Best Laid Plans

The slate squawks out another series of hopeful yelps, not much like the ones I'd heard earlier this morning sadly. I plead with the call a few more times, but to no avail. A phrase runs through my mind as I sit in the blind-”The best laid plans of mice and men go awry.” I believe it comes from a poem by Robert Burns- “To a Mouse.” The furry little rodents had nothing to do with how my morning was ending this day.

I set out on another series of trailing off yelps from the slate. Nothing.

At the crack of five-ish with sprinkling clouds overhead, I made my way through the dark to my turkey hunting spot-sunrise would be a late today I thought. Perfect, a few extra minutes to set decoys and hunker down before daylight. Hopefully I'd not bust any birds in the roost as well. After crossing a cut cornfield to the edge of a thin strip of woods and cover and about to take that first quiet step to the blind, I startlingly hear it. The unmistakeable haphazard beating of wings and feathers bashing branches from the tree directly above me. Then another, taking flight, crashing twigs and trunks in the opposite direction. So much for a quiet entry. The echoes of their flydown only stopped when they hit the ground a short ways off. I'd been busted, or I busted them-either way, not ideal. I wondered how long they'd watched my dark shape tip toe across the field heading their direction?

With a shrug I went about my business of setting up the deeks and getting comfortable-nothing I could do about those hens now, besides, maybe I could pull them back with some calling if they were in search of each other. Potentially, it could work in my favor if they brought a tom with them? I'm trying to be optimistic here. I contemplate that idealistic strategy in the dark, sipping the first of a tiny thermos cup of coffee and digging out a call to place on my knee. The waiting game was on.

***

He remained quiet, did his tango silently, just as he had when he moved in an hour earlier. It most likely was him I'd heard gobble far off in the early dawn, and I'd like to think my calling brought him in, covering maybe 40 acres. It seemed as though he'd answer my plea from time to time, but on final approach, he didn't make a peep and he remained that way now. It was pointless to call now, he knew the “hen” was there.

My eyes started to water as they stared unblinkingly at the jet black spot between two trees 60 yards away. The dark daub would seem to move, turn directions, then disappear. Red and white exchanged places with the blotch in that sliver of space between two maples, then a flash of ochre would peek out and then back to black. I could hear the “thump” of a fan being unfurled by the big mature gobbler, being careful to remain half hidden at all times. Eyes strained to see him, but he was winning at this game of peek-a-boo.

Moving a bit closer, but not much, he paraded back and forth displaying and making a spectacle of himself for the plastic decoys he could just see in the field. I wondered why he didn't improve his vantage point, which would put my quarry in range. Nope. His head and neck would stretch high when deflating his posture to confirm the “hen” was still there. “She” was, and he'd start his promenade again in the leaf litter.

Tens of minutes clicked off, I started to hate this bird. Back and forth, back and forth he'd waltz, never closing the gap an inch. Hate maybe to strong a word, for this is hunting, and no animal can frustrate more than a pea size brained turkey it seems. This singular focus on one strutting bird 50 yards away was getting the best of me. He would-not-budge, I wouldn't shoot, just wasn't comfortable with a long shot, so I remained as patient as possible.

The weathered 870 laid coldly across my lap, slate and striker tucked in a pocket. My stare burrowed into that feathered spot making me crosseyed. As his head turned and extended upward, I caught a movement, dark shapes- off to the side. An agonizingly slow turn of gaze revealed 3 confused jakes 10 yards away skirting the decoys. With red heads and pretend tufts of beards, they were bewildered as to what these fake birds were. Understandably, they noiselessly appeared on scene while all my attention focused on the tom. Maybe at the same moment, the mature bird also noticed them-perfect, I mused, he'll charge in and defend “his mate,” offering an opportunity finally. Not exactly.

If one could only figure out what these animals would do every time, in every situation, I guess it wouldn't be a challenge-at this particular moment however, I'd take less of a contest. For whatever reason, he stayed put-not how it's supposed to work. The gobbler showed his best strut, slow walking back and forth provoking the youngsters. Instead of my well thought out harvest plan, they defied me and walked toward the big bird, false yelping and cluck-putting along the way. The woods exploded with some loud gobbles from the tom-he'd show who was boss here, his silent treatment apparently expired. He charged at the juveniles-excellent, “come on back and join them” I think , ever hopeful.

The flapping, jumping and chasing continued but crept further an further away-did they not know my well thought out strategy? Steadily moving away, I got on the call, just to remind them their lady friend was still motionless waiting at the edge of the field. Apparently, it didn't matter-no amount of calling would distract them from marching deliberately elsewhere...together. The 10” bearded gobbler joined the 3 teenagers and made their way...away. Thanks for nothing.

The rain returned and kicked in a bit heavier and brought out the scent of the season of the woods. I wish they could bottle that fragrance, sans the strong garlic smell of the ramps I'd stepped on coming in. The incense of this landscape, along with the spring sounds, are the best part of being out here. But again, I was here to try and outsmart a bird.

The four turkeys had long since wandered off after reappearing a second time for a possible return bout. There had been a lot of downtime after the jakes initially “stole” my tom, but gradually, they'd worked their way north, then east and back near enough that I could hear and see them again. This time, they'd keep their distance and I suspect maybe they'd picked up a real hen along the way. I'd call softly and get a reply, and even thought I saw some interest in their reappearance. I even went so far as to eye up some potential shooting lanes if they got closer.

The first bird in line had a long swaying beard-”that's the one!” I thought. At 80 paces, and plenty of brush and trees between us, I'd have to be patient. I am. Another muted call from the slate and the birds froze, trying to pin down my location. Potential? I tied a few more reserved yelps to coax them nearer.

With eyes strained again, I looked at every opening, searched for any movement, for something...as quickly as the birds had arrived, they disappeared. What started out so promising, just petered out-the turkeys vanishing, off again dang it. I think their return was just to tick me off. It worked, in as much as these things do, but I remind myself it's about being out here, although some wild turkey in the freezer would be good too.

Rain continued and I'm sure by now the hens I'd rousted from the roost are long gone, perhaps joining up with my gang of bachelors. Maybe that stubborn hung up tom finally tracked them down, preferring the real thing over plastic-who knows. It's the last day of my season and I'll just relinquish the battle to the birds. They won this round-next time perhaps my game plan, my strategy on hunting them will pan out differently. Maybe not.

