Wingshot

Aromatherapy

2012-01-29T21:58:00.002-05:00

Last weekend it rained. Again. How this still qualifies as a drought I can't understand, squishy as the ground is nearly everywhere. According to NOAA, however, we have improved from Extreme to merely Severe status. Whatever. We were stuck inside.

The only real blessing I find in days like these during hunting season is the opportunity to get slightly caught up on what unavoidably gets neglected from September to the first of March. Cleaning, fixing, moving, touching up, throwing out and the general repair and maintenance of the nuptials can eat up a weekend in no time. After I let the dogs back in I sat down for a minute, taking a break from the domestic gulag to catch up on some reading, and was immediately overcome with the smell. Unmistakable, overpowering, thick enough that it ought to be visible. Wet bird dog.

I can understand why some people, especially non-dog people, would find it less than appealing. It's not exactly perfume or potpourri and I doubt Glade will be incorporating it in their lineup this year but it's not altogether repulsive either. Dew-soaked mornings, dips in a puddle or a creek, rides home when the inside of the truck smelled of nothing other than damp dog fur. This never turned me off. Sometimes it lingered for a few days and I'd get to enjoy it on the way to work. I can never recall, not even once, rolling down the windows or otherwise trying to cover it up.

I have a closet full of scents that fit the same bill. The bottle of Hoppes No 9 in my cleaning box is as unique as anything in there. The fact that it's a solvent can't be denied and it will open your eyes if you get too close. From working distance, though, it almost has a sweet smell to it. Apparently enough people felt the same way that Hoppes now offers air fresheners.

When I pull out the No 9 and the barrels for scrubbing I get a faint whiff of the leftover powder. It smells exactly like the gunpowder hanging in the air after the first trigger pull on opening day, sharp, announcing with its presence the beginning of a new season. By January or February you don't notice it as much, but after a long summer it floods a nose. Powerful stuff.

The tincloth of my Filson vest has an aroma all its own. As do my gloves which, like any really good gear, have a story. When I was maybe thirteen or fourteen I saw an ad in a magazine for authentic Marlboro Man gear. Shearling coat, cowboy hat, boots, vest, the whole works. The deal was you sent in empty packs of Marlboros as legal tender. Everything in the ad was many cartons' worth, the shearling coat priced at a good decade of any chain-smoker's pleasure. But there was a pair of leather gloves for the occasional, only-when-I'm-drinking smoker, maybe twenty or thirty empty packs. And I wanted them.

As luck would have it my dad worked with a dedicated Marlboro patron who gladly contributed to the cause and in about 6-8 weeks I had my gloves. Normally the stuff you get in these giveaways is worth less than the empties you trade for it and falls apart in a few months, junque in the classic sense. These, however, may go down as the deal of all time. Thirty plus years later they're still at it, not a tear, not a crack, not a loose stitch anywhere. It's gonna be a sad day when that first chink appears. All well-worn leather smells distinctive, far different than brand new, and each individual piece more distinctive still. I could pick these out of a lineup blindfolded.

As potent as these scents are, even more so are the memories tied to them. Instant, uncontrollable recall kicks in as they tickle the olfactory wires. Hundreds all at once and strangely each one is good.

Rain, rain go away. But don't take these smells with you.

The Great Bobwhite Revival - Opening Round

2012-01-23T21:31:00.002-05:00

Underdogs and longshots don't start out with all of the cards in their favor. A few months ago I posted about the NBCI's call to action, a short list of tasks (see bold face below) avid quail hunters can engage in to swing some of the odds back in favor of the troubled bird. On paper it doesn't look nearly as impossible as it's proven over the last 10-20 years. Channeling my inner Quixote I grabbed a lance and set out to challenge these windmills of bobwhite, hoping not to make a complete ass of myself in the process.

Here's where we stand to date:

Support your state's quail initiative

For several years I've kept in touch with our state's small game project coordinator, Billy Dukes, about the bobwhite restoration efforts at the DNR. Billy's an extraordinary quail biologist and an all-around good guy. His department has been decimated (it's down to Billy and a secretary) by the last few rounds of budget cuts, yet he's still found time to put together a very viable plan for the bobwhite restoration efforts in our state. What's been missing is support outside of the agency. It has to do with how a project is presented to the board. If presented by staff members with no external support it can come across as a pet project funded by taxpayers. If constituents - hunters and fishermen who pay taxes- make the request it comes across in an entirely different light.

A call to a board member resulted in the recommendation that I get on the agenda for one of their monthly meetings and make our request. That's it? That's all I have to do? Alluringly simple, although the actual approval of our request was neither guaranteed nor implied.

As the plan is still being tweaked and hasn't been presented to the board yet I'll reserve any details. I will say that the most appealing part of the plan is the lack of any request or requirement for funding by the DNR, something that should make it instantly appealing. Any win that a government agency can chalk up without compromising another of its programs or placing it further in debt should get plenty of support. Notice I've now said should twice. Political no-brainers sometimes have a way of becoming brainers. Still, I like our chances.

Tell your local Congressional delegation to prioritize Farm Bill conservation programs

The Queen Mother of windmills

I fired off letters to my congressman and one of our senators specifically requesting that they give equal priority to wildlife conservation. I considered sending emails but thought, possibly erroneously, that a tangible message might hang around on a desk longer than an email. Typically such a letter generates a stock "Thank you for your interest in ______ " response followed by reassurances that said representative highly values constituent input and will diligently look into the issue at hand. This is why they have all those staffers and interns. My letters must have generated intense debate, research and philosophical discussion of the highest magnitude, much of which continues as I write this post, as so far I've received zero response. I'm not worried. If they don't respond they're going to have to beg for that $5 contribution to their re-election funds.

I'm happy to share the content of these letters with anyone who wishes to do the same. Caveat emptor: since these have generated absolutely no response they may not have pressed the right buttons.

Join a grassland habitat-related conservation organization immediately

Yes it says immediately, but I'm deferring to the second half on this one. Throwing $40-45 at each of the main bobwhite conservation groups would be the easy way to check this off the list. Given the amount of work we have ahead of us and the precious nature of every dollar bill, I'd much prefer to put my $$ behind the ones that are going to play ball with us here in SC. It sounds selfish, I know, but oddly it's the only way to get changes on a range-wide scale. Everyone should insist that the lion's share of their donations be used locally.

As we get further along in the quail initiative all of the players will have an opportunity to participate. And I'll return the favor of those that do.

So there we have it, relatively pain-free up to this point but the hard work hasn't truly started yet. It's going to be an interesting trip.

Time for some adjustments

2012-01-15T22:09:00.001-05:00

I've been an analytical sort for a long, long time. I studied engineering, I work in the financial side of a decidedly blue collar business, metrics, analysis, measurement, comparisons, reporting, scorecards .... all tools of my trade and fairly ingrained in my approach to just about everything. I even keep track of the books I read and listen to. We all have our demons and this is one of mine, somewhere between compulsion and affliction.

Today was the last day to shoot dove until September. The funky weather patterns since Thanksgiving have thrown long-held expectations for the third season out the window (translation: everybody sees birds around, calls a hunt for the next day, shows up and the birds are gone). I've shot a limit on the last day of the season before but I knew when I left the house today that it wasn't in the cards this year. The worst part? This is the first season since I started hunting that I haven't managed a limit of dove. At all. Not even on opening day.

And there's something wrong with that. Not with the fact that I didn't get a limit, with the fact that I know I didn't get a limit. This isn't a competition, it's something I supposedly do for enjoyment. You don't get some rodeo-sized belt buckle for shooting limits. Once it's over you get an ounce of boost to your ego and have a serving of satisfaction and that's it. Why not get that satisfaction from something else, and get it every time?

Easier said than done for an analytical type.

The splash of cold water in the face is that it's time to let go of a few things I've held close for many, many years. These things have provided some measure of comfort, most likely through a perception that if I kept track of the numbers I'd maintain control. What gets measured gets done, right? Not necessarily. And not if measuring takes the fun out of it.

I've been pecking away at this since early September and during that time I came across this post on The Drake's website. Bruce Smithhammer hit it pretty solid and while he was talking about fly fishing instead of bird hunting and anger directed toward others instead of toward yourself, he makes his case exceptionally well: never forget that this is about fun.

Without dessert a great dinner is still great, but dessert leaves nothing unfinished. This is kind of the way I felt about shooting a limit of birds. I always had a great time in the field, but leaving with six or nine or even twelve birds had a loose end feel to it. To have fun every time this loose end has to go. I'm not talking about clipping it. I'm talking about not acknowledging its existence. I'm talking about looking at it and not seeing it at all.

Somehow, some way, this calls for a shift in consciousness. I don't know how it plays out, but I know it's time. There will always be occasion to celebrate a double and be thankful for a limit, and those limits will come. I haven't completely given up trying to hit birds. And my guess is, for a while anyway, there will still be those nagging numbers in the back of my head. But it's time.

It's the 'other' season

2012-01-08T21:27:00.000-05:00

The woods are a lot more quiet than they were a week ago. Deer season is over. Sunday through Saturday is now fair game for me and the dog on dozens of properties that previously required scheduling, coordinating, or were just plain off-limits.

There's a piece of private land, extremely convenient in that it's only twenty minutes from the house, that I only have access to after the deer lease ends. I was there at daylight yesterday and put about four or five miles on my boots before lunchtime, finding one covey in the process. Beautiful, mild morning, easy walking on comfortable roads. I should have felt fortunate given the relative scarcity of birds this close to home. But noooooo, I wanted more. More birds, more points, more shots, more in the bag. That seems like an awful way to start a new year. When did I become such a greedy, ungrateful wretch?

It's not the first time I've found myself wishing every day could be an eight or ten covey day with plenty of shooting, plenty of contact for the dog, and maybe even a chance at a limit of quail, something that's been a pipe dream as far as wild birds go in these parts. Granted wishes have a curious habit of never being enough, though. If every day was a ten covey day, I'd wish the dog worked better. Or worse, I'd pick out the one covey he didn't handle so well and dwell on it, brooding for hours at the lack of perfection. As if I never miss a shot. Hey, there's something else to be pissed about. Give me an Elhew pointer and a brand new shotgun and then I'd be happy.

Or I could complain about not having a wider variety of birds in our state. I'd sure like to have pheasant or huns or sharptails to shoot and not have to drive so far to get into the grouse woods. New England and South Dakota have it so much better.

I read once that happiness is not having what you want, it's wanting what you have. That's an odd proposal, odd in that we'd all like to be happier but where would we be as a civilization if somebody at some point hadn't wanted more? Still living in caves, building fires for light and warmth, and.....yep, going hunting every day. Man, those cavemen had it so much better.

So I guess it's human nature for satisfaction to be a temporary thing. What would happen if every day were the perfect day? What if I could never, ever find something wrong with a day in the field? I'd bitch about being rained out, like today.

This is what they call a zero-sum game

2012-01-02T20:30:00.000-05:00

What's good for one group is bad for another. It's hardly mentioned in this Thursday article on the NY Times website, but the plain truth is that rising crop prices aren't generally a good things for birds or the hunters who chase them.

Higher prices for corn and other staple grains translate to fewer acres of native grasses and shrubs, prime habitat for many gamebirds. The economics work like this: A farmer has 20 acres of what he considers 'marginal' land, dirt so full of rocks or so lacking in nutrients or so damp that he can only manage 15 bushels of crop per acre when it comes time to harvest. With corn prices at $2.50/bushel this land generates $37.50 an acre under the plow. Take out the $5 or so per acre it costs to actually grow the corn (seed, fertilizer, diesel fuel, etc) and he nets even less. The Conservation Reserve Program offers the farmer $50 per acre to plant some native grasses and just leave the land alone for ten years. Easy decision, right?

Easy until world populations grow and all those new bellies want food in them. Demand increases, prices rise, and all of sudden the farmer looks up and corn is fetching $6/bushel. Now this formerly marginal land is worth $90 an acre if he farms it, substantially more than the $50 an acre it gets in CRP. And farmers instantly start bailing out of the CRP.

And it's not just CRP acreage that's being converted back to cropland. The article talks about midwest golf courses, windbreaks, even old homes being torn down, cleared and plowed to make room for more rows of crop. I don't have much of a problem with a golf course being returned to farmland. America needs another golf course like it needs another lawyer. And if you tear down an old house that was in terrible disrepair and hadn't been lived in since the '30s you haven't really lost anything of use. The cropland these are replaced with does provide food for migrating birds, so it's not a complete loss. I hunt dove over corn, wheat, soybeans and sunflowers, and ducks and geese feed in these fields on their way south every year. Where it falls short, though, is providing the critically important cover that upland gamebirds use for breeding and shelter. It's like having several thousand grocery stores in a town but no houses.

CRP isn't likely to disappear completely. There will always be land so marginal that it makes economic sense to leave it in the program. And there will always be responsible farmers who will leave field borders for wildlife. Keeping CRP acreage from plummeting, however, is ultimately about dollars. Funding CRP at higher rates is a challenge in good times; in the current environment it's a practical impossibility. That leaves private sector funding as the stopgap, and it's going to be tough for organizations like Pheasants Forever to raise the necessary comparable capital. We're talking about billions, not millions.

What the conservation groups lack in finance they can make up for in marketing and public relations, raising awareness among farmers and landowners of the value in creating and preserving wildlife habitat. One thing working in our favor now is a general national consciousness of doing things in an environmentally responsible manner. Leveraging this holds the best hope in the fight against world economics. Zero-sum doesn't have to mean winner take all.

Okay, it's not wingshooting but...

2011-12-28T22:45:00.000-05:00

...it bears mentioning nonetheless. There oughta be an award or something given to Tosh Brown and Departure Publishing for bringing back my favorite fishing book. It had been out of print for about twelve years when I first heard of it, then it took almost two more to find an affordable copy on the used market. And it still wasn't cheap. Now Tosh has partnered with the author to publish it in ebook format for less than the price of a movie ticket.

