WATERFOWL HUNTERS PARTY

HOPE TO SEE YOU ALL AT THE PARTY

contact Ernie or myself for more details


See you in the blind Eric

Goodbye my friend!

may 3rd 1936 - january 19th 2009

You will be missed!

Vicar a Calming Influence???

Wow...the b*ll busting coming on strong.

Here's some soothing images...no fish to report, just the progression of a fisher.

Handles the 9' 9wt pretty good for a little punkin...woulda been fun if a big old redfish or snook had come along...

More Undaunted Courage

Well, clearly I seemed to have touched a nerve with the Kuneytown Wonder Boys . . . will wonders never cease. Undaunted, I'll forge ahead with a brief account of Sunday's hunt.


After drinking more beer than has been yet consumed around a beer camp fire ring in 2009, our small party broke up amidst the falling snow at about 8pm Saturday night. (All except for Tidball and Hathaway, who rousted me from my slumbers in the camper at about 10 pm. Undaunted, I joined them for a brief nightcap before they roared off into the night for continued revelries at the Kuneytown Sportsmen's Club.)

Sunday dawned cold and snowy: 10 deg F and a stiff NW wind. Undaunted, and after breakfast of toast and coffee in the Ernst household, I joined Ernie and Mike in assembling another decoy spread that couldn't be beat. One or two flocks flew right in as we were setting the dekes, which we took to be a good omen for the day's prospects.

a good sign: the geese seem to like OUR cornfield

Of course those were the last geese we saw for quite a while. So to fill the time, a phone call to Eric was placed, at which time we learned that the Illegal Riegel was out plowing snow, apparently tired of the dull routine of getting copious numbers of birds and sick of hunting and getting full bag limits of mallards every day. We actually felt sorry for him. Get better soon, Eric.

Sunday's hunt proceeded much the same as Saturday's: a bird here, a couple of birds there. Narrative drama was provided not by the absence of Keith and Eric on Sunday, but by our own collective mishaps and screwups. After three birds were harvested, Mike made the unfortunate statement that, "It's easy. All we have to do now is get two birds each."

So naturally the best flock of the day came in next, with ten or eleven low birds swinging in close to the ground along the inner edge of the decoys, and, with grandiose visions of us each shooting doubles to finish off the season in grand style in our minds . . . no birds were killed. A total abomination in the eyes of the red gods. One gun--I believe it was a Benelli--failed to go "bang" when it was discovered not to have chambered a round. A second gun--also a Benelli--failed to fire a third shell after its operator forgot to reload. A third gun simply failed to find its mark.

Undaunted, we continued on.

Another moment of drama occurred when a goose was downed, only to coast to a landing in the northeast corner of the field. "Head straight for the treeline," advised Yoda Ernie, "and cut him off from the hedgerows." I did as instructed, circling around and cautiously approaching the bird from the north. It took flight away from me back across the field but thankfully, away from the trees. After missing two shots of my own, it was a glorious spectacle to watch the mortally wounded bird fly directly towards the dozer pile, where it was shot twice more on the wing first at approximately thirty yards and then again at ten paces, after which it crashed through the cornstalks that screen the dozer pile where it landed with a thud in the snow exactly 1.5 feet from my bucket in the blind.

By noon there were six geese in the bag. "Now it's easy. All we have to do is each kill one more bird."

Yeah right. Again, three geese beautifully worked the dekes and flew in directly in front of us from the east. Left to right, they offered perfectly distinct targets to each hunter. What a perfect way to end the season! Baboom baboom babboom boom baboom.

We managed to land two out of the three. Walking in with the two birds, Mike offered that we could always end the hunt now, with eight birds in possession. But settling back into the blind, we realized the unspoken agreement among us: we'd stick it out and get one more.

Besides, I'm sure it probably crossed some of our minds that it's always nice to wipe Keith's eye by bringing home a second bag limit of nine savvy, late-season dozer pile geese.

(By the way, where was Keith on Sunday? enquiring minds need to know. Many theories were offered, the most prevalent having to do with nursing a hangover. Do tell, Tidball.)

Anyway, only one more bird was needed to finish the season.

A lone goose came in. Eyeing the sky nervously, I asked the dozer pile veterans, "who shoots this one?" To which Mike replied, "It's all yours baby."

You probably know how THAT one turned out. Yep. Bang bang bang from the Benelli. And we all watched the bird fly away completely unscathed.

"What the hell did I do there!!" lamented I, crestfallen at my failure to finish the waterfowl finale with the fore-ordained, fatal fait accompli. "What the hell just happened there?" I raged, to which wise, old Yoda Ernie deadpanned:

"You missed."

Truer words have never been spoken. Ahh, the arrogance of youth, the nervousness of stagefright, the fickleness of Benellis . . . who knows, but it was not meant to be.