The Fake Jake

He's staring back at me. Two little beady eyes-plastic. A fake jake decoy balanced a bit off-kilter on a wood stake. Perhaps he's thinking it's been a bit boring this week during the hunt. Maybe.

The other two decoys, a fanned out “Pretty Boy” tom and feeding hen, pose silently, wiggling slightly in the cool morning wind. Unfortunately, that breeze is from the south, driving with it the fresh scent of recently spread manure, the smell, almost overwhelming. The decoys wonder why I'm not calling more. I've learned years ago that it can be overdone and any tom wandering in search of love nearby would have taken note if in earshot. So far in this week of hunting, they must be strolling around somewhere else.

Five hens fed here yesterday and as my logic works, where there are hens, there will be gobblers. That theory hasn't proven true to date this season, but I'll stick with it. Turkey hunting can change in a second-many hours spent glassy eyed staring at an empty field or dead oak leaf carpet in the woods can change instantly. I'm waiting..... Not a sign, seen or heard of my quarry these past few days. If just one single gobble would sound off, it would change this game directly, that's how this sport is and why I come back.

My slate call rings out another semi-accurate yelp, increasing in volume and echoing off the nearby tree trunk filled hillside. The decoys hardly notice. Nothing, no reply like I'd hoped from unseen male birds.

Arriving at the very first glow of the morning, I checked in earlier than my opening day, when I accidentally slept in and had to scoot out to the blind in broad daylight it seemed. Today was textbook-set up decoys in the pitch black darkness, hunker down quietly with a thermost of hot coffee and watch the orange east horizon grow brighter. From my vantage point the sunrise glows through parallel lines of trees with a gentle curve of a hilltop cutting them in half. Three or four deer trotted along the crest, silhouetted in the pre-dawn light. They'd exited a farm field and would soon end up in my lap, the wind against them this morning.

By 6:00, it seemed like I'd been here forever, but it hasn't-just impatient for daylight if not for some gobbling to keep up my interest. That's not to say it's boring.

At some predetermined time, mother nature sets off an alarm clock because the woods seem to come alive with every imaginable spring sound. In just a one or two minute time span (literally) I tallied the harmony of calls from an array of wildlife. A “boss” robin loudly defending her turf, bluebirds, coopers hawk, a pair of geese overhead, cranes rattle calling, squealing of wood ducks, squirrels chattering, barred owns dueling behind me. Crows started in with blue jays and a flicker. Cows, roosters and even a donkey, over a mile away, joined in the chorus. The turkey woods can be incredibly noisy for a brief time. I've listened to this ensemble many times before, sometimes even with turkey yelps, putts and gobbles tossed in the mix.

I scrape the wood dowel across the round slate surface again at the plastic jakes insistence. No reply.

The forest creatures seem to quiet down somewhat as the sun continues upward. I've noted that before too. Maybe the brightness of the day doesn't need all that sound or I can't distinguish the individual pieces and parts of the melody any longer.

The remaining coffee in my cup needs to be warmed up-I can't stand it luke warm. Steam drifts up as it's poured and warms my hands. It's supposed to get to 75 today, the warmest all spring, but it's starting out at 40 and cool. Long johns and stocking cap required.

The coopers hawks had constructed a stick nest high in the crotch of a tall oak tree nearby. I'd become aware when approaching too close and they sounded the grating “cak-cak-cak” of an alarm call. I tried to stay clear on my return trips through the woods. Most of the morning a game of harassment was played between the pair of hawks and some crows. Sometimes it's the crows dive bombing the perched accipiter, and other times it's the cooper on the big black birds tail, like a fighter through the close quarters of the trees. The game continues till one or the other tire. I suspect the crows move on to something else to amuse themselves.

The three acre field is now fully lit. One hen managed to wander out, scratching the manure for some breakfast (yes, I do think about what they eat). I call just for fun, and she glances in the direction of the

phony birds. I took it as her saying she wasn't interested in joining the trio. That thought was confirmed as she pecked her way back off the field and back into the brush. At least it was a turkey I muse.

The hi-way is a couple miles away, but the drone of vehicles seems to get louder-I hear few animals now. Everything seems to settle into the day with each passing morning minute. The only movement is from the deeks who wiggle back and forth (looking quite real I might add) but no game sees them. A raven lands in the field, inspects something, flips it up and flies off leaving me with no further entertainment.

I can't in good conscience leave-I call again, a series of louder then training off yelps. No answer. Another hour passes. The warming southern wind is picking up, ushering in the mid seventy degree day-much to warm for me to enjoy camo clad turkey hunting. Another spring sport will take hunting turkey's place today.

It's mid morning, half a day since I woke and walked out here and my tenacity is waining. Most of the forest animals have moved on and found better things to do. The coffee is gone. Tomorrow, when it's cooler, I'll repeat this whole process again with maybe better luck. The fake jake agrees I think. I pluck him and his partners from their wood stakes and they catch a ride under my arm back to the blind. Yep, tomorrow (and the next day-and the next?) we'll play this game again and watch the day wake.

New Years Eve Birdless

The four wheel drive came in handy as the truck bounced through hedgerow snowdrifts after the hunt. I felt like the black lab sitting behind me I think-disappointed on this last day of the pheasant season. It's never discouraging not shooting a bird, on this day it was about it being...the last day. Molly, who is usually always able to roust up a couple birds found none. The deep snow was a challenge to be sure, but also offered a chance to track any roosters that were around. We saw zero.

Maybe that was the toughest part-no sign, no birdyness from the dog, no excitement, just cold stinging- your-face wind and tired legs trudging through drifts.

It was New Years Eve day and my last push to get the dog out on pheasant. Sure, I'd maybe try for grouse yet, but we like chasin those big gaudy colored birds the most. Fall had been busier than I liked. In my mind, autumn would be filled with endless days afield hunting. It didn't turn out that way, although a gallant effort was made. State DNR land and nearby private land held roosters, so as often as time would allow, the black lab, a double barrel 20 and bird vest were all tossed in the truck and we were off.

The corn stubble farm land here is surrounded by a huge swamp grass lowland with a couple drainage canals and usually we find birds all over. The dog always goes a bit tail wag crazy when she hits a scent cone. I figured the wind blown snow may make it easier, limiting birds to some select cover near the plowed field. Surely I could hone in on those triangle pheasant tracks to make things simpler. Nope, nada, nothing but mice and ermine prints...everywhere.

