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November Always a Spotty Duck-Goose Month

richfletch — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 18:15:03 +0000

Duck hunting in November has always been spotty. There are exceptions, but if I had to eliminate duck hunting during November it wouldn’t break my heart. Fred and I did manage to bring home some geese last week, but the hunt was boldstered by one big barrage at a large flock of Alleutians that came over at close range. We knocked down four before each wiffing on our third shots.

Pheasant hunting sometimes takes up the slack for a lack of ducks, but this year and last have been tough.

Yesterday I hit the duck ponds for just the third watefowl hunt of the year and the heavy north winds made the day look promising, but for one of the first times in my life I’d have to say that the wind blew too hard. It was very unpleasant out there and few ducks worked our pond. I knocked down one greenhead that tried to land in front of me and missed another. Lola maintained her stellar record for the season – no lost birds and found one extra (that Fred had lost earlier).

I had Fred snap a photo after the goose hunt.

Rich with geese and pintail on a November goose hunt

Exploring the garden...

Anna — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 17:51:54 +0000

So these are some lucky shots.. due to the fact that the next day, I went to my parents land and they had bush hogged (aka, mowed down) all the long grass/bush/pricker/weed growth.. So no more exploring through the “brush”

Luna had a blast though, here are a couple shots.

Here is her "fake pointing" the songbirds in the garden.. wish I had it at a different angle.. might be more convincing

Love this shot.. so natural/rustic...

She blends right in.. don't know which version of this shot I like better..

Enjoy, I’m off to pack for my parents again.. today we hike to the river. Luna could use the exercise and mental stimulation hiking always brings. Looking forward to it greatly. hopefully will provide for some nice shots too.

Signposts

Peter Marcantel — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 17:14:09 +0000

The hiss of gas escaping into the space heater announces that the old man has risen; soon the two-room houseboat will be tolerably warm. The man in the top bunk in the other room does not stir although he hears, knows, the signals–the unspoken command to rise and begin the day’s activities. He has been awake for some time because he has never slept well here; it is too quiet through the long night and he is too cognizant of the other, too careful of disturbing him with the creak of bedsprings. Though he is awake he does not rise, does not stir, remains in the warmth of the down sleeping bag and turns his head to the window. Outside the frost-dimmed pane, the black bayou shimmers with blanched half-moonlight filtered through willows that shiver silently on the dark mud bank.

He thinks: It is peaceful here–out there. It is the tranquility I come for, that I like about this place, and that is what I must focus on. But it is already too late. Already his thoughts have turned to this: I should have been the one to get up, to light the heaters and stove, to make the coffee. He is old now and I am grown and I should be taking care of him. Thinking: But that is not the natural order of things in this camp, and when one disturbs the natural order of things it’s hard to know what will result.

He checks the luminous dial of his watch. It is 3:55. He thinks: That’s early even by camp standards. The blind we’ll hunt today is only twenty minutes away and sunrise is at 6:43; legal shooting starts a half-hour before that. He must have had a bad night. His stomach, his back, his bones, his thoughts, something or everything conspired in his age-haunted body to prevent rest. If he can’t rest, why should I? That’s why he bangs the skillets and pans so noisily as he prepares for breakfast. It is my summons, my subpoena to appear in the other room and make myself useful. It does not matter that it is a full two hours before it will be time to leave. But I will not move. I will pretend I’m still sleeping and even that will be a victory of sorts, a statement to him that I refuse to be bullied. I am not yet ready to receive orders this morning.

It’s been three years since the younger man lay in this bunk, and it may be the last time he ever will. Every new direction in his life takes him farther from this place and makes it harder to return. The old man cannot have many seasons left in him and there may soon be nothing left to return to anyway. Until only the last few years he has been unbending, unscathed by passing winters but now he is showing signs of weakening and he cannot have many seasons left in him. It is too hard on a man, too strong the grip of cold that reaches into the bones of old men on days like this to shake their mortality; too much physical strength is needed to break with mudboat and pushpole the trails choked with matted water hyacinth and mud, to walk the gumlike marsh bottom in search of wounded prey. The marsh tests a man’s resolve, his desire weighed against the threshold for self-inflicted discomfort until that autumn evening when lying in his bed in the dark he grudgingly–and perhaps with great relief–admits to himself, “It is enough. I am not willing. This year I will not go.” And that day comes for every man, must come, even for him.

He, the son, knows that day must come but he cannot imagine it. In his mind the old man’s surrender to the inescapable force of time exists only as an abstract notion, mentally assented to but impossible to believe. To him, his father is what he has always been: competent, stubborn, immutable.

The thick brown smell of last night’s gumbo still permeates the air of the houseboat, clings to the fabric of the sleeping bag, penetrates the senses of the man. In that mysterious firing of millions of synapses the scent becomes one with a memory and that memory becomes as real as the odor in his nostrils. It is not the tranquility here that he has come for. It is this memory that ties him to this place, that bring him back–infrequently but inevitably–to these surroundings, to him. He closes his eyes and allows the memory to absorb him. He thinks about the meat run and he smiles.

There are a few perfect moments in every person’s life. The astute man, even in childhood, recognizes and captures these moments in mental snapshots to mount in the scrapbook of his imagination. These memories then become the things that sustain him when the world becomes too harsh. In the face of criticism and self-doubt he retreats, if he has the presence of mind to do so, to his album to find a part of himself he can admire. Preserved there are the game-winning shot, the big promotion, the birth of his child, some selfless act. Unlike photographs of paper and chemical that fade and yellow and report with brutal accuracy only what the unfeeling camera saw, these images grow sharper and larger with time and contain not just an image but an event. When they are plucked from the album they arouse the senses and replay the emotions that were a part of that event.

He is forty years old now and in all his memories he can find only one perfect moment snapshot that shows the two of them, his father and him, together. This disturbs but does not surprise him. For a memory to qualify as a perfect moment snapshot the owner of the remembrance must be in the foreground and shown in the best possible light. It has never been the practice of his father to stand in the background and even when he does he casts an enormous shadow. Still, he has that one picture, and now he pulls it out once more as lies in the protective warmth of his bunk; he pulls it out once more to admire and draw strength from it before exposing himself to the coolness in the next room.

****

He was fifteen years old. By that time he had collected several snapshots. (Again there is the mysterious firing of synapses and a rush of images: the heavy feel of the “best defensive player” trophy from the eighth-grade basketball team, the echo of his name in the auditorium as he is declared winner of a state public speaking contest, his mother’s beaming face as he receives “Outstanding 4-H Boy” at the annual awards day.) He thinks: My mother was in nearly every photograph because to her everything I did was important and she shared vicariously the thrills of my triumphs, but my father was conspicuously absent. Perhaps he was aware–of course, he was aware–and he may have even acknowledged these accomplishments but I don’t remember that he did. I don’t remember that he did, and that makes it as though it did not happen. (This last he considers without anger, unaware of his own bitterness.) Thinks: That, again, is not surprising because, though we shared a house, my father and I lived separate lives and our paths converged only occasionally in a small houseboat deep in the Louisiana marshlands.

He made his first duck hunt with his father when he was eight years old, and every season thereafter until he left for college found him on any given non-school morning hunkered in the bottom of a two-and-a-half by five-foot iron tank with his twenty-gauge shotgun. “If duck hunting were a form of employment,” he once observed to his wife, “you could not pay enough to interest a man to rise before dawn, ride in an open boat through freezing wind, and sit in a cold metal tank surrounded by cold gray water for hours with drops of dew or rain dripping from his cap through his collar and running down his back, sitting in hopes of shooting a two-pound bird he would than have to pluck and singe and gut. But sportsmen are a strange lot and I’ll confess that at times I enjoyed it. Never, though, with the passion of my father.”