Minutes later, Mike performed a mercy killing on another single goose who flew in, was mortally shot, and who flew off to die in a neighboring field. It seemed only fitting to help Mike retrieve the season's last bird some five hundred yards away, both of us trudging through a foot of snow and across the hedgerow to find it DOA among the goldenrod.

And there was again much rejoicing.

the dozer pile:
where savvy, call-wary, late-season geese go to die
at the hands of equally savvy, call-wise, late-season dozer pile goose hunters
(click to enlarge)

Sense and Sensibility

I made the mistake of telling Ernie this weekend that goose hunts couldn't be blogged, because they lack the narrative drama of a good grouse hunt. (And note to Keith and Eric: a "good" grouse hunt doesn't necessarily result in a limit of grouse and teal in a morning's effort. heh heh)

Oh, there will likely be a fair amount of ball busting of Keith in this writeup. That was pretty much the dominant topic of conversation this weekend when things were slow. Not that things were ever slow. As Ernie said to Eric on the phone, "They're just stacking up like cordwood here!" You know, Eric will probably get some abuse in this post too, now that I think about it. heh heh.

Anyway, because Ernie challenged me to come up with a suitable narrative thread for this past weekend's activities, here I sit typing up my first-ever goose writeup. And while the massive consumption of cold beer on Saturday night provides a tempting possible focus (or lack of focus? which is certainly how some of us felt later on Saturday evening), I'm sure we all can agree that abusing Cabin Boy has a lot more potential for laughs and gaiety.

Okay. So Ernie invites me up for the last weekend of goose hunting, and says to be there "between 7 or 8 am." So I show up at 7:30 am Saturday morning, just in time to see Mike and Ernie put the finishing touches on a decoy spread that can't be beat. The location of course was the famed "dozer pile." Temp was 2 degrees F, no wind to speak of, and the three of us were clothed in snow camo.

Keith and Eric, meanwhile, were (how did Cagey put it in another post?) (ah yes, here, I have it): "taking the sensible route" and hunting in Eric's little honey hole, the Morehouse Ponds, aka, "Nancy's back yard." Perhaps Eric and Keith will blog about THAT sensible hunt sometime. heh heh.

but I digress.

good versus evil: the Canoga Killing Fields
(click to enlarge)

We settled into the dozer pile, sweaty from our exertions (well, Ernie and Mike were sweaty, I was pretty comfortable), and settled in for the wait. After a half hour or hour or so, Mike opined that the dozer pile might just strike out for us on the final weekend, but the wise-old Ernie just said "patience grasshopper, patience."

Of course, it is always possible that maybe the beer on Saturday night clouds my memory. But at least that's what I think Ernie said to Mike at that point.

About 9:00 am a lone goose landed in the decoys. When Ernie said take 'em, I did my best imitation of a 250 yard rifle shot at a woodchuck, and missed. Harumph. Watching the goose fly away, Mike was heard to mutter something under his breath that included the terms "skunk" or "skunked." Again, Ernie smiled and, sensibly, said, "patience, patience. In dozer pile we trust."

Another single flew into the spread an hour or so later. This time death came to the dozer pile, and our heroes were "on the scoreboard" as they say. And O'Connor was heard to say, "well, at least we won't be skunked today."

By this time, it was 10 or 10:30 am, and the Tidball truck was seen to be skulking (or was that "skunking"?) away from the Ponds. "A sensible move," thought we in the dozer pile. "They must already have their limits," another of us ventured.

Ernie on the phone with Eric confirmed the limits theory: Keith and Eric had reached the limits of their patience at the ponds, and so they sensibly had packed it in for the day, no doubt removing to the Kuneytown Sportsmen's Club for breakfast and beer.

what the Kuneytown Wonder Boys didn't see much of this weekend

Meanwhile, the hard work of goose hunting continued. No quitters us. At 11 am or so, a flock finally worked the dekes but flared before committing. "Something's not right with the dekes" all agreed, and with tenacity and grit Ernie and Mike supervised the rearrangement of the spread--tightening some up over here, spreading them out a bit further there--and voila! the mystery was solved.

Twenty minutes later, a flock came in again to the dekes, slowly slowly circling, working them warily, until the moment of truth arrived and O'Connor barked, "take em." And with that three guns went off, and three birds fell from the sky.

And there was much rejoicing.

No more talk of being skunked or packing it in early. No more lack of faith in the dozer pile. Now, only a gritty determination to show those beer-chugging Kuneytown quitters how it's done.

The hunt wore on. Flock after flock of geese worked the dekes, some coming in close, others not so close. A thousand ducks got up from the ponds but no shooting (hmmmm, I wonder where the Wonder Boys are? sensibly warm somewhere else no doubt).