The book is Marquesa: A Time & Place With Fish by Jeffrey Cardenas, his story of a month spent alone on a houseboat in the Marquesas off of Key West. In the late summer of 1994, Cardenas slowly motored a houseboat towing his flats skiff across the Boca Grande Channel and anchored in the uninhabited atoll. Excepting a few visits from friends, he was alone with the sea and his thoughts, passing the time snorkeling, fishing or just watching the goings-on in his new neighborhood. The story is perceptive, reflective, enlightening and completely enjoyable. Replete with the harsh realities and irreplaceable wonders of nature it shares one common flaw with any good book you've ever read: at the end you find yourself wanting more.

Every now and then I wish I could live a series of decades in my twenties. Maybe three or four and then turn sixty having done all of the things I couldn't fit into a single decade and couldn't pull off in the succeeding ones. Granted that wish, this adventure would be on page one of the program. Solitude and the outdoors always adjust perspective and immersion on this level has the potential to be life-changing. Or merely euphoric, depending on where you started.

If you like fishing - especially saltwater fishing - do yourself a favor and trade some pocket change for this book. In case you haven't clicked on it already, here's the link:

http://departurepublishing.com/marquesa/

Psst, Santa....I been super good this year

2011-12-21T21:55:00.000-05:00

No kiddin. I didn't fight with my brother or sister, I didn't play hooky from work (not a statistically significant number of times, anyway), I brushed my teeth almost every day and I didn't shoot BBs at the neighbor's cat. And I got a real short list of stuff I want:

Any one of these will do. I'll take 'em all if it's too tight in the sleigh.

courtesy andersons-classic-gundogs.com

About a thousand acres or so of this...

A few dozen days like this one...

Views like these every week or so..

And maybe one of these. I promise I'll take good care of it.

courtesy Holland & Holland

Why technology isn't always a good thing

2011-12-20T15:07:00.000-05:00

Deer hunting is not my favorite thing to do out-of-doors. Knowing that a decent sized doe will nearly pack my available freezer space and last well into the new year, I do it as much for sustenance as enjoyment. If I manage to bag one on my first hunt of the season it might end up being the last hunt of the season; I just don't have much interest after that. Then I have years like 2010 when I get pretty mad at it and go half a dozen times or more, miss the one deer I shoot at (I still can't believe I whiffed it), and don't put a thing in the freezer.

I hunted a couple of times early this season and didn't shoot. Again, not being a fanatic about it I don't actively seek opportunities to sit in a stand, don't drive long distances to do so, and don't get too upset if it doesn't happen. I'd just about put the season behind me when I was invited to skip out of work last Wednesday afternoon and figured why not, it's a pretty day and I could sure use some fresh air. About five minutes before sunset a nice big doe walked into the food plot and by the end of the week she'll be in my freezer.

But the story doesn't quite end there. The deer made it about twenty yards into some of the thickest, nastiest brush in the county before expiring and took a while to extract. Being the incredibly responsible spouse that I am, about halfway through the process I snapped a picture of the deer and sent it along with a text to my wife telling her that I might be a little late getting home. Later that night I walked by the computer and saw a photo of a deer that looked eerily familiar. On Facebook. With my name under it. Thanks honey.

I'm pretty sure she still doesn't understand why I'd rather not be seen advertising the trophy doe that I shot. I tried explaining that around here, crowing about shooting a doe is like bragging that you got a hole in one at putt-putt. Sure, you give yourself a little pat on the back when you do it, you enjoy the spoils at the table for the next six months, but there's really no need to alert the media. Especially the social media.

The picture was only online a few hours but the damage was done. Since last Thursday I've had a dozen guys with a smirk on their faces congratulate me on my deer.

Shameless link to a fine piece of work

2011-12-13T21:17:00.000-05:00

I'm a little behind on both posting and reading, at least in terms of where I'd like to be this time of year. Sitting down tonight to play some catch up I stumbled across this post by Hank Shaw over at Hunter, Angler, Gardener, Cook:

http://honest-food.net/2011/12/07/on-killing/

It's a subject all of us deal with on some level and he's done a fine job of getting to the core of it.

This takes more patience than I'll ever have

2011-12-04T08:13:00.000-05:00

Gun engraving is an art that sparks mixed emotions from me. Unfortunately it's usually found on guns that populate a higher price range than those I'm familiar with (desire). At times it seems a bit impractical given the normal use of its medium (bewilderment). Even the most pedestrian examples are beautiful (awe). And it requires a skill that takes years if not decades to master (more awe).

While reading the latest issue of the online magazine Sporting Shot, I stumbled across a link to a blog by engraver Keith Thomas. He's far from prolific on the posting side - I think I counted eight over a five year stretch - but it's interesting to read his perspective. And the work is simply extraordinary. I poached the image below as a tease..

There are more examples of his work in the Sporting Shot article.

When a sure thing isn't

2011-11-30T21:22:00.001-05:00

It happened and I'm finally at a point where I can bear to talk about it. Laws of nature and physics and statistics dictate that it wouldn't go on forever, the last fifteen or more years notwithstanding. What I'm referring to is the annual Saturday before Thanksgiving dove hunt. You see, for whatever reason or reasons this particular hunt has always been the closest thing to a done deal in terms of being a barnburner. I've walked out of the field in twenty minutes with a limit. Most years it takes between thirty and forty five, but still...

Almost always a cold morning, the dew frozen on the grass so that your feet don't get wet walking in but might on the way out. Watching your breath slip from your face it's like duck hunting, waiting for legal shooting time as the light replaces the dark, except you aren't standing in cold water up to your waist. The birds have had more than a month of rest and peaceful dinners since the first season closed and they're drifting in to what they think is a sure thing. And they drift in and cruise in and dart in and rocket in and keep coming in like bargain hunters overrunning a Wal-Mart on Black Friday. At one point last year I shot a bird, shot another on the way to pick the first one up, shot another while I was still looking for the first one, and shot a fourth before I finally got to the first one.

Word started catching on a few years ago that this hunt was a hot one. The day of the twenty minute limit only four of us cared enough to get out of bed. By the time we finished we were giddy, punch drunk on success and good fortune and laughing just as hard at the suckers who stayed home. Lately more and more guys have been showing up cloaked in anticipation.

This year the birds just weren't there. High man in the field might have killed eight when the few that were around quit flying. My bag was loaded down with exactly one bird. I don't know why I felt so dejected. Beyond mere disappointment, I actually felt let down, and with no legitimate reason. It's not like I'd been offered a guarantee somewhere along the way. There's only one explanation: somewhere along the way I'd been.......spoiled.

I suppose some UCLA basketball fans were disappointed in 1974 when they didn't win the NCAA championship. Too much good fortune and you start to expect it and then it's only a matter of time until good fortune becomes entitlement. And entitlements are rarely appreciated. Shame on me.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-22T12:09:00.001-05:00

With the exception of the occasional Monday most of us don't have to look too hard to find a few things to be thankful for. The challenge is keeping the frustrations and inconveniences of everyday life in perspective so that all the good can rise to the top. While membership in the Forbes 400 continues to elude me (and likely will until the Sun burns out), on a globally relative basis I am wealthy beyond belief. I have food on the table and a roof over my head and a job that pays. I have what I need even though sometimes I have to remind myself of it. Truth be told I have more than I need...

...a couple of great kids, one of whom is showing promise as a hunting partner. Few things make a bad day disappear more quickly.

...a wife who is generally gracious about indulging my outdoor obsessions (during hunting season anyway). For any of you never-been-married guys out there trust me, this one alone is something of value. I've seen the other side and it ain't pretty.

...a bird dog who has filled the hole left by my last one, right down to being a constant, devoted companion. You're never alone with one of these.

...places to hunt that fit my frugal nature. When I think of the people in other countries who come up short on this end, I realize how fortunate we are in this great land, government aside. And while we're on the subject, I'm extremely grateful my business card doesn't say 'Senator' anywhere on it.

...the good health and physical capacity to get outside and walk, and the inclination to do so. If I have a nagging fear it's that I'll someday lose the desire or ability to pursue my diversions.

No one, not even those in the Forbes 400, is guaranteed an endless string of perfect days. We all have good days and better days and now and then a downright crappy day. The latter usually pass pretty quickly when a shade of perspective intervenes. Honestly, every day should be an occasion to give thanks.

I'll take Amazing Things for $200, Alex

2011-11-14T20:39:00.001-05:00

There are some things you just don't say no to. Like when the boss asks if you'd like to come down to his lease in south Texas and go bird hunting. Oh twist my arm.

It's a hardscrabble place to eke out an existence, especially if you're a bobwhite. Especially in a dry year. Yet for some reason, possibly proximity to the coast, the birds were there. Thirty three coveys in three days and every one a bundle of dynamite waiting for you to get a bit too close.

Nature can be a mother at times, harsh, stingy, or hateful. For whatever reason, though, she gives these locals what they need to survive in the place they are born. And sometimes in the face of all odds they even seem to thrive.

A hot, dry, faded landscape where everything wants to bite you or sting you, predators waiting behind the next bush or looking down from above, waiting for a tiny little tasty meal to wander out in the open. I've always had a healthy respect for these birds, one that bordered on reverence. Lately it's grown.

What do you 'spose Freud would say about this?

2011-11-05T10:00:00.000-04:00

Last night or early this morning, sometime between the second and fifth trip my son made into our bedroom, I dreamed that my bird dog could no longer smell quail. Ran right through coveys just as happy as could be. Pointed grouse, woodcock, chukar, pheasant, field mice and even children, but never once slowed down for a quail. For me dreams of thirty bird coveys are not uncommon. Dreams of them flying up all around me as the dog trots through them are.

What's a guy to make of this? If dreams reveal unconscious desires has something gone very, very wrong in my kitchen?

Is this avocation I've been so passionate about for years just a sham? Would I rather be pruning daisies or needlepointing pillows?

Or is it a harbinger of things to come? A few years ago I had a dream about an old friend I hadn't seen since high school, very vivid and there was a man in it named Crumb. Out of the blue the friend emailed me the next day. We got to talking, I told him about the dream and he said his daughter's bus driver was named Crumb. Kinda spooky. Worse still is the chance that my dream last night might be a look into the season ahead.

I've read in various places that dreams are just a dumping ground for your brain, a place where the mass of thoughts that accumulate during the day are purged to avoid overload. In the process they're combined in seemingly random patterns on their way down the chute. Given the choice I'd take this option over the others and discount the whole episode. Maybe I should stop by Sister Rosario's and have my palm read this afternoon...

Gettin' ready

2011-11-01T21:29:00.000-04:00

Bird season (the kind you hunt with pointing dogs) opens in just about three weeks. Hard to believe it's been eight months since that unusually warm February day when we closed the book on last season. Well, actually, there were a few days when it seemed it would never get here but we'll leave the past in the past.

I've been taking Wyatt out to run at a public dove field near my house to get us both conditioned and, truthfully, because pretending is the next best thing when you can't really hunt. We're in between dove seasons so we have zero company - just the way I like it - and the convenience outweighs the reality that there is little chance of finding something to point. It's not an ideal situation, bird contact being the best preparation for bird contact, but there's this obstacle to getting a dog on wild birds this time of year called the white-tailed deer. You see, there are LOTS of deer hunters in the south. It vies with college football for most popular sport in the fall. It vies with beer for biggest contributor to the state's revenues. And it vies with me for use of public hunting grounds.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy sitting in a deer stand from time to time. I take about one deer a year, never a trophy buck, usually a doe, and have everything but the tenderloin ground since that's the way my family will eat it. It's just that those Realtree warriors are everywhere. It's not like this is South Dakota or Montana or some other spot with a surplus of public land. And very few whitetails. Good wild bird land is at a premium here, and those boys with bows are Bogarting it. The public land harboring wild birds is overrun with guys in treestands, a good many of whom wouldn't think twice about shooting a dog that runs through "their" food plot.

Our state hasn't yet placed a good bird dog's life on par with a human's, although I could make a case for the former being worth multiples of the latter in quite a few cases. Still, I'm not so obsessed with right vs wrong that I'll risk my dog to prove a point.

Once the bird season opens the schedule allows us equal time with the bow boys. In the meantime we get out and stretch our legs in a spot without the risk of fatality, plenty of room to run, plenty of space to work on things like patterning and handling and I don't have to drive an hour to get to it. There's a nature trail not much further down the road that weaves along a river bottom, a perfect spot for woodcock and we'll be there once the flights arrive. Looking at the weather in the northeast it may be sooner than usual. No hunting allowed, but a fine place to give a nose a workout. The hell with those deer hunters - I'll get my pre-season work in one way or another. Anyone who says pre-season doesn't count probably never had a winning season.

If you're in the neighborhood...

2011-10-28T23:01:00.000-04:00

Tall Timbers Research Station, the preeminent organization studying bobwhite ecology in the southeast, is hosting a field day on Friday, November 11th, in the heart of South Carolina's quail country. The venue is Groton Plantation, a 23,000 acre facility just outside of Estill in Hampton County. On the docket are a regional hatch report, a presentation on Groton's wild quail management, and an update on the South Carolina Quail Project. You can download the brochure here.

Flying under the radar even in these parts, the South Carolina Quail Project is an offshoot of Tall Timbers' work focused on habitat unique to the Carolina coastal plain. They're also experimenting with some new methods of restocking bobwhite populations, an practice that hasn't previously met with much success. Restocking has worked well with other species (whitetail deer, wild turkey) and success with quail would enable rapid recovery of numbers in areas hit hard by adverse weather or faster building of populations on tracts that have undergone dramatic habitat improvements. It's no silver bullet but it sure would be a nice tool to have available.

A November day in the South Carolina lowcountry can be as pretty as one anywhere. Might be too long of a road trip for you western guys but for NC/SC/GA residents it's worth the drive if you can play hooky for a day.

