tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61630047857841382542024-03-08T06:34:21.369-05:00The Wild LifeTo promote hunting and celebrate the tradition of the outdoors.Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.comBlogger304125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-57659004232454705022014-06-04T15:13:00.000-04:002014-06-04T15:13:58.364-04:00North Carolina Gobbler Cross Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>(Originally published at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>.)</b><br />
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Since I'm a forthright and honest guy who wants to write off this trip for tax purposes, I feel I must come clean about other events that occurred in North Carolina at the end of April. If you recall, I had a <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/14676/knocked-punch-drunk-by-a-turkey-gun/" target="_blank" title="Knocked Punch Drunk by a Turkey Gun">shotgun mishap</a> on the second day of the hunt that caused me to miss a nice gobbler. Add this to <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/14332/how-to-miss-a-turkey/" target="_blank" title="How to Miss a Turkey">a miss the Opening Weekend of Florida's season</a>, and 2014 was a pretty humiliating and painful year for errors and screw-ups.<br />
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Well, this wasn't quite as bad as that, as I actually put feather on the ground...let's make it short and sweet, because that's how the hunting tale unfolded.<br />
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Harris and I had flown to North Carolina to hunt gobblers on property that I've deer hunted for a decade, thanks to Uncle Dennis and his family. 10 years ago there were almost no birds. Over the years we noticed more and more thanks to re-introduction practices by NWTF. One piece of farming land known as Uncle Harry's was especially loaded. (None of these people are actual kin to me by blood; through the course of 20-odd years hunting together, though, the difference is only academic.)<br />
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Leading into Uncle Harry's is what's named the Sleepy Hollow Road, a meandering path along a creek splitting agriculture fields and a large block of planted pines. The turkeys will roost in these pines or along the water.<br />
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After arriving at Dennis' camp Thursday evening and getting our things settled, Harris and I collected our gear and set out for Harry's to roost a gobbler or perhaps get a shot on one.<br />
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We slowly walked down Sleepy Hollow, calling periodically. On the first field on the left we noticed a hen trotting towards the woodline, clearly spooked. I told Harris I would be shocked if the next field didn't have a bird in it - it always holds birds. With enough brush and small trees growing out of the creek and vines snaking down from the pines, we would be pretty well-screened as we advanced down the road.<br />
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Sure enough, there was blood-red head visible through the tangle.<br />
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Harris and I both dropped to the ground and started to crawl to a spot where we could close the distance for a shot . Harris, though, did not see the tom and was unsure when or where to move and elected to stay put. All I could see was that red head and whiffs of his dark body. I called once or twice, and he'd break into strut but never gobble. Trying to keep trees and brush between us as much as possible, I elbowed to a spot where I could get a clear poke if he were to accommodate his positioning.<br />
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For a solid 5 - 10 minutes I held on all-fours, vicious Sampson County skeeters darting my plumber's crack. The gobbler would sift in and out of view between the fresh green Spring-unfurled leaves as he moseyed parallel to the creekbank searching for his love as I attempted to will him into a pie-plate gap in the vegetation where I'd have a clean shot. I would pull the trigger if his still-bright red noggin would center in that space. In a quick motion, I'd have to flip to a sitting position and quickly shoot. One thing was certain, my knees and back weren't taking much more abuse bent over trying to hold steady. The gobbler had grown nervous, too, as no hen ever emerged from the road.<br />
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For once, things worked out as he meandered to the gap, head down and slightly angled away as he was sneaking to safety. The jig was up, one way or the other. I committed to Kill Mode, flipped around and fired in about a second, flopping him in the field. It was a fine piece of shotgunning with the 835 <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/14676/knocked-punch-drunk-by-a-turkey-gun/" target="_blank" title="Knocked Punch Drunk by a Turkey Gun">that would betray me the next evening</a>.<br />
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Until this point, Harris still had not seen the bird but had picked up on him thrashing about and noticed his tail feathers on the edges of his fan were shorter than those in the middle. I had no idea as I fought across the ditch and raced into the field to claim my first NC gobbler, only to find that instead of 8 - 10 inches of beard there was 4 - 5...and that's being generous. Serious ground-shrinkage, friends.<br />
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I never in a thousand years would've guessed that was a jake. Hunkered down in the road within shooting distance but with an obscured view, I didn't take the time to check if in fact he had a long beard. When he did strut, I couldn't make out his entire fan. But he looked big and dark and strutted. The other jakes I'd seen the previous weeks of hunting were mousy critters, not animals holding fort fanning in the middle of a field where dominant birds could easily locate and spur them down the totem pole. Excited and with poor visibility is usually a bad combo, and that held true to form on this day.<br />
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Nothing was illegal, just not my preference for this trip. Discouraged, yet still pumped about executing a fun hunt, I jogged back to Sleepy Hollow and attempted to toss the jake across the creek so I could navigate it myself. Well, he rolled down into the water, and in my efforts to retrieve him I managed to yank out all of his tail feathers. Impressive photos, he did not make. Matted down and soaking-wet scrawny, it was a hard sell to make-believe he was anything but a jake after the fact, nubby spurs and stunted beard notwithstanding.<br />
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Had he wandered in clear view like <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/14676/knocked-punch-drunk-by-a-turkey-gun/" title="Knocked Punch Drunk by a Turkey Gun">a trio would the next morning</a>, he would have lived. While I hate making excuses, these things happen. But the more I considered the situation, the more disappointment waned. It was an excellent spot-and-stalk hunt on a treasured piece of property with a good friend. I guess I'm not as embarrassed as I thought, and it'd be wrong to diminish that bird because of a few inches of beard.<br />
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Just need to be more careful next time on target identification.<br />
<br />Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-1594784448641393862014-04-30T08:55:00.001-04:002014-04-30T08:56:25.026-04:00An Osceola in the Rain<i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank"></a></i><br />
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<i>(Originally Posted at</i> <i><b><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a>)</b></i><br />
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The rain was no surprise - hell, it seemed to pour on every other hunt this turkey season. At this point, it was laughable, and the mirthful radar displayed waves of yellow and red rolling in from the southwest straight into the Big Bend.<br />
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The property of scrub and planted pines and cypress heads in Rosewood I hunted the last weekend of Florida's Spring Turkey was more of a bog. Without any major creek systems or ditches to move water combined with a solid sheet of limestone 20-ft. underground, the persistent downpours over the previous six weeks had nowhere to go other than through merciful evaporation.<br />
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So, rain - no surprise. The shock was my ability to stave off complete inebriation. When it's raining, I'm a full-blown pessimist. In these surroundings with these conditions, the only reasonable thing to do - in my sick mind - is swale bourbon, laugh too loud, and eat a huge steak by nightfall. Beyond the safety and legal ramifications of this, once the whiskey starts flowing with any rapidity, my feet are kicked up and the hunt is over. Call it advancing maturity, call it triumph of the human spirit, call it the bloodlust to kill one more turkey, but I avoided this urge. I just felt I'd have a chance at action later in the day if I kept it between the buoys, as Alan Jackson would say.<br />
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I can't say it was easy being trapped in the cabin, despite its comforts. The Friday morning hunt was cut short by howling winds - my turkey calling attempts blew away only slightly faster than the sideways pine needles. And from previous conversations with Mike, the owner of the property, the gobblers hadn't been all that vocal this year, dampening my enthusiasm further. Back in camp before nine, we settled down for breakfast and watched Bay News 9 reveal our fate via iPhone.<br />
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(Quick aside - if someone had told you 20 years ago that there would be a device that let you talk, text, check e-mail, sports scores, weather stations, and other websites - wink-wink - how much would you have predicted it'd cost? $10,000? More?)<br />
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By 10:30 there was a solid downpour. We looked through hundreds of trail camera pictures of drier days to bide the time. The hogs on this property are ridiculous. You almost never saw the same one, yet the property is under 90-acres. And we noticed most of the gobblers moved after noon and later into the evening.<br />
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In particular, we noticed one large tom sporting a rainbow of a beard. He was clearly a mature animal that had been recently ambling between two locations from 2 to about 5pm. Three jakes were frequently photographed, as well, and at this point, that would be game on. I set it to my mind that I could get one of these birds if given half-a-chance, and maybe a pig, too. <br />
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At four, the rains ceased. The radar had showed a break in the weather. Dad and I hurriedly donned our gear and set to the woods. I chose one of the areas where the gobbler had been seen in the last few days, and set up in the only dry place I could find, a treestand. Adding to this unconventional arrangement, I was toting my Ruger No. 1 .25-06. I'll happily debate another day the political correctness of turkey hunting with a rifle, but with the pigs and coyotes on the property, I wanted to be ready for anything.<br />
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It didn't take long. After settling in, I loudly yelped a few times. Within minutes, one of those jakes came splish-splashing down a trail, poking around for a potential lover. He sadly found it. That Ruger loves killing turkeys. I shot him very carefully in the neck to avoid ruining any breast meat, and he dropped in a puddle at 20-yards, soaking his feathers. All turkey are worthy opponents to me; hate to see them all drowned-rat-like. Of course, with the weather conditions he'd endured this Spring, this was probably a constant style for him.<br />
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I suppose I could have let him pass and held out for the bigger gobbler. I could have...but a bird in the hand and all that. Actually, Dad shot immediately after me. He had spooked a few hogs off while walking into his area, but things had settled down and he watched as that tom started closing the distance. At my shot, the gobbler changed directions, and Dad fired a desperation round. He should have been carrying a rifle.<br />
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We got back to camp soon after dark. I selfishly pined for a pig to wind down the day, but one never ambled by. As we packed our things away, the rain began to spit again. I stowed the jake in a trash bag and put him on ice to clean at the house and show the kids. As is my tradition, I did not get out of bed to hunt Saturday morning, my last of the season in Florida. The sheets were too comfortable, the 6-week season plenty long and exhausting, and I finally got to those drinks I'd be meaning to enjoy.<br />
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This time, though, they were of a celebratory nature and not dedicated to the rains.<br />
<br />Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-63224601791508323452014-01-30T09:43:00.001-05:002014-01-30T09:44:51.867-05:00Get Ducks or Die Trying<a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13809/get-ducks-or-die-trying/" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12.222222328186035px; line-height: 17.33333396911621px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="Get Ducks or Die Trying"><img alt="DSC_2131edited" class="attachment-large wp-post-image" src="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2014/01/DSC_2131edited-600x578.jpg" height="578" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="DSC_2131edited" width="600" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12.222222328186035px; line-height: 17.33333396911621px;"></span><br />
Originally Posted at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.67;">I’m not sure if I should blame Obama or Phil Robertson for the difficulty in finding duck hunting ammunition this year. Last year – almost to the day –</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.67;"> </span><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11665/a-plea-to-local-retailers-before-next-duck-season/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.67; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="A Plea to Local Retailers Before Next Duck Season">I moaned about the shortage of waterfowl rounds in local stores, begging them to stock up for 2013-14</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.67;">. I said then not to blame Obama, but the beginning of 2013 witnessed an ammo grab unlike anything we’d witnessed since the ’90′s. Folks were literally snatching whatever they could off of shelves as panic spread that the President was going to restrict firearm ownership, a threat no one should have taken too seriously, in hindsight, since he actually put VP Biden in charge of the duty.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.67;">So while my plea may have been heard, it’s possible there was little retailers could do as manufacturers simply could not keep up with the demand. While the factories have been churning out the goods as fast as possible, supplies stretched pretty thin into this season. Even the big online stores were bare come mid-December. Unless a 10-gauge was your idea of a teal gun, options were slim.</span></div>
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All of this has coincided with an upturn in duck hunter numbers. I’d have to see Duck Stamp sales to be certain, but there’s been a palpable increase in people banging away at birds this year. Three years ago I argued that <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/01/duck-hunting-trend-and-2010-11-hunts.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">the popularity of duck hunting</a> was about to explode. It wasn’t my best post – I mean, I quote Britney Spears; who does this? – but my theory has largely been correct, and that was without anticipating the arrival of <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Duck Dynasty</em>, a phenomenon unlike any other to hit the hunting world, <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Swamp People</em> included.</div>
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Assuming you’ve not been in a coma over the last 18 months, I’ll go ahead and skip over the rise and potential fall of that show, but will say that you’d think a major corporation like Wal-Mart could help out actual sportsmen and stock their shelves with whatever steel shot they could get their hands on given the program’s popularity and, presumably, studying hunting market trends. The Robertsons are so featured in your local Wally-World, it’s entirely conceivable that they constitute a branch of the Walton Family Tree. For Rudolph’s sake, cashiers wore Santa hats with duck bills on them throughout the holidays…but try finding a box of 12-gauge #4 steel anywhere in a Central Florida store location. The irony is not lost on me.</div>
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But some people have had them stockpiled – there’s been a lot of blasting this year on public waters.</div>
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My first inkling that we might be in trouble was for the September Teal STA draws in late-summer. These used to be a cinch to pull. When our group produced one permit out of a dozen of us applying, we surmised something was up. But, hey, it’s hot September in South Florida and online applications are easy to fill out. When rubber hits the road and skeeters, surely more than a few folks would pull up lame and leave available spots open for the few walk-in hunters willing to sacrifice a pint of blood and sweat for four teal.</div>
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Fast forward to Harris and I sprinting down a line of two dozen vehicles all there to register for a teaspoon of open spots. We entered our names at the last second and watched those openings fill with fellows sporting the Uncle Si beards and <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">DD</em> shirts. A whole horde of luckless hunters wheeled back home in the dark that morning.</div>
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It’s also possible I’m suffering the early onset of post-traumatic stress disorder after a hunt down at STA 1-W a few weekends ago. We got surrounded – as in we would have been the bulls-eye on a dart board – by other hunters taking it to the plug on ducks near and high, but mostly high. Anything slower than a teal had no chance of making it to us within AA-Gun range. I watched a hen shoveler tightly circle far overhead several times and had hopes she’d decoy. She finally circled too far and went totally vertical amid the shower of steel coming off the barrels of a group who was incapable of docking the duck calls in their shirt pockets and whose shot rained on us every time they pulled the trigger. They had pulled such shenanigans all morning. The shoveler was the lucky one.<br />
<a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2014/01/photo_31.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignright size-medium wp-image-13827" src="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2014/01/photo_31-e1390439640347-224x300.jpg" height="300" style="border: 0px; display: inline; float: right; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" width="224" /></a></div>
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But the STA’s have become well-known over the last five years as word has spread about their productivity. What really caught me off-guard has been the hunter activity along the West Coast this fall. What was once a lonely, often unproductive, game of merganser and diver hunting for those crazy enough to brave the salt spray, extreme tides and oyster bars has become a little crowded. Not, of course, by public lake standards, but never have I seen so many <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11510/building-duck-boat-blinds-the-florida-way/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Building Duck Boat Blinds – The Florida Way">frond blinds</a> on the tips of mangrove islands. And twice this year we’ve been cut off by newbies wailing on mallard calls hoping to turn passing mergies. Fun times.</div>
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This is all a double-edged sword. It’s wonderful that so many people have taken up this sport. Allies are being recruited even as we duel for the same hunting spots and curse over skyblasting. I don’t watch Duck Dynasty nor purchase their shirts, hats, band-aids, or board games, but I will confess to being overjoyed to see young people at ramps and check-in stations so intrigued with that crew that they’re willing to plunge into a duck blind on a cold morning, Jack.</div>
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For our group, the increase in hunters has caused us to spread out and try new places this year with a great deal of success, I might add. The duck hunting bubble will burst for a number of people as they spread their wings into other outdoor pursuits. For our group, not much slows us down when it comes to ducks. Except, of course, a lack of shotgun shells.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-74529699340320037392013-12-24T09:08:00.002-05:002013-12-24T09:09:11.572-05:00The Thanksgiving Boar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b style="line-height: 1.67;">Originally posted at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i></b></div>
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It is an autumn of Anything Can Happen. Witness Auburn, for God sake. After a year of trying to catch up with him, I had no illusions of killing this boar on this day or any other. But, there he stood in broad daylight behind my 16-ft. ladder stand Thanksgiving morning, nose up in the crisp 30-degree air, attempting to sniff out any danger.</div>
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Since he started visiting our lease last fall, I have collected hundreds of pictures of this boar, always around midnight. He survived that hunting season without being noticed. I bragged in a <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11793/learning-a-lease-and-the-return-of-trail-camera-pics/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">post back in February that he’d be BBQ by mid-March</a>. By late-March <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12065/the-hog-trap-is-set/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="The Hog Trap is Set">we set a trap</a> only for him to disappear and us losing interest in driving down to check it every other day. When he did pop back up over the summer, he religiously visited a particular corn pile every night. I picked a day on the calendar with a full moon, planning a lunar assault on this stud. Luckily, before I sacrificed sleep and blood to the skeeters, I checked the trail camera the day before the hunt to find him vanished once more.</div>
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Though I prefer doing so for deer, I could no longer dump corn on the ground. He siphoned it up too quickly when present and accounted for. He’d show up periodically through late summer and early bowseason, but the timed tripod feeder just didn’t interest him as much as the all-night buffets. Good riddance, I thought. Though he was a trophy animal, corn is too expensive these days to waste on him.<br />