Another flock came in and two more geese were downed--one falling to Tantillo's gun to the north bearing jewelry, although that fact went unnoticed until the very end of the day. Ernie, however, in observing the condition of the bird when retrieved, took notice of the bloodied condition of the bird's upper left breast, which provided the key identification factor at day's end for giving credit where credit is due. No sirree, none of this "geese Cagey claims to have shot." Ernie is the most honest goose hunter that ever lived. (and he told me to make sure to get that into the blog post somehow.)

heh heh.

still life with jewelry

What are we up to now, seven geese? Around 1:30 pm Ernie left for a while to go sign some gas drilling paperwork in the house, and in his absence, we had some high drama on two more downed geese. A flock came in, worked the dekes, and shots were fired. I had a bird down inside the dekes, while Mike had one sail away far across the field only to crash land DOA before the treeline. The two of us took off to retrieve our downed birds. Only one of us returned with bird in hand.

My hands tremble as I type this, but I in a fit of newbie nitwitlessness, allowed my bird to first walk away, head up, as I debated finishing him off with a head shot, and then, as my bird took flight and flew away, failed to pull the trigger to bring him back down to earth.

Insensible with grief, I returned to the blind empty-handed.

the one that got away

We fought on for perhaps another hour, but that was it. We decided to pack it in. As Ernie left to get the four-wheeler and the trailer for the dekes, another lone goose flew in low from the north over the hedgerow. Mike and I saw it just as Ernie started yelling "bird, another bird!" With Mike's gun cased and Ernie still walking towards camp, the suicidal goose met its demise with a final load of BBBs from the Spinelli, and it crumpled to the ground with a convincing thud. Redemption from the one that got away.

Thus, charging the ninth one that got away to our bag limit of three each, we pulled the dekes and packed up eight geese at 3pm, built a campfire at beer camp, and proceeded to empty Ernie's cooler of the various malt beverages it contained.

And there was much rejoicing.

happy beer campers with birds

January Snow Storm

Watched the radar with keen interest as a narrow band of snow barreled down on Central PA. After a mid-day sledding excursion with the family, I loaded my daughter Kendall and my pup Lilly in the truck and we set up the mountain for an experiment in grouse hunting.

“I’ve never been in such a winter wonderland” exclaimed Kendall with 100% Kleinman enthusiasm. We eased our way down the long track that leads to coverts with the names of Broken Rib, Search and Seizure and Laureltown. The landscape was spectacular, a shellac of ice covered with six inches of feathery powder.

The shooting party

At Search and Seizure I unloaded the menagerie, placed Kendall in the sled, and slid down the old tote road to the pines, barberry and laurel that attract wintering grouse. The covert is named after a grand mal seizure my black lab Cody suffered during one of our first hunts there with the Vicar, who had discovered the spot. The walking was treacherous, as I had to negotiate curtains of ice-laden limbs, tinkling like wind chimes, while skidding over the base of ice that lay under the snow.

Ice curtain

It was particularly hard paying attention to little Lilly, whose bell was almost impossible to distinguish from the resonating ice. Kendall noted that other than her collar, Lilly's white and liver fur was perfect winter camouflage. But, as soon as the ground leveled and we reached our first cluster of pines, the dog went on point. It was a moment of truth. Kendall and I were sixty yards off and I was hesitant to leave my six year old daughter alone while I searched for the bird. The cover was too thick to drag the sled through. There’s my 7 month old uberpointer holding fast. What’s a multitasker to do?

By the time I made up my mind Lilly had been on point for at least a minute. We ditched the sled and I had Kendall follow me, reassuring her that I would come back for her if I got too far ahead. When I eventually reached Lilly she had been on point for at least three minutes. What’s another few seconds to snap a photo of my canine pride and joy?

First point

After the photograph I circled around to the pines. No flush. I released Lilly and she moved in, pointing again. Just then Kendall called. “Daddy, where are you?” Another moment of truth. I left the dog for the kid, immediately feeling the pressure pulse as the bird flushed in near silence into the whiteness.

We returned to the sled and hunted for another twenty minutes, winding through laurel and over limbs, all the time pushing through icy curtains of branches. Kendall was an incredible trooper, a true snow princess.

Second point

Lilly pointed several more times but we never saw or heard birds. Restricted to the open trail we could not follow up her initial points, as I normally would (she often points several times before we get close enough to the bird for it to flush). It was a long slog back to the truck, but worth every molecule of ATP. Daughter and pup added one more experience to their bond.

Bonded

Post Script: The real adventure occurred just as we were about to exit the state forest onto the two lane highway that leads down the mountain. A pickup had turned onto our icy road, the only one I’d seen all afternoon. The driver slowed to let us pass, slid on ice, slowly, and was only stopped from sliding down the mountain by a forest service sign. If it hadn’t been there he would have slid into a steep right-of-way and rolled down the hill. With tow ropes and ax we were able to rescue him.