His father is (was, and ever shall be–even on that terrible unimaginable future day when he surrenders to the “enough”) a Duck Hunter. He once sought to explain this appellation to his wife:

Even though he has spent his entire adult life in the practice of law, and much of that time as a judge, I suspect his profession served primarily as a meant to support his true calling. Each summer near the middle of August preparations began for the two most important months of the year. Department stores divide November and December into Thanksgiving and Christmas; in our home these were better known as the first and second splits of the duck season. There were mudboats to repair, tank blinds to sink, runs to cut through the marsh, and decoys to patch. I participated in the autumn ritual not just because I was expected to do so but because it was a way to be with my father. I remember as a young boy telling my mother–I was crying at the time, I remember that–“He never does anything with me,” and she defended him by saying, “He takes you hunting,” and I said, “That’s because he wants to go.”

Lying there in his bunk with the smell of gumbo in his nostrils and gripped by his desire to recapture something so precious, so distant and unattainable, synapses exploding, he remembers. If he were to tell it (for he never has told it–not quite, not completely) this is what he would say, because this is what he has come to believe really happened that day:

I was fifteen years old. Dad and I had gone to the marsh, just the two of us, to get in one last late-season hunt. We arrived in the late afternoon, unloaded the supplies from the big boat, and began putting away the groceries. As we finished and I moved to stow our hunting gear, I noticed Dad double-checking the refrigerator and the empty paper sacks. He did not swear–I never recall hearing his swear until I was well into adulthood–but the frustration in his voice was obvious when he said, “We forgot the steaks.”

I was silently thankful that he was the one who had packed the food. He would not, of course, admit that it was his error–admission of a mistake was another thing I cannot recall escaping his lips, ever–but the fact that he had prepared the ice chest left him with no opportunity to upbraid me. We would return to town after the morning hunt, so tonight’s supper was the only meal we had planned. We had onions, rice, flour, and seasonings and nothing that could be substituted for a main course. For the uninitiated this may seem a rather small thing and one might think that a bowl of rice, a slice of bread, and a glass of milk is all a person really needs to survive one night in the wild. But any real hunter knows that the camp meal is just as important as the morning shooting, and a camp meal is nothing without meat for the pot.

Dad stepped onto the porch of the houseboat, studied the reddening western sky, and said, “We’d better make a meat run.”

We pulled on our rubber chest waders, picked up our guns, and walked out to the mudboat shack. I hesitated a moment, not sure just what was expected of me, then Dad said, “I’ll drive, you shoot,” and I took my place in front of the engine. As Dad cranked the old Onan motor and headed us out of the bayou into the marsh I fully realized the nature of our expedition. The sun would be setting within the next half-hour; there was no time to drive out to one of the blinds to try for some legitimate shooting. Instead, we would take a more direct and desperate approach.

My job was to sit, gun ready, and to shoot any duck we might be lucky enough to jump within shotgun range as we raced down the trail. Even though our limited choice of assignments made me the shooter by default–Dad would never have trusted me to drive the boat–I felt good that he had enough confidence in me to at least allow me the chance to fail. I also felt a greater weight of responsibility than I could remember having up to that time. My stomach began to tie itself into tiny half-hitches.

A mudboat is long and narrow and flat-bottomed with a large air-cooled engine, generally about twenty-five horses, mounted in the center. It is designed to run in places with even a minimal amount of water and to chew through the soupy mixture of mud and water lilies and hyacinths that often chokes the runs where the boat must travel. The driver stands behind the engine and steers with a joystick linked to a small rudder; forward turns left, backward turns right. There is no reverse and there are no brakes.

The runs that cut through the low sawgrass plains and floating turf of coastal Louisiana form a maze of narrow trails that only a trained eye can follow. The flat, redundant water-prairie can confuse and mystify even in daytime, but at five-thirty in the morning when the only light is a glint of moonbeam off the water ahead even a veteran hunter can get lost in a moment of carelessness. Some leaseholders place sticks or flags at certain intersections to mark the way to their blinds, and misreading a signpost can mean finding yourself far from where you thought you were, and a lot of wasted time.

A mudboat ride through the marsh is, for the passenger, an exercise in child-like faith. The trail twists and turns, and only a short stretch of the run ahead is visible at any point, so the driver must know the run well and anticipate the turns as the boat flies through the grass or he will wind up beached on the mud bank. The passenger sits directly in front of the roaring, clattering engine, head ducked into the collar of his hunting coat, cap pulled low to block the freezing wind, and entrusts his safe arrival completely to the control of the driver. Sometimes it helps to close your eyes.

On the evening of the meat run there was no closing of eyes, no hiding from the wind. I had to be ready to shoot at any moment.

My father raised us with a healthy respect for the law, and particularly game laws. We didn’t hunt without a license and a duck stamp. When we had our limit we stopped shooting, even when the ducks tempted us by lighting among the decoys on the pond. And shooting from a moving boat for sport would have been unthinkable. But any good judge will tell you that reason should govern the application of the law, and no meat for the pot on a cold winter night surely constitutes extenuating circumstances. I suspect that part of the justification in Dad’s mind for this breach of good citizenship was that re really didn’t expect to eat duck for supper. He knew that the chances of flushing a bird close enough to the boat to shoot at were fairly slim, and ducks’ odds were greatly improved by the fact that the shooter was his fifteen-year-old son.

Five minutes down the trail we jumped our first duck. When a duck flushes, it generally flies straight up. The most common mistake is to shoot directly at the duck and thus shoot under it. You must shoot over it’s head so the rising bird and the flying steel pellets arrive at the same spot at the same time. There is, of course, no time to think about this when the opportunity arises; it must be automatic. In an instant the gun went to my shoulder, I squeezed the trigger, the bird fell.

Dad stopped the boat. I picked up the pushpole and backed us down the trail, then climbed out and collected my prize, holding up the fat mallard hen for Dad to admire. “Good shot,” he said, with a note of surprise in his voice. I was as surprised as he was but said nothing, just smiled and got in the boat.

Three minutes later the scene was repeated. A duck jumped. I shot, it fell. This time Dad got out to retrieve the bird. He said, “You’re becoming a regular Deadeye Dick, aren’t you?” and this time I actually heard pride and respect in his voice. We had all we needed, Dad and I, at that moment. I was a real hunter. For the first and only time in my life I felt that we had connected. He could be proud of me because I had truly entered his world and become a successful part of it. It would be this fleeting extension of respect that I would cling to in the years that followed, a memory I could retreat to that closed the gap that always existed between us. It was this signpost that helped me return so many times, that brought me back to the marsh to attempt in a vague way to recapture the admiration I had once seen in his eyes. We turned the boat and started back to camp.

Dad said that he would clean the ducks but I said no, I would clean the ducks while he cooked the roux, and that night we ate the best gumbo in the world. Two shots, two fat mallard hens, and there was meat for the pot because I had put it there. It was perfect.

****

The smell of frying bacon displaces the gumbo and the memory. He hears the front door slam as the old man returns from the front deck of the houseboat, then the bare bulb in the ceiling flashes on, blinding him. “It’s clear and still,” says his father. “They’ll move early this morning.” He savors one last moment in the warmth of his down-filled cocoon, then climbs out of bed.

They eat mostly in silence, as they always have. After all the years, there is much to say but they have not yet found common ground to meet on, they have not yet learned how to approach each other in a manner unguarded, vulnerable, accessible. The son talks a little about his job as a social worker at the state hospital where he guides troubled families toward services that will help them improve the quality of their lives. He believes he is making a difference, if only a small one, trying to help hopeless people find pinpoints of light in their dark worlds. His father asks if he’s had a raise lately.

He does not hear the concern that is in the old man’s voice, only judgment, because that is the only reference point he has ever known for his father. Anger rises in him, the anger he vowed to leave behind on this trip to the marsh.

When I am at home with my wife and children, when I am at work counseling people who look to me for solutions to their problems, when I am with friends on the gold course, I am a grown man. But when I am with my father I am always an incompetent child, both in his eyes and my own. I hate the way I feel about myself when I am with him, because I will never again stand with him as an equal in his world, will never again experience the benediction he offered only once on that long-ago late December evening. The standards have changed now; the expectations have grown with every passing year. I will never make enough money, will never have enough power, will never move the world sufficiently to be successful in his eyes. Once, all I had to be was a good duck hunter. To earn his respect now I must show him all the outward trappings of his idea of success. But I am forty years old and it is too late; the life I’ve chosen will not, can not, show him these things. I will never be a man when I am with him.