The State of the Bobwhite

2011-10-24T21:44:00.000-04:00

Last week the NBCI issued their State of the Bobwhite report (download a copy of it here), a fairly comprehensive 46-pager detailing the warts and all of bobwhites in the United States. Right about now you're thinking "I already know how bad bobwhite hunting is, seen three coveys in three years and my dog doesn't recognize a picture of one. Why do I need a report?"

Well, if it were merely to moan about how bad bobwhite hunters have it we wouldn't. The report bypasses the sobbing, however, and for the most part is heavy on the data. From my perspective it serves two purposes: (1) It establishes a benchmark by which all future population trends - up or down - will be measured. At the same time it establishes the benchmark by which all future restoration efforts will be measured. (2) It issues a call to action, more on this later.

I'm a self-admitted bobwhite goober and read just about everything I get my hands on that pertains to the subject. And while I won't point any fingers, I know I'm not the only one seeing as every post on this blog that has 'bobwhite' or 'quail' somewhere in the title gets an outsize number of views. You're in good company. A bird hunter's passion coupled with an engineer's penchant for numbers makes short work of 46 pages of facts and figures. Still, it's not for everybody so if you don't have the appetite for all of it I'll boil it down to the most useful nuggets.

The key piece of data I pulled from all of the charts and tables is that on nearly every plot of land being managed properly for bobwhites, the numbers are improving. Habitat management is not some pipe dream conjured up by biologists to ensure their employment. It's the only, yes I said only, viable method of restoring bobwhite populations, and it's working.

The problem is that it's not at work in enough places. For years the NBCI has stated that restoring bobwhite populations requires habitat change on a landscape scale, not on a few random farms throughout the native range.

One of the lead-ins to the report is a call to action urging states and individuals to step up and get actively involved in bobwhite restoration efforts. Specifically it asks that individuals:

Join a grassland habitat-related conservation organization immediately
Support your state's quail initiatives
Tell your local Congressional delegation to prioritize Farm Bill conservation programs

Given that I don't have a large farm that I can manage to my heart's content and am instead reliant on public land and/or the generosity of private landowners, I figure the least I can do is toss my hat in the ring. My efforts are no guarantee that I'll have booming quail populations in the near future, but if a bunch of people like me don't step up it's pretty well guaranteed the hunting around here won't get any better. So I'm gonna give these three suggestions a go and see where it leads. And what good is a blog if you can't use it to gloat, vent, praise, criticize, prod, expose and share? In short, stay tuned..

Free Boone & Crockett membership

2011-10-19T22:06:00.000-04:00

The folks at the Boone & Crockett Club in partnership with Hornady ammunition are working hard to spread the word about current attempts to ban all lead in hunting and fishing. While there are readily available alternatives in both sports the
uncomfortable fact is that they are more expensive, in some cases ridiculously so. If such a ban were implemented I'd have to take out a loan to go dove hunting.

The animal rights activists masquerading as environmentalists have their work cut out for them given that there is no scientific evidence to support a blanket ban on lead in any activities where it is not currently prohibited (waterfowling). That hasn't stopped them from lobbing lawsuits at every government agency in arm's reach, however, the latest target being the EPA. Imagine that. What goes around comes around, I guess.

What you as a wingshooter can do is contact your representatives in Washington and voice your support for S.838, the Hunting, Fishing, and Recreational Shooting Protection Act. You can read a summary or the full text of the legislation here. The short version is that the Act clarifies the EPA's jurisdiction over certain sporting goods, conveniently excluding lead ammunition and fishing tackle from their authority.

In appreciation for your support and for taking the time to learn more about the issues at stake, B & C and Hornady are offering one lucky reader a free Boone & Crockett Club Associate Membership. Leave a comment below and you're automatically entered. Wit and wisdom are always appreciated but given that this will be a random drawing these won't earn you any favors with the selection panel, which incidentally is composed of my four year old and my six year old, neither of whom has any idea how to rig a drawing anyway. Drawing will be held just prior to bedtime on Monday, October 24th.

From the back of the photo bin...

2011-10-07T17:14:00.000-04:00

Killing time one evening earlier this week I rummaged through the photos that never found a way into the blog and came across a few that seemed too good to waste. No extended commentary, just a serving of visual potpourri...

Patterns

Waiting..

Libation

Poor man's field lunch


End of a day

Beginning of the next

Change

2011-10-05T21:35:00.000-04:00

Change is up there with bullfighting and oysters: you either love it or don't care much at all for it. Compared to the others, unfortunately, it's several degrees harder to avoid. File it under Life's Not Fair.

Somewhere in the laws of physics must be a formula explaining why so few things in this life are static. Particularly the good stuff. Just when you get it right, just when it's all tweaked the way you like it and the planets line up and all is good with the world, something changes and before you know it you're back to square one, trying to make it right and good again. Einstein should have calculated the energy wasted trying to stop, undo or otherwise negate change.

Earlier this season I finally gave up shooting my standby 870. It is the first shotgun I ever owned and it's brought down just about every winged species of game in the lower 48, yet this fall I found myself (again) unable to hit much of anything with it. I left it in the closet a few weeks ago in favor of my "walking gun", a lightweight 20 gauge that I carry on extended hikes, and quickly started dropping birds again. Change. I could get all maudlin about it but what's the point? The 870 will still be there in the closet when I can't hit the ground with that 20 gauge.

Sitting under a pair of trees in the dove field last weekend I looked up at the branches of one, already mostly bare, and fought off the slightest bit of chill from the shade of the other. Undeniable, unstoppable, once again fall is coming. Change. Maybe file it under Sometimes Life Ain't So Bad.

As days go, this was a pretty good one

2011-09-18T21:36:00.000-04:00

Any time you get a sub-70 degree day in September (in South Carolina) it's hard to complain. If you can spend in it a dove field, all the better. This is almost like getting a foot of snow in these parts and we took full advantage. Beautiful day to be outside.

Oh, and there was this:

He's two months shy of his fourth birthday and this was his first hunt. No, he didn't shoot it. That gun is a Daisy that doesn't load, just cocks and kicks and makes a pop. But he went after it like he did, complete with the universal kids arm-extended-tip-of-the-wing hold. I showed him how to fold the wings against the body and carry it and he was fine with that right up until the next bird went down. Then it was back to the wing tip. A couple of them got poked with the butt of his gun. Kids are funny.

I'll admit I was a bit worried how he would handle the noise given his aversion to vacuum cleaners and lawnmowers and the like. A pair of orange ("No! Not the yellow ones, Dad") plugs coaxed into those tiny ears and he never flinched. Small victories.

There's a lot that can go wrong in a kid's lifetime. As a parent you do everything you can to put the odds in their favor, but there's still so much beyond your control. I know how I'd like him to turn out. I'd like to be sitting in a field forty years from now watching him watch his son do the same thing, but there are no guarantees. So you take days like today and enjoy the hell out of them.

Opening day forecast: Hot with a chance of miserable

2011-08-30T20:27:00.000-04:00

There's a downside to opening the dove season on Labor Day Weekend. I'm sure it's beautiful in certain parts of the country this time of year but it's (still) downright hot in the south. The less appealing alternative is to hold off the opener until it's consistently comfortable outside, usually sometime in early October, but that would initiate another form of suffering.

So we sit, tasting salt as it rolls across our lips, swatting the bugs intent on finding a way into one of our eyes, rhythmically wiping our faces on one shoulder or the other. Looking back I can recall only two years when it wasn't hot on the first hunt of the season.

For a long time I drove to eastern North Carolina to spend opening day with my grandfather. He'd been a member of the same dove club since the late sixties and for as long as I hunted with him he was the oldest member. Most clubs are members-only for the first few shoots but the Southern Pines Shooting Club had a Henry Ford-esque policy: bring anyone you want as long as they're male and over fifteen. They'd have upwards of sixty hunters gather for the pre-game breakfast around ten (can't shoot before noon 'til after Labor Day) - eggs, bacon, grits, homemade biscuits, sausage, gravy, orange juice and coffee all prepared on a trailer cooker. On a hot day with a full belly it was mighty tempting to just lean the car seat back and enjoy the A/C for a while.

Nobody did, of course, and after a convoy to the field we'd all pile out, stake our spots and wait for the birds to start flying. One year we piled out into the remnants of a hurricane. In late August of 1999, Hurricane Dennis flirted with the North Carolina coast, lost a bit of steam, then looped back around and came ashore over the holiday weekend. I've never hunted in sustained 35mph winds before or since and while it made the temperatures quite tolerable, trying to hit a bird in those conditions took me back to square one.


Anatomy of a windy opener, courtesy Wikipedia

By mid-afternoon I figured out that although a crossing bird flying into the wind looks like it's barely moving, you need to put the muzzle a good eight feet in front of it and then double that distance. The very same wind that's slowing the birds to a crawl is also flinging your shot pattern sideways. In a hurry. Pilots know it as the difference between groundspeed and airspeed, dove hunters know it as a good way to blow through four boxes of shells in no time.

In all the years I've hunted dove I've only seen rain once on opening day. When the storm blew in everyone thought it was just passing through and we'd be in for a sunny, albeit muddy, hunt once the clouds cleared. After about an hour my grandfather and several of the other elders decided the rain had "set in" and headed for the cars. I'd driven almost three hours to be there, was already mostly wet, and since the birds were still flying I stayed put. Somehow it was better than cooking under an apocalyptic sun.

Most openers I've spent just soaked in sweat. You tend to get a little wiser as you age, though, even if only in the most practical of matters. I'm talking specifically about personal comfort. Lately I've been picking my stand not based on the flight path of the birds but the path of the sun and any object that can intervene. Personal comfort gains value with each passing year. Tempted by a sale flier in the Sunday paper, I broke down a few seasons ago and purchased a camo t-shirt made of some technical wicking fabric. Worth every penny and now I'm on the lookout for a pair of matching boxers. Heat be damned.

Enjoy that opener fellas...

Eager anticipation or desperation?

2011-08-27T12:21:00.000-04:00

Pointing squirrels...

He just took to this in the last week or so, having been oblivious to the yard full of tree rats all summer. I don't have the heart to tell him that his debut is still three months away. If it's cold up north and the woodcock get here early his sniffer may get a workout before then, sans gun of course.

The bird hunting blogs have been rather dormant since the start of summer, save the occasional fishing or vacation post. Signs of life in the the last few weeks augur a spreading fever. Here's hoping for an epidemic.

Art

2011-08-12T17:03:00.001-04:00

Before we get started I need to make it clear that I'm no art connoisseur. I'm not even an aficionado in the broadest sense, an appreciation for fine art having eluded me over the years along with fluency in foreign languages, a taste for caviar and any proficiency at golf. But I do know when something pleases my eye and stirs emotion, so I can at least claim recognition of the purpose of art.

A number of years ago I picked up a book solely for the subject matter only to be struck with a sense of allure by the cover. The illustration was so subtle, so quiet in a whisperlike way that it begged me to lean in and look closely. It took some time but eventually I did some digging and reading and then studying and by degrees began an appreciation for one of America's great landscape artists.


image courtesy of Chatham Fine Art

The book is Making Game: An Essay on Woodcock and the cover artist is Russell Chatham. A native of northern California and an artist since somewhere around age 6, Mr. Chatham has produced oils, acrylics, lithographs and etchings mostly depicting parcels of life in the west. His talents extend beyond the art world as well; he's an outdoorsman who at one time held a line class record for striper, he's a respected author (if you can find a copy of Dark Waters, read it) - early issues of Gray's Sporting Journal are peppered with his work, and he's owned a publishing company. A fascinating, multi-dimensional life that many of us would envy.

In 1972, Chatham moved from California to Livingston, MT. I'm not sure if this was prompted by something other than the spectacular scenery and the civilized isolation, as if a person would need another reason, but here he settled, spread roots, and eventually opened a gallery. On our trip last month a stop at his gallery was on my short list, and while I timed the fishing wrong, I timed the gallery visit just right.

Gala exhibits and openings might be the thing for the more educated of the art world, but I much prefer a quiet, uncrowded opportunity to view an artist's work, a chance to focus without distractions tugging at the senses. Fortunately two of my most accomplished distractions, ages 6 and 3, were sound asleep in the back seat when we arrived in Livingston. Opportunities are only as much as you make of them, the sweet spot between apathy and overindulgence ceding the fullest reward. I settled in.

image courtesy of Chatham Fine Art

Mr. Chatham's work captures the openness of the west along with the relationship between seasons and weather and the beings that call it home. Better than any I've ever seen his work bears the odd irony of the warmth of a cold winter day. A single piece might tell a complete story or spark a solitary memory, or just as easily spur the imagination to wander.

image courtesy of Chatham Fine Art

Certain pieces like the one to the left remind me vividly of hunting my home coverts. To a student of art it may come as no surprise that the image of a single bird could trigger hundreds of images of leafless trees, pale cane breaks, muddy dogs, worn boots and such. To me it's astounding and beyond my ability to explain. These seemingly simple works ripple all of the pleasant thoughts and savory hours with a dog and a gun and a late winter sun in the woods. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, sometimes more when words just can't do the scene justice. This, to me, is art.

Sadly, August 13th is the last day for the gallery. Mr. Chatham is 71 years old and plans to scale back a bit, continuing to paint but most likely discontinuing the time-consuming lithography process, and I can't say I blame him. When I'm his age, I hope I'll have the good sense to pare my activities to only those that I enjoy most.

image courtesy of Chatham Fine Art

What's wrong with this picture?

2011-07-30T17:39:00.001-04:00

Don't look too hard, the answer is not in the picture at all. This is Montana, it's beautiful, and it's summertime. And if you're a bird hunter the summertime part is the problem seeing as it's neither legal nor very practical. Right place, wrong time. It doesn't stop a guy from thinking about how right the right time could be, though. Driving through the valleys I stared at sheets of grass for miles wondering how many partridge were hiding underneath. Life is a series of hits and misses.