A good day

My boss took me hunting again today. He and another two-legged named Eric shot pretty well, which means fun for me.

8 mallards
2 black ducks
1 teal
1 gadwall

This is my rookie year and I find myself "riding the bench" a bit more than I like, but I am learning, and when the boss has put me on the starting line-up, its so fun! So far, in the second half, I have been getting in the game more. I have at least 20 retrieves in the second half, and more than 30 for the season. Not quite MVP material yet, but I think the boss is pleased. I have stuff to work on though. I am glad Nick, who is a fourth year starter and a veteran, is pretty cool to me when I get to get in the game. He doesn't seem to hold it against me.

Gotta go. I'm hungry.

Still Hunting Grouse on Snow

January 4 am grouse hunt

A late afternoon phone call from Uncle Pete convinced me that there are people reading this blog and eager for word from the coverts. My congratulations to Dr. Dirt for keeping us appraised both of Lilly's progress and of his own ongoing struggles with ballistic irregularities.

I managed to get out yesterday for a pair of hunts: one in a covert dubbed "Rocky Raccoon" which Uncle Pete saw many many years ago. Because Uncle Pete expressed some incredulity at the fact that I gave out precise GPS coordinates of a recent hunt's results, I have covered up identifying topographical traces in the above track log of the hunt to make it harder for lazy-assed hunters amongst you to find this spot. heh heh

It was a calm, cold 22 deg F morning, and I was garbed in the usual attire, etc. etc.

We put up two grouse from high, high up in the trees in a red pine plantation along the edge of a small swamp. We followed the mark for a while, but nothing else materialized. Half an hour later, however, Phoebe rewarded me with her first real point on a hunt--alas, nothing came of it, but it was staunch enough for twenty or so seconds, and I believed her. I figure it's just a matter of time now.

In the p.m., we made haste to another oldie but goody, a spruce plantation that I haven't hunted in several years. This time we were rewarded with a total of five birds flushed, with a missed couple of shots at bird number four and a reflush of bird number four that confirmed his ongoing excellent health. Needless to say, a good time was had by all.

Yesterday I downloaded a vintage 1893 article from Outing magazine, "Still-Hunting Grouse on Snow," by James R. Benton. One passage in particular caught my eye. Here's what we all hunt for:

But my mind is suddenly diverted from this fascinating sort of “track inspecting,” by the report of my companion’s gun high up on the ridge. If he missed his bird there is a chance it may come this way—there—one hundred feet in air—wings set—feathers compressed, apparently to make as small a mark of itself as possible, shooting across the ravine like a bullet. Well! here goes for luck. Fifteen feet ahead is not an inch too much. Hurrah! that brought him. His speed was such that he drops half way up the opposite hill, while a handful of fine feathers drifting down through the fading light show how hard he was hit. A hit like that makes up for twenty misses. What sportsman knows not the wild joyous thrill that follows such a clean shot! A minute before you were tired, your feet seemed bound to stumble against every root and stub in the woods, you began to think hunting was losing its interest, you didn’t see just what you came to-day for anyway. Then the whir—the successful shot, and your muscles are springs, your feet scarce touch the ground, your triumph breaks forth in a shout. Could the philosophers but grasp and make tangible this passing thrill, they need seek no further for the elixir of life.

January 4 pm grouse hunt: still seeking the elixir of life

Kosong

I've returned to the grouse woods twice with Lilly since the encounter with the porcupine on New Year's day. During those two hunts she has begun to put it all together. While I too have begun to understand how to hunt with my little GSP, I can't say much for my shooting.

In but two hunts Lilly has pointed at least seven grouse, perhaps more*. One encounter with Mr. Bonassa on January 2nd was particularly memorable. Lilly pointed, relocated, pointed, relocated, and pointed again. I assumed it was a running bird, eventually letting down my guard. Immediately the grouse flushed from 20 feet up a pine. I never even mustered a shot.

Today's final point was memorable in that I did everything perfectly, at least until it was time to close the deal. Dark was falling and we had flushed at least four birds, two of which Lilly pointed but flushed as I bungled the approach. Finally, not far from the truck, Lilly froze in the midst of a copse of pines. I swung wide, very wide and walked in. Perhaps thirty yards from her nose I nearly stepped on the grouse: low house skeet, straight away. I missed with both barrels. It was like taking your eye off the golf ball to watch its flight. The gods of Parker are punishing me.

However, I am blessed by my little Lilly.

==================
* A veneer of ice makes every step a sonic distraction to other sounds in the woods.

Rediscovering my inner grouse hunter

January 2 grouse hunt in yellow

Hi everyone,
after a rough couple of weeks in the emotions department, I decided to get back to basics and spend a couple of days getting back in touch with my inner grouse hunter. With Katie gone, it was also time to reacquaint myself with my seven month old setter puppy, who if memory serves me is still named Phoebe.