Perhaps turning the dog into the breeze would help, but all it did was drive colder than the tempurture wind through my orange bird vest. I tightened down the hat further below my ears and tried to ignore my burning cheeks and nose. More than enough winter blast to remind me what time of year it was, forgetting the sweltering gold days two months ago.

Although most snow cover had been sheared off the bare field, tall grass acted as a snow fence and piled drifts a couple feet high. I'd thought of bringing snowshoes, but they remained useless back in the pickup. We beat our way through, at times Molly cheating by following in my tracks. I'd “shussh” her ahead and she'd go back to her bird dog business-but to no avail.

After an hour and nothing encouraging happening, the sad descision was made to call it a day- a season. It'd be a slow trudge across the vast field to the truck. Molly followed alongside, venturing to and fro only occasionally to investigate some random crow track or scattered corn cob.

It was hard to just be done, so before breaking open and casing the shotgun, I wandered over to some prickly cover near the railroad right of way. Thick berry brush tangles flank the tracks and maybe there would be a “last chance bird” in there. The dog dove in and worked the thicket-I stayed alongside and hoped something would flush, but again, nothing. “Alright, we're good I guess,” - not really wanting to throw in the towel.

The pick-up retraced the truck tracks back out through the deep snow along the field. I wouldn't be back here for 10 months I suppose. Minutes earlier the tinking of the brass bell finally went silent as I removed it from Molly's collar and stowed it in the game bag. Returning home, the over and under bores were cleaned and a spritz of gun oil wiped across everything before tucking it away. Like the bell, the gun, the game bag, and the sleeping lab, it'll be too long a wait for me until the next time we afield. Somehow maybe having a final day like this is good-it'll make the anticipation all the greater next season when we're bouncing along the same field, dog whining with excitement ready to flush birds again.

Late Season Fog Hunt

If mist and fog can make sound, then I was hearing it- though I have no words to describe the shroud enveloping the forest. Fog lifts from the cold snowpack, rising shifting and waving in a slow motion dark swirl through the wet black tree trunks. It lifts up, clinging to every twig and branch until gravity pulls it back down again-”splat” on my fleece covered shoulder. “Drip,” “splat,”  “ping”- a droplet ricochets off the barrel of my gun.

This is the late season for antlerless deer. The woods are dead quiet but for the drops and drips and a few crows talking among themselves in a distant corn field. It's still.....there is no anticipation like filled these driftless coulees a few weeks ago on opening weekend. Just quiet reverence to be out here, not so much hunting as waiting. It really is waiting- quickly scouting a spot to take a stand, now with rifle in hand, overlooking a greater part of the forest than with a bow. No one else is out here. No one but crows, a flight of nuthatches and chickadees and soft yelps from unseen stirring turkeys.

The gun and muzzloader seasons are behind leaving only melted tracks from tired hunters venturing up and down logging roads and sign that deer are still here. My prints press deep and sharp into the corn snow and quickly fill with vapor. The headlamp cuts through dark and mist and end up on a small knoll, its hillsides tore up from hoofs and claws in search of acorns. The draws on either side are white or brown depending on the digging of feeding animals. I like this spot-daylight should provide good visibility, my back against a higher steep hill leading to a bluff top. A blowdown top of a huge oak provides a blind. This will do.

Some jays move in and converse in the weird “rilling” squawk talk. They stay a while pounding their beaks into bark separating seed from chaff. They are apparently unconcerned with me, for their usual woodland alarm call is not sounded. Time passes, the cloud on the ground remains and daylight only barely budges in.

“A deer!” 

Three black BBs, two eyes and a nose, stare directly at me, burning a hole in my hiding spot. I'm pegged. The silent snow and murky air allowed her to slip in unexpected. The doe was there now-right there...and I can't move a muscle. I fear the stream of steam from my breathing will send her tail to, but doesn't. It's a don't blink contest and I'm not confident I'll win.

The Winchester is right next to me but unreachable. Nothing between us twitches. She's done this before as have I. The usual result is watching the tail waving bye after a few tense minutes. The crows and jays continue their chatting oblivious to the standoff beneath them. Not to be pessimistic, but I'm pretty sure of the outcome here- rarely will a mature doe let her guard down. She'll not afford the hunter pause to swing a gun up once she is locked onto to....something, that doesn't belong.

I have wind to my advantage or this wouldn't be happening-she is just confirming with unblinking eyes and a dull thump of a foot striking the ground. No, the safety won't be clicked off or crosshairs find their mark-she'll end this soon.

A sheet of fog moves up the draw, my eyes get burry from staring. She ends the game-spins and with amazingly few bounds, puts trees and brush and enough distance between us that I just watch. And take a breath.

In the minutes that follow I wonder where the doe came from before appearing as a statue aimed directly at me. That's not where a deer was supposed to be-I had shots all visualized and set in my head other directions. I'm not frustrated, it's the way of hunting, of waiting. This place is their home, not mine, at least not mine enough.

The sun is up somewhere as the surrounding timber slowly grows lighter. The fog won't burn off this day, the just at freezing temps will keep the pea soup clinging close to the ground. No matter, I'm comfortable so far in the mild damp air and the woods are waking. There are worse places to be.

Trying to put venison in the freezer late season can be tackled two ways-bring some buddies and make pushes through parcels or solitary, taking the opportunity to have backwoods to yourself. I chose the latter.

This property normally has a small group of friends with bows and broadheads in hand when I hunt here. It's the rut then and deer habits are different than now. Bucks run all day and night, camo clad men tromp every acre, quite the opposite from December, when everything settles down for the approaching winter. There is no big drama like during the rut or rifle season, but rather just an opportunity to be here on the animals terms.

Corvis the crow and his clan shift location-perhaps finding tidbits to feed on, their caws echoing off the trees inviting others to join in. A chainsaw fires up and the clug of a diesel powered skidder drones on the far side of the property. The logging operation I drove though in the dark produced vast hi-ways of deer tracks-the tops proving browse. They'll be well fed this winter.

Free from the distraction of another deer showing up-one has more than enough time for the mind to wander. A common trait for most hunters I'd think. Quiet time on a stand is different from that of sitting in a comfortable chair at home, much like the outdoors enhancing the flavor of coffee poured from a thermos. I think about why no other deer have waltzed by, why the raucous crows have moved again and what they are up to. Deeper thought takes me to what this woods will look like when the skidders and saws move this direction. Good for wildlife eventually, but changed.