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The uninitiated generally don’t understand – or just don’t care – how hard it is to hunt big boars in a free-range, non-dog hunting situation. Nocturnal is their MO. By the time they develop their swagger and linebacker shoulders, trophy boars have had run-ins with hunters, predators, hog dogs and other boars. While they’re tough as can be, big boars are also pretty cagey and pay close attention to their surroundings to avoid confrontations. Those noses are not easily fooled. Their eyesight is limited but still capable of discerning an excited hunter in a tree.</div>
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This is why I held my breath and Ruger No. 1 still while his nose periscoped the atmosphere for signs of alarm. Fortunately, he was not heading towards the feeder. The wind was blowing right towards it and a little button buck who could not have cared less. The boar would have cared and been gone before I could have clicked the safety off, I guarantee.</div>
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Where he was going, I can’t say. While the corn feeder is a plus, my stand is positioned at an intersection of game trails that run North to South on the property. If there is a weakness for wild boars, it is that they have a tendency to use the same two or three trails on the way to feeding to bedding and back again. I had noticed he’d been wearing down this trail in recent weeks, though the camera on the feeder wasn’t revealing his presence. Per usual, the trick was being in the right spot at the right time, in this instance right after a cold front had pushed south, plummeting the Central Florida temps into the 30′s. It’s weather to get most animals on their feet in the mornings.</div>
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Once the boar was satisfied the coast was clear, he continued on the trail, badly limping. It appeared his front right shoulder had been injured. About 10 minutes prior, I had heard a shot from the orange grove to the south. Was I finishing off the walking wounded?</div>
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I settled the .25-06 behind his shoulder. At 15 yards, he filled the Nikon glass, even on 3X. I squeezed the trigger, and he never broke stride or left the trail. For a moment, I thought I had missed. The No. 1 being a single shot, I frantically reached into the box of Remingtons for another round, but it was unnecessary.</div>
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The boar wandered 30 yards down the path, spun in a circle and dropped. I hurried down the stand, rifle reloaded to ensure he’d given up the ghost. Satisfied it was over, I pulled out my iPhone to snap a picture to send to people. As I leaned in for the photo, he let out a final grunt and lunged up, but that was the end of it – the King was dead and my pants very nearly soiled.</div>
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In 20 years of hog hunting, I’d say he’s in my Top-3 boars – certainly my best in the last 10 seasons. I loathe to estimate a hog’s weight, but he was a solid 250-275 lbs. I’ve shot smaller hogs with bigger cutters, but his were a very respectable 3 1/4-inches with worn wetters. He stunk only like big boars do, and his front right leg had been broken at the shoulder and not by another’s bullet. An eight-inch long thin scar appeared indicative of him getting that leg caught in wire of some kind, either from a fence, trap, or snare. Perhaps this injury is why he’d disappear for such lengths of time – he just couldn’t get around like he used to, though he clearly wasn’t missing many meals.</div>
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While I’m thrilled to have finally caught up with the boar, it is kind of depressing to know he won’t be on the trail camera in the future; however, I know it’s only a matter of time before another takes his place. I’ll get that one, too.</div>
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Eventually.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-4644167625337216032013-11-30T10:04:00.001-05:002013-11-30T10:05:24.933-05:00The 2013 North Carolina Hunt<a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13331/the-2013-north-carolina-hunt/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="The 2013 North Carolina Hunt"><img alt="DSC_2005edited" class="attachment-large wp-post-image" height="400" src="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2013/11/DSC_2005edited-600x400.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="DSC_2005edited" width="600" /></a><br />
Also published at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>.<br />
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I returned home from Sampson County, North Carolina last Thursday with three deer in the coffin cooler. A doe and cowhorn spike were felled in the normal fashion on the final evening, blessedly topping off the Igloo. The other deer, though – well, that was a doozy.</div>
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That Monday morning I invited Dirty J to hunt with me in the stand I had drawn, the same stand from which I got the <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11230/double-bucks-in-nc/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Double Bucks in NC">two bucks last year</a>. It was Dirty’s birthday, and we don’t hunt together much anymore. Well, soon after legal light a doe bailed into the field to my right followed by a buck. We glassed him and determined he was a shooter – easily had antler an inch or so beyond the ears. At under 100 yards, it was Dirty’s chip shot to make.</div>
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Problem was, the deer came from downwind and got spooky. He pranced to the middle of the field as I was imploring Dirty to shoot. By the time the buck came to a rest he was directly between the stand and the fledgling sunrise, and there was apparently just enough glare in the scope to prohibit a shot. The buck kept on moving away towards the creek bottom on the opposite side of the field.</div>
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Up until this point, my .300 Win. Mag. had been leaning against the corner of the stand. I slid a round in the chamber, heaved the heavy-barreled Savage, and settled into a solid rest. By the time I picked up on the deer, he was at the farthest edge of the field, 300 – 350 yards, and I told Dirty I had the shot. Standing in the early morning dark of the far treeline, I could barely make out the outline of his white tail. When I thought I had him adequately squared up for a broadside shot, that 180-grain XP3 boomed across the open with an audible whack! when it hit the target. Dirty said he saw the buck kick up and run nose down into the woods.</div>
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It was still early so we held tight and discussed what had happened. We had the deer marked well where he went into the woods and were excited to put hands on antlers. I did mention how odd it was that the buck held up on the edge and didn’t enter the woods after being spooked. We watched a young doe piddle around a feeder for a while before walking down to check things out.</div>
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We found the trail easy enough and the buck shortly after. I called up to Dirty, who had beaten me to the animal, to give me a tine report. He called back, “It’s a spike!”</div>
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I trotted up, in complete disbelief, and sure enough, it was a younger deer with a whole 2 inches of antler poking off his head.</div>
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I was stunned. We went through all kinds of ludicrous scenarios: someone else had shot the deer the night before, maybe a poacher or farmer. But we would have heard the shot from camp since you can’t hunt on Sundays. Plus, this was a fresh trail, not one that had sat over night. We walked past the deer looking to see if the blood trail continued as if the buck I intended to shoot ran past this one. It took at least 15 minutes to come to terms with the fact that I had downed this deer. There was no denying the evidence.</div>
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So what happened? Well, there’s no question the original buck was a different animal. We put binos on him and agreed he was a shooter well before anyone raised a rifle. Best we figured was the buck did in fact go into the woods, and this was a different deer we had not seen prior. I simply lost track of the big one in the shuffle of rifles and can’t say what Dirty was doing in the interim. The dead deer had acted all spooky before the shot leading me to believe he was the bigger one. The bigger one probably boogered him, though, making him all antsy. At the distance and the dark – and we weren’t dealing with a 150-class buck to begin with – I simply failed to notice the antlers, concentrating more on a steady shot behind the shoulder.</div>
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There was another possibility that I knew those in camp would go for – it was all BS, and we had buck fever. Hand to Bible, that was not the case. I’m still stupefied as I write this but certainly pleased to have the venison. And it was the longest shot – easily – I’ve made on a deer. The three longest shots I’ve made have now come from that stand.</div>
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So that cross-up was a first for me, but it was that kind of week. Camp Rookie Alex shot a 7-pt in an antler, concussing him enough that Alex was able to get a second shot and ground him. Can’t say I’ve seen that before. Darin, uncharacteristically, shot a button buck. Gene, even more uncharacteristically, failed to check his zero before that morning’s hunt and promptly missed a nice buck. His pattern was 7-inches off.</div>
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Tim Long with a coastal North Carolina 8pt.</div>
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Others did it right. Don killed a dark 6-point, and Tim shot a pretty 8-pt. Several does were added to the pot. A couple other smaller bucks were taken.</div>
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I did see one monster buck Tuesday morning. I was overlooking a cut cornfield while sitting in a <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11256/toilets-for-treestands/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Toilets for Treestands">Porta-Potty stand</a> when a big ol’ boy with tall tines and lots of them came boiling into the open from the highway at a considerable distance. Something had spooked him because he was getting after it. At his closest point, he may have been 250 yards. But with him moving too fast, at that distance, and one screw-up under my belt already, I was in no mood to start slinging lead and possibly wounding him.</div>
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Plus, as much as I love big bucks, the deer hunting on this trip is always incidental to the friendships around that camp. We’ve been hunting together a long time but only see one another once or twice a year anymore. Thankful we can all still make this trip. It snowed Tuesday night which made it hard to get out of bed Wednesday morning. Even having been in <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13238/montana-mule-deer-hunting/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Montana Mule Deer Hunting">Montana the week before</a>, that was the coldest I’d been in a while, certainly unexpected for coastal North Carolina.</div>
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Already looking forward to next year and to seeing everyone again. Maybe I’ll catch up with one of those bigger bucks then. If not, it’s always a good hunt.</div>
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Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-67503563359750283812013-11-22T10:20:00.000-05:002013-11-22T10:30:45.980-05:00The 2013 Montana Trip - A Two-Parter(These two stories are also published at <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank"><i>Good Hunt</i></a>)<br />
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<b>Montana Mule Deer Hunting</b><br />
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Harris and Trace with Trace's 2013 Montana Mule Deer</div>
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Curiously, for a place where you can see miles in every direction, the mule deer on this property popped out of nowhere. You’d sit there, glassing for hours on end with nothing but binocular burn in your retinas, when all of a sudden they’d line every hill like in a Western movie when the White Eye is in peril from a Bad Guy and the sympathetic Native Americans silently assemble a Show of Force that springs the man from danger. In this case, though, the mulies were the ones in danger.</div>
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Once satisfied the coast was clear below, they’d slither down the sides of these hills following well-worn trails of generations of deer. A few would pop out of the deep coulees between the hills unannounced; but either way, they’d all congregate – 50 or so at a time – on a pivot field at the bottom planted with alfalfa. On the edge of that field is where Harris and Trace were waiting Sunday afternoon.</div>
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Really, it sounds easy, but it’s far from – “far” the operative word. This ranch – just outside of Willow Creek, Montana – is a diamond in a valley, so to speak. The hills to the east and north pale in comparison to the snow-capped alpine fixtures constantly in the Big Sky horizon, yet they’re steep with plenty of nooks and crannies to shelter a large population of animals. As you move south and west there’s a river system that fuels the waterfowl hunting and harbors healthy whitetails amid the cottonwoods along the banks. Beyond that it gets steep again.</div>
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Positioned in between is where the mulies, whitetail and pronghorn all meet to feed. It definitely helps that the private ranches here grow alfalfa, wheat and other agriculture which lures the game from their haunts. The problem is, it’s open territory. Targets are deceptively far. Guessing a distance and then putting a rangefinder on it is humbling. There’s not much to break up a hunter’s movements other than the occasional cottonwood, olive tree, or hay bale – and they were too removed from the pivot field to bother setting up for a hunt.</div>
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Trace and Harris with the 2012 Mule Deer Harris killed</div>
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Oh, we performed our due diligence the previous two evenings. Harris killed a wonderful buck last year on one of the hills with Trace alongside to assist. Both of them drew tags this year and invited me to go along. Having been there before, it was tough to decline – with the promise of a duck hunt or two in the mornings, impossible. So the three of us spent Friday evening on the glasses watching herd after herd of deer move into the field – more deer than I’ll likely see in Florida over the next five years – hoping to make sense of their movements.</div>
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Realistic options for closing the gap on these deer were few – hide in the edges of the field and hope for one to feed within range without the swirling wind busting things up, or traipse up the hills like Harris did last year; however, the ranch manager had been reporting a number of shooter bucks reliably in the alfalfa with does. Plus, the one time Harris and Trace tried to ascend the hills and loop above the field on Saturday, every deer stopped munching and tracked their movement, though they were a cool half-mile away. It was amazing to watch how tuned in these animals were, which made us nervous about setting up too close to one of their trails. If it happened to be the wrong path the buck traveled, there was a strong risk of spooking the does.</div>
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Attacking the field was the clear choice, but there was no obvious fail-safe method in which to get within distance – fortune would have a say in this. On the last day of the hunt, an idea was born. The plan was for me to drop Harris and Trace along the grassy eastern edge around noon before the deer hit the field and wait them out. They’d rest prone, glass the field, and pray Ol’ Big Buck eventually drifted within a realistic shot. The theory was that even if the deer saw us they would not be bothered by the white Dodge Ram if it came and left in a relative hurry. For the guys to walk from camp to their set-up would have taken at least 30 minutes of needless exposure. Harris quickly unfolded a blanket on the hard ground, and they got settled as I turned back to the cabin to settle myself on the back patio to glass and enjoy the show with several ice cold <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kokanee_beer" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Kokonees</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josh_Ritter" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Josh Ritter</a>.</div>
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Those guys held on longer than I would have. To say Montana weather is unpredictable is about like saying the ocean has some water – it’s so understated it’s ludicrous. On a given day, the temps may rise to 65 or so, then comes a wind gusting 40 MPH out of the hills that will blow bricks off a table and, wham, 30′s. After two hours on the patio and not spotting a single breathing, caring animal that would excite at least a little adrenaline, I had bundled up with almost every garment I could find that would still allow me to raise my arms enough to look through the Nikon binos.</div>
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Exactly as I described it above, however, without warning or reason, suddenly deer were everywhere. A herd of does followed by a duo of immature bucks. Four whitetail does wandering behind Harris and Trace. Another string of 8 – 10 white-rumped mulies single-lining it from the SW. They were scattered all over Big Thong – a pair of similarly rounded shaped hills we named that had a ridge of evergreens that looked like a waistband at the top and a row of trees traveling down a coulee that perfectly bisected this terrain into a rocky-based butt…you get the picture, I hope…</div>
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Perhaps the beer was making one particular animal appear more attractive, but I had been keeping an eye on a large-bodied deer that was hanging around a herd of cows. When you deal with 130 lb. Florida deer for a living, every mule deer looks big. But this one just seemed different; however, he was a long way off in the dull of an overcast afternoon. So I’d keep scanning the countryside. But one time I gazed back as his head lifted and the setting sun poked through the clouds and lit up those antlers. Even at an incredible distance, it was obvious he was a shooter.</div>
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It’s illegal in most Western states to communicate deer activity like this to hunters on the ground, but it would not have helped anyway. They were pinned down by the numbers. The thought of moving would have sent all four-legged creatures scrambling up the hills. I sat there thinking about, if I were hunting him, how I could get in range but kept coming up blank.</div>
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Gradually, I lost sight of the buck as he ambled further into the field to feed under the pivot, a patch of olive trees the ringnecks would fly into obscuring my view. I wasn’t certain if the others guys had spotted him from their prone vantage point. Wasn’t totally sure I wouldn’t later find them frozen like Hatchet Jack…</div>
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Eventually, luck shines on everyone. Buy him a beer one day and Trace may relate the story of how he connected with that buck – it’s not my tale to tell. Up close, he was a gorgeous mule deer – a mainframe 4×4 with a single brow tine on his left beam. It was Trace’s first mule deer buck, and we couldn’t have been happier for him. Can’t wait for the mount to return from the taxidermist to admire it on Trace’s wall. By then the smell of his tarsal glands will have finally dissipated from my fingertips and clothing.</div>
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One forky hung around and circled The Fallen, thinking perhaps he was the new King of the Hill. It would have been a cinch shot and was pretty tempting, but Harris, the professional hunter he is, passed him up for next time.</div>
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Next time, that buck will be bigger, stronger, but hopefully no smarter. Mule deer hunting is tough enough in this part of Montana. Even when you’re surrounded by them.</div>
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(Thank you to everyone…<em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">everyone</em>…who made this trip happen for me. Could not be more grateful. Congrats yet again, Trace! #corporatepigeon)</div>
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<b>Keep reading below for more on this trip....</b></div>
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<b>Fun in Airports - Montana to Tampa</b></div>
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<a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13203/fun-in-airports-montana-to-tampa/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 13.63636302947998px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="Fun in Airports – Montana to Tampa"><img alt="photo (18)" class="attachment-large wp-post-image" height="458" src="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2013/11/photo-18-600x458.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="photo (18)" width="600" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 13.63636302947998px;"></span><br />
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Harris, Trace and I loped through the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport late Monday afternoon, three hunters still clad in cold-weather clothing that had, by this point, absorbed the funk of four days of travel, cabin drinks and saloons, and the residuals of our planned objective, all-day duck and mule deer hunting outside of Willow Creek, Montana. Every moment wasted was one that could have doomed us to watching our flight leave for Tampa.</div>
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The additional sweat from this sprint was cruelly inflicted by forces beyond our control. When the intercom notified us as we taxied to the gate that the jetway was not operating properly, the passengers grew restless. We had a short layover; others realized they were doomed.</div>
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One gentleman – though the term grew loose for him after this altercation – laid into a stewardess about this tardiness as if she had some charge of rule in the situation or was perhaps a contestant on <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="http://www.cbs.com/shows/undercover_boss/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Undercover Boss</a></em>. She took it as a pro – I’m sure that wasn’t that the first rodeo for her. Like it or not, until they repaired the jetway or moved the plane to another gate, we were stuck in one of those small connecting Delta jets that don’t appear designed, strangely enough, to transport grown humans that care to sit upright.</div>