This is my token post for the month of July. When it's 100 degrees outside, the grass is turning brown and not because it's going dormant, and when even dove season is still too far out to stir over it's a bit of a struggle to write about bird hunting. There's just not much of it in the here and now and at times such as these it takes a stretch to tie it all together.

I spent last week in Montana (family wedding) and I don't want anyone to think I'm complaining. It is simply beautiful, almost perfect, and I see why people go out there and never come back. The reach of the scenery is beyond words. Even though I couldn't put a dog on the ground and walk fields anchored at the edges by amazing hills I did manage to have an outstanding time.

There was, for a brief stretch of time, the possibility of doing some fishing. Far better known for its dry fly bonanzas than wingshooting opportunities, Montana offers plenty to summertime anglers. Except in years like this one. Anyone who follows any fishing blog knows about the record snowpack out west, the runoff having muted much of the spring fishing season. Every river we saw was full right up to the lip, not out of its banks but not offering one bit in the way of sand and shoreline. We took the kids on a float down the Missouri one afternoon, putting in at Wolf Creek bridge and taking out at Craig, apparently a pretty popular stretch for fishers if judged by the number of drift boats in the water and trailers at each end.

I spoke to a few guides at the put in and the consensus was that they were catching a few on nymphs, nothing on dry flies (in spite of having to pull the caddis hatch out of my mouth to have a conversation), and if I really wanted to catch some fish I'd be better off waiting a week or two. Easy to say if you live there I suppose.

I'm far too value-minded to console myself after shelling out $400 for a skunking by saying things like "Just being outside was worth it" or "It's not about how many fish you catch". While I tend to agree with both statements when money is removed from the equation I can go sit on the bank for half a day with a line in the water and still have $400 to do something, oh, slightly more fulfilling or even necessary with. So in the end I drifted past quite a few guys who paid their money for their intangible reward, never seeing a single tight line.

This little devil on the sign at the entrance to Yellowstone was the final bit of irony in a week that was but wasn't...

In the words of Nuke LaLoosh, "Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains."

Tick, tock

2011-06-29T21:17:00.000-04:00

Doves passing overhead draw my eyes. I squint and sharpen my focus on their heads; it's almost a reflex now.

Mostly they move in pairs, mating pairs, making more doves for the season.

A lot of time between today and the opener. More than two months, in fact. Fourth of July, jaunt to Montana, time at the coast, lots and lots of grass to cut. All the while staring down the calendar.

A few months from now I'll look at these passing birds as targets. And later as supper.

The days are getting shorter...

If you need something good to read this summer...

2011-06-25T21:59:00.000-04:00

Yes, this is subjective as hell. Anyone who's traipsed through this blog for a while knows that I'm partial to Guy de la Valdene. My only complaint with his work is that there's not enough of it for my consumption. Were he as prolific as some mainstream writers - John Grisham, Tom Clancy, Stephen King - I might never pick up a book written by anyone else. That's a bit of a stretch I know, but hey, passion runs deep sometimes.

la Valdene's latest release, The Fragrance of Grass, is another memoir of sorts, this time loosely wrapped around the grey partridge. Following a theme of previous works centered around woodcock and bobwhite quail, he gathers decades of stories from places as distant as his native Normandy and remote Saskatchewan. Colorful characters from a life lived between the extremes of society offer a glimpse into the realm of people beyond the world of the average reader. Farmers, poachers, royalty, singers, authors and more find their way into these recollections, each leaving something to ponder.

True to form, la Valdene paints life as it is, himself included. Very few modern writers are so willing to open up about their transgressions with such candor. He is as equally understated about his successes and unashamed of either. While lessons learned early in life did not ward off all mistakes, they did leave impressions that he translates into timeless pieces of knowledge:

"My first bird dog taught me that personalities dictate decisions, which in turn affect events."

This line is not set off from the rest of the text but could easily be. Many of the areas covered in the book - from learning to shoot to the stocking of bird populations to the excesses displayed in taking game at various points in history - all can be boiled down to this simple observation. His perspective is that of a man in the third quarter of his life, looking back with the wisdom gained only from having been on the field the previous two quarters. Widely traveled with plenty of days in the field, the experience is a solid foundation for the reflections he shares.

I remain amazed at his command of the English language, his second language, no less. Neither blunt nor flowery, he has a knack for choosing the right word or expression to convey the feeling of situations that we as hunters often struggle to voice. It's hard to summarize this book in a single line, but one in particular stands out from the rest:

"In the quiet of the night I confess to the dog closest to me my heartfelt wish to be a child again."

Don't we all.

Mo (not moe.)

2011-05-31T21:26:00.001-04:00

One of life's flavors is the steady stream of people who come (and go) unexpectedly. Most are less than remarkable, some leave you wishing they'd been less remarkable, and still others seem innocent enough at first only to grow like a white oak, slowly yet undeniably, into something of prominence in your world.

Retrospection comes more frequently with age (higher number of years in the rear view than out the windshield, statistically speaking), and often only with the benefit of time do you realize how consequential some of these people were. A parent who gave you no choice but to be responsible for yourself, an employer who allowed you to make mistakes and keep your job, a college professor who set the books aside and taught you what the real world was like. None of them were sought for these reasons, fate simply planted them in the right place.

photo courtesy of Vic Williams

About 18 years ago I was looking for a stud dog to breed with a friend's Brittany, got to asking around and after a few false starts was given the name of a trainer in Moonville, SC. Fate and fortune had landed me squarely in the lap of a guy named Maurice Lindley. Most people call him Mo. Looking back, he's been a treasure to know. He operates in a part of my world that borders on sacred, and he's shown me how to make it even more so.

Mo ended up training a pup I got from that litter and I did an article on him for the The Pointing Dog Journal back in 2002 that focused on the mechanics of training and on some of the obstacles he's faced. Over time I realized that the story is less about mechanics and obstacles and more about the person. He's humble, honest and patient, three qualities I like most in anyone, but of these patience has been the gift.

I say this because it's such a critical element to owning and training a bird dog. Literature on the subject can't seem to resist spotlighting a star student, a pup who was scent pointing at two weeks of age or had a handful of championships by his first birthday. While there's a place in the world for overachievers, using them as examples in training manuals does such a disservice to the guy who wants to learn more about training. It plants a seed that somehow there is a schedule to be adhered to. It creates an unnecessary sense of expectation, a goal with no practical virtues. Want to teach someone how to train? Don't tell him how long it should take to teach a skill, tell him how to know when it's time to move on to the next stage.

photo courtesy of Vic Williams

Mo gets this and when you spend time with him it's evident in every aspect of his work. He doesn't think twice about backing up if he feels a dog is being rushed. He understands that a race is something run on a track, not part of an education. And he's helped me to understand how much there is to enjoy in the process, in the small victories along the way.

I'm finally past the point of wanting to hurry through things in life that bring me pleasure. There were years, too many of them, where I was more interested in the end product and getting to it as quickly as possible. Oh, if I had the patience in my twenties that I enjoy today...

If you're curious...

There's a book available on his methods (and a review of it over at Living with Birddogs) or if you'd like just a taste, I highly recommend going to Steady With Style and downloading the field manual, no charge other than your email address and they won't inundate your inbox. Look for this image on the right side of the main page:

The field manual gives a really good perspective on how Mo goes about teaching dogs. You may want to drop by his website as well.

photo courtesy of Vic Williams

Well, it's a start...Zuckerberg now killing what he eats

2011-05-27T11:06:00.001-04:00

Saw a clip on CNBC of Fortune's Patricia Sellers discussing a piece she did on Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg. Now this doesn't have a whole lot to do with wingshooting, at least not yet, and I'm not even a big Facebook fan. I don't have an account and observing those who do only makes me feel smarter. It seems about the biggest time waste of this century, so far. Well, that and Twitter. Anyway, the story is about Zuckerberg's personal challenge this year, which is to only eat meat that he kills.

According to the story he took up the challenge after a pig roast at his house where many of his guests were averse to the fact that the pork they were eating used to be alive. I gotta give the guy credit - in California, in the circles I assume he's part of, it takes a lot to step up and do something so un-PC. Maybe he is deserving of that Time Man of the Year award. And it gets better. Sellers writes:

"What's next on this journey? He's told people that he's interested in going hunting."

If this guy tries hunting and likes it, he's gonna post about it. And that means 500 million people with not a whole lot to do are gonna find out about it, and a whole bunch of them, being young and impressionable, may even give it a try. And I'll just have to be damned if Facebook ends up turning the tide of the conservation movement. I might have to re-think my position on social media.

Of course if he tries hunting and doesn't like it......well I'd rather not think about it. Keep earning that Man of the Year, bud.

Hemingway, the NY Times and bobwhites

2011-05-19T12:26:00.002-04:00

This article appeared on the NY Times website yesterday and the print edition today. Happy to see the coverage at every level. A couple of good quotes in there, one from the NBCI's Don McKenzie:

“We have to come up with bigger pieces of landscape that are managed in common, and have connections with other pieces of well-managed landscape where there are sustainable populations of birds,” McKenzie said. “We must make it happen by the millions of acres instead of by the tens of acres.”

Can't underscore this enough. A second is from Dan Petit of the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation:

“We think that converting pastures of cool-season grasses into warm-season grasses is economically very palatable to those individuals that make a living off of those grasses. This does not require a stimulus bill or anything like that.”

They really need to give this point some publicity. And yes, the article does talk about Hemingway bird hunting in Arkansas. There's a notable quote about his ego, too.

Bobwhite aficionados take a peek..

2011-05-14T08:10:00.000-04:00

It's not exactly news in that it's not exactly new, but the guys at NBCI have been more than a little busy. They launched a new website, released a revised plan, and now sport a new name. By all accounts they've shifted this into a higher gear, and one that those of us without a biology degree can sink our teeth into.

Roaming around the site the phrase that comes to mind is user-friendly. I recall reading the original Northern Bobwhite Conservation Initiative plan when it was released in 2002 and thinking what a great, ambitious piece of work it was and then immediately wondering how to make it happen? How do you create all this habitat, transform all this marginal land, inspire bobwhite hunters nationwide to step up? The plan was heavy on objectives but light on instruction. Now they've started filling in the blanks, naming the pieces and showing how they fit together. The tag line in the logo above sums up the new direction.

I posted last year about what the future of conservation groups might look like and what their role would be in the restoration of bobwhites. How this plays out is going to factor heavily in how well the plan succeeds, in fact it has the potential to be the determining factor in whether or not it succeeds. The money and membership of these groups is invaluable when it comes to making tangible things happen. Left to their own devices, however, the sum of the effort is likely to be somewhat disjointed in terms of reaching the larger goal. These guys need to be looking to the NBCI for guidance and the NBCI doesn't need to be shy about giving it.

Naturally the muscle of volunteers won't do the trick all by itself. Ducks and pheasant benefited greatly from legislative changes that either directly or indirectly established thousands of acres of friendly habitat. In a recent blog post director Don McKenzie addresses some of the farm bill changes necessary to provide the same lift to bobwhites. Now they need to go one step further and tell us what we can do as individuals to help make this happen. Letters to congressmen? Tell us what these letters need to say. Grass roots level meetings with representatives to show them what's wrong and what could be done? Give us the names and places.

Back in 2002 the authors of the plan were thinking on a big scale and change at that level doesn't come in small, isolated pieces. It comes through many people from many backgrounds in many places working together as part of a coordinated, or to borrow from the tagline, unified effort. They're still thinking on a big scale, a grand scale even, and that's what it's going to take to return populations to their 1980s levels. Now they're going to have to embrace the role as leader of this massive, monumental effort, giving to-do lists to the states for the states to pass down to NGOs, property owners, hunters and other volunteers. It's picking up speed. Momentum is one of the most curious things in physics - and one of the most powerful.

A change in olfactory seasons

2011-04-29T14:34:00.000-04:00

I've been told that autumn's first killing frost is when bird dogs start getting serious about hunting. Up until that time, according to legend, there are too many distractions for a nose with superpowers to sift the good stuff out reliably. There's a brief period right after that first hard frost where all the vegetation's dying, which I imagine is something like the overpowering stench of sargassum washed up onshore in the Keys, and they struggle a bit until that passes. Fortunately it doesn't have the staying power of sargassum and in a few days the dogs are in business. In fall and winter and a dog's nose has one focus: game.

Spring rolls around, however, and another legend has it that gamebirds stop giving off much scent, something to do with protection during the nesting season. An idle nose is the Scent Devil's playground. Bugs and snakes and frogs and the other critters that hole up in the winter come out to play. Weeds and flowers and seeds hang in the air. And food on the table, my oh my, how the interest in that rises through no apparent coincidence. The rest of the earth comes back to life. Even a lowly sniffer like mine gets drunk on the smell of honeysuckle and lilac.

A wet, pink nose is born again with a new purpose, millions of new smells to sample, savor and catalog. Moving from one end of the yard to the other can take an hour or more in what must be akin to wandering the aisles of a really, really fine market and being allowed to taste every single thing on the shelf. These must be the rewards for having to sleep on the floor and eat the same thing at every meal.

What I can't figure out (among other things) is how a nose that sensitive isn't completely pillaged by pollen.

Somebody give me another push

2011-04-24T21:49:00.003-04:00

Hard to complain about a warm Easter Sunday without a cloud in the sky. Got the yardwork done yesterday so I'd have the afternoon to pursue less punishing activities. I settled into the hammock with a copy of The Sound and The Fury and minutes slid into hours.

The call of a pissed off squirrel is unmistakable, a muted screech lacking rhythm but not persistence (sorry for the derailment of any train of thought, but did I mention I was reading Faulkner?). I peered through the branches of a sweetgum next to the tree that anchored the hammock until I saw a bushy tail waving like an old woman's handkerchief. He was sitting on the lowest branch, cursing and taunting my dog lying on the ground fifteen feet away. For some reason the dog only lifted his head to watch this rodent's rant.