After breakfast the son collects the dishes and stacks them by the sink. “You’ll need to heat some water,” says his father. Later, as he pours the hot water over the dishes, his father says, “Save some of that to rinse them in.”

“Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to wash dishes all by myself.” The sarcasm in his voice surprises even himself and he tries to dull its edge with a weak laugh, but his father doesn’t smile. He braces himself for a reproach but the old man says nothing. He just looks at his son for a long moment with an odd expression, as though the reply he has formed cannot find a voice. Then he turns and leaves the room.

After the dishes are put away the two of them dress in their heavy camouflage jackets and chest waders, collect their shotguns and shells, and walk out the mudboat shack. A light frost coats the wooden platform that connects the houseboat to the low tin shed and the son walks gingerly, awkwardly, on the dark and uneven path. When they arrive at the boat he hesitates, once again unsure what is expected of him.

“Do you want me to drive?” he says, but he immediately feels foolish for asking.

“You don’t know the marsh,” says his father.

He is right. We are in his element, not mine. I am, at best a naïve tourist visiting his world.

He stows the shells and guns under the bow of the boat and takes his seat in front as his father pumps the rubber bulb on the gasoline line to prime the old engine. After they push out of the shed, the big motor roars to life and they surge forward down the dark water path.

The moving boat creates a biting, penetrating cold wind. His eyes water and he pulls his hunting cap low to protect his ears as he huddles on the low seat. Although the boat does not travel fast–probably no more than twelve miles an hour–the darkness, the narrowness of the run, the whipping sawgrass and bull tongue rushing by, all combine to give the sensation of great speed. They do not use a flashlight because the artificial light only blinds the driver; his father instead follows the silver ribbon of moonlight reflecting off the open water in the run.

As they rush down the trail, time and memories are compressed into one experience; this morning’s ride could be the same one he took when he was twelve or eighteen or twenty-six or thirty-five. Then comes the dawning awareness that today something is different, disturbing. His father is less confident as he navigates the difficult trail, hesitant at times, slowing the engine more often than in years past. They miss a turn and have to push the boat backwards to head it in the proper direction.

When they finally arrive at the blind they carefully cover the mudboat with cut roseau cane to hide it from the sharp eyes of wary late-season ducks, then clamber into the sunken steel tank. The son begins to make excuses before he needs them. “It’s been a long time since I’ve shot,” he says as he slips three shells into the magazine of the Remington twenty-gauge, the same shotgun his father gave him for his fourteenth birthday. He smiles good-naturedly as he says this, but silently curses himself for feeling the need to account in advance for his inadequacies.

The day is clear and cold and still and there are few ducks flying, but eventually two pintail drakes spot the decoys from somewhere in the stratosphere, break their flight, and drop from the sky. They come in straight over the pond, wings cupped, white breasts shining, preparing to light. They look huge. The old man waits for his son, who rises a little too early and shoots three times. Only then does the father raise his gun. He drops the first bird, then swings on the second as it retreats. It has reached the far edge of the pond by now, apparently out of range, but when he shoots the big bird folds its wings obediently and falls heavily into the water. Two shots, two ducks. Perfect. The younger man’s ears burn with shame.

The father says nothing, just smiles and winks. The son opens his mouth to congratulate him but instead finds himself stumbling through a story he doesn’t want to tell about when he was fifteen and do you remember that time when I was perfect, two-for-two, and you had forgotten the steaks but I got us meat for the pot?

The old man has killed a thousand ducks in his lifetime. He grins at the story and says I don’t doubt it, you used to be a pretty good shot back then, but you know you came up a little early on those pintails, and you can’t just shoot at both of them, you’ve got to pick out one, and it looked like you were shooting a little low.

The younger man starts to respond but, realizing it is pointless, he sinks onto the rough board seat and stares at a rust spot on the wall of the tank. He tries to remember, but it is different now:

I was fifteen years old and I shot two ducks and I am alone in the picture and that’s all there ever was to it. The moment was significant for me only; for him there was no deep spiritual connection, no turning point of newfound admiration for his son. For him it was another hunt. How could I have expected it to have been anything else? He had felt no desperate need to bridge a gap he didn’t know existed between himself and his child. If I had missed my shots that day, what then? Would anything have changed? I would have still been his son, a mystery to him in many ways because he did not know how to know me. But still his son. Perhaps all he required of me on that day–on any day–was that I try.

With this revelation comes a strange sense of release. For the first time he realizes that for twenty-five years he has thought that he must somehow recapture that day when he was perfect, must somehow find a way to earn a love that he thought he had seen only once in his father’s eyes.

But he has never asked that of me and I have required of him something that is beyond his power to give and in doing that I have unfairly condemned us both. He is a man, imperfect as I am. I have demanded from him validation that he could not express and I would not acknowledge. I am forty years old and it is time to put childhood fantasies and unrealistic expectations aside.

Shaking his head, the son says aloud to himself, “I don’t know how I missed it,” referring to his new understanding of the meaning of the meat run.

“It doesn’t matter,” responds the father.

He thinks I’m talking about the pintails, but to correct him would take too many words, too much effort.

When the son turns toward his father the old man looks away into the distance. “All of us–” he says, hesitantly, “–we all make mistakes.”

Perhaps he is thinking about this morning, in the kitchen. Perhaps he is more troubled by our relationship than I think. I am not sure what he means, but I want to believe that his words are an attempt at an apology, or at least an explanation.

As the son studies his father’s face in the brightening light, for the first time he actually looks old to him. He is sad that he doesn’t know him.

They return to camp with their two ducks. The father offers them to his son as he has always done, but this time the son says, no, you killed them, you keep them. They pack the boat, clean the camp, and prepare to leave. As he takes a last look around, the son thinks perhaps he will return next year. If he does, he will follow a different path back. He will come with different memories, and he will be the one to rise early to light the heaters and make the coffee.

PETA Founder firing off at Sarah Palin

huntersagainstpeta — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 17:04:45 +0000

Nov 24th, 2009

Recently, the former Alaska governor took several uncalled shots from Ingrid Newkirk in an “open letter‘ posted on the PETA founder’s blog on November 17. These shots came after the release of Sarah Palin`s new autobiography “Going Rogue”, which is also causing a stir in the political arena.

Newkirk was not happy with Palin`s quote in the book that read, “If any vegans came over for dinner, I could whip them up a salad, then explain my philosophy on being a carnivore: If God had not intended for us to eat animals, how come he made them out of meat?”

Hunters Against PETA

http://huntersagainstpeta.com

Image of the Day - 15

League Against Cruel Sports — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 10:00:35 +0000

Not exactly the idyllic countryside scene most people would want to see on a Sunday. Please help us to Keep Cruelty History.

THE PERFECT WEEKEND WINGSHOOTING ADVENTURE

blackandwhyte — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 02:51:59 +0000

For the demanding Sportsman that craves a quick and unforgettable weekend getaway, don’t miss our Mexico hunts! From August through February, Mexico offers great shooting for Doves, Ducks, Geese and absolutely unbelievable Quail.
sportsmen
Mexico’s famed San Fernando Valley (just south of Brownsville, Texas) is the Whitewing Capital of the World. Millions of acres of vast grain fields and mesquite brushlands provide the Whitewing nesting grounds and is also home to extraordinary populations of Mourning Doves, Blue Rock Pigeons, Ducks, Geese, Bobwhite Quail and Sandhill Cranes.

Our Mexico Hunting trips are all inclusive – just pack your bags!

We will transport you or your group from Texas to your lodgings while in Mexico. The Hacienda Campestre Real complex will accommodate up to 50 guests and will be your home while in the Valley. Bedrooms are comfortably air-conditioned and enormous. Here you’re served excellent Mexican and American cuisine including wild game, steaks and fresh seafood. Fresh nachos and cold margaritas await your return from each hunt and the bar is always open. The pool is always an inviting sight, the grounds are beautiful and the service is excellent!