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So I can justify the frustration; his verbiage and manner, not so much. He even inquired why they didn’t deploy the emergency exit slides – not sure how chuting everyone onto a half-frozen Minnesota tarmac to scatter like ants for an entrance into the airport and through security would help anyone’s time frame. This guy clearly wasn’t a hunter – we’re far more adept to handling situations beyond our control and putting in the extra work to take advantage of what time allows.</div>
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Eventually, the stewardess – or, more likely, someone else – decided the best option was to taxi the jet to another gate, and the race was on. I hope that guy missed his flight – we sprinted past several who did who were forced to re-book their trips home. It had to have been funny and probably somewhat alarming in this day and age of airport security, to witness three guys in camo chug through the crowds to reach their gate. Making matters worse for me, my jeans kept falling down, and I had worn flip-flops from the camp – even though it had started snowing there as we were packing to leave – to help move things through security when in Bozeman. Tough to run with frostbite in your toes and pants around your ankles.</div>
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(Speaking of Bozeman, I will testify that airport is spiritually satisfying for sportsmen. Upon arrival, it’s the symbol that the adventure has begun. Large picture windows display the gorgeous surrounding snow-capped peaks. The line of hunters at baggage claim awaiting their firearms and gear discuss their fraternal purposes for their travel, whether it’s mulies or elk or waterfowl or upland birds. Departing will leave you wanting to return. Just a wonderful, albeit small, part of the experience.)</div>
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Our mad dash paid off as we made the departure gate in time, the lady scanned our boarding passes, and the stewardess welcomed us on the plane so the child behind us could commence kicking the back of our seats. I’ll refrain, in these delicate times of anti-bullying, from saying anything too nasty, but this kid was unruly. My <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2010/11/fear-of-flying-and-more-montana.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">fear of flying is well-documented</a>; each thwack of his tiny foot into his tray table struck my heart, thinking for sure a wing had just fallen off. Two-and-a-half hours of this can drive nearly anyone to an outburst, but, perhaps recalling my feelings on the jerk from the connecting flight or the fact the parent-figure sitting with him and trying to correct his behavior in a helpless situation had the unmistakable appearance and weariness of a foster parent, I endured without snapping.</div>
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But, I noticed everyone looked weary on that flight as we got settled. The stewardess told us we would be waiting on another passenger, a big fellow who clearly had not run from Gate C2 to F13, nor seemed capable of. A lot of Western Hunts are physically demanding. The most strain I had was climbing in and out of a duck blind and this run. The details of the actual hunt are coming later this week. As a preview, let’s just say the scent of a rutting mule deer may not be scrubbed off us for another week or so, which probably rendered us more offensive than any other person on these flights.</div>
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We landed without crashing in Tampa, our mercy for not killing the seat-kicking kid rewarded by God, in my opinion. (Quick aside: when compared to the final approaches in Minneapolis and Bozeman, landing in Tampa feels like you’re setting down on the Vegas Strip.) Though completely wiped out, we spent the truck ride back to our respective homes talking and scheming about next year’s adventure – and happy to have been on this one.</div>
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Nothing that happens in an airport can detract from a hunt like that.</div>
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Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-30018106239773179012013-10-02T19:46:00.001-04:002013-10-02T19:47:28.437-04:00The Baited Gator<a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13071/the-baited-gator/" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 13.63636302947998px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="The Baited Gator"><img alt="DSC_1848edited" class="attachment-large wp-post-image" height="600" src="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/files/2013/10/DSC_1848edited-447x600.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="DSC_1848edited" width="447" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 13.63636302947998px;"></span><br />
(Also Published at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>)<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.67;">I bet Nick and Trace each $1 that the gator cruising up to the baits would choose the meaty sirloin over the bleached-white rotting chicken that looked like something that floated off the carcass of a bloated whale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I lost 2 bucks. Shows what I know – but, hey, this was my first experience baiting gators.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The gator grabbed the chicken in his jaws, chomped a couple times and took the chunk of flesh down his gullet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Baiting is a popular method in which to entice a gator close enough to get it attached to a restraining line. No hooks are permitted by law, as the FWC stipulates:</span></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/10664/baited-wooden-pegs-for-gators/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Baited Wooden Pegs for Gators">Baited wooden pegs</a> less than two (2) inches in length have been used as a legal and effective method for attaching a restraining line to take an alligator. A baited wooden peg is attached to a restraining line that is hand-held or used with a fishing rod and reel and high-test line. The baited peg is typically thrown or cast near the alligator or near the area where it last submerged. The line of a baited wooden peg cannot be terminated with a float. The end of the line must be attached to the boat or hand-held.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Baits include rotten chicken, beef or beef lung, all of which will turn a stomach in a heartbeat. In some instances, the leader is wrapped around and through a bait and cleated off to the peg. Some folks fill the baits with spray foam to help it float. The baits are then left in buckets to stew for a few days before the hunt to create the putrid scent that’s attractive to the reptiles. Once the gator ingests the bait, the fight is on, though care must be taken to not pull it out or force the gator to regurgitate it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/13031/monster-gators-and-the-media/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Monster Gators and the Media">monster, national news-making gator</a> Harris and Matt killed a few weeks back took the beef option. The first time he bit, the gator spit the bait after pressure was applied. When he returned, though, he did so with a vengeance, rolling the steak across his back before sucking it down. From what they tell me, it was quite a show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I was excited to see it for myself. With a successful season already in the bag and an <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12981/2013-september-early-duck-recap/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="2013 September Early Duck Recap">early teal hunt</a> in the morning, we didn’t have the impulse nor motivation to wait out another biggun’. Using Harris’ last Kissimmee tag, we spied a decent meat gator, tossed the baits out and trolled a hundred yards upstream and hoped for the best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Watching through the binoculars at dusk, we observed the gator return to the surface and take the lure. While he wasn’t the biggest beast on the river, he ran us a merry chase for an hour through vegetation before getting the line caught under a submerged tree. Desperate to be over with the hunt and the mosquitoes to cease flaying our flesh, Harris reached into the water to grab the tree – cracking a rib on the gunnel of his boat in the process – cut the line free and re-tied the loose ends. Thankfully, the gator was still on and thereafter quickly subdued.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It may not be ideal in all situations, but on places where the water is deep or otherwise impractical to toss snatch hooks, baits are a fun way to go about gator</span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif;"> hunting.</span></div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-81095714493864946752013-09-27T10:02:00.000-04:002013-09-27T10:02:40.780-04:00Crossbow Aficionado<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(Also Posted at <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>.)</div>
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From the months of feeder maintenance, setting up a stand, and cutting shooting lanes to religiously checking the trail camera and extensive range time to make sure my broadheads hit their mark, this was the most calculated hunt I think I have ever conducted. I knew that deer would be there at first light on Opening Morning of Florida’s archery season, and sure enough, the time had come to collect.</div>
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I had not planned on the scope fogging up. This would be a whole lot more impressive if I were writing about a 10-point, but no, it was <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">only</em> a doe. For whatever reason, the bucks on our <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/10808/the-scrub-eights-swan-song/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="The Scrub Eight’s Swan Song">little lease</a> disappeared over the summer. Perhaps they heard I acquired a crossbow.</div>
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I’ve taken a great deal of abuse from buddies about my new toy. Most feel it’s cheating, but I don’t really care.</div>
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Look, I’ve never been enchanted by the lyrical magic of archery that many enthusiasts claim they feel in their souls. Aspects of the sport are more challenging than gun hunting, without question, and therefore more satisfying for some, but I can’t say it does much for me. In 15 years of bowhunting, I’ve learned how to set-up on deer with more accuracy and employed that to all styles of hunting. I’ve enjoyed the extra time in the woods. We’ve had<a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/09/pse-buck.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">good times</a> and <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2012/01/open-letter-i-hate-you-bowhunting.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">bad</a>, but that’s what I’ve taken away from it. And besides, as the saying goes, the dyer’s hands are stained by the elements from which he works – I’ll ditch anything with a string when I can get a centerfire in my grasp.</div>
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This is not to say, however, I do not appreciate esoteric challenges. Shy of using a flintlock or bolt-action handgun, I’ve harvested deer with just about every legal hunting implement out there, and the desire to knock one off with a bolt was appealing. And with being a faithful reporter in the world of hunting, the use of crossbows has increased over the last several years, and I just wanted to see what the fuss was all about.</div>
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So after months of not-so-subtle hints of e-mails with various models and prices, my wife and mother gifted me a PSE Reaper combo package complete with 4 cheap bolts and a scope with 5 reticles for my birthday in August. On the money side, it’s towards the more-affordable. You can easily drop more cash on a fancier model but for what may be a passing fancy, this just didn’t seem prudent – and who’s to argue with such a rig as a present. Saints, my family.</div>
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Truth be told, my first impressions were not great, though I am a fan of PSE products. What I had thought would be a slam-dunk proposition turned into challenges of its own. One, the thing is heavy and fairly unwieldy in a stand. When you pull the trigger it sounds like a hammer hitting a trailer hitch. The trigger itself you almost need to use the cocking device on which doesn’t breed accuracy. And that scope…even jacked up as high as I could crank it, the 15 and 25 yard reticles were pushing the bolts into the dirt. You don’t have to stand and draw, which is essentially the biggest advantage, but that doesn’t matter if you can’t get the bolt to hit in the right place or the deer jumps the string.</div>
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After quickly tearing the fletchings off the factory bolts during practice, I purchased a 6-pack of Laser II Gold Tips, screwed in 100-grain Rage mechanical broadheads, and sighted them in. I need to research how to dampen the noise and a new scope is in order, but by employing the bottom three reticles and applying a little Kentucky windage to the top two, I was consistently hitting the bull and felt confident enough to take it to the stand a couple Saturdays ago.</div>
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The doe, though, wasn’t real impressed with my movement as I frantically tried to wipe the steam out of the scope, which, by the way, isn’t ideal for low-light situations, either. Say what you will about crossbows, but there are still range limitations at play and dithering around within 30 yards of game is usually a recipe for disaster.</div>
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Fortunately, I rubbed the scope clean, and the second she stopped high-stepping around the feeder ready to blow off to points unknown, she turned broadside. I hit high which dropped her in her tracks. Having lost game before on high shots, I slid down the rails of the stand like a firefighter, re-cocked the PSE and immediately put an insurance bolt in her. Fresh venison in the freezer on the initial day of hunting season. In 20 years of chasing deer, I believe that’s the first time I’ve accomplished that.</div>
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As I said, there are still issues to be corrected, but it’s great to be off to a fast start and beat the skunk. I’m not totally over the standard bow – mostly because many WMA’s and jealous friends with property won’t allow crossbows. But the PSE is a fun new toy for at least this season. I do have a feeling it’ll be a productive relationship.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-42286783639933052292013-09-10T13:18:00.000-04:002013-09-10T13:19:17.932-04:002013's Gator Hunting - Tough Luck and Zombie Gators<b>If you've never stumbled by <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">my other website</a> on <i>Lakeland Ledger's</i> <a href="http://www.polkoutdoors.com/" target="_blank">Polk Outdoors</a> section, I invite you to do so. I've done most of my writing there over the last couple of years, since I get paid for writing there, which is great. But, I keep this site up for story-time and when I get long-winded.</b><br />
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<b>One problem with the <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">other webpage</a> is that it's subscription-based. Sure you get 5 free reads per month, but after that, you gotta pay or get a subscription to the newspaper which won't work for those outside the Central Florida area. I'll reserve my opinions on why anyone would have to pay to access a website for reasons other than those that may get you in trouble with your wife or the law.</b><br />
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<b>But, it was a successful gator season for me - exciting. Wanted to share what I'd already written at <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a>. It's a two-for-one feature here. Enjoy!</b><br />
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<i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12773/gator-hunting-report-2013-failures-and-success/" target="_blank"><b>Gator Hunting Report 2013 - Successes and Failures</b></a></i><br />
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Friday morning we’d spied a large gator in Lake Hancock. I had these 1st phase permits and was eager to wipe the stink of failure away from <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2012/09/gators-maybe.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">my 2012 season</a>. Not so eager that I’d take <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">any</em> gator; I still wanted some heft, something to brag about.</div>
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This guy appeared to fit the bill. The lake was choppy making targets difficult to spot. The low pressure was palpable, and that’s rarely a positive sign for game movement. Despite this, we’d finally gotten within range of what looked to be a winner.</div>
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On the first cast I skipped the snatch hook over his back while he rested on the bottom. I quickly re-cast near the spot, keeping the rod tip lower in hopes of having a better angle to snag him.</div>
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Suddenly, it felt like I’d hooked a stone wall. And then the line promptly popped.</div>
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It was such a bang-bang play that it’s tough to recall what went wrong. I know I didn’t check the drag and it was a little tight. Maybe I grabbed the spool and maybe that caused the loss. Either way, I was holding the rod so the blame fell on me and rightly so.</div>
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I had an encore performance the next morning – this time I definitely failed to check the drag on a different rod and the Dacron snapped. This gator was not nearly as big, and I started feeling like a young girl staring in a mirror hoping she’ll be pretty one day.</div>
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Saturday was different, though. The lake was smooth, and gators were more at ease and easily spotted. We opened with running-and-gunning, tossing on gators who’d leave a bubble trail or push a wake. A couple seemingly disappeared and another fortunately surfaced as we saw him for the runt he was and called off the pursuit, but this was well after I’d again diminished our supply of weighted treble hooks.</div>
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We went back to general area where I’d broken off the morning before and dropped anchor for a little while. Every now and then heads would surface then disappear. One of them, though, Krunk felt for sure was a goodie. I hadn’t set eyes on him until he surfaced several minutes later behind the boat 60 – 75 yards away. With the decision to act being made, Harris cranked the motor and picked up on his trail.</div>
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I’d like to tell you it was a battle for the ages, but that’s really not the truth. Harris was able to keep sight of the gator’s bubbles as Krunk and I flailed hooks at the zig-zagging reptile. He finally took a brief respite, settling on the bottom, and I was able to get a hook in him. Krunk soon followed with his rod before Harris assisted with a handline. There were, thankfully, no more break-offs or tossed hooks or harpoons that regularly happen with snagged gators large and small.</div>
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Up to that point we weren’t entirely sure how big he was – “meat gator” was kind of the thought until Harris and Krunk heaved him topside. He began his rolling and thrashing, and it became clear he was a bit more than the average lizard. A harpoon and two <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2010/08/gator-bangsticks.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">bangstick</a> shots later and he was boated.</div>
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Later at <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/10705/tropic-star-seafood-will-buy-your-gator/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Tropic Star Seafood Will Buy Your Gator">Tropic Star</a>, the tape said 10ft. 6in. We figured over ten, but he just wasn’t filled out; we even thought him skinny, nothing like <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/08/trophy-gator.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">the stud we boated two years ago</a>. He was just a younger bull. Still, it was a great catch and start to gator season.</div>
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Other gator hunters we spoke with weren’t as lucky. One guide drifted in Friday morning with a decent 9-footer, it looked like. A trio of gentlemen took a pair of meat gators. Brent Faircloth at <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/10705/tropic-star-seafood-will-buy-your-gator/" target="_blank">Tropic Star</a> said that things had been a little slow, mostly because of late-night storms keeping some hunters off the water. But, he expects it to pick up. I’m sure it will.</div>
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Phase I ends Thursday morning at 10 a.m. I have one tag left for Hancock. Harris has a Phase II Kissimmee River license, so, all things permitting, it’s on to there.</div>
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<i><b><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12801/gator-hunting-report-2013-the-zombie-gator/" target="_blank">Gator Hunting Report 2013 - The Zombie Gator</a></b></i></div>
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Particular things force me to abandon my appetite during breakfast. For instance, as I read the paper in the mornings, enjoying the daily tales of Egyptian uprisings and cyber-bullying, I’m often confronted by dental ads and those disgusting before-and-after photos. The before photo – typically the one on the left – is the set of rotten, meth-mangled, and otherwise nasty chompers. 100% of the time when I run across these advertisements I drop the paper and throw my breakfast sandwich directly in the garbage.</div>
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I witnessed something this morning, however, that might have cured me of this idiosyncrasy.</div>
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This gator came to us in the usual way. Harris, Krunk and I returned to Lake Hancock after <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12773/gator-hunting-report-2013-failures-and-success/" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Gator Hunting Report 2013 – Failures and Success">our success on Saturday</a>. The water was choppy and gators hard to spy in the area we typically hunt. We moved a couple times before spotting three large-ish gators towards the east. We set out after them as they sank to the sound of the boat motor.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.67; margin-bottom: 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">