Eventually the squirrel made his way into the maple at the foot of the hammock and through the leaves I saw something red in his mouth. A flower? Nothing red in bloom in our yard right now. A strawberry? Maybe, but where would he have gotten it? One of the kids' toys? Possibly, but why would he want that? As he scrambled overhead I could make out red holly berries still attached to a branch with glossy green leaves. This looked like something stolen off of the mantel at Christmas. And he was still screeching. And by now the dog had pressed his jaw back down to the ground, eyes closed as if these last few minutes never happened.

The prey tormenting the predator, a token from a different season in his mouth, the predator indifferent to his attempts. Had I fallen asleep and become suddenly conscious in the middle of a dream? Somehow it really didn't seem out of place with a critically acclaimed novel that the author is still chuckling about in his grave, knowing another poor soul is trying to figure out just what the hell he's talking about. I suppose life is like that some days.

Got that kitchen groove back

2011-03-29T22:04:00.000-04:00

It's a tragedy when you take eating for granted. Not on a Shakespearean level, mind you, but something to be mourned nonetheless and avoided if possible. The one thing you have to do to survive is eat, so you might as well make the most of it. Yeah you have to breathe, too, but there's only so much latitude in that and try as you might you'll never reach the delights found in eating.

I used to cook with fervor. I looked forward to nights when I could spend several hours at the stove caramelizing, sautéing, searing, seasoning and tasting. When the house is empty cooking can be a pleasure again. There's no one to say "Ewww!" or whine "I don't waaaant it", no reason to rush the process to get a little whiner to bed on time. It's also a good time to purge the freezer of less popular contents. Yesterday I got a late start and vowed that I'd make do with whatever was in the house, opting to sip bourbon instead of trudging to the store. Potluck marinade handles the underdog role well. Dove breast fired in a cast iron pan takes a back seat to nothing.

These found their way on top of mashed potatoes that I'll sheepishly admit my wife found the recipe for in a Martha Stewart magazine. But hey, fair's fair and good's good regardless of the origin and this dish, absent the customary milk or cream and infused with a heavy dose of olive oil and garlic yields the best mashed potatoes I've ever piled on a fork. Of course I found I was out of garlic after the potatoes were boiling so I substituted a lonely shallot and some garlic powder and drifted in some cumin out of curiosity. Jackpot.

You've had those meals. Everyone's had those meals, the ones where the palate and the mind dance like the Peanuts gang, jubilant and uninhibited. They occupy thoughts to the point that there's no room left for troubles and all seems right with the world. Or maybe that's the whiskey at work.

And it was so good I forgot to take pictures.

Death in the short grass

2011-03-22T22:10:00.001-04:00

It is undeniable. You can tempt it, you can cheat it, you can curse it, mourn it, or brood over it yet it remains indifferent to actions and emotions, unswerving in its task. The human world builds rituals around the end of life culminating with the planting of remains in cemeteries, the gardens of the dead. The animal world has no such rite. They don't bury each other in unmarked graves either, Disney as that notion may be. And despite a certain amount of evidence to the contrary they don't all seek asphalt in the end. Given this and the vast number of animals in the wild it seems an average hunter would stumble upon a few more carcasses in the woods and fields.

Sure, quite a few creatures end up as links in the food chain and are digested to the point that only the most fastidious eye would detect the parts amid twigs and leaves. For the rest the framework lands in plain view, picked clean, nature's near-perfect efficiency in action. In plain view of something, but what?

If you believe in higher powers and predestination and those sorts of things it would make sense that each living creature, or at least the sum of its physical parts, ends up exactly where it's supposed to. That fact is no closer to unlocking the answer but does provide a measure of comfort that there is some order to this end of the universe. Known science suggests it's possible that the disguises that protect so well during life serve the same purpose afterward, but at that point what is the purpose?

It's also possible that this is one of those questions that Mother Nature never wants answered. Logical, orderly, mathematical minds have trouble with such things. Einstein-be-damned, maybe some things can't be reduced to an equation.

Good gear

2011-03-04T14:43:00.001-05:00

In a closet full of gear, certain pieces get reached for more than others. Year after year this core group that almost always makes the traveling squad gets a little older, doesn't necessarily hide the aging well, yet is ready to go when called.

Good gear isn't necessarily expensive, a well-known name or overly specialized. General purpose fits the bill. You don't feel the need to baby it. Mostly it's tough as a nickel steak.

A Wal-Mart special still going strong

Good gear is sometimes only qualified after you've owned it for 10+ years. More times than not it's hard to find a replacement for (they usually don't make it any more), and it's good regardless of what it cost (although getting a deal on it makes it really good). Browsing catalogs or a rack in the stores, a seasoned eye can take one look and know whether it'll make the grade in your world.

Broken in, not worn out

Is technical gear better? Sometimes. There's a lot to be said for waterproof, breathable, lightweight, and moisture-wicking. Durability can be an issue with some of these combinations, though. Certain types of brush can greatly extend the breathability of fabric while simultaneously taking the waterproof right out of it.

Many miles to go

The acid test? When it looks worn plum out but you can't bring yourself to stop using it. Hence duct tape, seam sealer and Dr. Scholls have cemented their place in the good gear hall of fame.

Ghost steps

2011-02-19T18:56:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I played a little hooky and hunted the Crackerneck Wildlife Management Area along the South Carolina/Georgia border. This is no ordinary managed public land - it's located on on the property of the Savannah River Site, more on this in a minute.

Walking among the tall pines it occurred to me that this very same land was likely hunted by my wife's grandfather back in the 1940s, avid small game hunter that he was. While it's not unusual to hunt in the same places as family members from earlier generations, it is a bit unusual to come back after so many years and be the first in several generations to do so.

path of Cold War secrets

At the time he lived in Ellenton, SC, one of three small towns taken over by the Atomic Energy Commission in 1950 to build the Savannah River Site, a production facility for enriching weapons-grade nuclear material. 'Taken over' is a nice way of saying the government exercised its right of eminent domain and gave the people in these towns only one choice: leave. The families were given a matter of weeks to find a new place to live, pack up everything they owned and move. Even some of the graves were relocated. And there was no going back. I'm sure they were paid a fair market price for their real estate, but they weren't compensated for having to give up their life as they'd known it. Many of the farmers found it impossible to start over in a new town.

I'm not anti-government by any means. Every good, stable democracy needs one and yet at the same time it's virtually impossible for any government to please all its people all the time. This site was picked for a variety of reasons one of which was surely that it would require displacing relatively few people, same as with sites picked for dams and power plants, but that certainly didn't make it any easier on those affected.

Gandy, as he was known to my wife, carried an LC Smith 12ga that my father-in-law still owns and has earmarked for my son. I'll confess to a small bit of envy since I've never owned a shotgun that belonged to any of my ancestors. The South Carolina DNR has done a tremendous job of improving the bobwhite habitat in the Crackerneck area and if their budget doesn't dry up and the government doesn't decide to repossess or restrict the property again, my plan is to close the loop when my son gets old enough to shoot that gun.

Postscript
If you're a history buff or just curious about the story of Ellenton and the Savannah River Site, I'd suggest starting with the website of a documentary produced a couple of years ago, Displaced. There's an interesting picture, the first one in Gallery 4, showing several hand-painted signs tacked onto the city limit sign of Ellenton soon after notice was given to the residents. I'd post it here but I'm not sure about the copyrights, even though we have a copy of it in our home. It reads: It is hard to understand why our town must be destroyed to make a bomb that will destroy someone else's town that they love as much as we love ours. But we feel that they picked not just the best spot in the US, but in the world. We love these dear hearts and gentle people who live in our Home Town. If that doesn't sum up the irony of the event I'm not sure what does.

I can't stand not knowing

2011-02-07T17:32:00.000-05:00

Ever wonder what a dog is thinking when he winks at you?

Cloning is for sheep

2011-01-18T21:09:00.004-05:00

He's not the same as the last one. The last one was throttled pretty much like a Chinese firework: lit or waiting to be lit. When he was lit there wasn't much you could do but sit back and watch him go. While there was the occasional dud, most of the time it was quite a show.

This one lacks the affinity for briars and the horizon and is much more methodical about his work. He goes about it like an engineer, thorough, precise, never a danger of overrunning a covey. It's likely a consequence of having never seen anything outside the confines of a training field until now. You take this for granted with a pup you've brought along since the day he was born, hour upon hour spent learning the sights and smells and sounds of the woods long before his first formal lesson. Caution and fear get left behind in those early days without conscious thought. Same reason you teach a kid to ski before he's old enough to fully understand the side-effects of gravity.

I'm not so sure I'd be interested in having the same dog over and over anyway. Let's face it, there's no such thing as a perfect bird dog. All of them have at least one annoying vice whether it's humping house guests, whizzing on your lawnmower, swallowing birds whole or whatever that we could just as easily live without. Imagine how that would grate on you over a lifetime? It stops being cute after twenty or thirty years. As I see it this could be the silver lining in outliving my dogs - I get to have so many different ones salt and pepper the days until I'm gone.

Science being what it is there's a legitimate possibility that in our lifetime we'll have the option of ordering up another bird dog just like our current favorite, if you're into that sort of thing. Read the fine print, though, 'cause while he might look the same and share some of the same mannerisms, he won't be a full-on carbon copy. Identical twins aren't even exactly the same. The wild card is personality and how it develops, the character that defies science and makes each living being unique. And thank goodness.

Call me boring but right now I need a dog that wants to work a bit more slowly. I just don't have the mindset to deal with another Magellan. The two of us will plod along, maybe making a little more time for the grouse woods, a place that gratefully accommodates meticulous sorts. Steering far clear of any field trials I think I'll be quite content to simply watch my dog do what he does, however he chooses to do it.

Maybe they won't notice

2011-01-08T22:02:00.000-05:00

I picked up my dog from the trainer today. The kids are giddy and I'm grinning again and tomorrow we're headed out to see what he can do. Although the calendar says Christmas was two weeks ago I'm not so sure. See, last year I was without a bird dog, something I never thought would happen yet through forces unimaginable it did. So I've been looking forward to this day to say the least.

Unfortunately it's just one day and then I'm back to the office, one of those "life ain't fair" moments. I'd be lying if I said the thought of loading the truck and taking off for the rest of the bird season hadn't crossed my mind. With more than a twinge of envy I've read about the guys who do this. For someone in my shoes it sounds like a deal with the Devil.

Something tells me I'd be missed on Monday morning. What would they say, all of those people I wrap myself in every day? Two kids searching in vain for someone to chase them, tickle them and ask about whiskers for the ninety seventh time. A wife who, among other things, rightfully expects me to do my share of raising these kids. And a slew of people at several companies who want to know when they're getting paid, what do do about this that's broken and this that came in the mail and this that wasn't like this yesterday.

The truth is that I dearly love most of these people and honestly like the rest of them. Otherwise it would be easy to load the truck and head out. But screw the easy button, isn't there a pause button I can push? I've heard about people who take sabbaticals, just set everything aside and take off for a few months or a year or so at full salary. I need to read that book. In the meantime I suppose I'll do the responsible, logical, mature thing. Then again, they're calling for snow on Monday.

Adios, dos mil diez

2010-12-30T15:21:00.000-05:00

It's been a full year already and I'm thankful for some of it and thankful that some of it's in the rearview. Got a new bird dog, made it back to South Dakota, figured out how to make the lead hit the bird again and a whole bunch of other stuff completely unrelated to the matter at hand. Much appreciation to those who check in here from time to time and look forward to seeing you on the next page of the calendar.

Supposed to go get my dog from the trainer next week - can't think of a better way to start a new year. Hope (there's that word again) everyone has a good one.

Hope

2010-12-24T21:16:00.000-05:00

Regardless of which brand you choose to practice, religion is a very personal thing. You tend to get out of it what you need most, or whichever need led you to it in the first place. In an age where people are losing jobs and homes, where random acts of violence proliferate, where the future sometimes holds more troubles than joys, possibly more than any other thing religion provides a source of comfort in a world of uncertainty, a sense of hope that good will prevail.

Hope offers a reason to keep going, to put troubles in perspective or at least aside long enough to let them fade. Hope is the promise of tomorrow, and bird hunters know a thing or two about it. Every puppy, day in the field, hedgerow and shotgun shell is hope. Putting on a vest, easing up on a point, squeezing the trigger - every little action is pinned to hope. In it you'll find optimism, reassurance, relief, contentment and a dozen other emotions shifting the burden of worry aside.

Not every Christmas present comes wrapped in paper under a tree. Whatever your religion, find the hope that it offers and embrace it.

Merry Christmas....

Wrapped and under your tree

2010-12-20T17:10:00.000-05:00

The problem with podcasts is that there are so dang many of them out there that it takes an immense amount of effort to find the ones that are worth your while. Unless of course you just stumble into them, which is how I found the Orvis Double Barrel Podcast. Hosted by Brett Ference, Orvis hunting product developer, the series is a casual discussion on various topics centered around wingshooting.

Most of them run 20-30 minutes and they're a great way to make use of time that might otherwise be spent doing nothing. I listen to them in my car on a weekly commute I make to the lower part of the state and I've also used them to pass the time in a deer stand. I suppose you could partake in a waiting room if you don't mind being seen in public with earbuds. Whatever your fancy I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Topics range from gun maintenance to hearing protection to shooting technique, choke selection, and one on getting kids into shooting sports. There's an excellent four-part series of interviews with Mike Stewart of Wildrose Kennels. For many of the episodes Brett recruits in-house talent in the form of Bruce Bowlen, head of the Orvis shooting school, and Jordan Smith who's been Orvis's gunsmith for the last 30 years, infusing the discussion with unique perspective and expertise. They're constantly looking for new topics, too, so email your ideas.

Orvis does have a bit of a reputation as being geared toward the higher end (dollar-wise) of the sporting spectrum, so before you write this off as great advice for lottery winners and trust fund babies only, take it from a guy who shoots a left-handed 870: this is for the everyman. Admission is free and you aren't required to give them your email address or answer any surveys.