Pikwakanagan members among those accused of hunting out of season

Bob Payne — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 00:51:41 +0000

Pikwakanagan members among those accused of hunting out of season

My homemade e-caller

gumbi1 — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 21:47:34 +0000

These are the pics of my homemade e-caller. It uses a Gander mtn. coffee mug, a speaker from an old caller, a RS personal amplifier, a few odds and ends for connections, and my MP3 player.

The Utopian Suggestion of Natural Predator Reintroduction

David — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 19:48:41 +0000

Jonathan Vandina

The deer population in the Northeast has exploded. Some maintain that one of the reasons is due to the previous housing boom. During the boom, thousands of acres of land were cleared with the intentions of building homes that were never built. This cleared land permitted sunlight to hit the ground, which facilitated grass growth leading to the population explosion.

There are more deer in the Northeast today than there were when the settlers first arrived. Although development and land clearing may be partially to blame, we cannot forget the fact that humans also extirpated the main predator, mountain lions (Puma concolor). Due to the over-explosion of deer, the lack of natural predators and the inability of the land to sustain them, many of these animals will die slow deaths of starvation. Sick deer may also spread disease which can adversely affect the rest of the population. Although hunting may eliminate a small portion of this manmade suffering, some people claim there is a better way; that is to reintroduce their natural predators.

It should be noted, as it has been on this blog in the past,that proof of the positive effects of hunting limiting population growth is scarce at best. All we do know is when a hunter makes a kill he has removed that animal from being able to procreate any further. This post is in no way intended to support hunting. Rather it is to question the act of species introduction, a practice which has been historically devastating not only to the environment but also to the introduced animals, sometimes leading to increased animosity and re-extirpation of a species . This is why I disagree with the re-introduction suggestion.

First, many animals such as mountain lions tend to be locale specific; that is they have specifically evolved to live in their local environment. An example is the Florida panther (Puma concolor coryi ). That is not to say the animals are unable to adapt if introduced, but with that adaptation may come devastating results to the environment, people or the re-introduced species.

The closest American breeding population of cougars to the Northeast is in Western North and South Dakota (not including the 100 Florida Panthers which are left and have been purposefully interbred with West Texas panthers in an attempt to curb inbreeding of the small surviving population within Big Cypress National Park). This is an entirely different natural ecosystem than that of the Northeast. The animals in that part of the country may have immunities to diseases which animals in the Northeast do not have. They may also not have immunities to diseases that are in this part of the country. Either way, if that is the case it could be environmentally devastating to the Northeast or individually devastating and pointless to the introduced cats. But what if it is neither?

The cats found in the west have specifically adapted to that region of the country. They are locale specific. The prairies of South Dakota offer much different terrain than the Catskills or the Berkshires or Westchester County. Should animal advocates really think it is just to remove an animal with a natural history in that part of the country to another which it might not proliferate in? Could this be counterproductive to their cause?

Another predicament is the fact that mountain lions are opportunistic feeders. Deer in the Northeast may no longer have their natural fear of the mountain lion due to the fact that the predator has been absent for generations. In regions where the mountain lion is still prevalent, many prey animals graze at night in order to make it that much more difficult for the lion to attack. However, it is not uncommon in the Northeast to have deer grazing on peoples lawns during the day. In fact, certain books on the subject such as “The Beast in the Garden” argue that many populations of deer have become diurnal due to the fact that they have been absent of predation for so long. That’s not to say populations no longer feed at night, just more and more are seen feeding during the day. Therefore, the deer grazes on the lawn during the day, where is an opportunistic mountain lion going to be hunting? That’s right, on peoples lawns, on the sides of highways (which has proven every year to be devastating to panther populations in Florida) and in parks. These are all areas used by people. Is it foreseeable that this may not be entirely welcomed by the general public? Is it likely that many people will not want their children playing in their backyards any longer? In reality, how long will it take before these re-introduced lions are also extirpated and killed as a failed experiment? I predict after the first child is attacked by the introduced predator, there will be a vicious hunt to re-extirpate the re-introduced animals.

There are reports of mountain lions in the Catskills and Adirondacks. There are conspiracy theories that the New York DEC has actually released a few. There has also been cougar scat and hair samples found in the northeast spanning from upstate New York to Maine. The general consensus seems to be that these are released captive pets and not a small surviving population nor a controlled re-introduced one (see related post here).

The re-introduction of predators with the purpose of repressing populations of other animals may be entirely adverse to the introducer’s intentions. It may lead to the presentation of disease to indigenous animals without immunities or the transmission of disease from indigenous animals to the introduced ones. It may also show the way to the re-extirpation of a species. Instead, maybe we should pave over the shoulders of highways that offer countless miles of seasonal buffet to deer. Maybe we should reforest the cleared abandoned land. Maybe we should just keep allowing humans to hunt while we await the natural migration of the predator from our Canadian neighbors where the animal has made a natural comeback; one without re-introduction.

In conclusion the utopian idea of a re-introduced natural predator seems good in theory but one must keep in mind that the reason these animals do not live here any longer is because of the highways, the homes and the congestion. This is why they will be transplanted from areas (like North Dakota or Canada) where these elements are not as prevalent. Although this may mean the animal may never naturally return (as long as humans so densely occupy the region anyway), it is important to realize that the reason for this is because they would not likely proliferate. The locality can no longer naturally accommodate the species. In fact, it may lead to a death sentence of the re-introduced animals as well as have as little, if not less, effect on the deer population as hunting has proven to have.

Still interested?

“A Beast in the Garden: by David Barron” http://www.beastinthegarden.com/

and

http://www.easterncougarnet.org/

Gone Huntin'. Yes, again.

Lance Burri — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 16:39:08 +0000

See you Monday.

Buck shot with buckshot

hsoi — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 12:52:12 +0000

New Jovian Thunderbolt ruminates on the buck shot with buckshot. Implications not just for hunters, but for those that opt for shotguns for self and/or home defense.

The article is not long but the final word is simple: 00 buckshot, not birdshot.

Image of the Day - 14

League Against Cruel Sports — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 10:00:59 +0000

As our Board of Trustees meets in London today for its bi-monthly meeting, an horrific reminder of why we do what we do: to prevent a return to this sadistic cruelty. Keep Cruelty History.

Hopkins Game Farm

maxcarrion — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 04:06:22 +0000

Finally back for Thanksgiving, which only means turkey and twelve gauges. I finally was able to get my first hunt in this year and work off that Thanksgiving dinner from the night before, it was also my first trip to Hopkins Game Farm on the Eastern Shore.

My father and I made our way east toward Kennedyville to hunt some Chukar on the Hopkins property. The wind was fierce out there today which only meant the already quick Chukar were going to be movin’.

As soon as the birds flushed the got picked up by the gusts and would soar about 200+ yards away. I am embarrassed to admit that I shot a whole box of shells on 12 birds, I could cop out and blame it on my Beretta that I’ve been shooting for years but lets be serious…

Most of the birds I shot I hit on the second shot on a readjustment, the majority of the time we had to lead the birds about a foot and a half before firing.

My only gripe with Hopkins is the terrain is too vanilla for shooterslooking for a challenging hunt. You walk up aisles of brush only about 10-15 yards wide, all in all you cover only about 5 acres of brush. However, their birds are nicer than most places I’ve hunted, the Chukars were big, fast and fun to shoot.

If you are looking for a more challenging hunt that will leave your quads begging for you to stop, I suggest Gunpowder up off Falls Road. You cover probably three times the land and it is far from flat.

Wolves need to be stopped!

huntersagainstpeta — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 03:59:52 +0000

Unless you`ve been living in another country or under a rock you can`t help but hear or notice the negative impact the wolf population has had on our big game animals in the western states over the last few years. Sportsmen had a victory this year when hunting seasons were opened on the wolves, however they`re still a big problem. Just a few weeks ago a pack of wolves attacked and killed three of Scott Leeper`s best hunting hounds. Scott Leeper is a lion hunting guide in Wyoming. His dogs whom he raised from birth were maliciously slaughtered by this pack of wolves for no reason other than their own blood lust. Click here for the full story.