Hard to say if this guy was one of the original three, but he was an easy target off the front of the boat and left a solid bubble trail. I was in no mood for spending more time at gator hunting this week – work and family had been pushed aside long enough. When Krunk got the treble hook in him, Harris promptly pulled a handline into him. The gator shook it off once, but he was able to secure the animal again, hoisting him to the surface.</div>
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It was at this point we noticed something rather peculiar and downright disgusting – his lower jaw was badly damaged, blown out at the end like a blunderbuss muzzle with a bulbous growth the size of a baseball on the right side.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.67;">Stomachs turned – there may or may not have been a little gagging. The loose skin and flesh of the throat spun about in the water – it was enough to turn an undertaker green.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEj-KeL00xvVh73Pt2NnIgVKuBkX3yVWfUWVNVfBRmT2_Zc7GH9eCXIQ_iDXveaXwnWUt1YVUuF2OhD1FmXIf5M08-eHzQuP731ZimdWiVJ_GEuXW5_PGL8SrUCbt0BwqxrVFW4j0p3k/s1600/photo+(1).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEj-KeL00xvVh73Pt2NnIgVKuBkX3yVWfUWVNVfBRmT2_Zc7GH9eCXIQ_iDXveaXwnWUt1YVUuF2OhD1FmXIf5M08-eHzQuP731ZimdWiVJ_GEuXW5_PGL8SrUCbt0BwqxrVFW4j0p3k/s320/photo+(1).PNG" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.67;">I have no way of saying what had happened. It might have been another gator that ripped into him or perhaps he caught a prop one day. Heck, the jaw could have been an old bite wound or something from when he was 8-inches long. And while I also can’t explain how he could eat with this malformation, the gator was able to endure – after all, he later taped at 9-feet 9-inches. But, he wasn’t surviving the bangstick to the dome, which leads me to the only reasonable conclusion – this was a zombie gator.</span></div>
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After dispatching the monstrosity, we wondered what we should do. No one really wanted to grab him, and we weren’t real sure how to tape his mouth. Still, we pressed forward, taping what could be taped of his jaws and hauling his stinking, mud-caked body aboard.</div>
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So, it wasn’t the biggest of gators but without question one of the most unique. I’ll have the skull European mounted – it should be an interesting conversation piece.</div>
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I just won’t keep it around the breakfast table.</div>
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<br /></div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-51445564060803175422013-08-13T20:23:00.001-04:002013-08-13T20:23:30.258-04:00A Stingray Stabbing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7QwdXz4XoMhkaFSPHF8EyHLkJYV2hskNXGvKJQZMRHYhc3nrAwxFVUQiE2N7p0aVP0SF-oRuUNXRoKpoyCUHYh_00fF1q63OSEPqnUTEKw6RNFVUWc-NkcjixRxEYD-WqzpjjGF-0J0/s1600/DSC_1727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7QwdXz4XoMhkaFSPHF8EyHLkJYV2hskNXGvKJQZMRHYhc3nrAwxFVUQiE2N7p0aVP0SF-oRuUNXRoKpoyCUHYh_00fF1q63OSEPqnUTEKw6RNFVUWc-NkcjixRxEYD-WqzpjjGF-0J0/s640/DSC_1727.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ray that got my Pa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Well, Dad took a stingray barb to the top of his foot. We'd hunted the Intercoastal around Ft. Pierce for much of last Wednesday morning, determined to arrow a trophy ray without much success. Freshwater runoff had killed water clarity, even in areas where during high tide clean ocean water usually makes the waterway crystal clear. The majority of rays were either pushed out or just very difficult to see.<br />
<br />
We'd spotted a couple smaller rays south of the South Bridge but none were any bigger than what I've arrowed in the past. I wanted a big one for glory, to try the meat, and to donate some parts thereof to the shark fishermen staying at our place in Vero Beach. So with that particular mindset, I'd let the runts escape.<br />
<br />
Anyway, we'd pushed further north to where we'd seen big rays before, but the flats were damn near black because of the runoff from Lake Okeechobee. It's a common occurrence right now. With all the heavy rains this summer, inland freshwater was being discharged from Taylor Creek into the Ft. Pierce area. With Lake O's water levels so high, there's fear of the dikes around it collapsing and flooding surrounding areas. As such, they drain the lake as needed - or as determined by an even more murky source.<br />
<br />
The effect on the East Coast has been profound. It's quite a sight to see water hyacinths float out into the Atlantic; nothing I've witnessed in 30 years of fishing here. I hear it's worse further down the coast where sugar cane byproduct has not only darkened the water but created an abundance of green slime that has been strangling the coast.<br />
<br />
But back to bowfishing, we searched this flat where we'd encountered many large rays in the past. I was dismayed by the elements and time was running out as we'd be picking up Mom and the kids in about an hour for a beer cruise.<br />
<br />
Well, wouldn't you know it, even in the compromised visibility, we passed right over top of the specimen we'd been hunting. I released the arrow and the fight was on.<br />
<br />
This was easily the biggest fish I've shot with bowfishing gear. Other rays have buried in the sand and it became a heave-ho ordeal - this boy charted towards deeper waters in a hurry. We'd retrieve as much line as possible, then it'd spit back out of the AMS reel, causing Dad to engage the boat and track it down. It was a solid 15 minute ordeal in the early morning Florida August heat and humidity.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYdlcsSKch6eCCj00ZlcTXV3z41cMe1QEDdH89immbBMfmnKcvDYcx2g9FtEo7JZiUpI4bmHYtdBzVA-Fz1iBMKG1XG6aoVMSiNFdjNF1KRkGVGZFXjHa8zCKFTbwXYfbpCbxc3VST_4/s1600/DSC_1722edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYdlcsSKch6eCCj00ZlcTXV3z41cMe1QEDdH89immbBMfmnKcvDYcx2g9FtEo7JZiUpI4bmHYtdBzVA-Fz1iBMKG1XG6aoVMSiNFdjNF1KRkGVGZFXjHa8zCKFTbwXYfbpCbxc3VST_4/s320/DSC_1722edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A close up of the barb and its shadow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But we're tough guys. After two last runs - one that almost got the ray wrapped around the prop - the 50-60 lb. fish played out. Dad gaffed him on board and that dangerous tail whipped around like an unattended fire hose, a 10-inch blade of a spine as menacing as a pit viper ready to strike.<br />
<br />
Unlike vipers, stingray's poison is not too dangerous if attended to quickly. The pain can be severe for a few hours and parts of the spine often break off and may cause infection. Outside of the legend of Steve Irwin, stings usually are not fatal. Hot water is a well-known home remedy to break down the poisons followed by medical treatment.<br />
<br />
The stingray calmed down for a moment as I got my pictures and removed the arrow. His wounds were superficial, but I still wanted pieces of him. How we were getting the flat fish into the ice boxes was another problem you can rightly blame on poor planning, especially with the kids soon to be on board. A live-wire ray and twin two-year olds could be cause for a state investigation. But as I maneuvered him around the back of the boat contemplating its fate, Dad swore out loud profanity that is probably still audible in certain corners of the Indian River.<br />
<br />
We're not real sure how it happened. Dad felt he was well clear of the ray and I was pulling it in the opposite direction of where he stood. The next thing he felt was the end of that barb gouging him where the ankle meets the foot. I guess that's the risk of having a beast with a 36-inch prehensile tail with a boot knife attached to it slapping around the back of a 25-foot Aquasport.<br />
<br />
Almost instantly, there was blood everywhere, all over the gunnels, fish boxes - it looked like his foot exploded. The ray bled far less and, with a far larger issue at hand, was immediately heaved back into the water where he revived and blasted away into the murk. <br />
<br />
Having never treated a stingray stab, I instantly consulted the Interweb on my iPhone, which, by the way, should you land on this site seeking medical advice in such an emergency, my lawyers advise me to say: GO TO THE HOSPITAL.<br />
<br />
Now, my father would prefer to cut off his own mangled foot - and possibly leg - than be treated in any medical facility. He applied pressure to stop the bleeding and kept it elevated. Without a jug or pot or bota bag of hot water aboard, I instructed him to say something if he felt nauseous or dizzy. If the wound started to smell funny we'd need to hit a hospital by helicopter. Of course, his feet always smell a little bad, the heat was stifling and would make an uninjured person nauseous and dizzy, so these were all tough calls. He decided to ride it out, pick up the rest of the family and continue as planned.<br />
<br />
Today, the doctors took his foot..nah, he and his foot survived. Though the barb did not break off in his foot, he concurred the pain was indeed intense for a couple of hours. He also did not take the full dosage of the barb, just an inch or so. But between keeping it clean with Hydrogen Peroxide, Neosporine , bandages and bourbon, he came through just fine.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissdzxxYGrJ-ClEVk-skuwdwGwj_6ElqVD2JNDAvaSMHaiU3SruXoSiEqSFSZ6am2GwAJGinQikmvtNseH1fkPXcPs0GQ6bRunofdHr-mpIu7PloMSlRQ8_mCpGvoT2MlnzJcwyvosOwk/s1600/photo+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEissdzxxYGrJ-ClEVk-skuwdwGwj_6ElqVD2JNDAvaSMHaiU3SruXoSiEqSFSZ6am2GwAJGinQikmvtNseH1fkPXcPs0GQ6bRunofdHr-mpIu7PloMSlRQ8_mCpGvoT2MlnzJcwyvosOwk/s320/photo+(3).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stingray boo-boo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Me? Well, I feel slight pains of guilt but primarily from releasing an injured stingray. I view Dad's incident as another useless casualty in the pursuit of glory. I told him we could probably shut down the stingray program for a couple years or until his nightmares subside, though I still want to try the meat one day. And possibly find one bigger.<br />
<br />
It's safe to assume he won't be clamoring to go gator hunting with me this year.Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-80563185975504497452013-06-05T15:13:00.000-04:002013-06-05T15:14:24.217-04:00Chasing the Convict Fish<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Teach a man to fish and you feed him
for life. Give a man a bowfishing set and puddle him into Amanda
Bynes, I swear to God.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Case in point, I missed the same damn
gar four or five times Sunday morning. Once, I was even able to glance the
arrow off the edge of the concrete dock, shattering my confidence
but, luckily, not my arrow. Each ploink in the water, the gar lazily
flitted further under the dock, taunting me. It was just about enough
for me to bleach my hair, pierce my face, and indulge in heavy
narcotics.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In all reality, I should have taken my
hostilities out on the few dozen stingrays in the shallows and
stacked them up like silver dollar pancakes, but it just didn't seem
sporting enough, especially when I was supposed to be helping clean
up the river house to rent this summer. If a kill was to be made, it
needed to be impressive enough to absorb the verbal beating that would surely
ensue for taking a Union Break. The gar just narrowly fit in that
category.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkMzEXz7aVnk1a09I7Jy_QEWcz0U3TXU4HiQh_kCMbntKiBFFQDi-GR5hdRA_TU0O3zc5QNi1torgH-hLIQJV2lysuTXhgPM2ulmTWQ3UtVJb7iHGjNzdyNAfLGM8W_Lzixn4MEHV3uw/s1600/sheepshead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkMzEXz7aVnk1a09I7Jy_QEWcz0U3TXU4HiQh_kCMbntKiBFFQDi-GR5hdRA_TU0O3zc5QNi1torgH-hLIQJV2lysuTXhgPM2ulmTWQ3UtVJb7iHGjNzdyNAfLGM8W_Lzixn4MEHV3uw/s320/sheepshead.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my first sheepshead when times were easier. Before bowfishing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Which brings us to the sheepshead, the
Ol' Convict Fish. The sheepshead is one of those fish, if you're a
<i>real</i> sportsman, you typically don't target between the ages of
13 and When You Have Kids. Don't get me wrong – they are fun sport
on rod and reel and delicious, to boot, but it is the equivalent of
rabbit hunting. Grander plans hop in the way of a good time, at
times.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've caught, I don't know, hundreds in
my youth and hadn't given them much thought since then until I got my
PSE Kingfisher a couple Christmases ago and started marching down the
list of legal fish I could conquer with a bow. Actually, “conquer”
may be too strong of a term given my aptitude with a bow, or lack
thereof. In the last 2 ½ years, I've shot at dozens. I can
accurately describe to you with mouth noises what my arrow sounds
like when it misses a sheepshead.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What makes them such attractive quarry
– aside from their excellent table-fare and prison-uni stripes –
is their ability to hang around just long enough to make you think
you have a chance. They have a tendency to hang in the shallows and
feed along seawalls and pilings, stripping them free of barnacles
with their creepy <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVtnYEn5A-g" target="_blank">baby teeth</a>. They are slab-sided and appear
dim-witted, but once you make eye contact and start to anchor your
bow, they are gone in a flash leaving you with desperate, flailing shots at where the fish was a split-second earlier, sort of how I've always felt about trying to hit a baseball. It's frustrating. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I was caught in this cat-and-mouse
game with a fairly large sheepster on Sunday. In between gar misses,
I'd catch him under the boat house, or at the end of the dock. In all
reality, it could have been different fish, but as a trophy hunter, I
believed I was after The One, heroically engaged in a Battle Royale of wits with what
amounts to an over-sized panfish. Each time I thought I'd have a
shot, he'd spook, either from my shadow or movement or wife yelling
at me to help her move some piece of heavy furniture.
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVLamHLjy1x0BMXK7sT3fkTzCt5F5dMYS-eL9Is5Q0YemVuJNf_ENmqAEKj6xiKrZTYZIslvw7G816Jw6rhyphenhyphen_ZoAHilxSqOFcVTi-_Y5pDn9hKViLD31l3Vx7kvek-XJ6c2FE8PEYwtQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnVLamHLjy1x0BMXK7sT3fkTzCt5F5dMYS-eL9Is5Q0YemVuJNf_ENmqAEKj6xiKrZTYZIslvw7G816Jw6rhyphenhyphen_ZoAHilxSqOFcVTi-_Y5pDn9hKViLD31l3Vx7kvek-XJ6c2FE8PEYwtQ/s400/photo.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Time was running out. As I was making
my last stalk along the water's edge, I notice the blue-gray tail of
homeboy sticking out from under the dock, high in the surface column
as he grazed on the piling. I pulled back the bow and gangster-leaned
to the side and plugged him without him knowing I was even there. I
reeled him out of the water and hauled him to my wife for her to
admire, pleading, of course, for her to put down
the box of family heirlooms and grab my camera.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
EPILOGUE</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I snuck back out and shot a mullet,
too. </div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-60000069514172213392013-05-01T14:04:00.000-04:002013-05-02T08:16:37.678-04:00The Kansas Gobbler<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanmRPLHRkm5733ixvQyh2URBlS-thXdRLWiFwEnyvEdOB8QrGImbSzJqX6DPqFZDPSDpXxdzyb-40vVfCXkfUEY_PccJIEtF5RYEyJxaiRSy0op6A-wQlVY0iBPyuiTUEGEPZZ030T7g/s1600/DSC_1278edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanmRPLHRkm5733ixvQyh2URBlS-thXdRLWiFwEnyvEdOB8QrGImbSzJqX6DPqFZDPSDpXxdzyb-40vVfCXkfUEY_PccJIEtF5RYEyJxaiRSy0op6A-wQlVY0iBPyuiTUEGEPZZ030T7g/s640/DSC_1278edited.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nick and I were slipping through a vein of cottonwoods along a creek bottom that dissected two large crop fields, advancing on a distant roosted gobbler that had betrayed his
presence to Nick's owl hoots. The morning having cleared from a full
day before of rain that had softened our footsteps, we came to a bit
of a stopping point. Nick hit the locator again and another gobbler
fired up right on the edge of the field in front of us.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I saw a bird fly into the open.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We immediately found shelter against
cottonwood trunks, not having time to wrestle decoys from our vests.
Nick yelped a few times, and the tom's response was immediate and
resolute - he was coming in. At 6:19 a.m., with the gobbler pacing in
front of me at 20 yards, that morning's hunt had been the easiest
part of this adventure - even that was almost screwed up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Located in Independence, Kansas in the
southeast part of the state near Coffeyville, Nick had been living at
his family's farm while finishing school nearby. It took him visiting Florida in mid-March and a cocktail-infused evening around my firepit to dream up this hunt. The farm had been in Nick's family
for generations, and despite numerous invitations over the years, I'd
just not been able to coincide time with funds. We poured over the
logistics of a late-April hunt, and after staring at my pennies and securing permission from my
patient, turkey-widow of a wife, Harris and I booked
tickets with Allegiant out of St. Pete on the 26th to join Nick for a weekend turkey getaway.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, everyone who knows me knows <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2010/11/fear-of-flying-and-more-montana.html" target="_blank">I'm terrified of flying</a>, but some trips can't be passed up. As it turned out, the majority of my
angst occurred while still on the ground. Despite living in Florida
my whole life, I failed to recognize St. Pete had an airport. I'd
always flown out of Tampa or Orlando. For whatever reason, Google
Maps directed us to a tiny airport in downtown St. Pete. Realizing
something was wrong, I ran into a terminal with roughly the
square-footage of an average Cracker Barrel and hurriedly questioned
the lady behind the counter where I could find the correct airport.
Seemingly having been asked this on numerous occasions, she gave me the proper directions. Thank God, too. I wasn't getting on any of those
Tic-Tac container-sized “airplanes” littered across that tarmac. So we were uncomfortably behind schedule as we strolled into St. Pete International.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With the worry of missing our flight and spending our hard-won free time at the Hard Rock Casino in Tampa, it was disheartening to see crowds of travelers stuffed within aisles waiting to check-in. I'm not sure what kind of crafts or flannel
shirt convention was happening in the Springfield, Missouri area where we would hopefully land in a few hours, but
there were deep, winding lines of folks,
and with the boarding call closing
in fast, our odds of seeing Kansas diminished further. Luckily, Harris had purchased priority boarding but had forgotten about it. Upon realizing this bold strike of fortune after ten minutes in line, he was able to call me up to bypass the masses and drop bags with just enough minutes left to clear security and sit at the bar for a pre-flight
nerve tonic which turned out being extremely helpful for my anxiety. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After boarding and feeling pretty good about having made it in time, we were getting settled in our seats when a guy trying to stuff his over-sized carry-on into the overhead
compartment blew a fluorescent bulb and sprayed glass on and around
all of us good people sitting near the emergency exits. I think I handled it well. I don't remember screaming, but I don't suppose many do when their lives flash before their eyes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let me clue you, the pop of a bulb, the
tinkling of glass, and the faint smell of ozone attracts some
attention within an airplane. It took 6 airport
employees to handle this situation: 1 to see there was a problem; 1
to diagnose the problem; 1 to discern how to fix the problem; 2 to
clean up the problem; and 1 to report the problem and tell the guy he
owed forty bucks to check his bag. I leaned over and told Harris that if anything
else happened, he'd be going solo.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, we landed in Springfield without
further issue beyond the delayed arrival and me being on the far side
of comfortably numb. The weatherman was the one who threw a wrench in
the issue now. The forecast had called for warm and sunny for the
entirety of the trip. We landed in a cold drizzle that lasted through
the first day of hunting. We tried a couple of set-ups Saturday
morning but with no gobbles, the cows laying down and vultures
roosted, it was evident that the only thing we'd be getting on this day was
pneumonia. It was decided we should pull up stakes, grab a hot lunch
and watch lucky hunters chase gobblers in Kansas via DVD.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As the rains eased later in the afternoon,
we took a drive around the property. In this part of Kansas, the
turkeys are a Rio Grande/Eastern hybrid. Some gobs have more of one
subspecies characteristics than others, but we were in the state's
designated intergrade zone which made for a unique trophy. Fascinating, too, was Nick's description
of hunting this area. He maintained that gobblers were often a
here-today, gone-tomorrow prospect. And while he received a weekend's
ration of commentary and jokes about migrating turkeys, it did make
some sense.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
See, the property we were able to hunt
totaled 400-500 acres. In parts of Florida I'm used to hunting,
400-500 acres is dominated by swamps with little clearings and fields
toms are attracted to. Navigation through such areas is tricky even for game animals. There are a lot of obstacles that dictate habits. Even on wide-open properties where occasional
cypress heads, pine stands, or oak hammocks comprise the only
vertical landscapes, Osceolas typically return to the same roosting
areas. Also, one has to consider the fragmentation of land in Florida by development and roads and whatnot; turkey populations are, generally speaking, squeezed together - Kansas, not so much. They are free and clear to travel, impeded by very little from what I saw. The turkeys on this and adjacent properties will apparently follow deep creek
bottoms for miles picking new places to fly-up each evening. It's why locating and roosting birds in the evenings is an important strategy here, not something I worry
about too much in the Sunshine State.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And while I don't want to place too much
emphasis on the habits of an individual bird and how that translates
into a whole subspecies, this gobbler did everything I would not expect
from an Osceola. One was the fly-down time: 6:15 in the morning. I
can't recall a Florida tom ever arriving that early – heck, most of
the birds I worked this season didn't touch the ground until well
after 7. Two, there was a hen calling from the edge of the same
field, and he left her and that opening to come to us, crossing a deep ditch
- almost a ravine – along the way. I still can't reconcile that.
Perhaps that other bird we heard was the dominate animal, and homeboy
knew it. We'll never know, but I credited Nick's calling because I'd
like to be invited back one day. Three, the gobbler stayed in range
while I buffooned with the shotgun.