I'd recommend subscribing to the feed through a tool like Google Reader or iTunes. The website doesn't update as rapidly as these services and at least from my experience it's been easier to download the podcasts to my phone.

As much as I'd like to send a gift-wrapped Purdey or a Parker to everyone who's kind enough to read this blog, this double barrel will have to suffice, at least until I am one of those lottery winners. Hope you enjoy it...

PS - There's also a podcast for fly fishing.

QU one year later

2010-12-13T22:37:00.001-05:00

It's been a little over a year since things officially unraveled at Quail Unlimited. Most of you remember the apocalyptic headlines about furloughs, bankruptcy and criminal misdeeds, some of which turned out to be true and some merely embellished rumors. It's kind of rare that a wildlife organization gets wrapped up in a scandal complete with accusations, federal investigations, and a founding member being unceremoniously ushered out the door. This is usually the territory of politics and investment banks, not habitat outfits.

From an objective point of view things had to change. Financial mismanagement, a board that was maybe a bit reluctant to press for answers they didn't want to hear, and a membership distrustful and at times resentful of the organization's leadership were slowly starving QU of oxygen. New President Bill Bowles seems genuinely intent on rebuilding trust by maintaining transparency and re-opening direct contact with the membership. The clubby, elitist perception is slowly disappearing.

What does the future hold for a group like QU? Internal issues aside, the question is whether there is a place for a national organization devoted to improving quail habitat, much less three national organizations with the same mission. The non-profit world tends to be a Darwinian one and I'd imagine this question will be answered soon enough.

The bigger question is what the future of quail recovery looks like in general. Are the national organizations becoming less and less relevant? Is the objective better suited to local efforts? There's a strong case for a model where funds are raised and used locally and habitat efforts are coordinated by state wildlife departments, not national conservation organizations. Using the NBCI as a guide, state departments coordinate efforts between volunteers, landowners, federal agencies, donors and hunters to leverage these resources into the best possible results. If national organizations are to be players in this scenario, they'll have to put self-promotion aside, something easier said than done. Ask any chief if he's interested in being an indian.

Don McKenzie, head of the National Bobwhite Conservation Initiative, wrote a well-crafted plea earlier this year for all parties to work together for the common good (the link to this document isn't currently working). Putting their own survival instincts aside will prove difficult in my opinion. Turf battles quickly consume time and money that would/should be better spent improving habitat and could ultimately be their death knell. Here's hoping they can reinvent themselves for the cause.

Things that make you go hmmmm..

2010-11-26T13:52:00.002-05:00

Been driving past this on and off for the last nine years and still haven't figured it out.

I suppose it's some kind of art, and given the broad definition of art these days who could argue? Or maybe it's a memorial, some sort of "they don't make 'em like they used to" statement. Either way it begs a few questions:

Where do you get this many red with a white top 2 door LTD Broughams?
What's with the one way out back? Some sort of missing man formation?
Are there Druids in the midwest?

This lies on the outskirts of Clark, SD, if you're ever in the neighborhood. It doesn't have a damn thing to do with wingshooting but it's on the way to a place I hunt and for obvious reasons it's just hard to ignore.

This must be the place

2010-11-19T11:15:00.000-05:00

Election Day Special

2010-11-02T13:49:00.003-04:00

Seriously, I walk into the polls today and am handed the usual list of proposed amendments to our state constitution. Right there, Amendment No 1, is a proposal to make it the right of every citizen of our state to hunt and fish:

Amendment 1
Must Article I of the Constitution of this State, relating to the declaration of rights under the state's constitution, be amended by adding Section 25 so as to provide that hunting and fishing are valuable parts of the state's heritage, important for conservation, and a protected means of managing nonthreatened wildlife; to provide that the citizens of South Carolina shall have the right to hunt, fish, and harvest wildlife traditionally pursued, subject to laws and regulations promoting sound wildlife conservation and management as prescribed by the General Assembly; and to specify that this section must not be construed to abrogate any private property rights, existing state laws or regulations, or the state's sovereignty over its natural resources?
Explanation
A ‘Yes' vote will make it a constitutional right for citizens to hunt and fish and will permit the State to legally provide for proper wildlife management and the protection of private property rights.

Talk about an eye-opener. I don't know why I thought for all of these years that I already had that right. Goes to show that nothing you enjoy should be taken for granted. From what I've read, this was more a measure to ensure that neither Congress nor PETA would be able to take away this right down the road. An ounce of prevention I suppose. Arizona, Arkansas and Tennessee have similar measures on the ballot today, and this isn't a new idea. Vermont passed right to hunt legislation in 1777.

I'm not sure whether this is a good thing in that my right to hunt and fish will be enjoyed by my descendants or a bad thing in that it implies that this right might not exist some day. But that possibility does exist, however remote it may seem. Change is one constant in this world. My great-grandfather never would have thought that gay marriage would go mainstream or that I would make phone calls from anywhere using a device the size of my wallet.

(I voted Yes).

UPDATE: The amendment passed by a nearly 9 to 1 margin with 1.23 million people (roughly 27% of the state's population) voting.

Progress report

2010-11-01T22:22:00.000-04:00

For the last several weeks my new dog has been with the trainer working out the bugs before the season starts. Those who read the post know that I took a chance when I picked up this dog in July but it seemed like the odds were slightly in my favor and this dog needed a good home anyway, which was enough for me.

On Saturday my son and I went over to check on him and watch a few other dogs. I confess I'm more than a little excited that at just shy of 3 yrs old he's very interested in bird dogs. Hope I can stretch that into, oh, maybe a lifetime or so.

Wyatt's doing fairly well in his training but needs a little more polishing than I'd anticipated. While initially crowding his birds he seems to be backing off of them a bit, a big relief given that wild quail don't usually condone the up close and personal stuff. He still has a lot of chase in him and that will consume a good bit of time to reign in. As a result he may be staying a few weeks longer than I'd planned to get it all sorted out.

This week could be a bellwether as Maurice plans to shoot a few birds over him and take him to a larger field to see how he handles off of the check cord. We'll be back over on Saturday morning and with a little luck we'll get a good report.

Not being a field trialer, I really only need a few things in a bird dog. Pointing is non-negotiable; guys who hunt bobwhites with flushers get a bag full of frustration, not birds. And since I don't hunt with other dogs very often, backing isn't a deal-breaker. It's a nice plus, though. Same with retrieving. I'd place it slightly above backing, but as long as he'll find a dead bird I'm perfectly capable of picking it up. So if we can get Wyatt steady to wing and shot I'll hunt him this year and leave the rest til the offseason.

All in all I'm feeling pretty good about this dog. He has a lot of desire to hunt and is biddable enough that desire can be sculpted into something I can hunt with. And he's quickly turned into a great dog to have around the house and office. I'm looking forward to that first day in the field.

Don't put that in your mouth

2010-10-28T21:15:00.003-04:00

A few years ago a handful of guys and I were visiting with Rick Smith at a convention and the talk naturally centered on trainers and training methods. Someone mentioned Paul Long and I remember one of the guys saying, "Paul Long has helped me train 15 bird dogs and 4 kids". Laughs all around and the conversation moved on but I never forgot that line. At the time I had no kids and really only appreciated it on the surface, but now that I've spawned a brace of my own it's been like peeling back the layers of an onion - every time I turn around I'm reminded of that line.

Somewhere I read that the average mature dog is on roughly the same intellectual level as a two year old human, certain considerations given. No doubt a professor got a huge grant to study this so there's bound to be tons of science behind it. Still, the average parent and dog owner could come to roughly the same conclusion over time, so it's no wonder that Paul Long's disciple had success on both fronts.

Around my house I know better than to make any comparisons at all between child-rearing and dog training. But the internets ain't where I live and I don't think my wife reads this blog anyway, so here are a few things I can verify are true for each side:

Yelling doesn't do much good when they don't understand you
Punishment doesn't do much good if they don't know what they were supposed to do in the first place
Repetition, repetition, repetition (especially when it comes to manners)
You can't get around potty training
Don't try to teach it until they're ready for it. You'll know when the light comes on and it's time to move forward.
Too much talk can be counterproductive. Keep it simple.
Praise even the smallest victories
The older they get, the more the game turns mental
Patience is not a virtue, it is the virtue

And then there are the strange similarities between kids and dogs....

Both are somehow genetically programmed to look you right in the eye and do exactly what you just told them not to. I know they didn't learn this from me.
The more you wish for quiet, the louder they get
When they are quiet, something's up
They never break their stuff, only your stuff
Wherever they are when they finish playing with something is right where it belongs
They have no clue how to contain their happiness
There truly is nothing they won't put in their mouths

I went to see the doctor...

2010-10-08T15:54:00.000-04:00

After agonizing over my abysmal performance with a shotgun this season (see previous post), I broke down, did a little research and scheduled some time with a shooting instructor. A well-credentialed guy (Dan Schindler, for those who are curious) lives not far from me and was available on fairly short notice, lucky for me I suppose. Credentials aside, he turned out to be just what I was looking for: friendly, knowledgeable, methodical and patient. And he honestly seemed to enjoy what he was doing.

Over the course of the next three hours and several hundred rounds I learned a couple of critical things. Apparently I'm pretty good with the quick point and shoot, widely known as the Churchill method. I've never had much trouble hitting a quail on the covey rise or a pheasant getting up out of standing corn and this was confirmed on the target range. Turns out that this method loses its effectiveness once you get out past 25-30 yards, something I can vouch for and have the empty shells to prove. So went spent a lot of time working on those passing shots, the kind that tend to dominate the latter part of dove season.

Seems my biggest problem was that I had gotten in too much of a hurry. We spent most of the session working on slowing down my whole process, literally every part of it from mounting the gun to acquiring the target to firing and follow through. You hear it a lot in professional sports: split-second timing is everything, and the only way to control it is to slow it down in your mind. I honestly never realized I had so much time to make a shot. Once I got used to this simple fact the targets started dropping like flies.

So how did all this translate in the dove field? Mixed success on the first day out. The difference was that I knew why I was missing. There are a lot of adjustments between target range and field and this is the part that's left up to me. Dove rarely come out of the trees at the same place over and over at the same speed. You're constantly adjusting to a new shot - low, high, slow, fast, behind, from the side. Still, any doubt that these changes would work was erased when I saw a dove crossing about 45-50 yards out, put the gun on it, swung with it, eased away and pulled the trigger, and watched it drop. This was a shot I was never comfortable taking because of the distance and here it had worked just like it was supposed to. I have to say that pride tastes a lot less like crow than I thought it would.

The Yips

2010-09-24T16:46:00.000-04:00

I've heard my golfing friends talk about it. Suddenly, for no explainable reason, a guy can't hit the ball like he used to. Can't putt, can't chip, drives go onto the neighboring fairway, whatever. There's an accident on the neural highway somewhere between brain and beef and there's a casualty. Worse still, you have no idea where the accident is or how to clean it up.

This always seemed puzzling to me. How can you do the same thing you did yesterday and not get the same result? Just doesn't make sense. Keep in mind I'm not a golfer so all I see is guys who spend hours on the range fine tuning their stuff to the point that it really should be automatic. They become consistent 3 or 6 or 8 handicaps, respectable performers, and then one day they can't break 90. I'd understand if they were recovering from hip surgery or a broken arm, but when nothing changes? I just didn't get it.

Until it happened to me and my shotgun. As I sat in the field Sunday morning filling the sky with lead, I couldn't deny that the boxes of shells were emptying much faster than my game bag was filling up. Had this always been the case I wouldn't have given it a second thought, but not too long ago things were different. Last season I had a mix of good days and stellar days, at least in terms of how many shells I consumed to get a limit of doves (currently 15 per day in my neck of the woods). Where a box used to be more than sufficient, now it was pushing two or more. It finally hit the tipping point on Sunday, the point at which I couldn't call it an "off" day any longer. Off days only last a day. This was stretching halfway into the season.

I honestly have no idea what changed. Eliminate any mechanical issues with the gun and any physical issues with me and you're left with something between the ears. More than likely I'm thinking a little bit too much about the shot and shooting behind, not swinging through, lifting my cheek from the stock or something equally ruinous. And no surprise, these things are all difficult to self-diagnose. So here I sit feeling fortunate that my family doesn't depend on my shooting prowess for sustenance but otherwise generally in a funk.

The fact is that I'm either going to have to plod through this until it corrects itself, which it eventually will after months or years of frustration and having no idea what the problem was will likely reappear further down the road, or I'm going to have to break down and get some help. I've never taken a shooting lesson in my life, which is actually a pretty lame argument for suffering through a slump indefinitely. Not to mention that I generally don't like to pay money for something that I ought to be able to do myself. The reality of the situation, though, is that I can't fix it myself or I would have. And the reality is that unless I get some help I'm going to be miserable doing the one thing that brings me great joy. I'll let you know how that pride tastes going down.

Socialized medicine it ain't...

2010-09-13T17:11:00.000-04:00

I try to keep it original here at least in terms of content, so pardon my leeching and try to focus on the message. Craig Koshyk at Chiendogblog posted yesterday about an effort by the government in his home province of Manitoba to get more people involved in hunting. I really, really wish we saw more of that where I live. Not saying there's no effort here, but compared to the depth and detail of what's going on up Craig's way it's no wonder our numbers are stagnant.

Before anyone gets all "I don't want any more people in my favorite fields" keep in mind how the process works. Government budgets are strained beyond the breaking point and with limited money to spend, guess where it gets spent? Where it favorably impacts the most people. And keep in mind that politicians spell people differently than you and I. The more ~~people~~ voters you make happy, the better your chances of getting elected. When hunters make up a larger-than-microscopic part of the constituency, it's harder to bypass funding for the things that make them happy. Apparently the left-leaning NDP in Manitoba has figured that out. Are any American politicians listening?