Toby Bridges at Lobo Watch out of Missoula Montana has this to say on his blog concerning the wolf population. He also sent this letter out to 350 different organizations including the media, shooting & hunting industry and wildlife agencies. The wolf problem is not being handled even with an open season on them. Here`s what Toby`s letter states: click here. Toby has some great info on his blog regarding wolves and updates on this years harvest.

We want your opinions/facts/stories regarding this matter, email them to us at admin@huntersagainstpeta.com. This information will be sent to the Secretary of Interior – Ken Salazar as well as all wildlife agencies in the west where wolves are a serious threat or will be a serious threat in the future.

http://huntersagainstpeta.com

Episode Eighteen-I LOVE FRATA ENDS

lambchop2 — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 03:28:43 +0000

I have to make a poop. I sit on the toilet at the bright yellow house my family and I used to share. I contemplate my future and think about what happened
to my parents.
“Petey… Come in, Petey.”
“This is Petey. What is it, Beatie?”
“My parents are no longer married. They’re divorced. I wanted you to know.”
“I know, I watched you and your parents during the court proceedings. I’m sorry things didn’t work out with your family, Beatie.”
“Thanks for the good thought, Petey. I just can’t believe we are not going to be together anymore.”
“It is a shame. Are your parents at least speaking now?”
“Yeah, a little more now. I think Dad feels bad for Mom cause he divorced her and all.”
“Well, at the very least it’s good to know your parents are on speaking terms.
I’m glad at least they are not fighting with each other.”
“Petey, I just wish they could get back together and work things out.”
“I know you do, honey.”
“How could they end themselves together? I just don’t understand it. My parents belonged together like peanut butter and jelly, like salt and pepper… Paper and
pencil for chrissakes.”
“I am sorry Beatie”
“You know, Petey, the two of them could make me laugh like nobody else in the world, I know it didn’t seem like it, with the fighting and mom’s sleeping all
the time but they were funny. They had the most perfect timing together. It’s what made them great. They could have tried harder and made it work.”
“I know how you feel, Beatie, but your parents did try. That’s all one can ask for.”
“I know. You’re probably right Petey, as usual.” I grab toilet paper from the roll.
“I guess maybe people try to hold on to whatever they can.” I tear a section of paper off the roll and wipe my eyes.
“We never want it to end.”

DROP OFF
Father doesn’t say much. We drive to Mother’s place. We pull up in the Datsun.
“I’ll wait in the car. You knock on the door,” Father says. I get out of the car with a trash bag of my clothes for the weekend. I knock.
Mother opens the door in her housecoat.
“Hi, Mom.” With a glance towards Father I walk inside. Father drives away in the Datsun. Every weekend is the same.

PICK UP
The phone rings.
“Get your stuff,” Father says. “Tell your Mother dat I’m on my way.”
“Do you want me to wait outside Mom’s place like usual?”
“Yes, maka sure you’re ready to go so I don’t have to get out of the car.”

Episode Nineteen-GIVE HER A CARD
I bought a Valentine card over the weekend at the store when I went grocery
shopping for Mother, since mother doesn’t do much but sleep. The greeting card for Lorena is dark red with two hearts.
Outside of the hearts, I write: Sorry about what happened a while back to your nose, neck and arms.
I sit in Mr. Fedlister’s class and watch Lorena. She opens the envelope and reads the card. Lorena looks at me. I smile. She stuffs the card back into the envelope. Lorena swings her arm around and places the card inside her desk. With a blink in my direction, Lorena looks away.

RECESS TIME AGAIN
Both of us stand near the drinking fountain. Lorena bounces a red ball.
“Wanna be friends again, Beatie?” “Okay,” I say. I watch Lorena bounce the ball. I’m not sure if I am happy or sad.
I’m not sure I feel anything and if I could feel I don’t know what to think.
“Good glad we are friends again cause I’m having a sleep over at my house this weekend. You’re invited,” Lorena says. Lorena’s hand continues to bounce a ball.
We keep our eyes on the ball.

CALL MOTHER
“Hello, this is Lucille.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not coming over this weekend. I got invited to a slumber party instead.”
“What should I tell God the Father?”
“I don’t know, maybe tell him I have plans.”
“What if he makes me pay?” Mother asks.
“Pay? Pay for what?”
“For you not coming over.”
“Mom, God the Father is not gonna make you pay for me not coming over.”
“He could try to persecute me.”
“Mom, God the Father is not gonna persecute you.”
“How do you know?” Mother asks.
“Cause I pray to him every night before I fall asleep.”
“Are you saying if I start to pray to God the Father maybe my neighbors won’t be so nosey and God the Father will not try to
persecute me?”
“Yeah, Mom. Try to pray to God the Father and ask him not to get you. Maybe that could work for you.”
“What if you’re wrong Beatie, and he is one of them?”
“One of who?”
“You know, a nosey neighbor.”
“Mom, why do you always have to think people and objects are not what they are? Huh, Mom?”
“Because, Beatie, people are not what they really seem. Neither is God.”
“Well, Mom I doubt anyone is out to get you.”
“How do you know?”
“Cause Mother, you’re just paranoid. Have you been taking your medicine? Stop being so paranoid.”
“Beatie, just because I’m paranoid
doesn’t mean no one is out to hurt me.”
“Either way Mom, I’m not coming over.”

PARTY TIME Saturday 9:00 PM
The record player plays disco songs in Lorena’s living room. It’s the dance
contest time. The contestants for the dance contest are: Lorena, Rosie, a shy fair-skinned redhead girl named Melanie, Sandy with her tight pink ribbon ponytail, and me!
“Come on, go,” Rosie tells Melanie. Melanie stands. Only her arms move. The music plays. We don’t watch her.
“Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” I say. Melanie shakes her arms.
I take a pee and flush the toilet. I grab a small round soap from a dish next to the sink. The soap could pass for a piece of chocolate out of chocolate truffle box. This looks yummy I wash my hands with the candy. I dry with a green terry cloth towel. I return to the dance contest. It’s Sandy’s turn now. Sandy shakes her hips and kicks her feet.
“Okay, who’s next?” Rosie asks.
“Me,” I say. Sandy sits down.
I stand. The music starts. The music is great. I kick and shake my hips. The girls clap and watch me.
“Beatie, do the splits!” Lorena says. I spin, jump, spread my legs in the air and land on the floor.
“That is so cool,” the girls say. “You win, Beatie.”
“Okay let’s play truth or dare,” Rosie says.
“Beatie, truth or dare?”
“Um, truth.”
Rosie’s eyelashes stick to her eyebrows.
“Okay, is it true your mother was some famous model at one time, but she went crazy or something like that?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I just wondered that’s all. You picked truth so you have to answer.”
“Yeah Beatie, you got to answer, you picked truth,” Lorena says.
“My mom might have been a model at one time. But she never went crazy.”
“That’s not what my mom told me,” Rosie says.
I scratch my head. “My mom never went crazy. Okay now it’s my turn, Rosie, truth or dare?”
“Dare,” she says.
“I dare you to eat this milky chocolate.”
I show Rosie the soap.
“Why do you want me to eat milky chocolate?”
Rosie asks.
I smile. “I can’t think of anything else to dare you with right now, so just put
it inside your mouth.”
Rosie places the milky chocolate on her tongue.
“Close your mouth,” I say. Rosie closes her mouth.
“Now hold it” I say.
Rosie spits out the soap. ”This isn’t chocolate, it’s frickin soap!” Rosie grabs her throat. Her eyes water. Rosie coughs.
“That’s funny, Beatie.” Lorena shakes her head. Rosie spits. The girls laugh.

ABOUT THE SAME TIME AN EMERGENCY PHONE CALL IS PLACED Saturday 9:03 PM
Operator: “This is the emergency operator, may I help you?”
“Yes, there’s a naked woman with red hair running around my apartment.”
Operator: “What’s your address?”
“925 Mapleshade. She’s swinging a cat.”
Operator: “The naked woman is swinging a cat?”
“Yeah, it looks like it could be a kitten. Now she’s swinging and hitting the cat on people’s front doors… Lady,
please no! She’s running away now.”
Operator: “Okay, we’ll send someone right over.”