I've also had a good time playing around with the new GPS unit my wife got me for Christmas, mostly making 'track logs' of the paths of each hunt.

Although it is not what I would consider to be a "good" grouse year in the Hector Land Use Area, we have put up enough birds to keep things interesting.

Above is a jpg from yesterday's hunt--we put up three birds in the locations noted (PETE!). The fourth bird was flushed a day earlier. I will also provide the GPS coordinates in case any of you Pennsylvania partridge pounders want to come hammer them later this month:

grouse flush 1: N42 28.973 W76 46.756
grouse flush 2: N42 28.958 W76 46.850
grouse flush 3: N42 29.121 W76 46.893
grouse flush 4: N42 29.667 W76 47.026 (Jan 1, snow roosted)

Don't say I don't love you guys.

Today was cold, 26 deg. F, with a fairly stiff wind out of the West, and snow falling. Blaze orange knit cap, worn-out wool sweater, waxed cotton coat, gore-tex camo wind pants, insulated LaCrosse boots. We hit the trail at 9:30 or so. Three hours and three miles of slogging through foot-deep snow later, we had no flushes to show for it. Ugh.

But at least I am hunting some areas I have not hunted for years. One good thing about the puppy--she goes where I steer her. So far anyway. With Katie it was always a bit of an adventure to follow where her nose told her to go, and so over time I found myself consciously steering her away from certain areas. I'm sure Phoebe will get that way soon enough. Grouse flushes numbers 2 and 3 yesterday were her doing. She moves nicely in the woods, her range is picking up, and today I even used a bell on her for the first time.

January 3 grouse hunt: nada! nothing, zilch. No birds.

New Year's Quills

Drove up Pine Grove Mountain to Broken Rib Covert to usher in the New Year with Lilly. Temps in the 20s, bright sun, dusting of snow. Grouse tracks everywhere. Within 20 minutes we had flushed roughly 5 birds (hard to precisely count with the noise I made breaking through ice), several off of creeping points. Lilly was starting to settle. Then, a perfect point. I swung wide around her and she held. Perfection. When I was but five yards from her nose, she broke. Off waddled a porcupine. We'll try again tomorrow.

Cayuga Lake Waterfowl Report- Riegel/Tidball Team

Thought a little levity might be in order. The first four days of the second half waterfowl season have yielded some interesting results. For Yeoman's benefit, we have learned that the new Hevi-shot load for vintage guns is VERY effective stuff. Also, it seems that Federal Blackcloud BBs pattern beautifully through a modified choke, at least through my mod/mod double sxs. Haven't had the chance to try the new bismuth offering but hope to soon.

The lake in front of Double Black was frozen the first few days, so Eric and I hunted the ponds. Despite some sense of nostalgia indicating that it might be nice to hunt with Ernie and Mike ( a hangover from the nice nostalgia laden recent Ernie post I guess) in a field, just for old times sake, I am glad I took the sensible route. The Ernst field (Thompson's field) was way too full of hunters and way too empty of birds, from what I gather.

On day 1, the rain was falling by the bucket-load at 5 am, and didn't stop until well after 8:30 am, at which time Eric and I, and Eric' s cousin Dave were limited out on ducks. Day 2 was much like day one, with the addition of a handful of geese. Day 3, the warming trend, rain, and wind had opened up the north end of the lake sufficiently, and reports were streaming in of large numbers of divers. Mike O, Eric and I set up in Double Black...we came away with only one bird, but had a few chances at divers screaming through the outer edge of the spread. Unfortunately for us, the masses of divers brought masses of diver hunters and layout boats, effectively cutting us out of the action. Eric commented that we were witnessing more boat traffic in front of the marsh than many summer days on the lake. Day 4 (today) proved tough as well, with steady wind at plus 35 mph and gusts up to 50 mph. Still, we managed to scratch down 6 ducks and 2 geese.

I spent some time with the camera to try to brighten spirits and tempt Tantillo to come and engage in some R&R. You will notice I edited out the shooting... that way the Back Up Benelli can imagine his role better. Feel better Jim. Enjoy.

Katie

Katie

Katie in Michigan, 2006
Sept 6 1997 to Dec 27 2008

We had to put Katie down this morning. It was time.

Happy Holidays to all!

I would like to thank all of you that I had the chance to share times and memories with over the past years. Family is family and we live with them and love them our entire lives, but friends are the ones in our lives that make living day to day extra special. Your friends choose you, you don't get to choose them! If your lucky and blessed, as I am, you get to meet many people in your life and only a few are allowed to wear the distinction of friend. I keeping with the Holidays I would like to share some pictures of friends that are near and dear to my heart. If you do not appear here it does not mean I don't view you as a true friend, it's just I don't have my camera around when we shared time together.

Here's the happy Kite Killer, Bullhead Bill. Many giggles have been had at His expense!