A bigger change will happen later and I wonder about that as well. Word passed down that after logging, a frac sand mine would be developed here, a big change. The ridges will be gone along with the deer and hunters who will move on. My friends and I have had a good run here, hunting this land and fortunate the owner has been gracious enough to share his property. In a year or two I'll have to find another place to sit on a snowy fog filled day. It won't be quiet or still then and there will be no staredowns with suspicious does. I'm thinking of this and a pair of crows alight in a tree nearby-clicking, rattling and grating crow talk, maybe sensing the thoughts drifting up from my blind.

A second pour of coffee into a tiny stainless cup warms my hands-the very best way to do that. A scan left and right concludes no whitetail has snuck into range. I guess while sitting here contemplative and scribbling notes, part of me was aware and keeping an minds-eye out for game. I think hunters develop a sixth sense for these things.

The crows move off having kept me company long enough apparently, while the jays return. A drawn-out, downward "kaaaar" of a Rough Legged Hawk is somewhere just beyond the limbs of the oak and white pine below me. Wonder if his hunting is going better than mine?

I start to think I maybe dressed a bit too optimistically, as my toes are starting to ache with cold in my too-thin boots. I can hold out a bit longer I think-there is still hope something might walk by from feeding to bedding grounds. “Wump wump” - a distant set of shots. Maybe I'm not the only one out here today?

Eventually, the feet win the argument that we're done. I'd been fidgeting a bit too much as well and realized I'm just staring blankly at the same trees, not “seeing” any longer. The reality that my season is over for the year sets in as I stuff and zip my pack, the backtag pinned on it at a strange angle and ready to retire.

There are always thoughts of pulling the bow out again, but I know better, the skis and fatbike and maybe an occasional foray with the black lab will not allow another deer hunt this year. The freezer will be venison-less again. I'll need to make mental note to prepare the pheasants and salmon still hiding there before it's too late and rely on successful family sharing a few steaks and roasts.

The hunt or wait or any time in the woods is all good and although this day, in the mist and fog and drips and melting snow, I'll return home empty handed...but with everything I needed.

Dogs, Guns and Time

Christian B

“A dog, a gun and time enough.” - George Bird Evans

Whenever bird hunters or about to be bird hunters share a few minutes or hours together, these three topics will always come up. There is no doubt. There is no debate. Dogs, guns and having enough time to do them both justice will be discussed. Birds as well, but as unlikely as it would seem, they are a minor part of the story and whether or not a game bag is filled.

This fall we have been blessed with awful weather. Awful as in the original meaning of the word-things used to be “worthy of awe” which is how we get expressions like “the awful majesty of God.” Yes, awful indeed and days that are not to be missed outdoors. Bird hunting with my good friend Dave Borman and his son Christian of Ladysmith would have to override all other activities these perfectly awful days. Bike riding gear and a fat bike were stowed in the truck-just in case, but I think we knew deep down, their tires would see no dirt. Not when dogs, guns and time were on the agenda.

We have hunted together for well over 30 years, sometimes in the central forest region near my home, others busting brush in the Blue Hills in search of grouse or woodcock. An annual trip to North Dakota is a priority,  putting our pups and and packs of shot on ducks, geese and pheasant is something not to be missed. This year is no different. The ND hunt is a few days away and to tune up the labs and our reflexes, it was decided we'd wade tall swamp grass on a game farm, then try our luck on a state wildlife area in hopes of getting the dogs on as many birds as possible.

Barley, Dave's excellent senior chocolate lab, needed to be afield a few last times-although showing her age, when the weather turns cooler and shotguns are slipped into cases, a spark of youth fills her gimpy little body. The tail starts wagging and she won't let you near the pick-up without her tight against your leg, not to be left behind. And why not?-she is one of the best upland labs I've hunted over and it's her life. It might as well be until she can burrow through the cattails no longer. It was a chance to see if she had the vigor for one more trip out west. As we hunted together once again, the little brown dog proved she still had the goods, confirming my black lab Molly's hits on birds or finding her own. I trusted Barley completely for over the years she is seldom wrong when the tail starts excitedly whipping her backside. “Yep-there is a bird there.” 

Molly May

Molly is in her adult years now-proving herself a solid performer, turning into this serious all business creature when she catches her first hot scent of a bird. Her solid body plows blindly through brush and saw grass letting her nose lead the way-albeit, at times a bit far. As I see it, I just need to keep up and it's tough to slow her down when a rooster is sprinting down cornrows or through a bean field.

Of the pheasant and grouse the pair of labs found and put up-we managed to take about 80%, not bad for using flushing dogs on our first hunt of the year. I'm just happy if I manage to connect once and a while-especially on grouse, who always have a knack of putting trees between me and them during their startling escape. I actually enjoy watching the dogs work and if they can find birds,-zero in on the scent cone and get them flying, they've done well and it's a good day. It's hard to explain witnessing a good bird dog do their thing to someone who has never had the privilege to.

Dave recently added a new gun to his collection-mostly for the tougher birds out west, but really as an excuse to get a new gun. His eldest son Andrew would be joining us for this years adventure and would inherit Dave's older scattergun. Perfect reason (in all our minds) to pick up a new smoke pole. Obviously, it should be tested, so he was anxious to run a some shells through the barrel. After watching the first few birds wave bye after his shots, we dealt him (and his new gun) a good deal of ribbing-justified, of course. In no time, they became comfortable with each other, much like my well used over and under, and birds started to drop. Christian, a full time education student, has less time to hone his shooting skills, but made some good clean kills on a few birds. As nice as new guns are, and we discussed this, we always seem to wax on and on about the venerable 870-one of our first guns and as trustworthy as they come. We always have one along as a spare, knowing full well, they can be counted on without fail. With my double and Dave's auto loader, we sometimes forget to pull the trigger a second, or third time, not having the '70s slide action to prompt the followup shot.

There were plenty of times while loading or unloading guns and dogs or when just stopping for a minute in the field, we remarked how peerless these days were. How matchless October outings can be like we were living, with bells on collars, vests stuffed with shells and the sound of a round chambered with authority. I love that sound. The scent of wet dog, gun oil and decaying leaves waif around us-a most incomparable perfume. I wish I had bottles of it for days I'm stuck in lifes' other distractions though not everyone would appreciate the fragrance I suppose. Those smells, those sounds, the talk of dogs, guns and time I cannot get enough of. Time is always too short here. Always. 