LAND LORD CALLS NEXT DAY
“May I speak to your father?” The mans voice on the phone sounds important.
“Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“This is your mother’s landlord.”
“Hold on please.”
“Dad, phone call for you.”

FATHER GETS ON THE PHONE
“She what? What? No, dats a mistake. She seemed fine. No, I don’t know anything about why she would do dat. Yes, I guess I can come and get her stuff out of the
apartment.” Father hangs up the phone.
“Dad what happened? Huh? What happened, Dad?”
“The police… Someone called the police on Frata. They came and picked her up in a police car… She is back in dat hospital.”

GET THE VALUABLES FROM THE FLAT
“Wow, your ex wife sure had some party,” the landlord says.
We are inside Mother’s apartment. Father and I stand behind him. Father and the landlord’s head move around and around to the walls covered with grape soda and tomato soup. Father grabs a snot handkerchief out of his pocket and covers his nose and mouth. I walk into the kitchen and grab a dirty glass from the floor. The landlord opens the refrigerator.
“Ugh, that smells awful.” The landlord turns his neck and covers his lips.
The refrigerator rots with the smell of sour milk and fermented cans of cat food. I fill my glass with water from the dirty sink. Broken plates, bowls in the sink and on
the ground, empty soda cans and cherry pop decorate the white porcelain dishes like sticky thin see-through icing on a cake. Father kicks the plates out of the way with his dress shoe.
“Dis place a mess. How she live like dis?”
I take a sip of my water. I don’t say a thing. Cat poop is scattered on the dark blue shag carpet. Father and the landlord spin their heads together in unison. They take it all in. I take another drink of water from my dirty glass.
“I’m sorry but I’m gonna have to keep the deposit,” the landlord says.
My hand sets the empty water glass down near a dead roach on the counter. I move to the bathroom with urine-stained clothes strewn on the floor.” Inside the toilet, dark chocolate logs with a rotten egg smell fill the bowl halfway. I sit on the seat. I wipe my private area.
My neck turns with a click towards the bathtub. Cold water mixed with miniature party dresses, pink bikinis and eraser size, plastic green, doll shoes float
inside the tub. I see something else. Six naked, Barbie dolls rest aside four white fur paws. The paws stretched like tooth picks. Fur face down. The kitten Mother stole from another mother, now a dead, fiber fluff whale in a diluted sea of blue-eyed naked blondes.
I can’t look at it. I cover my eyes with a soiled towel. Mother is sick. What am I gonna do? It’s going to be okay Beatie
“Why do I have to go through this?”
I dunno
“Dad! Da-Dad! Mom drowned my Barbies…”
“What Barbies?”
“Come here look”
Father peeks inside the bathtub. “Damn what dat Crazy do dat for?” He lets the water out of the tub. The dead kitten sticks to the bottom of the tub while it
glides near the water plug. With his fingers, Father picks up the cat by it’s neck.
“Give me dat trash can” He points to a small wastebasket near the sink.
“Here Dad” I hand him the trash can.
“Mama Mia she crazy” Father places the soggy kitten in the garbage.
yuck…

Triptych by Tuxedomoon

On Hunting

Sri — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 01:22:32 +0000

Human beings are pretty terrifying creatures, from the perspective of other animals. I don’t mean in some kind of OMG EXTINCTION way, either. Humans are the global heavyweight champions of endurance running.

Primitive man would take some rocks – later on they’d use slings or spears or even bow and arrows, basically some type of projectile- and they would find an animal, and then start chasing it. The projectiles were mostly to harass the poor prey. A fit human being can run for hours and hours, whereas most of the animals humans ate can only sustain a sprint for a few minutes. Humans hunted by more or less running their prey to death. Or, rather, chasing them until they couldn’t run any more, at which point said animal would be killed. For some animals we found we could save effort by driving them over cliffs.

As for the other animals with great endurance, rather than hunting them, we domesticated them as herd animals. Ancient goats, sheep, cows, horses… those were the animals humans couldn’t outrun over marathon distances.

So, from the perspective of a delicious animal, a human being represents a predator that can strike from a distance, can thwart all but the most heroic attempts at escape, and will not stop chasing you until you die. And they hunt in packs. Like wolves.

Aliens should be afraid of humans, too. We’re crazy, for God’s sake. We constantly fight each other in horrible, bitter wars that frequently have no better reason to be fought than petty arguments. A bunch of humans went and executed one of their gods.

It’s nice to know that you’re a member of a completely badass species, huh? It sort of begins to make up for the terrible fatties we’ve become. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

P.S. For more information, check this out.

Lessons from the hunt

hsoi — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 00:03:58 +0000

On my first deer hunt I learned a lot of things.

What follows is a list of things I learned. It’s in no particular order. It’s probably far from comprehensive. But it is a list of things I learned. And while some things are specific to hunting or shooting, some things are just applicable to anything in life.

When adjusting the power on your scope, go for the lowest setting that still allows you to get a good hit. It’s a balancing act for sure. I found that, at least shooting at a deer 100 yards away, that going up to 9x on my 3-9x-40mm scope was a little too much. Yes it was better in terms of pure accuracy, yes that’s nice for benchrest shooting. But I can go a little lower in the field and still get an accurate shot. Sure I can see all sorts of fine detail about what I’m shooting at a higher power, but do I need that detail when I’m shooting? I only need as much detail as I need to shoot accurately enough to take the deer. And by going a little lower power I get a wider field of vision, which is also important, especially if you have to search for your target through the scope. I ended up using 7x most of the time. I could probably do something even more different. I’ll certainly play around with using even lower powers at the range.
Stick with your goals. Be sure you really know what your goals are and stick to them. You can refine them if that refinement is actually refining and staying true to the goal, but don’t disguise a fundamental change as a refinement.
Remember your fundamentals when shooting, especially follow-through. Yes, it’s well likely the deer will run off after hearing the crack of gunfire so it’s natural to want to look up quickly to watch where the deer goes. But the reality is if you abandon your fundamentals and don’t follow through you may miss and thus the only thing you’ll watch about the deer is him running off never to be seen again. If you follow-through and get a good hit, don’t worry about him running off because you’ll get the hit and he won’t go far. Do all things to ensure a good hit.
Visualize your success. See every detail. See the buck, yourself shouldering the rifle, slowing your breathing, seeing the exact point of entry in your crosshairs, slow trigger press, regaining the sight picture, working the bolt, follow through. Visualize every exact detail, especially of the “pressure situation” of taking him. That’s the situation where you don’t want bad things to happen, so by using positive and detailed visualization of your success you can help control those “bad things” (e.g. rushing, being tense, etc.).
Know anatomy. Always shooting broadside was like a script for me, “this is how you do it.” But why does it have to be? So long as you know anatomy and know the concepts, that provides you more options because life isn’t a script.
Know thyself. Know what your are capable of, and know your limitations. Be honest with your skills. Know your tools (rifle, ammo) and what it’s capable of.
Don’t quit, at least until you are forced. “Being forced” would be things like the sun has gone down so you can’t see and it’s past legal hunt times. Keep going right until the last possible moment, because you never know.
Dress warm. Conditions are likely to be worse than you expect, so plan accordingly.
Control peeing. I know, sounds gross to talk about. But you can’t let yourself get dehydrated nor can you have yourself needing to pee all the time. There’s debate about the impact of pee scent, but why take the chance? As well, it risks creating noise, it makes you have to get up and move and you could miss some action. For me, I’d drink a lot of water a couple hours before I’d be in the stand. About an hour later I’d have to pee, then just before I got to the stand but well away from the stand (e.g. where I parked my car) I’d pee. That held me well for hours. I always took a water bottle with me tho, and as soon as I was done hunting I’d chug the whole thing thus maximizing my ability to rehydrate yet get all peed-out before I’d be back in the stand.
Eating? Meh. Sure I ate, but not much. I thought about some snacks in the stand but no, that’s risking noise, distraction, smells… who knows. I just skipped it. I ate light but good in my “off times”, but overall didn’t eat much and didn’t miss it. The cool thing? After 3 days of hunting I had dropped about 4-5 pounds, only 1 of which was likely water weight. So hey, nice diet! Bottom line is you do need to eat and drink, but just be aware of how it affects your hunting.
Always be open to learning. There’s always something to learn, every moment you’re out there. Always be willing to learn and improve yourself. And hey, having the iPhone and decent 3G coverage while in the stand was useful too, because as I’d have questions I could easily look things up and read and get answers. Geeky me.
Ask questions. I made no bones about being a n00b. I asked every question I could to anyone and everyone I could.
Anti-scent? Dunno, but why not. I have no idea if anti-scent stuff actually works or not, but I see zero harm in using it. Speaking with my father-in-law (long time hunter), he thinks based upon the buck’s behavior (the one I tagged) that he was probably smelling something different but couldn’t make it out. So hey… anti-scent? I’ll keep trying it, but I don’t feel a need to go nuts with it. For instance, to wash everything in anti-scent soap, keeping it in a bag and only wearing it for the hunt, and so on. The simple field spray seemed good enough.
If he won’t move, you move. That is, if he’s in such a way you can’t get a clear shot, instead of you waiting for him to move, instead you move. Of course, this isn’t always possible, but just don’t allow yourself to freeze and wait only on him. Keep it in mind that you can move, then read the situation and play it as best as you can.
Don’t rush. Be Decisive. You can’t rush anything, but you also cannot dawdle. Sometimes executing a 90% plan is better than waiting to get a 100% perfect situation that may never come. Those 7 Habits of Successful Hunters (patience, perseverance, flexibility, decisiveness, physical conditioning, field shooting skill, determination) are really good advice. Worth memorizing.
Hunt your own hunt. That’s a play on a motorcycle saying of “ride your own ride.” That saying means many things, but basically that you should ride at your own pace and not try to keep up with others that may be in a different realm as you. For instance, if it’s some group ride and the ride leader is “speed racer” and you’re a novice, there’s really no way you can keep up with him, nor should you because it would be unsafe riding for you. So, hunt your own hunt. Do what works for you and is right for you. This is especially true when it comes to judging a trophy. To me, that buck with the broken antlers? He’s a great trophy to me, not because it’s some great set of antlers, but because of what it represents (first hunt, and all that I learned and experienced). To me, that’s the trophy; the antlers will be on my wall merely as a memento. To someone that’s been hunting for 20 years, they may have passed up my buck because of his antlers, wanting to get that big elusive monster. I made the mistake of using someone else’s yard stick to measure what my “trophy” would be, but I learned my lesson and it worked out well for me.
Always give thanks. Give thanks for the hunt. To the animal. To Mother Nature. To God. To your supportive friends and family. To whomever was involved. Never take things for granted. Always be thankful.