Me with a couple of my best friends and my puppy that is now gone. This is the first Christmas in 14 years that she will not be around, God I miss her so!

What a show off, Don't get caught with all those birds in possession!

If your lucky even your neighbors become friends you can share time hunting and fishing with, Lord knows I have been blessed on that account! Then there is the fun of sharing the outdoors with a young person teaching them the joys of the outdoors. I look forward to next year helping teach Mason how to hunt!

Then there are the stoic ones that spend time reflecting

on the days wonders peering out over the water in front

of "Double Black!

I am proud to call many of you friend and I hope that if you find yourself in the area that you take the time to stop in and share some holiday cheer. I wish you and yours the best of holiday seasons and I hope to see you around the campfire soon.

God bless you and yours, especially those little ones that bring us so much joy at this time and throughout the entire year! Love to ya all!

On Suffering- Jobs Come and Go

well, sorry for the melodramatic title . . . imitation is a form of flattery. At any rate, this is from today's Ithaca Journal:

December 20, 2008

Travis developers to take over historic Clinton House, State Theatre

By Krisy Gashler
kgashler@gannett.com

ITHACA — Ithaca developers Mack and Frost Travis are taking over both the Clinton House and the State Theatre from Historic Ithaca, the parties announced Friday at a press conference.

The Travises plan to purchase the Clinton House, with a closing scheduled for the beginning of February. Historic Ithaca plans to transfer the State Theatre property to a separate not-for-profit organization, State Theatre of Ithaca, Inc., with management by the Travises.

Though the deal is still being worked out, the two parties have signed a purchase agreement on the Clinton House and a transfer of management agreement for the State Theatre.

“There's a reason that we're doing this and it's not suicidal,” Mack Travis said. “I would say it's been a very difficult theater to keep going, as many theaters are; however . . . we are in something like the top 4 percent of theaters around the country in our ability to function and almost be economically viable.”

Not-for-profit performing arts theaters such as the State almost never operate in the black and depend upon donations and other “unearned income” to stay afloat, Downtown Ithaca Alliance Executive Director Gary Ferguson said.

However, the State does much better on this front than many theaters, newly named State Theatre Executive Producer Dan Smalls said. While the national average of earned income to unearned income is about 50-50, the State averages 85-15, Smalls said.

Smalls will continue to operate his successful Dan Smalls Presents, which books acts for the State as well as other clubs. He's agreed to oversee the State as executive producer for a salary of $1, though he'll be paid for booking acts through Dan Smalls Presents, as he is now, he said.

The Clinton House sale relieves Historic Ithaca from the more than $1 million debt it has accrued over the past decade trying to get the State Theatre on its feet.

The Travises took over management of the State Thursday, re-hiring all the staff and ensuring that “the spring season will go forward.”

The parties declined to disclose the purchase price for the Clinton House, though Mack Travis said it was “very, very, very close to the appraised value that was done” by a private assessor.

The county assessment department values the Clinton House at $1.48 million.

Mack Travis is the developer responsible for a variety of Ithaca projects, including the environmentally friendly Gateway Plaza and Commons. His son, Frost Travis, is currently working on a project to clean up lead and other contamination left by the Ithaca Gun factory and develop the site into high-end condos.

In addition to his 35 years of property management in Ithaca, Mack Travis said he was also one of the original backers of the Thomas Wolfe Playhouse in Asheville, N.C.

Historic Ithaca, a not-for-profit historic preservation organization, purchased the Clinton House in 1972 when it was slated for demolition. They restored the former hotel and profitably rent it as office space.

In the late 1990s, Historic Ithaca purchased the State Theatre when it was condemned and also heading for demolition.

Martha Eller, president of the Historic Ithaca board of directors, said the decision to sell the Clinton House and the State Theatre was “bittersweet” for the board, but necessary in order to allow the organization to focus on its core mission of historic preservation.

The organization also works on preservation advocacy and runs Significant Elements, an architectural salvage warehouse on the corner of Center and Plain Streets.

“In 2006 Historic Ithaca concluded that it, as a small preservation organization, could not continue indefinitely to own and operate the State Theatre because we simply did not have the financial resources to ride out the storms, I would say,” Eller said.

Since re-opening the State Theatre in 2001, Historic Ithaca has accrued more than $1.3 million in debt, according to documentation given to the city earlier this year. The group had to take out a short-term operating loan this spring, with the Clinton House as collateral, in order to keep its doors open.

The City of Ithaca was one of several groups to sign guarantees backing that loan. The Clinton House sale also relieves the city of that risk.

Carol Travis, wife of Mack Travis, sits on Historic Ithaca's board of directors.

“Carol . . . has made me very aware of the difficulties that have faced Historic Ithaca in owning these properties,” Mack Travis said. “And rather than see them closed, at least the Theatre, we chose to step in and do what we could to enable Historic Ithaca to sell them and meet obligations that they have.”