Dave & C-Man and the Tiny Vest

NoDak 2013

Duck Hunters wear waders cause of the stories they tell.

For my Wisconsin duck hunting friends and myself, the almost-annual fall hunting trip to North Dakota really begins about ten miles down the hiway the previous year.  12 months earlier, we are already talking about “next year” and what we can do different and what we learned during this addition-no shortage of curriculum there at all.  Being from a state that really isn’t known for high volume waterfowl  traffic or emptying a lot of ammo boxes, my group of buddies look foreword to the wide open pot hole country and the opportunity to clean the cobwebs out of our 12 gauges.

All of us hail from the Wausau area originally and grew up in the woods, often at the end of the day streaking out of the doors of the high school, searching for coveys of grouse.  Back then a couple of .20 gauge shotguns and tattered bird vests in the trunk in the school parking lot was no big deal. Close friend Mike lived on Lake Wausau, so he had duck hunting in his blood and I’d tagged along with my Grandpa Schutlz bagging a few mallards and Woodies when I was a kid.  As all of us grew up, we made it a point to hit the woods and marshes together as often as we could.  That’s all well and good, but we also wanted to experience what “real” hunting was like- out west….shooting box after box of shells at endless flights of ducks and pheasants. Chatting with a Neillsville neighbor one day, I learned of a farmer in North Dakota with tons of land and reasonable rates.  Perfect opportunity. Some quick calls and consultations with the hunting buds and soon reservations were made for the following fall.  It was a good decision back then-we’ve  had good years and slow ones but never unsuccessful if one measures in number of laughs, stories and solid camaraderie.

 Prepping for the trip may start in our minds right away the preceding year, but for the dogs, it really begins in earnest during the hottest months of summer.  This year would be my 5 year old Black Lab Molly’s first out-west trip.  She’s performed well on pheasants in state, but retrieving on big cold North Dakota water through a pile of decoys could be tougher.  Several times a week, we’d  head down the road and do drills in a small lake.  She enjoyed this game immensely and even when I set a handful of decoys out off the beach, she managed to navigate though them to make the retrieves.    I felt she was ready and couldn’t wait to see her hit the water,

The guys are scattered a bit now-Mike and Moe in Wausau, Dave in Ladysmith,  Mikes son James (with a new dog Wally) near the cities and I’m in Neillsville.  With a bit of coordination we all gathered and shoehorned gear, guns and dogs into two trucks and a trailer.  I’d also be delivering a young golden retriever puppy to a new owner in ND as a favor and she was no problem during the 8 hour drive.  At one time landowner Allen’s cash crop farm was over 5000 acres, but he’d downsized now and we had to work harder to find which potholes the birds were using.  Pheasants suffered a huge downturn this past year, so we hunted those as incidentals as we jump shot marshes.  Our intent was to try goose hunting as well, and no expense was spared getting deeks bought, painted and prepped-they never left the truck box.  Crops were still standing and finding giant Canadians proved difficult.  Snow geese would tease us, but are tough to hunt.  We stuck to what we’d learned over the years-set decoys in the morning, jump shoot later, relax and catch the sun lengthening shadows late in the day.

We’ve hunted  NoDak in about every conceivable kind of weather-from unseasonably warmth to breaking ice on ponds cold.  No different this year.  We arrived at 3:30 am and caught some zzzz’s in a gas station parking lot only to find snow blanketing everything an hour later.  Typical North Dakota.  Melting snow meant soils turn to black grease and the truck stayed in four wheel drive all week.  Overcast and damp actually helped duck hunting as one would expect and we managed to get plenty of shooting opportunities the first 2 days.  Bluebird skys and temps sliding up to the 60s seem to put the kabash on our waterfowl hunt later.  We did get a few more, but they were tough to find-no cold front flights of northern birds would arrive this year.  We managed a few rooster pheasants, but the hens outnumbered them 15 to 1 if we did find them.  No matter, we still were in a beautiful place and away from work and for the dogs, it was nirvana every day.

I think we all appreciate the opportunity to make this trip and don’t take anything for granted.  We’ve learned that hunting here doesn’t have to mean pounding the fields and marshes every minute of every day like maybe we did when we were younger.  We stop more, we quit earlier and we take the time to breathe it all in.  As we sat one night this year making a point to watch the sun go down,  we all agreed that even though it takes a good deal of effort to pull this off, it’s all worth it.  An early exit by 3 of the guys for a family emergency lead to a text from Mike the following day- “We need to do more of this kind of thing….life is too short.”  I couldn’t agree more.

 

The Dog Corner

 
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It was time.  A long sought after rainy afternoon- a rare day this summer, cool and wet “forced” me into the garage for a 3 hour date with organizing and cleaning the man cave.  My garage has racks for bikes, space for gardening, a corner for straps, bungies and extension cords and plenty of car and truck oil to be recycled. Rearranging the location of various items proceeded, screws and nails of various sized snuggled into jars, bike and auto cleaning supplies lined up by cleaning process. But there is also the “dog corner.”  It was time. 

In THAT corner were the collars of dogs I’ve loved.  The township and rabies metal tags long since silent hanging on a hook.  Hanging there quietly since the day I needed to say good bye to each one of them.  Max, my first Golden, back in 1987 was maybe the toughest.  My first dog not under my parents roof, a retriever of my very own.  No formal training as in hunting, but he did well and I remember vividly his final retrieve on my dads land late in a November-a grouse I’d miraculously shot at …and hit, and he had little trouble finding.  I remember his slow trot back, wings still flapping in his muzzle, and knowing his cancer already sapping every stride back to me.  Weeks later, we needed to say good bye.

  Dewey, the “recovery” dog, a black lab from a family in Marshfield, the first dog the children grew up with, although they very young at the time.  He developed from a mere family dog to a suitable hunter as well.  He learned to sniff out timber doodles and "partridge" with the best of them in his younger years, but later, sadly, the report of a gun or rumble of thunder, sent him scurrying to safer locations.  He was well loved, even with the premature graying snout and white hair between his toes. 

