick brush. Red dot click, safety click, gun up. Through the scope I realize that this is a VERY tough shot... small back of the head target all that presents... moving , mousing no less. Deep breath, let off half. Bang. The fox jumped straight up and whirled at the report, but then made serious haste back to the lands owned by the People of New York. Damn, I muffed my shot at a trifecta. But, wow, what a day afield.

Keep the stories coming boys!!

Some more summertime sniping and reading

I know you fellers don't think all that highly of my woodchuck sniping this summer, what in comparison with Keith going on safari and BC Hunt Club guys trolling for the big ones.



Well, let me tell you--chuck hunting is completely underrated. Take this here book by Mr. Paul C. Estey. Originally published in 1936, The Woodchuck Hunter is a classic work of hunting literature up there with Ortega y Gasset and (ahem) David Peterson. But let's just call him Dave.

Check out this nugget from Mr. Estey:

"In some localities the supply of woodchucks appears as plentiful as ever but it is best to hunt as large an area as possible to avoid shooting out any one section. Where they are constantly hunted they become extremely shy, which only adds zest to the sport. Their curiosity is their undoing and they have not yet learned the range of a good rifle. Even a locality that is partly shot out will contain a few 'chucks that take up their abode in old dens. Sometimes as many as six full grown woodchucks can be secured from one den during the summer. These 'chucks apparently come in from some other section.

"My friend, N. H. Roberts, tells me that some years ago (some forty years ago), four well known riflemen, Harry Pope, Adolph Niedner, Aldo Leopold, and one other man, killed, in Dutchess County, New York, in two weeks time, two tons of woodchucks by actual weight."

So how's that for shooting! I like to think of my own woodchuck shooting as being an integral part of a healthy Leopoldian land ethic.

heh heh

Anyway, it was a three chuck day here at the ranch. This morning's chuck was an adult whose hole I'd cleared around in the field down by our creek. After watching the hole for signs of life for almost two weeks, I decided to get more aggressive about things and opted to put a stalk on the hole itself. About 8:30 this morning I did a sneak the long way around and came up from the creek toward the hole. Wouldn't you know it--Papa Chuck was hanging out near his spy hole, sunning himself.

I parked my fanny in the folding chair I was carrying and watched him through the goldenrod.

After twenty minutes of that, he hadn't moved, and I was getting impatient. He had me in a bad place--I couldn't move toward him with the chair nor could I get a shot at him from where I sat. I decided to move closer to him under some apple trees and using the goldenrod as a screen.

Leaving the chair behind, I positioned myself behind a decent sized tree and continued to watch him. He was very alert, never moving from the spot he was in, and sniffing the air the whole time. I definitely got the idea he knew I was there.

Again, ten or fifteen minutes go by, and I'm out of patience waiting for him to move to offer me a shot. I decided to make the shot happen and figured out a way to use one of the low hanging branches of the apple tree as a rest. As I'm doing this, however, he ducks down the spyhole, and for then next five minutes or so all I can see is the top of his head--not a good percentage shot. I had about a two inch window through the leaves at his head when he did come out . . . but of course then he moves out into the open, offering a classic broadside shot at about 25 yards.

I'm almost there! thinks I. But wait . . . I realize he's moving away from the spy hole back toward his main hole. I'm losing him!

Quickly I readjust from the two-inch gap in the leaves to a different gap through the leaves. Just as he reaches his main hole, he pauses and facing directly at me, he looks around.

That was his fatal mistake. Drawing a bead on his neck, I let off the safety and squeeze the trigger.

When chucks are fatally shot, sometimes they collapse while their tail goes straight up in the air and quivers. This is what happened here to this chuck--it's a beautiful sight, signifying a shot well done. I've had this happen a couple of times now, and I've also read it described by other chuck hunters. So I watched his tail in the air for a bit before walking over to the hole to get him.

Of course, I find out he had had just enough energy left to paw his way down the hole just a bit--but his behind was still visible from above, and I pulled him out.