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPUQihAR-8uOaHEeO5XrOSsTBmnZcjpjXHhn2N1s-tZu2yX7KN4j6aPiO3LvCrJEvLTYCrGLnZAKoiLXHW6SsjTqut2bwzcm6jqaQ9OaYh8rWh7ZN1VQKifnkDqWJXTStV-UkmBkKG3Ng/s1600/DSC_1269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPUQihAR-8uOaHEeO5XrOSsTBmnZcjpjXHhn2N1s-tZu2yX7KN4j6aPiO3LvCrJEvLTYCrGLnZAKoiLXHW6SsjTqut2bwzcm6jqaQ9OaYh8rWh7ZN1VQKifnkDqWJXTStV-UkmBkKG3Ng/s400/DSC_1269.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For starters, everything happened so
quickly that I failed to put a round in the chamber. Doing so with an incoming gobbler is a real trick of the
pros - said no one ever. Fortunately Nick had, and I escaped without the clatter of fully racking the pump. Then, I'm sure you've heard the mantra,
“Don't go into battle with an unproven weapon?” Well, many folks
over the years have dusted gobblers with the Mossberg pump Nick
loaned me, but I was unfamiliar with the use of the red-dot scope
mounted on it. Since we didn't place decoys, the gobbler was pacing
along the ditch searching. He wouldn't stay still, and I could not
pick him up in dawn's low light with the short field-of-view incumbent with
those scopes. He alarm-putted once, and I knew I'd have to get my
stink together or catch Hell in camp for the remainder of the
weekend. He walked behind a tree, and as he did, I focused the red
dot on the trunk. When he stepped out the other side, I moved the
reticle slightly to the left and under his chin and crumpled him at
35 yards to save the day. He wasn't hanging out any longer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Weighing in at 22 pounds with a 9
1/2-inch beard, Nick and I performed the ritual high-fives and
recount of the events that occurred We laughed that the walk in and back
took four times as long as the hunt. With the rains history and the
temperature warming during a bluebird day, we calculated the gobblers
were going to go gangbusters and more gobblers would meet this one's fate, but it wasn't to be. Harris,
unfortunately, didn't hear much. A mid-morning hunt wasn't any more
productive, and Nick was unable to roost any birds that evening. With great friends, you'd like to see everyone have a chance to pull the trigger.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But that's just turkey hunting - everyone present knew that. We were lucky to have the one in hand. And despite the travel and weather woes,
with the company kept and the beauty of Southeast Kansas, it's a trip
worth doing a 1000 times over.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Maybe we'll catch that migration one day. </div>
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<br /></div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-41409370239195166132013-03-26T17:55:00.000-04:002013-03-26T19:31:34.317-04:00The Mossy Oak Gobbler<br />
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</div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hSJfMipe5unK2LIHykgwZPYOCMK1evH4kmSZkwgDwsslsV-eP2RqDZsvZFGjAEaFnJN8spjHTMP9ZioWm3rsrYxfF-twBqcL1DK4IaSZou5w48GEyHgEEo7R8oDo_YVM-yKHuQELrco/s1600/DSC_1250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hSJfMipe5unK2LIHykgwZPYOCMK1evH4kmSZkwgDwsslsV-eP2RqDZsvZFGjAEaFnJN8spjHTMP9ZioWm3rsrYxfF-twBqcL1DK4IaSZou5w48GEyHgEEo7R8oDo_YVM-yKHuQELrco/s640/DSC_1250.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick Ferlita and I with our 1st Morning FL Easterns</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When chasing gobblers, it always seems
like your last easy hunt was yesterday's.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rick Ferlita and I were camped under a
wild cherry tree late Friday morning, quietly chatting about our
various experiences afield. We held post on the edge of a small green
field situated between a creek bottom and planted pines. We'd started
the hunt in the traditional manner, well before first light, in a
cut-over where we'd jumped a gobbler and his hen the evening before.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With direction from our guide, we
pinpointed several roost trees that bordered the gnarled, open
terrain and discussed a plan on how to set up the next morning. Daybreak
came with far fewer gobbles than expected. The starlit sky we left 12 hours earlier turned overcast, and the entire mood of the woods felt
ill-suited for much activity - except for one distant gobbler that would
respond to Rick's calls, the occasional crow, and the lonely howl of a coyote down by
the river bottom.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's never easy to determine when to
make a move on a bird, but this one seemed primed for action. We
lifted our decoys and hiked back to the main road to get a bead on
where the bird had gone. Fast forward a couple miles of walking
around impassable blocks of pines and several attempts to get in
front of the animal, and we eventually abandoned the chase and elected set up shop
on the aforementioned grass patch just to see what would happen late-morning.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, you know, with turkey hunting
there are so many variables in play – what call to use, how often
to call, should we deploy decoys, should we use a jake decoy – it
can quickly become paralysis by analysis. With gobblers - and all
manners of game, for that matter - a little patience and being where
they want to be is often the soundest strategy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But patience is fragile. At quarter
till eleven, we decided to give a few more yelps and work our way
back to the truck. Save a lone hen that pecked around the patch for a few moments, the sit had been for naught. Rick struck a few notes on his box call, and a
gobbler cut him off. He put down the call and flicked the safety off;
there was no doubt this bird was on his way.</div>
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EieexjUvzRimyuEru9UFiInX3Mhe4MbUUTCvPAR6p9uO7W7kUa1E17me9nrdFRnQ50M-DrkOgxUhyphenhyphenY_sWofVKYGKrB5shT4qXsgaAmi_sRKDfJ75zXYSosOIb0qfYqy59DUnHzPXE-U/s1600/DSC_0050-2_zps82f6185b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EieexjUvzRimyuEru9UFiInX3Mhe4MbUUTCvPAR6p9uO7W7kUa1E17me9nrdFRnQ50M-DrkOgxUhyphenhyphenY_sWofVKYGKrB5shT4qXsgaAmi_sRKDfJ75zXYSosOIb0qfYqy59DUnHzPXE-U/s320/DSC_0050-2_zps82f6185b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MO Prostaff with TNT Outdoor Explosion's Marty Fischer to my right</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For the first time in the five years since
its creation, members of <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/12022/turkey-hunting-with-southern-arrowhead-outfitters-and-floridas-mossy-oak-prostaff/" target="_blank">Mossy Oak's Florida Prostaff team devised plans for a group hunt</a>, and we descended upon 4,000 acres of gorgeous river
bottom and rolling planted pines near Blountstown, FL in the
Panhandle. Hosted by <a href="http://www.southernarrowheadoutfitters.com/" target="_blank">Southern Arrowhead Outfitters</a>, the land was
owned by the Atkins/Trammell families, old Florida names well-known
in state politics. For several years, SAO has offered semi-guided
archery hunts for deer and hogs, but this was only the second Spring
where turkey have been hunted in recent times.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While Florida is synonymous with
Osceola gobblers, those in the Panhandle are deemed to be Eastern
birds which was fine by me. Neither Rick nor I had ever tagged a
Sunshine State Eastern. And while there was no doubt the property was
rife with turkey, six months of planning could not fend off the
monsoon-like conditions that was about to pummel the state. That's
the luck of things.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And while the camp was brimming with
turkey hunting talent, it was also luck that Rick and me pulled each
others' numbers out of a hat Thursday evening. Lucky, too, that we
drew a block of woods on the high point of the property. A wet spring
had flooded the river bottoms, and the turkey were moving up to get
out of the water, and, possibly, the hordes of mosquitoes incumbent
with such conditions.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still, it's always hard to gauge how
two people who've met only briefly would work together when turkey
hunting. I'm a big proponent of the One Chief Theory. When I take
someone out on my own time, I want to run the show; however, Rick
makes his own beautiful box and scratch calls that he sells through
his Cypress Creek brand. I quickly offered the reins to him, figuring
I may learn a thing or two on this hunt. My inaction paid off at that
gobble. Rick had won the coin-flip to decide who would shoot first,
and I was more than excited to lend moral support and end this
morning on a high note.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After five minutes or so, Rick
whispered that he could see a tom enter the access road into the
clearing...then another, then a third gobbler. We were primed for a
double. I told him that when he shot, don't hop up, just yelp
or cut to the survivors to see if I could tag one, as well. The three came in a line, not in a hurry, just ambling, heads down and beards a-draggin'.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The final gobbler was obviously the older
animal as he finally broke rank and full-strutted between the other two right up to
my jake decoy. Marty Fischer of <i><a href="http://tntoutdooradventures.com/" target="_blank">TNT Outdoor Explosion</a></i> had joined us in camp and explained the difficulty of getting footage like this on camera - the hours of film and effort it takes to produce a half-hour segment. It's a shame his equipment was not with us. The cinematography was perfect.<br />
<br />
When the satellite gobblers cleared and the strutter
de-poofed, Rick lowered the hammer, folding him at 10 yards. One bird
immediately rocketed to greener, lead-free fields, while the now-abandoned survivor tossed up in the air before landing back in the field. It turned to
run, but Rick hit that mouth call - a Gagging Yelp, I would describe it - which froze the gobbler long enough
for me to fire a 3 1/2-inch load of #5 Winchester Supremes out of my
Mossberg 835, crumpling him into the sod. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nervous about the 40-plus yard
shot, I immediately leaped out of the blind and raced to the gobbler, later discovering my old and faded Mossy Oak Obsession hat caught in the cherry tree. Realizing it missing, I couldn't recall if I'd inadvertently tossed it aside in the excitement or the recoil had blown it back into the bushes. With two toms in
hand, we had our first Florida Easterns. Words failing each of
us, high-fives and back-slaps were about the only intelligible form of
communication we could muster for ten solid minutes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had remarked earlier how quickly
things could change with turkey hunting – the few miles of hiking,
several hours of sitting, and desperate strategies were struck from
memory as we celebrated back towards the truck. Each gobbler had 10
1/4-inch beards while Rick's tom sported a pair of 1 1/4-inch spurs that easily trumped my duo of 3/4-inchers, his clearly a three-year old with worn wingtips and a
feather-less breast from strutting and breeding.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our shooting for the weekend finished by the one-gobbler-per-person mandate, the next morning Rick and I teamed up
with Kevin Faver from <a href="http://www.outdoorsshow.com/" target="_blank"><i>The Outdoor Show</i></a> and Regional Manager of
Florida's Mossy Oak Prostaff to try and get him a gobbler. We sat in a different section of property and heard a tom
gobbling from the roost down towards the river. We advanced on him and called until around 30 - 45 minutes after daybreak when the winds picked up and the temperature
quickly cooled, betraying the approach of thunderstorms from the Gulf.
For the next two days it would downpour. Although those boys didn't give up all day every day, no one tagged another bird
until Sunday morning.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We hurried back to the truck, and while
Rick and Kevin decided to give it one last shot before the rains, I
chose to rest on the tailgate, my balky back threatening to seize up
after hours of sitting and traipsing the undulating terrain.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I watched the clouds darken and
listened to the thunder roll in, I couldn't help but think how much
easier the hunt was yesterday.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(Thank you to Mossy Oak, <a href="http://www.southernarrowheadoutfitters.com/" target="_blank">SouthernArrowhead Outfitters</a>, and everyone who participated in the hunt.)</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-61253674242282220542013-02-18T20:01:00.000-05:002013-02-19T19:48:21.956-05:00Further Thoughts on Wildcat Hunting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwl0R8c9bdLU2U_zB3KSosGz1oitt1F3sTvQVXjhKDd5TDN0Z3Jh-zaEkRnpqGc8Sp-5-jF96QIWV46nqQeVQupS9wsN4XKTv8ecqGq-g4Xr6fZJDBjjVGIuVUQDCXpBpSdJZZ7ePdVM/s1600/DSC_0765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwl0R8c9bdLU2U_zB3KSosGz1oitt1F3sTvQVXjhKDd5TDN0Z3Jh-zaEkRnpqGc8Sp-5-jF96QIWV46nqQeVQupS9wsN4XKTv8ecqGq-g4Xr6fZJDBjjVGIuVUQDCXpBpSdJZZ7ePdVM/s640/DSC_0765.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Over the last two months I have been murdered by reader e-mails and comments over a post I released two years ago about <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/02/hunting-bobcats-by-way.html" target="_blank">bobcat hunting</a>. In five years of publishing content online through various forums and websites, I've covered at least a little bit of just about every kind of hunting in this country and others, whether it was based on personal experience or commentary on an issue. Combined, the topics of these posts haven't attracted this level of vitriol. Why after two years has one little article attracted this much attention? Is it because of my ascending stardom among the Outdoor Community? </div>
<br />
Yes, probably. This post has hundreds of hits a day now, which is great because it generates traffic, but judging by these sentiments, not all that sure I'm hitting my demographic.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I published a couple of the comments; deleted those that crudely diminished my manhood - in both an ethical and anatomical sense - and those so poorly written they made me weep for our education system. All of them signed, "Anonymous."<br />
<br />
Bold.<br />
<br />
Look, it's quite clear few of these people actually read the post. In it, I argued that while bobcat hunting is fine sport, and they require management on certain lands, it's not like I'm out to butcher every one I run across - the reasons for hunting them are separate and apart.<br />
<br />
But there is really no value in rationalizing with these folks.<br />
<br />
Let's go ahead, though, and run through some of the major points surrounding bobcat hunting.<br />
<br />
1. It's legal, at least in Florida and most of the Southern states. They are not endangered or considered threatened in any way.<br />
<br />
2. Calling in a bobcat is the outdoor equivalent of a scary movie. You know that scene in those horrible flicks when a character is washing his face in the bathroom sink and looks up into the vanity to towel off and startlingly sees the image of a child with cold, frightening eyes standing behind him in the reflection? That's about what it's like to be in the middle of a calling session and realizing the cat is <i>right there</i>, and you're not sure how that came to be true so suddenly and quietly.<br />
<br />
3. Bobcat management is a somewhat debatable practice, but most folks believe that the removal of a few a year will help turkey, small game and songbird populations - when combined with other land management tools. I've seen them on properties follow flocks of turkey like blacktips shadow schools of mullet along the East Coast beaches each summer. It's not healthy to wipe them all out - and you never could, anyhow - but taking a limited number each year is wise.<br />
<br />
4. Nobody really eats bobcat. Now, I say nobody with the full intention of realizing <i>someone</i> out there probably does, but it's not common practice which turns off plenty of hunters and non-hunters. I feel no need to justify my actions today; I shot a lot more when I was younger and more blood-thirsty. I have a mount I'm very proud of. I've let several walk since my last post about the matter, but I'm going predator hunting this weekend and may very well be holding up another one by Sunday evening because of the three other reasons described above.<br />
<br />
So there it is. I realize that bobcat hunting doesn't sit well with a lot of people - especially in a world where some members of our citizenry place felines on a pedestal, though domestic and feral cats are among the gravest pestilences that have ever struck our native ecosystems.<br />
<br />
There's some temptation to argue back with the knobs who leave these comments, but most would be over-matched and the balance wouldn't care. I'm OK if you disagree with me. Promise.<br />
<br />
Just don't expect me to be insulted over it.<br />
<br />
<b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"You're the worst kind of human being. You surely will be shot and skinned in your next life. ENJOY!!! " - Anonymous</b><br />
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<br />Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-78559754166705938322013-01-29T15:20:00.001-05:002013-01-29T15:21:35.291-05:00Mississippi Duck Hunting <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoQlM2CWNX0mEoXextOKDxJGvD1ngP87q2v65Hkv6U86H9G4NnPmVmH1VHNSiCx5OQsSmLvDpkojCYw4BJLYLELEvBkzp5vnBR7HOPkTvZWonrvrnuv5DSB5ptDaNqXq_gX0mpJBAkVw/s1600/2013-01-26_09-41-41_398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoQlM2CWNX0mEoXextOKDxJGvD1ngP87q2v65Hkv6U86H9G4NnPmVmH1VHNSiCx5OQsSmLvDpkojCYw4BJLYLELEvBkzp5vnBR7HOPkTvZWonrvrnuv5DSB5ptDaNqXq_gX0mpJBAkVw/s400/2013-01-26_09-41-41_398.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greetings from the Blind</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKhRsL-yRjDSOSs9752F-4Z5DDLQHbUXfBICR4SayEdWwLtuqzm7rNmJaPPCSkKi-02SakTUV7aoyX0ZiPGead-dft3ZCiDQ-M212GwPyDTgZtWYTAqwRhavEODQB_2G7078GoVbcz2Q/s1600/ducks+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKhRsL-yRjDSOSs9752F-4Z5DDLQHbUXfBICR4SayEdWwLtuqzm7rNmJaPPCSkKi-02SakTUV7aoyX0ZiPGead-dft3ZCiDQ-M212GwPyDTgZtWYTAqwRhavEODQB_2G7078GoVbcz2Q/s320/ducks+004.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Ross and Cackler Goose</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The private land we hunted near Ruleville, MS in the Delta Region of the state was 3 parts mud, 1 part waterfowl. Despite this being my first trip to Mississippi, having long read about the great duck and goose hunting in this part of the world, I wasn't exactly blindsided. Neither was I that, despite the amount of waterfowl in the area, this late-season hunt was a tough one of wary birds.<br />
<br />
I've never killed a pintail; nothing changed after this trip. Oh, we saw tons, dropping from the clouds, those long necks peering down into the pit blinds. No matter the concealment, I just felt naked under their jeweler's eyes. One gorgeous sprig landed just out of decoy range but will remain well within memory for years to come.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdGYw6bCu2CQjoZ4VaPPxkbcM1sqZaJBEa2tzNp170gX9WdUmiJ-UNG89DMfhMkhXcbvK4SgLmDEjFjqq1M44nJcIaibP3wt5HqGcjUFn94dMJYSP7CmVDhjZeP4-y2mEMANgk-vvcwo/s1600/2013-01-26_08-21-24_549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdGYw6bCu2CQjoZ4VaPPxkbcM1sqZaJBEa2tzNp170gX9WdUmiJ-UNG89DMfhMkhXcbvK4SgLmDEjFjqq1M44nJcIaibP3wt5HqGcjUFn94dMJYSP7CmVDhjZeP4-y2mEMANgk-vvcwo/s640/2013-01-26_08-21-24_549.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drake Greenwing Teal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
The mallards I expected, in full plume this time of year, but almost as spooky as the pintail. And I've seen shovelers - or "smallards" or "Hollywoods" or " Spoonies" or whatever the code name was at the moment for these birds - but not in the numbers that floated across the flooded corn fields. We busted a few gadwall the first morning in a flooded timber situation. It'd been 10 years since I've shot a greenwing teal, and I placed a great deal of thought into having a drake mounted, but the damage was too significant.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgsrhh1JLGXa96PMol0113s6hlXU9nvXQu2UT4x-I5J_P7sRUOc6eG6O0aoTuwTR8qQT7zI2FMNTB3V7LqjvMg4ELJZxTInlQn1kdJz83PgjxTJGMk-kglzXRSr9rrEk3_jx3CBXrTHw/s1600/photo+(30).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgsrhh1JLGXa96PMol0113s6hlXU9nvXQu2UT4x-I5J_P7sRUOc6eG6O0aoTuwTR8qQT7zI2FMNTB3V7LqjvMg4ELJZxTInlQn1kdJz83PgjxTJGMk-kglzXRSr9rrEk3_jx3CBXrTHw/s320/photo+(30).JPG" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ol' Specklebelly<br />
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</tbody></table>
So, too, with my specklebelly, my first goose of any breed. The geese - the geese were incredible to a fellow not in any way accustomed to the numbers and the noise. Thousands of snows, cacklers, specks, blues...all morning and night, their laughs and honks carrying across the open. After my speck, Harris took down a Ross and a cackler. For me, the variety of game was like an exotic hunt in a faraway land.<br />
<br />
Which it wasn't, of course. It was downright easy to get to Mississippi from Florida, and I'm glad I did. Wish I'd taken a few more pics, but I simply enjoyed the scenery, hunting, and camaraderie too much to be lost in a lens.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVnrvzM_0auplbcuZKglW2KtJ1CXfI5ERi62EH8Qg1WDsNFlQ_id64vgttZjBiPvoTCmq25gzXYOZCIStW-sLA2JUBkOwWW_E7OAFTe878HUc_J6DEiWdqLs5iaAUo2MYWLk8vlvUOQ4/s1600/ducks+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHVnrvzM_0auplbcuZKglW2KtJ1CXfI5ERi62EH8Qg1WDsNFlQ_id64vgttZjBiPvoTCmq25gzXYOZCIStW-sLA2JUBkOwWW_E7OAFTe878HUc_J6DEiWdqLs5iaAUo2MYWLk8vlvUOQ4/s640/ducks+007.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little bit of everything</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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But, here, I wanted to share what pics we took. Hope you enjoy and had a successful duck season yourself.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosGhoyMDD76-n6SjpJIBJ60vgdFhikT9WzExC7uGYLJSe92o_NmXzjTN15wc4OR0avNA2TIkWKlKSIO13gu5A1bmKfD9em5NEfd_jr4bF6-2QgsgsAeHW7T-7yoUf5ky6ZQ2UR0rk5YU/s1600/ducks+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgosGhoyMDD76-n6SjpJIBJ60vgdFhikT9WzExC7uGYLJSe92o_NmXzjTN15wc4OR0avNA2TIkWKlKSIO13gu5A1bmKfD9em5NEfd_jr4bF6-2QgsgsAeHW7T-7yoUf5ky6ZQ2UR0rk5YU/s400/ducks+001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max helped, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-89469320792320694442013-01-23T11:51:00.000-05:002013-01-23T11:51:53.648-05:00A Hen Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zCzAPVgirpibSWhItK4pnWcPFmWn5Bp4u7UhnSKi_jENaKEkoDBFGo6MlqLJVlGAZ-aPEk-p8uIEr2FCRN1i59j3e0fJyhXUtcfLgVAAKZe_lXypdAXI8zOxTG2-vjH3QwREiCFPTKU/s1600/PICT0360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zCzAPVgirpibSWhItK4pnWcPFmWn5Bp4u7UhnSKi_jENaKEkoDBFGo6MlqLJVlGAZ-aPEk-p8uIEr2FCRN1i59j3e0fJyhXUtcfLgVAAKZe_lXypdAXI8zOxTG2-vjH3QwREiCFPTKU/s400/PICT0360.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>I poach posts from this website all the time for my other blog, <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i> - think it's about time to cut back across the grain. If you've not checked out <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i> or <i><a href="http://www.polkoutdoors.com/" target="_blank">Polk Outdoors</a></i>, please do so. </b><br />