A puppy arrived before Dewey left us- Ruger, a fur ball of a golden retriever puppy.  The two dogs played, and more than tolerated each other, eventually becoming buddies and comrades in cahoots.  It house became a bit quieter after the sad farewell to salt and pepper  “Dew”…another victim of the all too-present cancers in large retrieving breeds.

 Ruger became THE dog for the kids-fuzzy and full of life, he too picked up the hunting bug with ease.  Maybe the best of our ‘pups’ as a game dog, he could tarry thru the thickest cover-just knowing a bird was in there-and always confident was his retrieving- sniff ‘em out and bring them back….abet, a touch unwillingly at times.  In water “The Ruugs” was great-he’s swim like an otter and if he had his way, would stay dripping and wet-dog-smelling whenever he could.    Nothing tugged at our hears like when we found out he too had a cancer and would have few months to live that winter. 

Like before, another dog found her way here-seemingly the right thing to do.  A second dog for companionship, maybe extending Rugers life.  Molly was already full grown, but had spent her life in a breeding kennel.  Her pedigree and natural instincts were top notch and it was obvious she would be a keeper.  Ruger and Molly hung out for a half a year until our daily snowshoe hikes began to take it’s toll on the elder dog.  My heart ached when I had to encourage him to keep trudging thru the snow-something he’d lept at before, just to make it back home.  When the time came, we knew.  His collar hung up by the rest in the garage on an old rusty nail.  Tags dangling motionless.

So this day, it was time.  Molly vigorously wagging her tail to go out and do anything….sadly realizing I was just cleaning, not heading to the lake to retrieve with her.  I realized it was time to unhook all those collars, slide the rusty scratched up tags off them and get them washed up.  Maybe a good cleaning would be the acceptable thing-not for Molly, she would never wear them, they weren’t hers.  Just to have them clean and maybe on a new hook in the garage in the “dog corner.” That would just be the right thing to do…..it was time.

The Birdless Bird Hunt

The shortening of days now at the tail end of autumn is something I’ve never been a fan of, but it’s out of my control, so I make the best of it.  Flying home after work, lacing up boots, sliding the 20 gauge into a case and loading the lab seems to be the best way to deal with it.  It’s a half hour drive to my favorite bird hunting spot, which leaves barely 30 or 40 minutes to roam the tall grass prairie to hunt pheasant before the sun sinks.

Birdless?  Well, not entirely true.  Birdless because the safety was never slid off?   That much is correct, like so many hunts-especially in the grouse woods.  Because I missed?  Also frequently true, I’ll never win any wing shooting competitions. Birdless just because Molly and I never had the chance to take a shot or put game in the bag and that was the subjective score.  It still was a bird hunt, a successful one at that.  I’m realizing I frequently write about this same thing over and over-what “success” in a hunt really means and as most of us know, it changes over time.

The “Birdless Bird Hunt” started as the quivering black lab leapt from the back seat, barely waiting for her collar bell and for me to slide 2 shells into the gun.  She seems to sense when we’re almost to the field while driving-her tail thumping speeds up several notches.  The sun is already touching the arched horizon and colors flood the sky.  The birds will have to wait as I pull out a small camera to take home a few images.  Molly isn’t as patient, her nose already pulling her in directions I can’t imagine.  Off we go and I follow the dog wherever scent steers her-I have no agenda to cover the entire field, just to watch her work.

Over the course of the past two seasons, I think I’m starting to read this labs movements; starting to know what she’s sensing and when to be ready… and when to be really ready for a flush. There seems to be a “I think there is a bird here somewhere” search of the grass in front of her and a “I know there is a bird here!” frantic scouring of every inch of ground.  She either slows way down (except her tail) or speeds up to track down a moving bird.  That’s when my thumb slides up to the safety and I scan carefully the terrain she’s probing.  More often than not, the her nose was right and if I trust in it we put a bird in the air.

Flush or not, I’m finding that proudly witnessing a few of those “I-gotta-find-this-bird “ frenzied sessions by Molly is what it’s all about.  As darkness steals the color from the sky, I snap a couple more pictures of tall grass and abandoned sunflowers against a deepening cold blue horizon.  I’m satisfied….cradling the double barrel in the crook of my arm Molly settles in alongside knowing tonight the hunt is over.  Her nose is always working however and pulls her away for a couple detours in the dark.  I slipped the bell off her collar and the gun into its case and settled in for the drive back home, content in knowing that even a birdless hunt can be some of the most enjoyable and appreciated time spent outdoors.

Winter Wonderland Hunt

I've never seen snow like this-it was almost fake in it's Winter Wonderland over-the-top snow flocking.  Even clothes lines were piled 3" high with clinging whiteness.  Every possible twig, branch, and blade of swamp grass were coated with snow, changing in one day a wet soggy landscape into something we'd see in a snow globe.  I loved it.

Rewind 48 hours.  I had made the trek down to LaCrosse to take delivery of a new bike-not just any old bike, (and in my racing years, that was every year!) but a "Fat Bike"....a really fat bike.  Needless to say, it will extend my riding and smile when I'm out in the county forest this winter... but that story is for another post.  The forecast started a week ago-"Winter Weather Advisory" and I'm usually pretty pessimistic about what the TV weather man has to say, so not worried about my travel.  Besides,  I had just a few overnight hours to wait before I had a chance to muzzleloader hunt the famous St. Joseph Ridge, south east of La Crosse and the bike would just have to wait.

The Muzzleloader hunt was a last minute plan that fell into place when I needed to make the trip to LaCrosse.  My good friend Kirk guided me on his father in laws property high up on the ridge- land that he's told me about and I would love a chance to hunt.  The rain and snow forecast didn't deter us and we set out up icy hwy 33 to "The Ridge."  Long story short....we made our way in the dark to a ridge side ground stand and spent the next several hours watching squirrels.  Fog and rain would move in and out and it looked like that would be the only thing moving (which ended up being true).  Later,  a few push drives produced nothing, so we fired off the load (to help dry the gun), wiped and oiled the smoke pole down and called it a day. 