LET THE FUN BEGIN!

mothermari — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 23:44:41 +0000

Smoke on the water . . .

Bayou Woman — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 22:51:26 +0000

and mud on my truck!

Sing it with me now! Buh buh buuuuuh, buh buh buh buuuuuuh . . . .

Okay, snapping back to the present and not the sixties, or was it early seventies?

Against a negative feeling, I agreed to take Termite duck hunting at a different place this morning. Last night, I told him more than once I did not want to go. I did not stand my ground because I just didn’t want to face the cold, so I thought.

It was more like a wild duck chase than a duck hunt, except the boat never made it into the water. As we bounced along the make-shift road, which got soggier as we went, I thought we might be in trouble. When my front tires hit a slough, I knew we were in trouble.

No, my Chevy is NOT a four-wheel drive. She sank, and honey, she sank good. I ranted and I raved and I raved and I ranted some more–as mad at myself as I was at Termite.

Mad at myself for not checking out this launch in the daylight and for letting him pressure me last night into making the trip this morning.

Mad at him for not realizing how serious this situation could become–he had to remain cool in front of his new buddy.

In the cold, pre-dawn darkness, we unhooked the boat trailer and pushed it 50 yards back down that rutted road and off into some grass on somewhat more solid ground. Then they found things to put under my tires, so I could get a grip while they pushed from the front. And I can honestly say, this is one time I would have much rather been in a cold duck blind than where I was.

Once they had the boat hooked up to the truck again, I turned to the friend, speaking as calmly as I could.

“Sorry, buddy, but this hunt is officially over before it began.”

Let’s just say, I don’t think any other boy would have wanted to be in the passenger seat of my truck on that ride home.

In tones amazingly like a banchee . . .

“And one more thing SON! Next time I tell you I don’t want to go hunting because I have a bad feeling, TAKE MY WORD FOR IT. Don’t keep bugging me about it. Take NO as NO and let it go. I swear, son if you don’t become a lawyer, I think you missed your calling. ” *

“Oh wow, Mom, look at that!” (*see what I mean?)

“HAND ME MY CAMERA, AND DON’T TRY TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT, SON. YOU ARE NOT OFF THE HOOK YET!”

“Try it without the flash, Mom.”

“Stop with the diversions. You’re still gonna rinse all the mud off my truck when we get back to the camp AND you owe me a truck wash.”

Lesson Number 1009 I have learned being Termite’s mom:

Never, under any circumstances, believe him when he says,

“I’m sure, Mom, let’s just go.”

Muddy but (somewhat) wiser,

10.Deep Winter 2009/2010 Collection | A Detailed Look

givemeheadwear — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 18:18:39 +0000

Following the official look book, we now have a visual on the individual pieces from the first portion of 10.Deep’s “Hunt, or be Hunted” campaign. As we’ve seen, the collection features a solid selection of outerwear, fleece, button ups, headwear, etc. All infused with a heavy dose of the outdoors. As of today, the 10.Deep webshop is stocked with the selection of goods you see here. “Happy Hunting.”

10. Deep always has great fitteds and 5 panels, as we can see they are still mastering the head to toe design. See more from the 10.Deep Winter 2009/2010 Collection after the break.

Early One Thanksgiving Morning!

Scott — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 14:10:30 +0000

The sun was rising early one winter morning over the eastern horizon just barely peaking above the t

November's Wild Game

flandrumhill — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 14:05:49 +0000

In the past week, pheasants with a death wish crossed my path twice on separate occasions while I was driving. The first time, the corner of the vehicle caught a female who continued her flight into the woods after leaving a flurry of feathers in the air. The second time, an enormous male came within inches of the windshield as he flew to safety across the road.

Female Ring-necked Pheasant

There is an amazing wildness to the look of these large ground birds when seen up close. Feather patterns are strikingly beautiful and eye and beak colours assumed to be a dull grey from a distance, are anything but.

Although pheasants are visible year-round in Cow Bay, and are often seen crossing the roads in a leisurely manner, they seem even more out in the open at this time of year. I don’t recall seeing so many females along the side of the road in years past. I’m either getting better at spotting them or they’re getting bolder. Maybe they’re just trying to get out of the woods where hunting season is in full swing for their species until December 15th.

Earlier this week I noticed a male working very hard at directing a female’s movements in the front yard. I’m not sure what that was all about. Mating season is over and males usually congregate by themselves as the winter approaches. Maybe he was trying to tell her to stay here where it was safe, instead of wandering into the more dangerous woods.

Yesterday a ruffed grouse that didn’t want its picture taken suddenly appeared in the yard. They are much more secretive than pheasants and quick runners. Their feathers certainly help them stay well camouflaged, so it may have been hanging around for some time before I managed to see it.

November’s shorter daylight hours bring about a change in the colour of snowshoe hares, making them easier to spot on the landscape.

Snowshoe Hare in November

A favorite resting area for them during the day is under the spruce and fir trees. Although they’re visible year round, their lighter fur in the fall is more eye-catching than usual, even on grey rainy days such as this one.

This particular one looks quite rounded and ready for the winter. But if the snow doesn’t fly soon, it will have to be extra careful to keep itself hidden from predators.

Snowshoe hares, ring-necked pheasants and ruffed grouse are all hunted in Nova Scotia at this time of year.