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<b>Hope everyone's had a great hunting season, and I'll get to some original material soon enough!!!</b><br />
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<i>"You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow; This opportunity comes once in a lifetime"</i> - Eminem<br />
<br />
So one of the neat things about hunting some of Florida's WMA's is the opportunity to harvest a hen turkey during the fall, ostensibly while deer hunting. I can't imagine anyone would set out to do such a thing as its own hobby, so its gotta be a Luck of the Draw kinda deal. All I know is the rules prohibit private land hunters from doing so.<br />
<br />
The only wrinkle is, you've got to shoot them during archery season. No easy feat on a 8-10 pound bird.<br />
<br />
I first noticed this quirk in the regs while hunting Upper Hillsborough WMA several years back. Ever since, I've been unable to get this challenge out of my mind, but the opportunity to stick an egg-layer has never presented itself.<br />
<br />
Why I care about such an esoteric pursuit is beyond me. It could be because I know no one else who's accomplished such a thing. Just look at all these variables involved and you'll understand the magnitude of this accomplishment. You'd be a hero.<br />
<br />
Skittish Hen Turkey + Public Lands + Bow & Arrow + 20 Feet Up a Climber = Hunting Immortality<br />
<br />
Straight to the taxidermist if success ever smiled on me.<br />
<br />
So there I was last Saturday afternoon, lounging in my Summit Viper at the aforementioned Upper Hills WMA. One of the weird things about hunting Upper Hills is that it is very close to Sky Dive City in Zephyrhills. From dawn til dusk, all you hear is the drone of Twin Otters ascending to the proper altitude and descending back to the airfield. In between will come the sound of the violent unfurling of parachutes. Hold an empty plastic grocery bag out of the window next time you drive home from Publix, then magnify that noise by 100. Add that to the throttling engine noises and this should give you an idea of the cacophony associated with pulling a tag on this property.<br />
<br />
All. Day. Long.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, it's noisy hunting and almost impossible to discern the crunching of hoofbeats through the dry leaves of the cypress swamps, a near necessity to know when something is approaching in that thick environment. But crunching footsteps I did hear. Whatever it was made a ruckus.<br />
<br />
It was about 3:00. I slowly rose from my seat, clipped my release onto the bow string, gently placed my iPhone down, and awaited what I was certain would be a big buck slip by my stand.<br />
<br />
We've all been afield and heard thrashing in palmettos and expected something grand like a 10-point or giant boar or Swamp Ape to emerge from the shadows only to be disappointed and underwhelmed by an armadillo. This feeling was similar, but the disappointment shed quickly when I realized I might have my 1st shot at that hen I've long coveted.<br />
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A skinny bird, she took her time, slowly meandering through the bald cypress. She wasn't 30 yards away straight ahead, but the shooting lanes were all clogged - for an arrow, at least. A case could be made for a clear shot had I been allowed any sort of firearm. But, then, that wouldn't be part of the mystique, would it?<br />
<br />
She'd have to hit spots 10 yards in front or 20 yards to either side to be in the money. The way she was trending, though, a shot was, for certain, in my future.<br />
<br />
I figured I'd have at least a little wiggle room for movement, being that I was 25 feet up a tree and all, so I shifted just slightly anticipating a shot to my right. Well, on a breeze-less day, this rustled the branches of a tree that leaned against the cypress I had climbed.<br />
<br />
Bang! The element of surprise was gone. She was alarmed.<br />
<br />
The hen would poke her head up to look around for a few moments, take a couple steps and repeat. Minutes turned to hours. My heart was racing and brow dumping sweat now. She was so close to a clean shot, just a few more steps...<br />
<br />
When I thought she was obscured from view behind one final myrtle, I pulled my PSE back, knowing her next four strides into the open would be her last. Somehow - somehow - she caught me and turned 15 yards into 35. She paused on a fallen log and I released the Rage hoping the Force or Lady Luck or a fortunate wind would direct my arrow into the Kill Zone.<br />
<br />
Today I feel like a kicker who missed the winning field goal of the Super Bowl. A slugger who struck out with 3 on and 2 outs in Game 7. I've had a couple 2-hour breakfasts alone to ponder this tragedy and realized alcoholism and a tell-all book is my future now - which is pretty depressing since I've essentially told all already.<br />
<br />
If you've ever had success plugging a hen Osceola in the state of Florida with a bow - legally - please share.<br />
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Those of you who have missed, like me, counseling sessions are every first Tuesday of the month at Bass Pro in Orlando.<br />
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Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-56823966457157872202013-01-09T18:56:00.000-05:002013-01-09T18:56:27.130-05:00Fried Blue Cheese-Stuffed Venison<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwUm2PVOFEK8IetYezNfhS6ZkwDwDVa9aWkLLnuccfyUzJoF_3QaYxcZ9hGQtcw39G6xoiOuYnnqONi14m4R88wGhrvIO8ecyCVsiblZIOGbYiJq-L9BBXTa7Ds-hmXUcbNA0ZPeWlgQ/s1600/louise+004edited.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605907284176481970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwUm2PVOFEK8IetYezNfhS6ZkwDwDVa9aWkLLnuccfyUzJoF_3QaYxcZ9hGQtcw39G6xoiOuYnnqONi14m4R88wGhrvIO8ecyCVsiblZIOGbYiJq-L9BBXTa7Ds-hmXUcbNA0ZPeWlgQ/s400/louise+004edited.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Venison is such a healthy meat - low in fat, all-natural, free-range goodness. Frying it just feels wrong. Here God’s given you an opportunity to enjoy a meal <em>sans</em> saturated fats, and you bite your thumb at Him and pillory your heart and arteries.<br />
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Oh well.<br />
<br />
Here’s my latest abomination. Fried Cubed Steaks Stuffed with Blue Cheese. If you smothered it with gravy it would be the perfect food, though that could be flying a little too close to the sun.<br />
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Ingredients<br />
<br />
1lb. Venison Cube Steaks<br />
Mazola Corn Plus! Oil (I use this brand because it has, in about 18 different languages, stickers that claim it is heart-healthy, as if I’m just some Willy off the Turnip Truck who doesn’t know better. But I can point it to my wife and convince her. Also, I like shooting deer over corn. The symmetry is too perfect.)<br />
Flour<br />
Salt<br />
Pepper<br />
Seasoning<br />
2 eggs beaten (PS – why was the chef arrested? He was caught beating an egg! Ha! Heard it on a commercial.)<br />
1 cup Vigo Italian Bread Crumbs<br />
Package Crumbled Blue Cheese<br />
Toothpicks.<br />
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Soak the cube steaks in icy cold water for an hour or so to leach the blood. Pat dry and cut the steaks into pieces about the size of a standard issue chicken nugget, making sure to trim any silvery sinew or fat. Dash with your favorite steak seasoning.<br />
<br />
Take a dollop of blue cheese and stuff it in the middle of the venison. Wrap the meat around the cheese and secure with a toothpick. In one bowl, mix flour with salt and pepper. In another, the egg. The last one, breadcrumbs. <br />
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As the oil is heating in the cast iron skillet, toss the venison in the flour, dip in egg, and then roll in the breadcrumbs making sure to press the crumbs well into the meat. <br />
<br />
The oil is ready when it begins to shimmer. Flick a little flour in and if it bubbles on the surface, you are ready to go. It doesn’t take but a couple minutes before the outside is browned and crispy, and the cheese is oozing.<br />
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A-1 is my go-to sauce here; Frank’s Red Hot is worth a dabble. Next time, I’ll rig up a horseradish accompaniment and see what can be achieved.Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-11128871305870937772012-12-04T13:19:00.001-05:002012-12-04T13:19:55.112-05:00Duck Hunting on the Straight and Narrow<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2SXtoUeZnw4RKUkic4J6eX46e6eeRo6nqGWIcdgwiXz6FudRuD3ZF7ff4IKqmRT_UN8BcY4V1hYRMeUs_0ETSB3s1cHtOZ3-h7lQh1Np8QRTDxDHYdY22mIF4DjhR0e-3KkdUDE0uNk/s1600/DSC_0723edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2SXtoUeZnw4RKUkic4J6eX46e6eeRo6nqGWIcdgwiXz6FudRuD3ZF7ff4IKqmRT_UN8BcY4V1hYRMeUs_0ETSB3s1cHtOZ3-h7lQh1Np8QRTDxDHYdY22mIF4DjhR0e-3KkdUDE0uNk/s320/DSC_0723edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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With duck hunting it is not too difficult to spill the banks
of the written laws. Now, if you’re unlicensed and make a hobby out of
shooting lead from unplugged shotguns on someone else’s property while piling
up birds to the point it threatens a flyway, you’re nothing more than a wanton
criminal bent by your own sadistic whims and concepts of sporthunting. There’s
really no place for you here. But there are plenty of other occasions when well-intentioned, law-abiding
hunters cross the line into the realm of lawbreaker.</div>
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Let’s be clear before we move forward – there’s no gray
area. The USFWS and other governing bodies have laid bare the laws. How they
enforce them is often a matter of discretion, but ignorance is not an excuse,
though we all know plenty of folks where you could at least make a strong case
out of it. The rules that bind the sport are so varied that accidents do
happen.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We can always start with motorized boats. It’s a cinch to
have running lights fail or forget to slap a current registration sticker on
the side. Flares can be out of date. Maybe a cushion or life vest blew out on
the ride to the ramp. Or whatever is absent on that long list of safety gear and
equipment <st1:state>Florida</st1:state> boaters, at
least, must carry on their vessels. </div>
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Last year’s Early Teal Season was a prime example. We’d run
out of <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype> <st1:placename>Toho</st1:placename></st1:place>
before dawn when the bow lights quit and the spotlight failed. The captain used a flashlight to
navigate and alert others to our presence. With few boats around us and the moonlight illuminating the lake, it
wasn’t a dangerous matter. The Man got us the second that flashlight was
quelled for the slightest moment, descending on us like a hawk on a field
mouse. It happened quickly. Granted, they had no running lights and their boat
was solid black…but you can’t argue with The Man.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve seen this sort of thing happen too many times, and, I
mean, they are right, it’s the law. But, frustratingly, there is almost no circumstance in this
world where a game officer will show mercy and not cite you for a vessel
violation. Furthermore, if they want to find something wrong, they most
certainly will. I’m convinced some would look past large bales of grass tucked
under the bow and focus more on the mold content of your throw-cushion thus
fining you for it being out of code, probably because it’s a simple ticket and
they won’t have to appear in court. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of having to go to court, that reminds me of a very
recent situation. Of course, I would not be party to such things, so let’s
think of this as a secondhand story instead. There was this group of guys who
hunted STA 5 one Sunday afternoon back in September for the Early Teal Season.
These guys shot one duck shy of their limit and were quickly stowing their gear to
return to the check-in station. This being <st1:place>South Florida</st1:place>,
their bare flesh was being flayed by the various ground based and
aerial combat insects that reside here. They did what anyone who still has
nerve endings would do, namely, toss all their gear and ducks into the bed of a
truck and haul butt out of there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon arrival at the check station and staring at the mound
of ducks behind the tailgate, the <st1:stockticker>FWC</st1:stockticker>
officer informed these folks that it was against the law to store ducks in that
manner, even though the group was under their limit. All the birds must be
separated and/or kept on a stringer of some fashion to designate who they
belonged to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said this was a federal offense, and
they should be lucky federal officers were not there or the group would be
cited and have to return to <st1:place><st1:placename>Hendry</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
to go to court. Kindly, this group of ne’er-do-wells was allowed a pass. She
let these guys know – several times – how nice she was being, and there were
plenty of thank-you’s to go around because no one wants to go to court in
Hendry County where the judicial system is already bogged
down with meth possession trials and cockfighting arraignments. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naturally, I knew all of this because I read all the federal
rules and clearly understand their meaning…OK, I’m lying. I’ve been duck
hunting off and on for over ten years now and have neither heard anything about
this nor seen it done despite the fact I hunt with experienced waterfowlers. Hell, I’ve left other STA’s with similar piles of ducks that were
checked by game officers and nothing was ever said. Having looked it over a second time, it is there in the guidelines in typical legal jargon, easy enough to browse over without fully understanding its purpose while seeking the current bag limits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did you realize that until you get to your primary residence –
or abode as the feds call it - that all dressed birds must have their head or
one wing attached for positive ID? So make sure you keep a wing on
that breast after you’re done plucking it in the hotel room sink. Furthermore,
if you transfer a bird to another person, including a game processor, taxidermist,
or buddy who has freezer space, it must have a tag attached with your name,
signature, harvest date and address of the hunter who shot the bird. If you
drop off several dressed birds to anyone, you must also include the species and total
number of birds killed on that day. You can clip this info to the wing, I suppose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, let’s finish this off with a positive note and not get
into those hunts when a bag limit is exceeded or a bird misidentified.
Do your best to read the rules and keep an eye out for changes. Quite
honestly, though I do read the rulebooks, I’ve mostly learned this sport by following the crowd. But just like trying to argue your way out of a speeding ticket by saying you’re
just going with the flow of the traffic, no game officer worth his salt is
gonna buy that excuse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you do mess up, just hope you’re not caught; if you are
pray for the kindness of that game officer and hope he or she is not a federal
agent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine the looks you’ll get in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Hendry</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place> courthouse when you tell the
resident hardened felons that you’re in for failing to keep your ducks in a
row.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-36983316405109112752012-11-27T19:50:00.000-05:002012-11-27T19:51:07.012-05:00Venison TaquitosI won't insult you - today, at least - by offering up a venison taco recipe. My guess is, if you're capable of finding and reading this website on your own, following the rules on the box of Ortega should be no big deal.<br />
<br />
But I have been wrong before.<br />
<br />
Preferring the Taco Bell brand seasoning myself, I make venison tacos at least once a month. They're easy and delicious, and since it's just my wife and me eating them - <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2012/09/toddlers-vs-bucks-ducks.html" target="_blank">for now</a> - there's typically plenty of leftovers. If you run into similar situations and want to improve upon the Ol' Microwaved Taco Reheat, try making a batch of taquitos.<br />
<br />
Generally speaking, we'll have 1/2 pound of leftover venison taco meat after dinner, so that's going to be our measuring point for this recipe which is enough for 12 -15 taquitos.<br />
<br />
What you'll need:<br />
<br />
<i>1/2 Pound Ground Venison cooked in favorite brand of Taco Seasoning</i><br />
<i>15 Corn Tortillas</i><br />
<i>1 Can Enchilada Sauce</i><br />
<i>1 Cup Shredded Sharp Cheddar Cheese</i><br />
<i>Sour Cream</i><br />
<i>Cilantro</i><br />
<i>Favorite Salsa</i><br />
<i>Any Variety of Hot Sauce that graces your fridge</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Preheat an oven to 350-degrees. Taquitos are often fried in vegetable or peanut oils on the stovetop, and that's probably how God intended it; however, sin aside, I don't always feel like cleaning up stovetops after pops and sizzles of the oil. The baked method is easier, healthier, and the difference in taste is negligible.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Add one can of enchilada sauce in with the 1/2 pound of cooked ground venison. You may think that the enchilada sauce may seem like Mexican Overkill after the deer has been cooked in taco seasoning, but trust me, it's not. Add to this a half cup of the shredded cheese and mix well.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, you'll need to cook the tortillas to make them pliable. Again, you could cook them 10-15 seconds a side in a skillet on the stove; to save time and energy, it's far more efficient to wrap them in a paper towel and nuke in the microwave for 2 minutes.<br />
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<br />
Once everything is prepared, lightly grease a cookie sheet. To stuff the tortilla, place the venison mixture on the edge of the tortilla and roll tightly to the other end. Placing the meat in the middle and trying to fold it is a waste of messy time. Place seam-down on the greased sheet and finish your batch. Before tossing them in the oven, I like to give them a quick blast of spray butter.<br />
<br />
Bake for 30 minutes and remove, covering the rows of taquitos with the remainder of the shredded cheese if you feel the need. I usually do - though not in the picture to the left. They will be piping hot and should be left to sit for a few minutes, and it's now that you can whip up the <i>accoutrements</i>.<br />
<br />
I'm a straight-up hot sauce and salsa guy. Carolyn likes sour cream. Chopped cilantro and lime juice are popular garnishes for taquitos. Guacamole, if you're down with that.<br />
<br />
Enjoy.Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-52165759557144983712012-11-19T15:18:00.000-05:002012-11-19T15:18:58.832-05:00The Vagaries of Luck while Deer Hunting in North Carolina<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRumNbH0F5A_NqQ9H3Ssm0yvAATbZq-k6AY_2cmB_ZH_2OKdOMmdaljs2plwp3i5az5vCGPKoPcnVi6hVlDqeLW4YzghshPtdrUco_9JE_B4els2EvpsVRhcNLMrEWyP70B5bmiimCqU/s1600/DSC_0708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRumNbH0F5A_NqQ9H3Ssm0yvAATbZq-k6AY_2cmB_ZH_2OKdOMmdaljs2plwp3i5az5vCGPKoPcnVi6hVlDqeLW4YzghshPtdrUco_9JE_B4els2EvpsVRhcNLMrEWyP70B5bmiimCqU/s640/DSC_0708.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The buzzsaws cranked up at <st1:time hour="7" minute="0">7
a.m.</st1:time>, a solid 45 minutes after first shooting light. True to
current form, those three-quarters of an hour produced not a single deer
sighting. I’d long since come to the conclusion that I’m a deer hunting hack –
not a single strategy of my own had paid off this season and now I was relying
on the Deer Gods to shine on me in Sampson County, North Carolina. As I put
forth no effort whatsoever in placing this stand or scouting the land or even dumping bait piles, I would be at the whim and mercy of forces beyond my control
– including the loggers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We knew there would be a crew chopping trees. As the story
goes, the lady who owned the land ran into health problems and resulting money
problems, and the banks were threatening to foreclose on the property – quite
frankly, it’s a depressing backdrop on which to highlight my misfortunes with
something as silly as deer hunting. To help settle the debt, family decided to
sell the timber rights on this several hundred acre tract. Since the woods would be gone in a matter of days, it was decreed in camp to hang the antler rules and
restrictions and any deer could be shot from this area, so long as it was legal
by NC standards. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gene had sat here the previous morning and spotted an assortment
of does and a young six-point. He had his mind on bigger things and passed on
the chances. The din of the work crew was distant enough so as not to rile the
deer up too much. I pounced on the opportunity to abide by the “Brown is Down”
mentality when it became available and sat coiled, ready to strike at any spike
or doe that slipped out of the woods. But by the time those blades started
striking pine bark, only a few hen turkeys had visited.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-88qUTK1yndapyEMaCvbceTUdrVR6yp3tuoJoHuxgM97Ix7V3SnIYByMzg7Ut8wKcUCAYFvGM3B6O29cjd6KwAGsuVem-dkEXfJiG7BTDC4V4oYJzqZPYMzG5snlmQuAffRWz0_odEw/s1600/DSC_0675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-88qUTK1yndapyEMaCvbceTUdrVR6yp3tuoJoHuxgM97Ix7V3SnIYByMzg7Ut8wKcUCAYFvGM3B6O29cjd6KwAGsuVem-dkEXfJiG7BTDC4V4oYJzqZPYMzG5snlmQuAffRWz0_odEw/s320/DSC_0675.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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The stand was really a Porta-Potty on a raised platform.