Heading back from LaCrosse in pelting rain, the prospects for an additional hunt were slim.  The rain gave way to snow exactly one mile north of Sparta and stayed with me the rest of the drive home.  As the day wore on, the ground and trees became more and more coated and I began to think maybe chasing rooster pheasants may work out instead.  It would give Molly another chance to hunt after this long gun season layover.  The following day, after giving the deer hunt another try (no luck) the lab and I headed over to try our luck on birds.  I figured we at least would see pheasant tracks and know if they were around.  That was the plan.  The 40 minute drive was just an amazing scene-snow on everything and bending trees to the ground.  The large blocks of tall grass we hunt were plastered to the ground and even though Molly nose checked hundreds of spots, all we put up that day was one grouse-no roosters to be found.  Oh, Molly did bring me a pheasant wing-freshly chewed on by some thankful coyote I'd imagine.  Either way, we had a nice long hilly hike back to the truck and just appreciated another chance to load the double up and hunt.  The hunting with Molly will soon give way to cross country ski season, a bittersweet thought, for it's been a great fall for her, but for the moment I'll just savor the cold air and the new landscape before me ready to be discovered all over again.

The Other Kind of Hunting

November 20th, 2011-Town of Mosinee

This is not a book review or a recollection of an opening weekend of deer hunting, those are left for more focused writers than I.  No, these are thoughts taken from notes scribbled with cold hands on a tattered notebook while spending lots of quality time in a tree.  There were two firsts for me this opening gun season weekend.  I’ve hunted whitetails for the past 40 years in Wisconsin, both gun and archery,  but this year, not a single deer ventured into my little corner of Marathon County.  I’m not a hunter who gets wanderlust after a few hours of solitude-I try my best to stick it out, all day, everyday during the gun season.  My backpack is stuffed with all the essentials-a thermos, a sandwich or two, extra shells, reading glasses (now days) and a good book.

The other first I had was starting and finishing a book in two days….two “sittings.”   Sure, I’ve had some that I could barely put down- Norman Macleans’s “A River Runs Through It” comes to mind, but rarely in my daily life do I take the time to sit still for so many hours and dive into a book cover to cover not wanting the last page to arrive.  Am I a bad hunter because I peer down from my stand to scan a few sentences?  In my mind, no, it's part of the hunt, an escape, and the senses are still alert.  This year, having long hours of quiet and a blanket of snow for easy viewing, made drifting off into a book pretty easy.  Any creature within a hundred yards of my tree would have a difficult time passing by unnoticed (at least in my mind).

“A Grouse Hunter’s Almanac- The Other Kind Of Hunting” is the book that made it’s way into my day pack after sitting idle on a shelf a year after I picked it up from a book store.  It’s penned by Wausau writer Mark Parman, and with full disclosure here, he is a friend of mine whom I’ve spent time with over the years on skinny skis, mountain bikes and at our family deer camp along with a few grouse and woodcock hunts years ago.   I follow Marks writing in Silent Sports Magazine, where he is one of the editors of cycling and  cross country skiing articles and occasionally venturing out on other subjects, usually slipping in a hunting reference or two.  Mark is the consummate bird dog hunter and specifically, a grouse hunter.  That is the “Other Kind of Hunting.”

As with all opening day deer hunts, the first several hours are intense-every twig snapped is checked out, every red squirrel sounds like the next big buck sneaking thru the brush and there is no time for reading.  All focus is on…..everything.  As the morning lengthens and the woods slowly wake up, I find myself relaxing somewhat, realizing this year the typical flurry of the hunt, those first couple hours, has passed me by.  As the first day passed into the second of the weekend, I would see and hear exactly zero deer.  As mentioned-a first for me.  Unlike some in the woods this weekend, I wouldn’t blame wolves, bears, the DNR or ….cougars, for it’s called hunting, not shooting and it is that way sometimes.  Mark mentions not pulling the trigger or killing game as often now as when he was a young hunter, and I can understand that.  This year, Mother Nature didn’t give me a choice.

So finally after several cups of coffee, and the forest quieting down, I felt I could settle in and begin my read. Inside the dust cover, a quote by Aldo Leopold set the tone for the pages that would follow-  “There are two kinds of hunting: ordinary hunting and ruffed-grouse hunting.”  Any criticisms of the essays contained in the book could only be made by non hunters….non-gun dog hunters.  For us (and I include myself as a lover of hunting dogs and all things birdy) Mark strikes a cord with his tales, stories where the details and names may be different, but we can insert ourselves deeply into them which take us right into the tag alders and popple with Gunnar and Ox or our own dogs.  I had a difficult time just getting past the first sentences Mark had written.  My thoughts were- “Thanks a lot Parman!” for in the preface, he describes Gunnar and Ox, his hunting companions I had a chance to hunt over years earlier, who sadly had died before the completion of the manuscript.  In his essay- “In Praise of Old Dogs” the words on the page before me blurred from wet eyes reading the final description.  I knew full well why- Ruger, my beloved Golden Retriever, has been gone for less than a year and thoughts of so many grouse hunts with him quickly returned…and how much I missed him.  I more than understood the words Mark had written there.

It was interesting reading a book with names and locations you know well, for some of the grouse woods Mark describes are ones I’ve hunted in the past.  Places like the swamp he describes in an opening essay, are a scant quarter mile from where I sat reading this opening day.  As the stories pulled me in, my mind went from the grouse haunts described in his words back to the sleet striking noisily on the curled red oak leaves outside my stand.  Look, listen, scan…then eyes back to the pages of the next story I couldn’t wait to read.  Back to an October flush in the Nine Mile Swamp (as we always called it growing up) or New Wood, then onto a full chapter on “sauntering” or the tales empty shell hulls or a winter track in snow can tell.  I could relate well to these. 

Leaves shuffle below me and my attention is snapped back to this November in the deer woods.  A red squirrel as usual.  From time to time, it became noticeably darker, as the weather tried to change from rain and sleet to snow. With that, bringing a change of sound which I need not look up to know what was happening outside the book.  Light rain strikes the leaves softly, not yet a pelting sound, then suddenly sleet takes over and the sound is more metallic and hearing any animal approaching would be difficult.  The pellets gave way to the softness of snow landing on the oak, and all sound is muffled.  Snow has the effect to mute all sounds now-distant gun reports or a nearby foot fall on the forest floor.  On this day, the sound changed in waves as the precipitation moves between frozen and liquid.