Travis, Ferguson and Smalls stressed that even with this transfer and debt-relief, the State will not be able to operate without continued community financial support.

Jeb Brooks, through the Brooks Family Foundation, has agreed to donate up to $100,000 to the State next year as a matching community grant, Mack Travis said. This means, for every dollar the community donates, Brooks will match it, up to $100,000.

The State Theatre's role in maintaining a vibrant downtown is another reason Mack Travis said he was willing to step in.

“The downtown, the stores, the whole environment that's created here is absolutely integral to people wanting to come to Ithaca to work,” Travis said. “It's important to the medical center, it's important to the universities, it's important to BorgWarner, it's important to the county, town, city. And that's really the reason we're stepping in to try to make it happen. Otherwise (the State) would be closing.”

On Suffering- Antlers Come and Go

I had been seeing him since July- the monarch, the twelve point with drop tines (10 pt plus drops). He was the biggest of the "Gang of Four." The others include a wide 9 (Rich's story) a perfect 8 with wide spread(missed at ten yards in archery by one of the guys that hunts here--I saw him twice during archery but too far), and a huge 7 point. I saw these four bucks many times in velvet together, then during hay making season in August and September. Twice while varmint hunting/ deer scouting armed with a scoped .223 I had them at 50 yards or less, inspected every fiber of the big 12's vital area with the cross-hairs overlay-ed...talk about temptation. Anyway, I knew these four well.

Two evenings ago, after having spent countless hours during shot gun and more recently the muzzle-loading season, I found myself once again reveling in the mediation of suspension by deer stand. I have so enjoyed the hours this year, the time to collect thoughts and put them in quiet places for long periods, the time to focus intently on being aware of being totally present. I was in my third "half hour perfectly still" repetition ( I allow myself a five minute break between these to look around) when I heard a muffled sound to my left and a bit behind me. I moved only my eyes and picked up a fast moving doe. She stood out well against the snow in the fading light of the lead sky.

As I prepared to move slowly to take the doe (thus far I have killed a small buck,no antlers to speak of, in archery and the 11 pt "bizzarro" in shotgun, so I still have excess DMPs), she stopped and looked over her shoulder. I froze, and looked with eyes only, further to the left and rear. There with his nose down and snuffling was the perfect 8, looking just like the picture on the "Wanted" poster of the Gang of Four hanging in my mind and robbing me of sleep for months. He was trailing her by only a few yards, and then, he looked back. Through the whip saplings and briers I could see the monarch. He was cautiously trailing the doe and the 8 pt, but was exhibiting signs of nervousness. The other two deer entered the thicket in which my stand was placed haphazardly...the big boy was not so sure. He sniffed the ground where my footprints were in the snow, walked forward, swung his head down and up quickly, suspicious.

I quickly assessed my situation. Clear shot at the 8 pointer slightly quartering away at 15 yards, or, potential shot at the monarch broadside at 25 yards in a few seconds/steps if he stays on his current left to right path skirting my stand thicket, but a very narrow shooting lane. Decision needed NOW. The decision was the monarch, of course. I got the gun up, a New England Firearms "Sidekick" muzzle-loader with fiber optic sights, and swung with the deer evenly. The deer stepped four times and had his vitals in the shooting lane. I whistled lightly and he stopped. I touched the trigger, heard the snap cap go "pop"...and watched the startled deer take two steps to the right before the follow up "BANG" of the pyrodex powder ignition. The deer squatted at the shot. It was chaos...smoke in my eyes, attempting shot follow through but incredulous and panicked at what I thought probably just happened. Two trophy bucks and a doe running in confused circles under my feet. Physiological reactions to the situation manifesting themselves in my body as I tried, futilely, to reload a muzzle-loader while balancing in a tree-stand wearing a f*#@-ing moon-walking suit. Total soup sandwich.

The big deer ran down the logging trail and I listened for any tell-tale crash but heard none. The other buck stood and stared at me loading my gun, at about 100 yards, right up until I finally had the thing loaded and ready to go. Then he bounded away. It was quiet. I had a bad feeling, like I imagine a professional football player feels when he realizes that the Superbowl has just been lost by one point with seconds remaining on a 3 pt kick that was somehow blocked.

I waited for the woods to settle down and for my hands to stop shaking. I realized that light was fading fast, so rather than wait the obligatory 30 minutes, I descended and slowly puzzled through the tracks in the snow to the point where the buck stood when I shot. It was brushy. I could see the impact of the bullet in the dirt, where it had kicked particles of frozen mud into the pure white snow. There was neither hair nor blood. I looked back upwards toward my stand and guessed at the angle of the bullet. There was a twig recently broken, hanging awkwardly, in the path. Damn... very bad luck. Hit a branch, deflected the bullet. Game over. I blew it.