Gutted on the inside minus a swivel chair and an assortment of whiz bottles and
spit cups, it was a comfortable perch on the border of the timber and a
cut cornfield. The one problem with being encapsulated like that was it muffled
noise from the outside. While the terrible, irritating drone of the saws was clearly audible, it was difficult
to realize that they were drawing closer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the hens didn’t seem to mind, so I held out hope. Around
8, though, all dreams were dashed. I distinctly heard the snap of a splintering
pine trunk and listened as the tree top bullied its way through vines and
underbrush and crashed to the floor, shaking the entire stand. I slung the door
to the stand open and could now clearly hear and see the crew in the treeline
behind me, maybe 100 yards, and more pines waving in the air and disappearing
to the ground. Deer be damned, I didn’t want to be crushed by a felled conifer, especially in a Porta-Potty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that about summed up how things had been going for me
this year – galactic forces beyond my control pulling me further from my goals
of antlers and venison. Desperation had already taken hold. The evening before
in a different stand I tried shooting a doe at 450-500 yards, rough guess. She
and four others bailed into a gigantic cut cornfield at sunset. They milled
about in the open as I fumbled with the odds of actually cutting hair. I figured I never get a chance to
shoot this far, why not? No Lead, No Dead. The bullet fell way shy of the
animal, exploding in the dirt and mushrooming small plumes of dust as it ricocheted
across the field like splashes after a rock is skipped across water. Needless
to say, she got away and they were the only deer I saw in nearly 8 hours of
hunting that area that day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that very stand the following morning while I was
listening to the saws, Dave shot an ancient 6-point, wide of the ears by a
couple inches. He’d also seen another 8 and several does within shooting
distance. Why didn’t they show when I was there 24 hours earlier? It is things like this that’ll
drive you nuts because when luck is not
breaking your way but seems to be favoring everyone else, you begin to question your Karmic standing: "What have I done wrong? I'm a nice person!" Dave does a
bunch of work on this land year in, year out and deservedly took a nice buck. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTpeH2ezIjq7OtMmloUxyzD0lJyI2A1ShDtbeqABNcYJFboSWagtAxEzXcoP6p4-tTiR7PJ4TZSC0rhY7FBv3U5XXquo0556101I0nOVQ6EZuQLO9XRDvpCaW2ickJJlfpuvLvGvJbUQ/s1600/DSC_0676edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTpeH2ezIjq7OtMmloUxyzD0lJyI2A1ShDtbeqABNcYJFboSWagtAxEzXcoP6p4-tTiR7PJ4TZSC0rhY7FBv3U5XXquo0556101I0nOVQ6EZuQLO9XRDvpCaW2ickJJlfpuvLvGvJbUQ/s320/DSC_0676edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's cull buck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, it was also a little bit more than work ethic that
contributed to Dave’s buck. A cold front was quickly approaching and it
switched the deer activity wide open. Dad – on his first trip ever hunting with
us here – shot an interesting cull buck out of what is known as the Jerry Mack Stand. This animal, too, had been on the scent of a hot doe. Dad had seen
several other big-bodied deer before shooting light that he was convinced were
bucks. I just needed to lay claim to that stand for the evening hunt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Camp protocol states that the man who has not killed a deer
gets his first chance at choosing a stand. That put me in the driver’s seat,
but only barely. Tim had shot and lost a cowhorn the night before. I offered
him my bid on Jerry Mack’s out of the shear kindness of my heart. He
deliberated hard, but the issue became moot. Travis had gone out on a feed run
and found Tim’s deer thus rendering his claim on JM’s null and void. Things
were lining up for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And don’t feel bad for Timbo – no one else ever would –
because his evening hunt was a hard lesson in Hunting Destiny. My boy E-Man had been hunting the Dennis Stand for a couple days. He
hunted morning to <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">noon</st1:time>, would come
back for lunch and return for the bulk of the afternoon. He’d put in an
unspeakable number of hours in that stand that neither I nor any other member
in camp would and it just wasn’t paying off for him. E-Man decided he required
a change of scenery, if only for an evening. Tim decided he’d hunt the Dennis
Stand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’ve ever spent any amount of time deer hunting, you’re
probably wincing and already know what happened. Yes, Tim killed the biggest
buck we have taken on that property in the years I’ve hunted there, a gorgeous
8-pt. He was in the stand only 15 minutes. There was some muttering and
name-calling later and a notable shortage of bourbon by night’s end, but
all-in-all, E-Man handled it well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at Jerry Mack’s, I’d settled in as the wind started
whipping up with gusts in the 20-30mph range. I’ve had zero success in my life
when the conditions were like this and lacked confidence that this evening would be any different. Jerry Mack’s is a large elevated box blind situated
on a grass pasture surrounded by blocks of thick ash, pine and oak. If you were
to take a running start into the woods, you’d make it maybe 5 feet. It’s more
of a brick of woods than a block, pervasive in coastal <st1:state>North
Carolina</st1:state>. But the deer love it. The only way to
reliably get them out of this mess is with dogs or bait piles. This isn’t land
for lock-ons or ground blinds set way out in the weeds; you must motivate these
deer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A light drizzle started around <st1:time hour="16" minute="0">4
p.m.</st1:time> as the light already started to fade. From across the field
ahead of me a spike emerged from the tangle, nose to the ground seeking a hot
doe. He circled the bait piles for 10 minutes or so before finally wandering
into the woods to my left. Entranced by the spike, I failed to mention the buck
standing in the field on my right. The Nikon Monarchs showed him to be a young
8-pt; the Nikon rangefinder said he was at 292yds. Now it was a matter as to
whether I could hold the Nikon scope in the right spot with the distance and
wind. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82K_tMLXkasQnhtw_aYCIxuWm6y5y8frOnFNdeX7QCR_jiSYKB3vL3gY0RjmW-0Ikr2OPt6OY9p_EXc05qRSm18ZiWJzp_EJxiPdy7KFbKy4PImqTZbTKAoG5NJR_yyox8EpOVLrma4k/s1600/DSC_0700edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82K_tMLXkasQnhtw_aYCIxuWm6y5y8frOnFNdeX7QCR_jiSYKB3vL3gY0RjmW-0Ikr2OPt6OY9p_EXc05qRSm18ZiWJzp_EJxiPdy7KFbKy4PImqTZbTKAoG5NJR_yyox8EpOVLrma4k/s320/DSC_0700edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Carolina 8-point</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m supremely confident in my Savage 110 Tactical in .300
Win. Mag. Shot a few hogs at such ranges – and missed plenty more – but this
would be my longest crack at a deer. Shooting 180-grain Winchester XP3’s
sighted in 1.5 inches high at 100 yards, I could hold at the top of his
shoulder and we’d be in the money. The only problem was that wind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The buck was doing the same as the spike, though with more
patience. He was seeking the trail of a doe around the corn piles. He’d pace
around with this nose to the ground as the wind and rain no doubt hindered his
senses. I got comfortable in the stand and nestled the rifle in the corner of
the railings and the roof support for a solid rest and tracked him as he turned
broadside. At that time, the wind gave me the break I needed. I squeezed the
trigger and, after the report, caught the sight of the white belly flipping
upwards and still in the grass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
292 yards is a good shot. I raced down to make sure he had
expired and to snap a quick pic. You know that’s a decent distance when it
takes almost 10 minutes to walk from the stand and back. He was what I thought
he was – no surprises like being a four-point or something that'll earn lectures at camp. No giant trophy
but my first decent buck after several failed attempts over the years. The next
buck that walked in, while I was texting pics to friends and family, I thought would be a wall-hanger. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This buck, certainly more mature, carried a belly and
swagger and an impressive right side of antlers for this area. He strolled up
to his fallen brethren to size him up before he started his own search for
love. That’s when he turned his head my way and I saw his left antler didn’t
match – it was a forked brow tine, almost exactly like the one my father had
shot that morning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDxsnZxFMlPr18YHTA1CfoGLe2breDCuclTtPf_vH7RGeUJCMfHxszapo3vQu275CBp1qO7koMO1ugu1YbewJsxLo4L6Lb9vK-aYH-AZC0IhxBF2urOsxQOH4B6vsQsFl_v8RmHjAncM/s1600/DSC_0703edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDxsnZxFMlPr18YHTA1CfoGLe2breDCuclTtPf_vH7RGeUJCMfHxszapo3vQu275CBp1qO7koMO1ugu1YbewJsxLo4L6Lb9vK-aYH-AZC0IhxBF2urOsxQOH4B6vsQsFl_v8RmHjAncM/s320/DSC_0703edited.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Carolina Cull Buck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We needed to do something about this gene pool, but I
strongly contemplated what would be the results of my action. One, he was at
307 yards. Could I pull off that shot again? What if someone else wants to hunt
here? An act of unselfishness would weigh well with the Hunting Gods. Should I
push my luck this far after being graced just minutes prior? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I made the shot. Get rich or die trying. He dropped
like a sack of potatoes. This time I abandoned the stand and called Dad and
Uncle Dennis to help me load the deer. As it turned out, the weather only got
worse and the deer movement across the property slackened by the next day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time
will tell if there will be any cosmic repercussions, but I was certainly proud of
these two bucks and more than a little thankful. Truth be told, I celebrated a
little harder that night, surely contributing to the whiskey shortfall. Plus, someone had to selflessly stay up to console E-Man and wish him luck for the next day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-90239477447499342162012-10-22T13:52:00.003-04:002012-10-22T13:53:38.857-04:00From "Good Hunt" - Some Things about Muzzleloaders<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirkFtyryF7DolODS4Cmib0wPDWTQULvmRMyst38GJ3Dqv_KyoeJeWftUBQ6uJaTHYgfOqBBl7zV_flEUK-WxTduANgb9zdWXapbpm2jrEOpYbMQXDOWLLfvjGzPukeX7ryz5qycqeSf0/s1600/DSC_0620edited-600x405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhirkFtyryF7DolODS4Cmib0wPDWTQULvmRMyst38GJ3Dqv_KyoeJeWftUBQ6uJaTHYgfOqBBl7zV_flEUK-WxTduANgb9zdWXapbpm2jrEOpYbMQXDOWLLfvjGzPukeX7ryz5qycqeSf0/s400/DSC_0620edited-600x405.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My collection of Muzzleloaders</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 1.67;"><b>I wanted to take a moment for a little cross-promotion. As some of you know, I've been writing a hunting blog, <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>, for the local newspaper, the <i><a href="http://www.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Lakeland Ledger</a></i>, over the last nine months. Really enjoy it and feel it is going well. We have covered a wide range of hunting activities in this time. In addition to my efforts, the paper's regular outdoor writing staff has contributed a wealth of information on freshwater and saltwater fishing, hunting, hiking, and environmental issues. Together, we are grouped at the <a href="http://www.polkoutdoors.com/" target="_blank"><i>Polk Outdoors</i> website</a>. If you live in Florida, plan to visit here or already do so on a regular basis, or just find an interest in our outdoor lifestyle, I encourage you to visit the site and bookmark it for future use. </b></span></div>
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<b>Below was my last post on <i><a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/" target="_blank">Good Hunt</a></i>. It's a little longer than I usually publish there and not as Florida-centric, and I was torn on which site to post it. Problem solved now!</b></div>
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<b>Anyhow, please take some time to visit <i><a href="http://www.polkoutdoors.com/" target="_blank">Polk Outdoors</a></i> and snoop around. Hope you enjoy and feel free to drop a line with comments, suggestions, etc. </b></div>
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<b>Thank you.</b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.67;">Over the last 15 years I’ve hunted muzzleloading season it’s been quite entertaining watching folks trudge into camp all excited about an extra weekend or two of hunting, only to leave without their new weapons, having sold them in fits of rage for pennies on the dollar to anyone willing to take the cursed tokens off their hands. One year this camp regular, who had gone through at least a half-dozen frontstuffers that failed him in some way or another, showed with his single-shot Ruger No. 1 in .375 H&H arguing it was the same general concept of muzzleloading. Of course this was very illegal, and I would never recommend or endorse anyone to do likewise – unless maybe they’ve gone through, at minimum, 10 different blackpowder devices.</span></div>
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The truth is, failures with blackpowder equipment are typically the result of operator error. Though the guns they manufacture today are about as fool-proof as you can design these tools, they still require more diligence than your standard issue cartridge-fed, breech-loaded rifle.</div>
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Just wanted to run through a list of errors and issues I’ve witnessed in the past.</div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">1. Trouble with Sidelocks</span> – It seems most folks who first dabble with muzzleloading start with those $89.99 sidelock CVA’s. Then they buy the coolest looking sabot-ed projectiles and the Pyrodex pellets and doom themselves to disaster before they’ve left Wal-Mart. One, those sidelocks aren’t designed to use pelleted forms of powder. They require loose powder. Yes, you can get them to ignite from time to time, but reliability is severely compromised. There are no shortcuts with these guns – you must measure the loose powder. Two, those 250-grain sabots with the colorful polymer tips aren’t designed for sidelocks, either. Using the factory sights, these bullets will always hit high and usually above the target. I’ve witnessed folks – seriously – file down the front posts on their sidelocks to get sabots to print on paper. It’s depressing and frustrating to watch. You’ll need to shoot 350 – 385-grain MaxiBalls or Plains slugs, and if you can put three of those in a softball-sized circle at 50 yards, friend, you’re killing deer.</div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">2. Care with Primers</span> – You want to avoid handling your primers as much as possible. Your skin has oils that will ruin the caps. Percussion caps are the worst. Musket caps are a little better, followed by the 209 Shotshell Primers. If I drop a cap, I throw it out. I hunt with it once, then throw it out. No part of this process is as important as keeping your primer’s integrity intact.</div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">3. Ramrods</span> – Carry an extra ramrod. They are made of plastic, carbon fiber, or wood, and their job is to push a tight fitting bullet 20 inches down a rifled tube. They break. Also, once you load your rifle for the first time, cut a line or notch on the ramroad where it meets the crown of the barrel. This will ensure in the future that you have the proper seating for the load – or that there’s not another, forgotten load in there, Mr. No Fingers.</div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">4. Realistic Inline Accuracy</span> – As designed, inlines are inherently more accurate than sidelocks. Having said that, I’m sure someone in the Heartland has a sidelock that prints 1/2-inch MOA and if that’s the case, I would parlay that luck into lotto tickets and a trip to gamble on the ponies. Still, inlines do have accuracy issues. Let’s set a standard first – if you’re getting 2 – 2 1/2-inch groups at 100 yards, you’re in the stink. Most factory centerfire rifles barely do better than that. If you’re wandering outside of the 3-inch mark, there are some things to look at. Start back at the primer and work forward. At first, using standard 209 primers, my Knight Disc rifle wouldn’t even group, just randomly splatter shots across paper, certainly not what I had in mind when I purchased it. When used with Pyrodex or Triple 7 pellets, I discovered those generic primers left a fouling ring in the throat of the barrel that prevented proper seating by about a quarter-inch. This was enough to send the bullet astray. I switched to Remington’s Kleanbore primers and the patterns immediately tightened. The amount of powder you use is important. I use 100-grains of Triple Seven. Some guns are designed for 150-grains, but I’ve never felt the need and have heard about wild accuracy issues as the space needed for three 50-grain pellets takes up barrel space and shortens the time the bullet has to stabilize. If you’re having accuracy issues with 100-grains, back off to 90. It could be the bullet/barrel combination is more accurate with less powder behind it. Or it could be you appreciate not being violently beaten as bad in the shoulder. If you’re still having trouble, try different bullets – after that, switch to a .375 H&H…</div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">5. Gun Function Issues</span> – Above were mostly internal issues with muzzleloading accuracy, but, in reality, many of these guns aren’t exactly built for benchrest shooting. The triggers have the grace of a ratchet strap. Many of the cheaper models have hollow stocks, not all that much comfort when launching a .50-cal. projectile at a couple thousand feet per second. My first inline was like this. If you filmed the stock in slow motion while I shot it, I bet you’d see it crumple like a used toilet paper roll against my shoulder and the receiver actually hit me. With little weight to help brace for the recoil, it doesn’t take long for <a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/04/recoil-and-flinching.html" style="border: 0px; color: #0660a6; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">The Flinches</a> to take control. One day I filled it with fishing weights and epoxy and that tamed the beast, though it became a bear to carry in the woods. As for the trigger – thanks to a litigious society, I’m not suggesting anything here other than to take it to a gunsmith and see what he or she can do for you. All I know is it’s hard to accurately shoot any rifle that beats you to death and requires a tricep flex in order to pull the trigger.</div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">But don’t let me deter you. As I’ve said before, </span><a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2010/05/fun-with-blackpowder.html" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0b5394;">muzzleloading is a fun way to experience deer hunting</span></a><span style="color: #444444;">. Just keep in mind they require a touch more attention than you’d put towards other firearms.</span></div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-82919442370867116912012-10-16T13:37:00.004-04:002012-10-17T18:10:07.536-04:00That Old Doe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQ-q3UOQqkAGLrAlCkHFmt5X3G5cV5QLO5wxaC-AW0NDtVfbOIG3CFbWFqwE2O0N9xYTuh3T1BpIe96zfPjk15VbE8pLuzLHoZFlCBP8cMQfxYywL4neBsdn9kqG5SKe_K1-UvyLakKI/s1600/doeedited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXQ-q3UOQqkAGLrAlCkHFmt5X3G5cV5QLO5wxaC-AW0NDtVfbOIG3CFbWFqwE2O0N9xYTuh3T1BpIe96zfPjk15VbE8pLuzLHoZFlCBP8cMQfxYywL4neBsdn9kqG5SKe_K1-UvyLakKI/s400/doeedited.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2004 South Carolina Doe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The old doe fed in a clearing between palmetto patches,
munching on acorns from the sweeping live oaks that rapidly diminished what was
left of the fading light. She’d come from a marsh accompanied by a younger doe
and a yearling. She was a chocolate-gray color, unlike her unseasoned
counterparts who still sported a pine needle red coat that had carried through
the heat of the summer into the early fall. While the two other deer audibly
splashed their way into the hammock like children running through the surf, she
tip-toed, an almost imperceptible wet hoof-beat. She’d walk a few steps and then
stop to survey her surroundings, that long Roman nose gauging the swamp air for
any hints of danger. This old doe had been around a while. Always cautious with
animals like her, I was careful not to breathe, even though I was 20 feet up a
pine tree with the wind in my face. I've played this game before.</div>
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Still, she never could defeat that natural wariness of hers.