By the way, if you have a few minutes you might also want to check out Craig's professional site. He has some amazing photographs of dogs.

Ketchup anyone?

2010-08-19T13:57:00.001-04:00

Most years it starts somewhere around the 4th of July. Way back in the corner of my brain, back in the part where all the stuff that hasn't been used for a while gets shoved, I get a whiff of something appetizing. It doesn't last very long, snuffed out by a beach trip or a lawn that needs cutting, but the little bugger won't go away.

August rolls around and that scent comes back, refusing to be ignored any longer. This time it triggers rumblings in my belly that become more persistent the harder I try to ignore them. Resistance at this point is futile. It's time to get the charcoal going, not exactly instant gratification like a gas grill but comforting in the fact that there is a finish line. I stock up on shells and dig the gear out of the closet, ridding it of last year's leftovers: stray feathers, bottle tops, a few twigs and an empty shell or two.

By the middle of the month it's time to season and shape the burgers. I double and triple check to make sure my license is where it's supposed to be on the desk. I get the shotguns out and work the action a few times, you know, just to make sure. Slice an onion and a tomato...

Yes it's that time of year again, the countdown to opening day. So close you can taste it and yet there's nothing you can do to make it get here any faster. Seems like an eternity since that day back in January when last season closed. September 4th is O-Day down here and boy do I wish I could find a way to squeeze the bottle.

Back in Business

2010-07-28T18:31:00.004-04:00

After a rather lackluster bird season last year I've taken a major step toward a remedy. I picked up this guy last week and I'm hanging my hopes on him for the fall. He's 3 1/2 years old, one of the lightest colored Brittanys I've ever seen, gentle personality and aside from needing a little re-socializing he's a good fit in our house. Not exactly an action shot but this is the only time he stops moving long enough to snap a picture.

Call me a glutton for the taking the hard way or a sucker for the less fortunate, either way he was far from a sure thing. He'd gotten about a year of training before the trainer gave up on finding a home for him, parked him in a run and fed him and watered him. I'm not sure he left that run for a year or so and I'm dead positive he'd never seen the inside of a truck or a house since he was whelped. He spent the first hour of the ride home pinned against the window in the back corner of the truck, not entirely panicked but far from comfortable. I had to carry him through the door into the house several times before he went willingly. Stairs, dark rooms, even furniture were all new. Imagine the thoughts in that head.

I took him over to Maurice's on Saturday morning and all the necessary parts were present. There's stuff you can teach and stuff he has to be born with, and if he doesn't have the latter you're pretty much SOL. Fortunately he wants to find birds and is captivated by one in flight. He points too, meaning he can be taught. Give him a couple of months of polishing and I'm feeling fairly good about the opener. My wife seems to think he's a quick learner and from what I've seen so far I'd have to agree.

It's funny how things come into your life. Back in the spring when I started thinking about this I never would have pictured a dog like him would be the outcome. I suppose it all just has a way of working out. We're calling him Wyatt.

Quail Economics

2010-07-15T22:07:00.000-04:00

Last Sunday morning I was flipping through the latest issue of Garden & Gun and stumbled upon a piece on an interesting project in Alabama. Some guys in one of the poorest sections of the state are doing their best to make lemonade out of the lemons they've been given, so to speak. West of Selma is an area known as the Black Belt, called such due to the tint of the soil, and lacking any traditional economic development appeal certain locals have decided to pitch it as a sporting destination for, of all things, bobwhite quail.

It's compared to the Robert Trent Jones Trail of Golf and a little research reveals that they're not putting all of their eggs in the quail basket, which is probably a good hedge. Alabamblackbeltadventures.com offers deer and turkey hunting along with freshwater (read BASS) fishing. The quail hunting may in fact be an add-on, albeit an appropriate one.

By most counts, the sport of bobwhite hunting is headed more and more toward a preserve experience. With wild birds getting harder to come by and a society moving ever faster toward instant gratification, preserves are the solution for the weekend warrior who wants to get in, maximize his quality time, and get on to the next diversion. It's not for me; I'd rather walk all day and find one covey than spend three hours kick-starting birds. But it may keep just enough people interested in the sport to give some of the efforts at restoring wild populations a chance to gain traction.

Call it what you want, but restoring wild populations is ultimately a numbers game scored in dollars and hands on deck. A relatively small number of people with deep pockets and, as is often the case with deep pockets, strong political connections could provide the dollars. Hands on deck, however, depends on people. Lots of people. And to get people interested you have to give them a taste of it. It'll be interesting to see how The Quail Trail pans out and more interesting still to see if it spawns any enthusiasts, activists, or disciples.

By the way, for those of you unfamiliar with Garden & Gun it's worth a look. There's also an article in this same issue about Nash Buckingham's legendary shotgun.

The 8th Deadly Sin

2010-05-31T12:32:00.004-04:00

Gun lust. It's not exactly one of the seven deadly sins but it ought to be. Some guys have auto lust, some have power tool lust, some have rod or reel lust. In the end they're all cheaper than good old fashioned lust but only by the smallest of margins.

Lust is not something to be denied. It's genetic after all, pre-programmed into us to preserve the species. Without the primal physical attraction of one gender to the other we'd all just coexist until we died out, barely more than flashes in the pan of evolution. But migrating to something so practical, so utilitarian, so genderless as a weapon seems contrary to all of Darwin's notions. It just can't be natural...

Graceful curves, elegant lines, warm to the touch, gentle pull. Or how about smooth action, rugged type, or more than a little kick? Whatever your type she can catch your eye and the mind soon follows. Attraction precedes obsession and is followed by rationalization and when you hit rationalization, you know you're in deep.

Fortunately, gun lust can be written off as "collecting" or "pursuing a hobby", even to the point of becoming an aficionado. At any level it's entirely socially acceptable. As time wears on, stricken hunters become serial offenders as they tend toward more guns and more specifically, more-specialized guns. Like a woodworker who can always find an excuse for a new tool the hunter eventually feels a need for turkey guns, duck guns, quail guns, pheasant guns, upland guns, wetland guns, fast-shooting guns and even beautiful guns while at the same time acquiring choke sets for each of these so that it can potentially be used in place of the others. Never forget that at its core lust is an emotion, and emotion trumps logic every time.

Possibly this is why each of the Deadly Sins is considered deadly. If logic prevailed, such vices would be turned away at the door and we'd all live long and innocent lives, temptation-free and pure as spring water. And boring as hell. Vive la épice of gun lust.

Purgatory

2010-05-14T15:56:00.004-04:00

I've been without a bird dog for over a year now. Doesn't seem like that long but nothing ever does when you're looking in the rear-view. Never thought I'd be this long without one, and I can assure you this isn't going to turn into one of those "as much as I hated it, it turned out for the best" posts. It's been about as bad as I thought it would be. I know, I know, cry me a river and build a bridge and get over it.

There's still a dog around the house and he's of a bird dog breed and all, but he's no bird dog. The only flying things that interest him are butterflies and grasshoppers. Needless to say he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Not to discount his presence, though, which has been a godsend over the last fourteen months. I don't need any New England Journal of Medicine study to tell me that scratching a dog's head is good therapy.

As any parent, businessman or politician will tell you, once you're given something the consequences of taking it away are oppressive. After a decade and a half it sort of becomes an established part of you, both expected and taken for granted that in some form or another it will always be there. Remove it and you might as well be a hillbilly with a broken still, a Canadian during an NHL players strike, or my wife without access to Facebook. Wars have been waged over such misfortunes.

The upside to being an inquisitive person is that there's knowledge to be had everywhere, hiding in plain sight if you keep your eyes, ears and mind open. One of the nuggets harvested over the last few years is that as you get older, changes in life brought about entirely by your choice result in other changes over which you have exactly no say whatsoever. Kids seem like a great idea before you have them, problem is that nobody has figured out a really good way to let you know in advance how much time, money, and mental stability they consume. Lacking this preview you get temporarily blinded by potential bliss only to see something resembling a Pollock when your vision returns.

A second parcel of wisdom is that just because you can do something doesn't necessarily mean you should. As King of the House, I could have exercised power over my domain and brought home another bird dog last summer. And I could have watched that dog run off because someone forgot to put the electric fence collar on him. And I could have sweated as my already thin bank account dwindled further under the weight of dog food, vet bills, replacement shoes, furniture, etc. And I could have watched his antics reduce my spouse to a drooling cucumber, sitting in a corner rocking in the fetal position. Yes, it's not just about me any more.

Strangely, time seems to have a way of resolving nearly everything. The tide of inconveniences that conspired against a new dog last summer is slowly receding and while a puppy still might not be such a good idea, I'm warming to the idea of a 2-3 year old, well-trained or at least well-started dog. Slightly less spastic and unruly, ready to hunt this fall, house-trained if I'm lucky. Maybe when my butterfly chaser goes it'll be time to put a puppy in the rotation. And there's the matter of finding a few new places to hunt seeing as several of my old coverts have gone the way of neglect or subdivision or foreclosure. Gotta look into some new gear, too. If I look far enough out there, I think I see the sun rising.

I think they call this the doldrums

2010-04-26T14:54:00.000-04:00

Springtime can be a mixed blessing. As nice as it is to see a world emerge from hibernation, the front edge of the space between hunting seasons can leave a person of the gun feeling a bit deflated. I know I've been a bit vanilla and judging from the dearth of new posts on hunting blogs lately, I'm not alone.

Nautical people are familiar with a term for the central latitudes where winds are fickle and often flat-out nonexistent for days on end. It's called the Doldrums, a place where an iron sail can test the patience and sanity of most any mariner. Stuck in the mud with nothing to do but sit and wait until help arrives.

photo courtesy of David Maxey

I've never personally skimmed the central latitudes in a sailboat but I have a pretty good feeling for what it's like. From August through the end of February there's always something to look forward to, always tomorrow or next weekend or the trip coming up next month. In between outings there's gear to clean and repair, new gear to buy, packing and re-packing the truck. And then on March 1 it all vanishes. The wind dies and in its place apathy pulls up a chair and makes itself at home. Next season is just too far away to care a lick about.

It happens every year and I've yet to find a cure, so if anybody knows of one feel free to chime in. Not really motivated to shoot clays even thought it would work wonders for my success rate. Don't have a farm to plow and plant. Certain years I get a hankerin' to shoot a turkey but not being one of those psycho gobbler groupies the impulse waxes and wanes. The whole scene is reminiscent of the feeling I get the day after Christmas. And like that feeling it doesn't last forever.

Usually in July things start to stir on the horizon. I'm determined to not go through another season without a bird dog, so there's that to remedy. Never can have enough places to hunt, either, and the good ones don't exactly land in your lap. Eventually the wind starts to stir and the boat picks up speed.

Incidentally, the Doldrums are also where hurricanes are born.

Balance

2010-03-23T21:53:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I read that Stewart Udall died over the weekend. For those unfamiliar with the name, Udall was Secretary of the Interior for eight years spanning the Kennedy and Johnson administrations and is widely credited with making major contributions to the National Park system and wilderness areas. I'll skip the details (try that Google thing) and get right to my point, which is that Udall's passing got me to thinking about the significance of the Secretary of the Interior, both today and going forward, and the more I thought the more I realized that over the next 30 years, the Secretary of the Interior will likely be the cabinet position having the greatest impact on our lives and those of our children and grandchildren.

Yes, I said Secretary of the Interior, not Defense, not Energy, not Health and Human Services or any of the others. Hear me out, now - while there are many factors that influence the quality of our life in this country, those that fall under the hand of the government while at the same time having the most enduring effect on our mental and physical well-being intersect at the Dept of the Interior. I'm talking about energy, clean air and water, natural resources, recreation, the things that could really make your life suck if you took them away. And yes, I've thought about all of the other things controlled by all of the other government agencies and instead of listing them here I'll give you the synopsis: some of them can't or won't be taken away, and the ones that can you won't miss.

The key to these quality of life nuggets remaining beneficial is balance. Too much of one at the expense of another and it's not long before you're left with only one. Utilize, but sustain. From a hunter's and outdoorsman's perspective this balance is ever more critical. As recently discussed in several excellent blog posts (Exit Booming, King of the Big Empty, and Greater Sage Grouse Dilemma), federal decisions will impact our sport and our heritage, often in ways that are difficult to change once the path is chosen. Too much grazing means too few western gamebirds. Too many wolves means unplanned thinning of cattle, sheep, and pets. Too much drilling and you can place an X on the habitat for a few generations.

Udall was able to find the balance for an unusually long period of time in the life of a government official. He never quite mastered the art of pleasing all the people all the time, and I'd be suspicious of anyone who did, but he was able to accomplish quite a bit of good, placating most of the opposition with good old-fashioned logic and honesty. Without destroying commerce he kept commercial interests from running roughshod over the land and still allowed our resources to be used commercially. He saved a lot of wilderness at a critical time. Forty years later we're fast approaching another critical time. Here's hoping the person in that seat over the next few decades can find that balance.

Stewart Udall

1920 - 2010

Crisis? What crisis?

2010-03-13T20:41:00.004-05:00

Recently I was reading an email to a friend, proofreading really, before pressing Send and it struck me how much it sounded like a country music song. In reality it was not lyrics but a summary of my hunting season and it was downright pathetic. No duck hunts, no grouse hunts, no woodcock. Didn't make it to South Dakota. Bird dog died last spring so I had to bum quail hunts off friends. Shot one doe - in the gut - and it turned out to be a buttonhead. If it weren't for a few good dove hunts I'd be forced to write the whole thing off.

The reasons behind the catastrophe are myriad but carry a common thread in the reminder that my life isn't quite what it used to be. I vividly remember seasons that I hunted every weekend and was no stranger to playing hooky during the week to steal a few hours in the field. I raised a really good bird dog because of this, put him on lots of birds at a young age and let him do what he loved doing. Honestly I couldn't haven't owned him at a better point in my life. Sometimes things just work out. And sometimes, like this season, they just don't. And when they don't you start to get these odd emotions, odd because you're pretty sure you haven't felt them before, at least not in the way they feel at the moment. Sort of unhappy but not entirely, kind of resentful but not at anyone in particular, well short of miserable but with the feeling that more of the same could bring it on.