For more information on regulations regarding hunting small game in Nova Scotia, see http://www.gov.ns.ca/natr/hunt/smlgame.asp

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October/November

paradisevalleyuk — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 12:08:29 +0000

On the second Saturday in November I stood atop Winslow Hill and imagined myself as an autumn leaf, vulnerable, light as a feather, about to be blown away into yonder. With hurricane force winds blasting in from the sea, the whole of Bowleaze Cove was a bubbling mass of white water. As I tried to photograph the scene, with just a fraction of zoom lens protruding, my camera bucked and weaved like a rebellious stallion while the wind and the rain took its revenge on me.

Later that day I went to worship once again at the awesome reality of Chesil Beach in a force 10 when the waves provide the thunder and the spray the lightning. Behind me the valley was brimming with rain and hunkering down for the worst storm of the year.

Three days later and I’m strolling due south across the centre of the valley. The dogs are hunting and quartering in front of me. On my left the deep shadows are playing games in amongst the strip lynchets. On my right a wondrous and idyllic tableau is formed by the White Horse and a field full of sheep. Underfoot is sticky and soggy as the rainwater drains down from the hill. Ahead of me the A353 snakes across the lip of the valley and I wonder when the next motorcyclist will be severely injured up there. It happens on a fortnightly basis and what does the Highway Authority do? Absolutely nothing of course. Dorset County Council sits on its fat, collective, complacent backside while young people are grotesquely mutilated on dangerous roads. It is nothing short of blatant, inexcusable negligence.

So while the valley is a cure for many of the stresses and strains of everyday life, it is not apart from them. In fact, I make a plea to all driving south down the A353 to look left towards the sea. Paradise Valley is far too distracting.

Up on the hill, the yellow gorse flowers are back and I’m marvelling again at the hardiness of the sheep. When Capone, Carla and I go up there for an hour and a half we come back and spend the rest of the day in heated shelter. Recently, we’ve had as long a spell of consistently high winds as I can remember. I hate to think what it must be like for those sheep at 3 o’clock in the morning!

In an hurrah to the height of the pheasant season, this morning Carla demonstrated the superiority of her nose and hunting skills.

We climbed up and over the hump that sits on the northern shoulder of White Horse Hill. Coming down the far side is a favourite place for deer but Carla hunted high and low to no avail.

Out into the main field where the stubbl;e is thick from the last crop of barley and suddenly she’s put up a hen pheasant, fluttering back up to the hump. Then there are three breaking from cover, another back up the hump and two curling round towards me. The third is rising, screaming, soaring as I swing right through it and see a clear 20 feet of lead before I pull the trigger.

Another is up quartering me from right to left, accelerating and rising, actually beneath me due to the lie of the land but tumbled cleanly out of the air as another pair break right and the last one falls to my second barrel. Carla looks bright, fulfilled and chuffed to bits.

Of course no dogs, birds or people were injured in the making of this film that plays only on the ultimate high definition, widescreen inside your head. Everything except the birds and the dog were imaginary!

The hunters' tactics

League Against Cruel Sports — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 11:41:03 +0000

This week’s note from Douglas Batchelor, Chief Executive

In a democracy one of the key ingredients of due and fair process is the freedom, and of course, the reliability of the information provided to both the voters and to the politicians who seek their votes.

It has been a constant feature of the campaign to end the cruelty of hunting that the hunters have consistently sought to misinform both the public and the political process. Over the years the misinformation and downright false claims that have been made public have been exposed for what they are and the record put straight. But now we have a more sinister development taking place; the behind the scenes campaigning tactics of the pro cruelty lobby.

Tactic number one: Shoot the messenger
Shooting the messenger takes many forms, from; they are all animal rights activists, to he or she has a criminal record and or is a paedophile, through to that information has been got illegally and can’t be used. Rather than address the issue of hunting or shooting, the first move by the accused is to attack the methods and the motivations of the person who has tried to film their activities. It is as if the crime can be made to disappear by rubbishing the witness.

Tactic number two: Tell a bare faced lie
There are people in the hunting fraternity who are prepared to lie under oath and to claim that the witnesses to the crime are in effect making false statements and that what they allege did not happen or was not seen by other people who were present.

Tactic number three: Intimidate the witness
There are people associated with the hunts who make it as clear as they can to witnesses, that it would not be a good idea to upset them, or violence will follow. This can take the form of verbal aggression, physical aggression and threats to visit them at home. “We know where you live!”

Tactic number four: Make a false claim to the police
The latest wheeze by some hunters is to get an early call in to the police to claim that their lawful activity is being disrupted by hunt saboteurs. They claim that children are being verbally abused and hunt followers and supporters are being stalked by vigilantes. The police are getting used to this particular tactic, but nonetheless are obliged to take such claims seriously until they are proven incorrect.

Tactic number five: Seek to mislead the police and would be law abiding followers
At the start of the day some hunt masters and huntsmen announce that their intention is to follow an artificial scent and to obey the law. This claim is made despite their knowing that arrangements have been made with terrier men to bolt foxes for hunting, and or that no trail has been laid, or that the trail is deliberately laid where there is the greatest likelihood of supposedly accidentally finding a fox.

Tactic number six: Claim harassment
They’ll write to the Chief Constable claiming legal hunters are being harassed by vigilantes and animal rights activists, and seeking police protection for the local hunt from any who seek to monitor their activities. The letters are usually signed by a well known name, either locally or nationally, so that the Chief Constable is bound to read them. The letters also seek to provide information which puts the known monitors in the worst possible light so that the police will be less inclined to believe any claims they may make.

Tactic number seven: Spread the rumours in the press
Write to the media controllers saying that country sports do not get enough coverage and that they should get more because they allegedly are a core part of rural life. This claim is widely accepted by media controllers who wrongly assume that the countryside actually supports bloodsports, despite the polling evidence that the vast majority do not.

Tactic number eight: Criticise the polling
Claim that any poll which produces evidence of public support for the ban on cruelty to animals for sport is supported by the public, is a flawed poll. Despite the fact that poll after poll by nationally and internationally respected pollsters shows support for the Hunting Act and opposition to repeal, the bloodsports lobby continue to claim that the polls are not right and do not indicate the true public view.

Tactic number nine: Write to the press
Write to papers claiming to be the true voice of the countryside and intimating that the countryside wants and needs wild mammal hunting for sport as a method of pest control. The assertion is constantly made in the press that the countryside wants hunting. No polling evidence is produced to support the claim and the fox, hare and deer are demonised as pests needing to be chased around and killed by hunters because of the awful damage that they supposedly do to chickens, lambs, crops and trees.

Tactic number ten: Write to politicians
Write to politicians claiming that the number of people who support the ban on hunting for sport is a tiny minority of the population and that their views can be safely disregarded because there are so few of them.

The bloodsports apologists fly in the face of the facts when they claim that there are not many people who care. Opposition to hunting for sport has been at over 80% for the last twenty five years. Since the passage into law of the Hunting Act 2004, support for the ban on hunting for sport has actually increased.

The suggestion that voter preferences with regard to animal welfare can be disregarded is disingenuous to say the least. While research tells us that most votes are usually determined by the big ticket issues, there is also clear evidence of other issues being relevant when it comes to two quite separate voter choices. The first being whether or not to vote at all and the second being who to vote for. Issues like animal welfare and hunting according to the research certainly affect turnout. If the hunters believe that they are irrelevant in election terms, why are they working so hard for Vote-OK and why are they telling election candidates that the votes of those opposed to hunting don’t matter and can be disregarded?

Finally it is worth remembering that some of the people who abuse animals for sport and some who support such abuse, are prepared to lie and to cheat and to commit crimes in order to bring back hunting. Make sure you know where the local politicians really stand with regard to hunting for sport. Take nothing on trust. You need to get a firm and public commitment from them to Keep Cruelty History.

Image of the Day - 13

League Against Cruel Sports — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 09:00:17 +0000

Another example of the horrors of hunting they’d rather you didn’t see. Here, someone holds a gun to the head of hound, before blowing its brains out for some reason best known to him. After all, these perverts get a kick from killing, so it’s hardly surprising.

Support our hunting campaign here.