Once again, my daughter Sophia was on the scene to record the carnage. No film this time, just photos. Here is her handiwork.



Tonight's action included two more chucks, nothing quite as dramatic as this one. I set up across the road behind our shed and looking out over the neighbor's hayfield. At 5:30 a baby chuck emerged about forty yards away, and I got him with a broadside shot to the vitals. Then after watching a distant chuck tease me from "too far away," another smallish chuck appeared in the grass some seventy or eighty yards away. I watched him for quite a while, and he never quite offered a clean shot. Finally, as he started moving back toward the hedgerow and his burrow, he stood up and offered the classic standing woodchuck shot. I aimed right at his "throat patch," and down he went.

Funny thing about the second chuck was that when I went out to retrieve him, I didn't walk far enough! I'd underestimated the range. I got back to me seat, took another look at where I thought I'd hit him, and then walked the line again ... bingo! DOA, he had simply fallen over right where I'd shot him. Probably my best shot yet of the summer. In some sense, hopefully I'm improving as a chuck hunter.

The end

Get on the woodchuck bandwagon

Here is a hunting-related piece of woodchuck ephemera that is guaranteed to be a crowd pleaser. Enjoy.

chucks where they fell outside the woodchuck blind

chucks where they fell outside the woodchuck blind
Originally uploaded by frankzappai

Stalking Moby Chuck

It was another two-chuck night in the woodchuck blind last night. Hunting from the old corn crib previously described, I spied the youngster on the right who came out of the woods in the same spot as the previous two babies harvested and which offered yet another swing set shot.

Mindful of Ernie's admonition about my Defcon Level Five Attitude of Heightened Woodchuck Bloodlust, I repeatedly drew a bead on the little bugger and then eased off the trigger, not wishing to kill senselessly for the sheer Kleinmanesque thrill of the thing. If you know what I mean.

heh heh.

Twenty minutes of playing cat-and-mouse with the baby chuck came and went, with no baby chuck notch added to the Marlin. I was showing admirable restraint, if I do say so myself. When what do you know but all of a sudden I catch a glimpse of mature gopher walking UNDER my gun barrel, coming out of the burrow directly under the woodchuck blind platform.

I was beside myself. Here was a chuck not five feet away, below me! Thar' she blows!

He didn't hear me on the deck of the platform, and I crouched down so the last few remaining rays of the westward setting sun wouldn't shine off the top of my baldpate and give away my location to the enemy. When he went behind a tree, I shifted position; and when he scrambled onto the lawn beyond, I put the crosshairs on the back of his head and squeezed the triggger. He never moved and died instantly. (I later pulled out the laser rangefinder--seven yards.)

I let him lay, bloodlust level now WAY above code orange, somewhere in the neighborhood of Defcon Ten. Baby chuck came back out on the lawn minutes later, and I shot at him some sixty yards away and missed. Damn! chuck fever.

What do you know, but three more minutes pass, and the same baby chuck reemerges. This is one persistent pasture poodle! But evolutionarily impoverished, from a pure survival instinct standpoint. I resolve to remove him from the gene pool.

I gave baby chuck a few minutes to get out in the open, I took off my shoe to use as a rest on the rail of the deck, let him get past the tire swing, and let fly. He scrambled off a couple of yards, fatally wounded, and died just inside the brushline of the woods.

Here is what is so great about woodchuck sniping: it is the ultimate family sport. My daughter Sophia, who for some reason shares my enthusiasm for the wily woodchuck, especially in the dead and bloody form of that particular species of local fauna, grabbed her camera and started snapping pictures. When I examined Mr. Big Bruiser, pictured above left, I decided to pull out the kitchen scale and weigh him.

Sophie was there to catch the action. Enjoy:

Gotta take your excitement wherever it comes

Okay gang, vacation's over and it's almost back-to-work time. I feel like a Penn Stater fer sheese crissakes . . . .