I haven't taken a poll but my guess is that I'm not the only guy out there who's had this feeling. Plenty of us have kids, a job, a mortgage, a house with something constantly in need of repair. They all sap your time, your money and your will to fight them off and go hunting. Some of the guys you used to run with waved the white flag years ago and the ones that haven't now live so far off that it's an expedition just to catch up with them. At some point you realize you're in purgatory, no longer able to do the things you enjoy and not yet having accomplished the things you set out to do. And then it dawns on you: maybe this is what they were talking about when they said 'midlife crisis'.

When I was younger the whole concept of a mid-life crisis seemed absurd to me. More ridiculous still was that someone would use this to justify buying a sports car or fooling around on his wife. If you want a sports car and can afford it, buy it and don't apologize. If you can't afford it, don't buy it. If you feel the need to cheat on your wife, well, that's your little cross to bear and I'll offer no advice. On a more abstract level, why a mid-life crisis at all? Why not an early life crisis or a golden years crisis? What in the world could or would trigger a crisis at this stage of the game? Simple - the realization that the hands on the clock are moving and you no longer have your whole life in front of you, no longer is there plenty of time to live out all of the great dreams and big plans you had as a younger man.

Most men live in fear of insignificance. Fearful that they will reach the end of their lives and look back and see they have done nothing more than exist for the previous 70+ years. Some men want to leave their mark in history books, some want to leave a mark on the land, some merely want to pass on a treasure to the next generation, but most all of them want to feel that they accomplished something. And in the middle of life something happens like this disaster of a hunting season and it taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that the clock and calendar wait for no one. This one's gone and you can't get it back, and the opportunities you missed are like a stock you thought about buying but didn't, and then watched it double in value. It can drag you down if you let it.

So you take stock knowing that those great dreams aren't going to happen all by themselves. The road divides and the choices appear: abandon the dreams and settle for what you have or figure out how to make it all work, keeping what you have while chasing down the rest. Is there a happy medium? Is it even fair that you have to choose? As a lawyer friend of mine likes to tell his clients, "The fair comes in October." Either way you find out what you really love.

Anyone else NOT in a hurry for Spring?

2010-03-01T21:47:00.005-05:00

There comes a point every year where I'm done with the cold weather and ready for Spring. But that point ain't here yet. Apparently I'm in the minority, because just about everyone I've talked to in the last week is "ready for spring". This whole whiny mindset gets triggered every year by one warm weekend and from there until Spring actually arrives it spills out of mouths like drool from a baby. 42 degrees this past weekend and I saw two separate droolers riding around town with the tops down on their convertibles.

I'm not in such a hurry. Spring means several things to me:

Hunting season is over (yeah there's still turkey season, but that's not the same)
Hunting season is a long way off
I gotta find something to do for five months

Technically hunting season is over, but as long as it's cold and cherry trees aren't blooming I can still pretend. This hunting season wasn't exactly one for the ages (more on that later) and I'm neither trying to salvage it nor drag it out, I just really, really enjoy that stretch of time between the first cold nights and the last cold nights. Way too soon it's back to cutting the grass, pulling weeds and trying not to sweat my nuts off just walking to the truck in the morning. No, I'm not ready for Spring.

Stay lazy, my friend

2010-02-09T22:23:00.003-05:00

He once caught a car ....and let it go.

He licks himself where you and I can't....because he can.

He fills holes in.

His twitches and snorts unconsciously....while he's awake.

He is....the most interesting dog in the world.

"I don't always choose to sleep during the day, but when I do, I choose the chair you wanted to sit in."

Please Don't Call Me Bogsucker

2010-02-03T22:25:00.000-05:00

Not even a mother could love a name like that. You gotta really hate something to call it a bogsucker. My guess is that somewhere along the way a guy came home with an empty bag after flushing a dozen or so and in a sour-grape fit of frustration coined the term. Of course anyone who's hunted them knows that the little devils can be deceptively hard to bring down and I'd be comfortable taking the over on the number of non-flattering names that didn't stick.

Poor bird was behind from the get go, what with a bill more suited to a shorebird, a brain in the back seat and an appetite for things that live in the dirt, not above it. Prefers to hang out in the less scenic coverts. Lately people have been posting pictures online of deformities in the species. They don't do that to quail, do they?

I guess I'm bringing all this up because I failed to get even one opportunity to hunt them this year. A cold wave moves through, freezes the ground and BAM, the season is gone before it even started. The birds keep on truckin south, leaving us wishing and cursing and calling them names and complaining in general that it's not supposed to get this cold for this long in South Carolina. A higher power with a greater purpose is responsible, I suppose. Probably ought to shoot an email to Al Gore and let him know his work here is done.

In spite of all the weirdness attached to this bird I still have a soft spot for it. I've had lot of fun following a dog through thickets and cane breaks and creek banks, waiting for the bell to go quiet, putting a few in the bag from time to time. And contrary to what a lot of folks will tell you, they do taste pretty good....if they're prepared right. Don't ever freeze one, though. Still, no reason to go calling them names. If I'm gonna call them anything other than woodcock, I think I'll stick with timberdoodle. Bottom line is you can't suck bog when the bog is frozen.

Baby, it's cold outside

2010-01-24T23:00:00.006-05:00

Actually, it's not nearly as cold as it was earlier in the month and if it were, I could deal with it. It's worse than cold right now - it's raining. And raining means I'm stuck inside for the weekend. When it comes to the weather you play the hand you're dealt, though, so I made the best of it and devoured Larry McMurtry's second memoir, Literary Life, which proved a relatively easy and thoroughly interesting diversion. As Chad Love noted in a post on his blog several weeks ago McMurty mentions that he was, earlier in his life at least, a hunter. That's about as far as the memoir goes on the subject but the author expounds a bit further on the topic of re-reading selected books, a habit I've developed over the years as well.

While I don't have quite the list of re-reads that McMurtry does, I do have a few that I continue to pick up at unplanned intervals as the years tick off. One of those is a somewhat obscure text by an equally obscure writer that is simply my favorite hunting book ever. Guy de la Valdene's For a Handful of Feathers is a first hand account of the author's efforts at nurturing and hunting quail on his estate in north Florida, an account that strolls through a year on the land knee deep in the relationship between the landowner, the dirt, and the resident wildlife. Lyrical enough to remove it from the category of simple journal, it appeals to me mostly because of la Valdene's incredibly candid, bare-bones, take me as I am style.

la Valdene is no stranger to literature, having run for years in a Rat Pack that includes Tom McGuane, Jim Harrision, Jimmy Buffett and others, but his manner is boldly unique. At one point he describes beating the summer heat by plowing his fields buck naked, a visual I could do without but much appreciated for its shameless honesty. The message that unfolds, however, is one that bears repeating and re-reading. In a time when more and more are throwing in the towel when it comes to the future of the bobwhite, la Valdene proves that while it's not always effortless, it is far from impossible to return huntable numbers of birds to a piece of land. If you're already one of the naysayers, well I feel kinda sorry for you but don't let that come between you and a fantastic story.

Hope vs Reality

2010-01-17T20:13:00.000-05:00

Our dove season is divided into three decidedly unequal segments. The first season begins the Saturday before Labor Day and runs through the first week or so of October. These are the salad days, the afternoons when you stock the freezer for the off-season. It's not unusual to bag three or four limits, which last year was increased to 15 birds, and have a couple of 5 or 7 bird days to boot. Birds fly in big numbers with reckless abandon, not yet wise to the fate that awaits if they insist on getting into the field to eat. Even a shooter having a bad day can end up having a pretty good day.

The second season opens the Saturday before Thanksgiving and closes the Saturday after. That first Saturday is the closest to a sure thing I've ever seen. It's a barnburner, in the field by 7:15am, out with a limit by 7:45, and we walk back to the trucks giddy every year. One week later you might as well stay in bed.

The third season opens a few days before Christmas and closes, for good this time, around mid-January. Call this one a potluck dinner - you might fill your plate and bask in your good fortune or you might go home hungry in spite of acres of possibility. I've had both feast and famine during the third season and I guess I'm an optimist because I always approach it with hope.

We had a tough third season this year in spite of all the pieces being in place. Our corn field was crackerjack, plenty of food on the ground and plenty still standing, a regular cornucopia. Sorry, I couldn't resist. And the birds were there, problem was someone had tipped them off that we were coming and they were on the lookout. It's hard to give dove credit for being smart during the first season when they'll practically fly right down your barrel, but these birds got themselves an education somewhere between October and January. They were skittish two weeks ago, cautious to the point that most of them passed on dinner a week later, and Friday morning, the last day of the season, they were just plain gone. Probably having coffee at Rachel's Cafe down the road amid high-fives for making it through another season alive.

I guess shooting a limit on the last day of the season is sorta like hitting a hole-in-one. Once you've done it, you know it's possible so you keep thinking you can make it happen again. The left side of your brain knows the odds are highly against it, yet you persist. One thing you can bank on: I'll be out there on the last day of the season again next year, 8 iron in hand.

Population 50

2010-01-09T17:18:00.000-05:00

I didn't make it to South Dakota this year. Halloween (read trick or treating with my kids) and a recession stepped in and kept me right here at home. The Halloween part I honestly don't mind, after all how many years will I actually have before they would rather throw eggs at houses and smash pumpkins? The recession I could do without.

This trip has always been good medicine for me. It's a different place at a different pace, and the place is SO big. Big in every direction, literally as far as the eye can see. Big views of big fields are a big change for a kid who grew up surrounded by trees. I'm sure there's a metaphysical existential explanation for the effect wide open spaces have on our brains. I can't explain it, but I can tell you it's real, real enough that I can't stop myself from just staring off into that bigness at times.

We hunt in a small town about halfway between Aberdeen and Sioux Falls, and by small I mean small. The sign at the edge of town says the population is 50, which means the head count surges 20% when we show up. Our hosts are a local farming family and once I asked the older son what it was like living in a town with 50 people and he said, "Well everyone knows everyone else's business, and nobody cares." Refreshing.

One immutable fact of life is that your perspective on things changes as you get older. I grew up in a town of about 50,000 and couldn't wait to get out - it was too small for this big-time cowboy. I left for college and mumbled sayonara and don't think I even checked the rear view. Graduated college (finally), moved to our nation's capital and basked in all that the big city had to offer. Two years, countless hours in traffic, and Lord knows how many parking tickets later I'd had enough. Been back here 19 years this April.

I got the big out of my system, at least in terms of cities, and found that the small was rooted very, very deep. It would be no effort at all adjusting to a place like Turton, SD. Sadly there would have to be compromises and sacrifices. My wife, for one, wouldn't consider moving there even if they built a Target on Main Street and that's a good thing, 'cause a Target would put a booger on the Picasso for me anyway. I'd miss all my boys at home, too, and would have to buy a plane so I could get back for the important stuff, but hey I need a reason to justify playing the Powerball anyway, right? For brevity's sake let's just say I could go on but there's no need. I'm not moving any time soon.

Which makes missing the trip this year all the more difficult. I'll most likely be back again in the fall to get my fix, my prescription filled with fine folks, an absence of traffic, food I can't get around here, and lots of big, open space.

And the pheasant hunting ain't bad either.

Gone

2009-12-25T23:36:00.000-05:00

I knew this day would come. It ended with much less ado than it started, no question. For 14 1/2 years he was barbed wire and lightning bundled up in white fur and floppy ears. Now the toughness and the fire and even the breath were gone, and along with them a stretch of time that will never be repeated.

Dogs are special, but bird dogs are very special, a fact that's hard to explain to a guy who's never owned one. That guy has never experienced the unique pride, never shared an obsession, never sipped that rare cocktail made of sport and outdoors and primal instinct and love. A bond forms when you've been through an uncommon or trying episode with someone. Reminiscent of the ancient blood oath ceremony, each becomes entwined with the other permanently, but on an emotional level. Hard to explain to a guy who's never owned one.

When he was eleven weeks old I stepped out of the shower to find him chewing on something. About par for a puppy, right? I reached into his mouth to pry it loose and pulled out a #6 Woolly Bugger. And then I got that strange "I want this to be all there is but I know there's more" feeling. Glancing over at the now-empty drying patch on my vest I knew there was more. I still have the x-ray showing three small fish hooks in his belly. It would have been cheaper to buy another dog and start over, but I was already too attached to him. Under the knife he went, and the blood oath was sealed.

I could carry on about the times he held point for ten minutes or more til I found him or the times he ran off for a lot longer than that. I could detail all the firsts and onlies and most incredibles and I'll be damneds in the field, but when I think about him now that's not what I think of. When I think of him now he's trying to weasel his way up on the couch. He's cracking open one eye to make sure I'm still in the room. He's curled up in the leaves under the sugar maple next to the driveway waiting for me to get home.

When my cousin died several years back, the minister said something so profound in its simplicity that I've never forgotten it. He said "hard times are hard", his point being that there's no immediate panacea, no pill or potion that can make them instantly easy. You just have to deal with it the best way you can find. It's more perspective than anything else, the old glass half full thing. Not the hole that's left, not good times that will never be again. Just loads of good memories and how lucky you were to have them.

He went in his sleep and personally I can't imagine a better way. Never seemed to be in pain, just ran out of steam. I've heard stories of people clinging to life for days, even weeks, under terminal circumstances, only to die within hours of being told by a loved one that it was alright to go. The night before he died I sat next to him, reading the paper and occasionally talking to him as I'd done for years. His hearing grew sporadic as he got older and it's not likely he heard much of what I said. Still, for some reason I felt I should tell him that if it was time for him to go, I'd be okay. And go he did, and okay I was, for the most part.

But damn I miss him.