Antlers come and go.

Tonight, and last night I have sat in the same tree-stand, more out of penance than passion. I have been over the scene many times to be sure I didn't miss something; a speck of blood, a hair. Nothing. Nada. The red gods graced me with a consolation prize tonight, unexpectedly. I shall try once, only once, again and finally, on the morrow.

Thanksgiving 2008

A gift idea- and a gift

Here is a gift idea...
























...and the rumination that inspired it.

Oh, and while we are on the subject of gifts, we should be thankful for the wisdom of Yoda (Ernie) for this prescient warning:

Two more days: Ballet Boy swan song

Close of business Thursday. It's all over.

The good news is . . . I'll be able to grouse hunt again. So, I got that goin' for me.

Which is nice.

One more day

Last day of deer (shotgun) and duck (first split) tomorrow in Western New York. Good luck to all in pursuit.



An illustration from A. B. Frost, The American Sportsman’s Artist" by Henry W. Lanier.

Hunting in Sports Illustrated and on NPR

Two things I think are particularly noteworthy; simply that NPR ran this piece at all, and the host shows a real grasp of the material. Take the time to listen in.

NPR's On Point with Tom Ashbrook - Good Hunting

And here's a feature piece running in the current SI:

How the Decline of Hunting is Changing the Natural Order of Predator and Prey

A lot to be thankful for

Good friends, good land, good dogges. One last (?) retrieve for old McPhee.

Home for the Holiday

The in-laws came Downeast for the extended Thanksgiving weekend. The past couple years my father-in-law, Ken, and I have hunted deer together at Thanksgiving, sort of continuing the tradition my dad and I began when I was a pup. My dad gave up hunting a few years ago, so our tradition now is for me to call him after I get in from deer hunting.


Thursday morning was crispy, upper 20s firming up the rain of the preceding day. I dropped Ken off in the dark to walk to his tree stand, then continued on to my parking spot. I had a quick half mile walk to where I'd left my climber attached to an oak looking over a fairly open side hill. The deer and bears had been feeding on acorns.


The bark of the tree was slick with an icy film, causing me to be extra careful and deliberate ascending to my perch. An hour into my sit, I was wondering when I'd be able to get out for a duck hunt... a flicker of white off to the left got my attention. Within a minute I saw it again. Through the developing fog I could make out the form of a deer facing me, head down nibbling acorns about 100 yards away, the tail occasionally twitching a flash of white. Cranked the scope to 7 power; when the head came up I could see antlers. Small antlers. This time of year, yearling head gear is first choice for choice eating... if you even have a choice. In my 8-10 hours of hunting this year, this was the first deer I'd seen, buck or doe. Around here, with a deer density well below 10 deer per square mile, it's always bucks-only hunting.


The buck was slowly heading in my direction, munching acorns. He drifted a little downslope, but still advancing in my general direction. Then he drifted into a beech thicket, and soon I lost sight of him. Then I couldn't hear foot steps. After 10 minutes of not seeing or hearing "my" buck, I started to worry he'd simply walked away. Or bedded down? I pulled out my trusty Primos "canned heat" doe bleat can. Baaa baaa. Immediately I heard foot steps, but my eyes straining through the fog failed to locate the source. Then I saw him.... walking away. Another bleat, and he's no longer walking away, now he's running away!

A year ago I used the same call to bring in (*almost* for a shot) a mature buck not 200 yards from this location. This year's buck most certainly was not high in the pecking order in these parts. A deer trotted through an opening 80 yards downslope, but I could not see antlers. Through another opening at 85 yards... I saw antlers. I was ready when the buck stopped in an opening at 90 yards. It disappeared at the shot. I kept the scope trained on the spot; 30 seconds later I saw a brief flicker of white, and began descending the tree. The buck lay dead where I shot him, the bullet entering the chest high behind the shoulder, breaking the spine. Not the preferred neck shot, but the carcasse damage wasn't too bad. And the tag was filled, duck/bird hunting opportunities awaited, no longer constrained by the concern to put deer meat in the freezer.

Propped up for draining.

Slid easily on oak leaves.

Yearling 3-point, field dressed 103. I gave dad a call, told him the story.



We arrived home for lunch to an enthusiastic reception.

Ken watched a large cow moose Thursday morning, and a doe the next. Angela hunted deer for the first time Friday morning. In 5 hours she saw no deer but plenty of sign. Seems eager to try again.

Saturday night we had a meal that needs mentioning. The whole holiday weekend was more or less a game feed, with woodcock and fresh deer tenderloin on the menu Saturday. I prepared the woodcock according to Pete's blog entry of October 08. Rave reviews from all -- the legs were especially liked by the women and boys, the breasts being craved by the men and the boys. So far I'm on the good side of the dog spirits.

The deer was delectible as well.