 It became increasingly hard to bring myself back from the stories of Gunnar and Ox and the author to the deer hunt.  A Hairy Woodpecker flits by and rakes the bark of the nearby black cherry tree-my eyes lift for a quick scan of each shooting lane, and back down...all clear.  I was lost in this book.  Parman describes “Getting Lost-Staying Lost” in one essay, which is a bit different than the state I was in while reading, but one I understood well.  Hunting a new unfamiliar area is a little present to oneself because it is full of so much discovery.  We only get that chance once.  I remember a quote from my learning years in the woods, perhaps from Daniel Boone or some other woodsman-“I’ve never been Lost, but I have been a bit bewildered at times.”  I believe, like Mark, that being lost in a hunt isn’t always such a bad thing.  I usually pride myself at being good at a sense of direction, of scanning a map and formulating a plan for the hunt (or hike, ski or mountain bike adventure).  Of course, as Parman describes, a bird dog changes all that, the hunter following where the dog leads and any logical plan for the hunt can quickly change, but that is the nature of hunting.  A good thing once again.

“A Grouse Hunters Almanac” roughly follows a Wisconsin grouse season, from early warm leafy days, through the prime 6 weeks Parman talks about in October and early November.  There is the interruption of the deer gun hunt and associated herd reduction seasons, which start to signal the end of his beloved bird hunting.  The book finishes with the last days of the year, still open for grouse, but more for a chance to get back into the woods with shotgun in hand and dog alongside.  Not only does Mark follow this yearly cycle but also the seasons of the hunter and dog’s lives, which become so intertwined.  In “Gunnar’s Last Hunt” and “Counting in Dogs” I struggled to turn the pages and my reading pace slowed for I knew how these stories would end.  A short distance from where I sat, I remember a last hunt, the final day cruising my dads land for “partridge” with Max, my first dog.  A good wing shooter I am not, so on that cold December day, when Max hit a scent cone, pushed headlong into black berry brush and popped a grouse into the air, I amazed myself at connecting on the bird.  He dove in and brought the bird back to hand, wings still flapping his face and I couldn’t praise him enough, knowing he had been sick with cancer during that fall.   Like Parman and his Gunnar, at the time I didn’t realize this would be our last hunt together, but in reflecting on it later, that one flush, that one shot and one last retrieve is the way all old dogs should spend their last days afield.  Since that day, two other dogs would hunt with me, Dewey, a black lab and Ruger, a mellow golden retriever like Max before him.  Not pointers like Marks preferred hunting dog, but still, a hunting companion who can make all the difference in the world while clawing thru brush on a bird hunt and ones who are sorely missed because of the memories they made.

 Those dogs never quite lived up to Max in the woods, but like Parman, the arrival of a new dog helped ease the pain of losing a faithful four legged partner.  A year or so ago, Molly arrived, not a pup, but a four year old and just like all the promise Fergus brought to the Parman home for future trips to the wood, so Molly for me.  So far, she has done well, but it’ll never erase the pang of old dogs lost.  In  “Counting in Dogs” I found his final essay to be the perfect words to conclude the almanac.  More stories will be written of future hunts, but for this book, this chapter brought me back to reflect on life, my relationship to the outdoors, time spent there with my dogs and how all too quickly we all find ourselves past the prime days of October.  “That day, with Ox hobbling beside me, my life, measured in dogs, looked terribly short.”  With those final words, I realized as well, that if Molly is blessed with a long lab life, like Mark, I may only have one more dog to share my fall hunts with.  And maybe that thought, more than any other from this book, is what hung over me on this November day as I slowly, very slowly closed the cover...not wanting the story to be over.

Hay Creek Hunt #2

Molly and Me ;)

Sometimes there are advantages in numbers. Or to say it another way, numbers do count. I had written a couple weeks ago about a first hunt on a game farm and the experience of hunting over placed birds....not as easy as one would think, even with dogs. A that time, my good friend Dave and I and our two labs spent the better part of a day at Hay Creek Game Farm near Sand Creek Wisconsin and returned home with seven birds and plenty of stories on the drive back.

We returned to visit Bill and Lynn at Hay Creek again, this time armed with two other great friends, Mike and Moe, two hunting companions who usually make the trip to North Dakota each year with us. The trip west couldn't happen this year, so I suggested we get the dogs to the game farm where they would get plenty of shooting and the labs a great workout. Once again, our hosts did an excellent job of making our hunt memorable. Adding two more shooters and two more shotguns to the mix on the same number of birds, almost assured us of a decent percentage of pheasant to take home this time. Dave and I managed seven of twelve birds, but this time, the four of us would take eleven for twelve, although a few were scratch birds. Bill had asked us how hard of a hunt we wanted, so we decided to take the hunt up a notch and the birds were scattered over a much larger field, with tougher cover. Putting those birds up was no easy matter, and without the dogs I doubt we'd have found many at all. The advantage of four of us was we could cover ground more thoroughly and the labs would work back and forth between us until a scent cone hit them and it was bird-on!

Tall Grass Rooster and Molly

I've found that there is nothing more enjoyable than watching the dogs do what they are bred to do. It absolutely makes the hunt. Barley, the chocolate lab veteran has a great nose and seldom is wrong when she gets birdy.  Molly, my new black lab, continues to improve each hunt and complements the older dog (who is related, from Dakota Labs Kennel in Chippewa Falls) and I couldn't be more proud of her progress. Even with four of us marking downed birds in tall grass, without those noses and retrieving instincts, we would have lost many of the birds we put down.

Mike and Dave with Tough Bird

Any hunt will have it's share of ribbing and joking around, but adding our two hunting partners to the mix I think multiplies the laughter by a factor of ten. Doesn't matter if it's a great crossing shot made or missed or perhaps a connection with a bird a bit to early in the pellet spread, someone will say something about it. As serious as we are about bird hunting, wanting to be safe and successful, it's the story time afterwards  around the pick up that makes these hunts so much fun and memorable.

The first Field Pass

After the hunt, we quickly dressed the birds and headed them for the cooler. Bill meanwhile, gave an impromptu demonstration of a few of his high quality labs who were dying to get out of their boxes and train a bit. It was amazing to watch how well each dog performed for Bill, who spends countless hours on voice and hand signals. These are national champion caliber labs and it was fun to see performance at that level. Molly and Barley would have a long way to go, but at this point of the day, they were content to rest in the truck and watch the show as well. They were spent.

The numbers of pheasants lined up at our feet for the obligatory group hunt photos (labs, of course, included) really didn't matter. Rather it was the number of memories shared with best friends from this perfect day in November in NW Wisconsin that count, and how these stories of the day will probably change over the years. So in this case, those numbers do count.  And that is just fine with me.

Six Hunting Companions