Had an awesome week hunting the wily woodchuck, aka Mr. Marmota monax. I'll have to breeze through the detailed blow by blow, but here is a summary of how the week panned out:

July 12th, Thoreau's birthday.

You will recall that in Walden, Thoreau writes: "Once I went so far as to slaughter a woodchuck which ravaged my bean-field--effect his transmigration, as a Tartar would say--and devour him, partly for experiment's sake; but though it afforded me a momentary enjoyment, notwithstanding a musky flavor, I saw that the longest use would not make that a good practice, however it might seem to have your woodchucks ready dressed by the village butcher."

Well, I celebrated Thoreau's birthday in style by sluicing the bruiser pictured above out in the sheep pasture. I saw him from the kitchen window, did a sneak a la Kleinman to "close the gap," and shot him at about 40 yards using a half door to the sheep shed as a rest. As you can see, he expired mid-hole.

Mr. Marmota, as found DOA

July 13th, Friday the 13th. It was a very unlucky Friday the 13th for this little chuck, who picked the wrong time to come out wandering from the big barn to explore the newly cut hay in the adjacent field. First kill with the new Stoney Point bipod; another long shot at 25 yards. Dead instantly.

One unlucky woodchuck

July 14th. Skunked. Can't win them all.

July 15th. Tonight, two for two. I shot the Papa Chuck who has lived under our pole barn and who has been a clear target for assassination for some time. I was hiding in my woodchuck blind about twenty yards away when he snuck out; I shot and he turned around without batting an eye and beat a hasty woodchuck retreat. I didn't follow up immediately so as not to scare the other big one I was after who lives under the big barn. But then an hour later a little baby came out from the big barn, and I shot it whereupon it expired instantly.

At that point I went to see about woodchuck # 1's whereabouts. I turned over the picnic tables leaning against the pole barn, and lo and behold there was a woodchuck blood trail! I got an old yard stick out of the barn and probed the burrow: pay dirt! or should I say, soft chuck butt!


These are the things they don't teach you in grad school! Utilizing the following array of gopher-getting-gear, I was able to pull him close enough to the mouth of the burrow so that I could reach in and pull him out by the tail.

Professional Gopher Grabbing Gear

Sure enough, I had hit him right where I was aiming--right in the old boiler room. Being the tough old chuck that he was, it took him an extra ten yards to die.

Pole barn gophers

So that's it. A good gopher getting week. Seven confirmed kills, a couple of other questionable ones. It's back to work tomorrow.

Daddy in the gopher boneyard:
photo courtesy of Sophia

I'm not addicted to propane

Lest anyone think me incapable of hitting a woodchuck without using a propane tank for a rest, here is the scene of the third kill of the week.

We have an old corn crib in our yard that at some point was turned into a lean-to on a flat platform. Finally the platform rotted and had to be dismantled, but the lean-to remains--now on blocks.

Well this makes just the ultimate woodchuck blind. All you gotta do is set up in the comfortable chair on the deck and wait for the pesky varmints to come out. This vantage point lets me look backward through the swing set--don't laugh yet--or towards the house where the varmint is living under the mudroom.

So of course, another baby woodchuck comes out in the same spot the other baby chuck came out of. Not wishing to decimate next year's seed chucks, but desirous of testing the new scope and the new hollow point varmint ammo, I took a pop at the baby chuck through the swing set about forty or so yards away. (Over the slide, to be more precise.) Got him! And when I retrieved my prize, I learned what the hollow points can do at close range. Yuck. Masaman or no masaman, that chuck went into the growing carrion heap in the sheep pasture.

Through the swing set--nothing but net . . .

Just the thing for deer hunting

Propane tank of death--woodchuck killing fields in background

Clearly the propane tank has caught everyone's attention. Well folks, here it is. Just the thing to bring along for deer hunting--Ernie, can you loan me a trailer to bring it along on my next trip to Canoga?

Hey, I just surfed the net for such a gizmo: this one doubles as a barbecue smoker! Now that's stylin' . . . .

Suitable for smokin' woodchucks . . . .