She sensed something. The scabs on surrounding pines from other hunters scaling
the trunks in climber stands betrayed any notion that I’d tapped into a
virginal hunting ground, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing
moment that she’d had an unpleasant encounter prior to my visit. She’d ceased focusing
on her buffet, raising her head and pinning her ears back as she’d gaze in my
direction. Occasionally she’d stoop her head as if to continue feeding but
immediately snatch it back up to see if she could trick anything into moving.</div>
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Finally, that old doe had had enough. She oozed back into
the understory, circling through the creek to get downwind of my
position. I knew, without doubt, what would be coming next. That nanny finally
hit the current of air she sought. I’ll never know if she caught my scent or the
fumes from the Therma-CELL, but this once-silent creature who went to great
lengths to avoid being detected, raised Hell a mere 30 yards away, blowing and snorting and
slapping her hooves into the water. She still did not have a bead on my
location and stood exposed, broadside for 5 minutes adhering to this routine. I
had never wished for an antlerless tag so badly in my life. </div>
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This was on a <a href="http://goodhunt.blogs.theledger.com/11017/the-lake-panasofkee-special-opportunity-hunt/" target="_blank">Special Opportunity Hunt at Lake Panasofkee last Saturday evening</a>.
An archery hunt, the rules for the property required a tag for the harvest of
does. I’m not sure why I upset this doe so much; I hadn’t killed any of her
relatives. Heck, I don’t think I’ve even shot a deer within 100 miles of this
location, but she had it out for me. And if you’ve ever had an old doe stomp
and blow at you, you are well aware that this is <i>Taps, </i>the 3<sup>rd</sup>
strike in the bottom of the 9th. Game Over. Content with her damage, she
finally trotted off into the gloaming, and that was it for the deer that
evening. </div>
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That’s the way of things with those old does. They can be
your worst enemy in the woods, worse than squirrels barking in your face. But
just as with those obnoxious tree rats, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes
of their bluster to start contemplating revenge - an arrow, a bullet, a hand
grenade, something to shut them up. </div>
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One of my favorite “Return to the Campfire Tales” is when
a hunter reports with wild excitement how That Old Buck winded him down in the
Pine Woods and blew at him all evening. I never want to spoil anyone’s big buck
story with my attitude and theories, but more than likely, it was a doe calling you out. If a buck winds you, he’s outta there. Mature bucks, as elusive and crafty as they are, just don’t have it in their <st1:stockticker>DNA</st1:stockticker>
to hang around and intentionally ruin your hunt. Plus, they have the does to warn
them; no point risking their own hides when their sentries will sound the alarm. It's just good business.</div>
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Maybe I’m wrong, but it probably comes down to a doe’s
maternal instincts. Bucks aren’t burdened with raising fawns and protecting
them from the perils of the woods. I’ve watched does chase coyotes and bobcats
and run off wild boar. Does will reliably come to a predator call – like a
mouse squeaker - during the spring. I’ve watched them decoy themselves to
distract attention from bedded fawns. So the fact they’d open themselves to
sacrifice during hunting season isn’t all that surprising. </div>
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This isn’t to say they are easy targets - not at all. The
fact this one was caught in the open was as an anomaly. In my experience, the
older does hang in the woods a little longer than the younger ones, having
since lost their reckless ambition over the course of several seasons. They
have a knack for shielding themselves from a direct shot, and oftentimes the
first glimpses you have are of those ears, ever-shifting above the brush. Then the
nose is tossed in the air, and this is the truly frightening part. Those wet
nostrils can calculate scents we can’t even begin to register. </div>
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If her safety checklist is met, she’ll slowly proceed into the
open, cautious to the last step. If the area has been hunted before, you probably
won’t be in her graces for too long. Those old does will remember stands and
always keep an eye on them, often just staring in your direction daring you to
move. </div>
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At this point, you are left with two options, one that is
out of your hands, and the other completely under your control. You could just
let her be and hope she passes through, but if she’s so inclined to stick around, know that the
spotlight is on you. If you shift to relieve a cramp, pick your nose, flick a
mosquito, or finish Level 20 of your iPhone game, she’ll know. If the vagaries
of the wind turn on you, you’re screwed, and God help you if you inadvertently
kick over a water bottle or ding a jacket zipper on a metal stand.</div>
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The other choice is to grease her. You’ll probably sacrifice
your chances at a buck that evening, but when she showed, that was likely
anyhow. There is no shame – quite the opposite, in fact – in taking a mature
animal like this. It’s a far nobler and challenging quest than collecting any
random set of antlers. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_kyxTsjv0CkJoAWpMi3stPaFK26JsrU2eCSzTLKU_O_OxRYNMUZGOppL4fu-4NrVIunwQtIklJtFv5SY1ZMsMAgIV8B26fG7_GaPH9dahMLU3dAz-We3Wsnn0bggmwwY8Bj_XraurjzQ/s1600/doe2edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_kyxTsjv0CkJoAWpMi3stPaFK26JsrU2eCSzTLKU_O_OxRYNMUZGOppL4fu-4NrVIunwQtIklJtFv5SY1ZMsMAgIV8B26fG7_GaPH9dahMLU3dAz-We3Wsnn0bggmwwY8Bj_XraurjzQ/s400/doe2edited.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hardee County Doe, 2001</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Of the forty or so does I’ve killed, I can only think of a
handful that were legitimate old-age trophies. I recall one in <st1:place><st1:placename>Hardee</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place> that tried slipping behind
me through a chute of gallberry bushes. Luckily my stand was just tall enough
to fire a clear shot. I took another in <st1:place><st1:city>Erhardt</st1:city>,
<st1:state>SC</st1:state></st1:place> in 2004 right after the four hurricanes
pummeled <st1:state>Florida</st1:state>. The guide had
warned me she’d be there and to smoke her if I had the chance. Seems she’d
busted other hunters during the course of the immature season. And I shot one
last year in <st1:state>North Carolina</st1:state> that
seemed staked behind a fence of clearcut before slowly slipping out to munch on
sweet potatoes. </div>
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But there is one old doe I’d love to catch up with. She’s
been haunting my hammock in <st1:place><st1:placename>Manatee</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>County</st1:placetype></st1:place>
for years. Already mature and noticeably large-bodied when I first met her, she
had a habit of staying out of bow range during archery season, but would come
within feet during blackpowder hunts when she was off-limits. She’d have no
trouble patrolling that clearing, blowing and stomping and generally ruining
the world. I thought I had her two years ago. Her hips had been sunken by
advanced maternal age, and she seemed a tad off her game as she actually fed
underneath my lock-on stand. All she had to do was clear the grating of the
footstand and meander a few yards in front and she was mine.</div>
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As it turned out, a gobbler flew down and started drumming,
alerting the other doe that had slipped in with the old mare. Her friend got to
blowing and circling downwind and finally caught my scent, busting off for the
swamp. The matron leisurely followed suit, saved by her new apprentice who had
quickly learned the ways of the old doe. I'm not sure that deer is still alive, but I can't help but hope I get one last crack at her. </div>
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And there’s another lady up in <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Panasofkee</st1:placename></st1:place> who’ll be in mind when
I return one day – hopefully with a doe tag.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-37003099596886388392012-10-09T19:18:00.001-04:002012-10-09T19:18:46.821-04:00The Tao of Dove<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivV2JnIqmIcuAO4QTqTwEDGWyvXEY4KAB4PYxSfSpq8UGwTf8yQNg1onXd1MA45opj1yBlTQN5UrbYfXzCSGl9yMR5OM7jxsy_QJsB02onafhYfXoNH_fk2SnnSXp4CD944JjIBXTOBbo/s1600/dove+009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivV2JnIqmIcuAO4QTqTwEDGWyvXEY4KAB4PYxSfSpq8UGwTf8yQNg1onXd1MA45opj1yBlTQN5UrbYfXzCSGl9yMR5OM7jxsy_QJsB02onafhYfXoNH_fk2SnnSXp4CD944JjIBXTOBbo/s400/dove+009.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I shot well Saturday. I feel it necessary to open this post
with that assertion; in the near-future I’m likely to suffer further bouts of
chronic wingshooting incompetence - just need to mark this period of time. A
couple buddies who had not done much dove hunting asked me how many boxes of
shells to bring. I told them 4 – 6 shots per bird is considered average by the
hunting press. They claimed to need half of that, and I knew they were teasing
me, but I still didn’t ascribe the humor to their boasts that they sought. The
dove have twisted me so poorly in the past, it’s tough to be so boastful, in
jest or otherwise.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Beyond my personal accomplishment, our first dove hunt of
the year went OK, though fell way shy of my lofty goals. I expected the limits.
A lot of work was put into the fields. The property – improved pasture, now
void of cattle, surrounded by orange groves - teemed with dove throughout the
year. Folks shot well; I’m not a “limit” guy but felt a tad disappointed by the
collective bag. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Still, there were mitigating factors. One, we probably did not have had enough folks to keep birds flying. There were 15 shooters on 10 acres of planted field. Folks were clumped together in cliques and too spread out.
Next, <st1:state>Florida</st1:state> had the edge of
a front stalled off the <st1:place><st1:placetype>Gulf</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype>Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>
for the better part of the week, and we received a ton of afternoon rain. While we dodged
the storms most of Saturday afternoon, that low pressure inhibits dove flights. Towards
dark those clouds started building and the wind kicked up, and what should have
been a better part of the hunt shut down as birds went to roost. And these were
largely resident birds, young and small-breasted. By the second phase we should
get more northerners. That’s just the way it goes. Fortunately most hunters
were not as downtrodden with the results as me, and they were correct about
adjusting my mood. I have been on some suck fields over the years. </div>
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A busy dove hunt is fun. The camaraderie is tops, watching
buddies blast and curse at those brown missiles. Or hollering out cheers to
good shots. We did the cookout thing – chicken parts and hamburgers - and
brought TV and satellite hookups to watch college football while waiting field
time. A few of us hung around camp a while longer and chuckled at the Eager
Beavers clamoring to get in the field as soon as possible. Of course when they
started shooting, it was mayhem as we scrambled for vests and shotguns and
stools. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shot my Dad’s step-father’s <st1:city>Winchester</st1:city>
1400, the only automatic I own. He sold it to me 10 years ago at a family price,
just a year or so before he passed. It’s a fair bet I have put more use to it
than he did - I assume he had that figured when we made the deal. The shotgun
is pleasant to shoot compared to the duck and turkey guns in the safe. It came
with a factory modified choke and is limited to 2 ¾ inch rounds. In a time when
carrying several different tubes and choke wrenches is in vogue, the simple
pleasure of this shotgun matches the sport for which it is employed. Shooting
generic factory 7 ½’s, the Ol' Gal's never been found wanting; one day, though, I’d love a slick Over/Under 28-gauge for my dove gun. Maybe when it’s time to pass the <st1:city>Winchester</st1:city>
down to my kids I’ll pony up the money for a Citori or Red Label.</div>
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While an O/U is an aesthetic pleasure and an automatic is at
home on a dove field, I cut teeth on a pump. It wasn't until the 1600 came
along that the irreverent blasting began. Atticus Finch would have been
disappointed in my shotshell economy, but that frenetic willingness to strike brass is overpowering to the young and uninitiated, and that's what
leads to the 4 – 6 shot rule. I forget where I first read that figure. I could
probably look it up on the Internet – but we know how unreliable that can be.
You’ll just have to take my word on it. I think I shot well this hunt because I
slowed down and didn't take bad shots. This seems to be another
disgusting side-effect of age and experience. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Still, dove will unravel plenty of fine shotgunsmen. Over
the years I've watched folks who routinely powder clays completely lose their
composure on a dipping, diving dove. The ideal dove is the one at cruising
speed, just about to light in the field. Miss this chance and he becomes a
different beast. I’d say they “wheel” more than any other adjective
of the feather and wing. They carom just as a pool ball, but more on a whim,
bouncing off unseen winds. </div>
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Mourning dove are thought to be <st1:country -region="-region">America</st1:country>’s
most popular gamebird and rightly so. Throughout the South, families and
friends honor the start of dove season as the heralding of the hunting year. This
was my first event playing host, which partially describes my slight distress
over the numbers taken.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I was assured it was a fine event. Folks will want to do
it again, and certainly I will. Hopefully the numbers will be a little higher
– but by then I may forget to shoot again. </div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s part of the dove hunting
charm, too. </div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-64586176647786961972012-09-28T14:57:00.002-04:002012-09-28T16:33:11.227-04:00Toddlers vs. Bucks & Ducks<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5TMSPexRYGDeZ5kM9JMH4yZyrirum2bP60BjvnEes5hxv4-cvKuO-Yat2ejCNhH2sA0qwOemEq3nfDzmabWQyWcZ1UoLn2Eq2GAphwb2f0HnVHYhbb9X0XKSGW25e-gOFP2or_3r09c/s1600/DSC_0562%5B1%5D" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5TMSPexRYGDeZ5kM9JMH4yZyrirum2bP60BjvnEes5hxv4-cvKuO-Yat2ejCNhH2sA0qwOemEq3nfDzmabWQyWcZ1UoLn2Eq2GAphwb2f0HnVHYhbb9X0XKSGW25e-gOFP2or_3r09c/s400/DSC_0562%5B1%5D" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They'll be able to go in a few years...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It feels like a flock of sea gulls invaded our home. There
are strange screeches and screams emanating from seemingly every corner of the
house. The smells, ugh, the smells are varied and grotesque. Our hardwood
floors are stained with little white blotches like from an old pier on the Atlantic
coast. We live in a single family wharf. In all honesty, if we did have actual
sea gulls shacking up with us it’d probably be cleaner than what these two kids
have done.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2011/10/babies-vs-bucks-ducks.html" target="_blank">We made one year with our twins.</a> It feels more like five.
There were actual two-year stretches in college where I did not log as many
waking hours as I have in the last 52-week period. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And they are adorable. We’ve had considerable luck with
their health, though when there’s a stomach issue it sweeps through this place
drowning all in its path. They are walking, pulling stuff off shelves,
counters, out of the trash, out of the toilet, etc. If one of them spit up a
dollar’s worth of quarters I wouldn’t bat an eye. Their crying has mutated from
the “I’m hungry” and “I need changing” to “irritating.” At this point, all you
can do is crack your neck and shake your head.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to my lovely wife, I got away with quite a bit of
hunting last year considering the circumstances. (Notice I keep using plural
terms as a reminder to everyone that there are two toddlers. Twins. Don’t want
anyone forgetting.) In full confession, I don’t recall much of anything from
September through Thanksgiving. One day I woke up in waders while duck hunting and that flickered my stream of consciousness back to light. Then about April,
right about the time I was returning from a successful turkey hunt, I kinda
gave up hope that this was all an elaborate 7-month dream. Nightmare. High.
Buzz. Pick your term. </div>
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There were several hunts last year that hunting was way down
the list of goals, having been knocked down a peg by sleeping. I can hear
Carolyn now: “Sleeping???? You drove all the way to <st1:state>North
Carolina</st1:state> with your buddies to sleep in a treestand???
While I’m here alone with them unable to bat an eye for a second’s rest? You’d
better hunt and kill deer next time or don’t bother going!” That’s sort of what
we went through. It's definitely affected my writing. Attempting to concentrate on what you're typing with crying children in the background is about like trying to paint in the rain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time turkey season rolled around, the kids’ awareness
of the household routine had developed. Funny thing about those formula-stained
hardwood floors – they are exceptionally creaky at <st1:time hour="15" minute="30">3:30</st1:time> in the morning. Same goes for the hinges on the
closet that holds most of my gear. So I’d place all my stuff in the kitchen the
night before and change there when it was time to leave. Inevitably I would forget something and have to
tip-toe back across the floor, praying to all that is holy that the kids didn’t
pick up the noise.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wahhhh. Wahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Whhaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” (Remember - take that and double it.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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That of course woke Carolyn up and those innocent weekday
mornings of silently slipping off for a turkey hunt before work came to a
sudden conclusion. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I tell you the worst was the start of gator season. Now that
they can motivate, they drag toys all over the house and deposit them in random
fashion. For those of you without kids, let me explain a few things. One, these toys are constructed of military-grade plastic. I have multiple hairline fractures in
several metatarsals from inadvertently – or advertently, depending on my mood –
kicking them while zombie-ing through the house in the evenings. Two, they all
sing songs like “If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands.” And damn if
they don’t make batteries last longer than they used to. Three, any friend you
have who has passed this stage with their own children will be more than happy to
dump their leftover toys at your place morning, noon, and night. I can’t keep track of what’s coming in. I need a Customs agent at my door. Most of it is in like-new condition because, you see, kids don't like to play with toys. They like paper towels and power plugs and empty water bottles and hygiene products they find in the trash. If it wasn't for the powerful plastic lobby and our need to supply the Chinese with jobs, there wouldn't even be toys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am a few weeks back all excited about the gator
hunt. Clothes and gear by the back door. My zip-line-across-the-floors and
something involving monkey bars ideas were shot down due to a lack of household
ambience, but no matter. I scouted a quiet route prior to the hunt and
discovered I could hop like a checker piece from spot to spot and dash out the
door before any crying and feel that relief…er…guilt about leaving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lights are off, of course, so I start my little dance to
reach the safety of the kitchen. But I did not pick up on the one toy in my
path that was not there during my recon trip. It ricocheted off my freshly crushed
toe, slobbered-slick, down the hall, singing all the way before coming to a
halt in front of the nursery. There wasn’t much clapping going on that morning,
and I’ve never feared the dark as much as I do now. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuH8cS1LVZHTlO69_DRWN-WkI_fEutvgioN3Cv-5pfo0_DR2zvng5aZFv7DI8enP07qCmq80lEXcgMGMXmnPK734Rr5Qh7kc7EHC3Wj7k5FoYsegG6Bfn5wFE1cOq18fSZQ_LQbXziug/s1600/DSC_0568%5B1%5D" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuH8cS1LVZHTlO69_DRWN-WkI_fEutvgioN3Cv-5pfo0_DR2zvng5aZFv7DI8enP07qCmq80lEXcgMGMXmnPK734Rr5Qh7kc7EHC3Wj7k5FoYsegG6Bfn5wFE1cOq18fSZQ_LQbXziug/s320/DSC_0568%5B1%5D" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...if they behave!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Ahh, kids. Twins. Remember that. Twins. I’m looking forward
to a deer hunt this weekend. One year ago on this hunt, I was sleeping – yes,
that’s right – in the bed of the truck during the <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">midday</st1:time>.
Out in the middle of nowhere, I heard children crying and sat up and about ran
to get bottles. Then I realized the swaying oak branch above and sensed it
would all be alright. And it has been.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Have some good hunts planned for this season. Per usual a
few will fall through. And I don’t feel as bad or anxious about getting away.
Hell, the kids are one and practically take care of themselves now, anyway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And if worst comes to worst, I’ll happily drop them off with some toys at a friend’s house for a few days.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Morning, <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">noon</st1:time>, or
night!</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6163004785784138254.post-19343763802708325842012-09-28T10:58:00.000-04:002012-11-08T10:57:08.521-05:00Early Teal Season at STA 5 - Kayaking for Ducks<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyVsqvJo-WlueC6BnZmmJxNZKKn7rUaNM7H0SpIA3_p8LSAHv4ZMEF8ZwA0NOanQ-b9WtWdNDonvMbWrSV2EDiEeww0HOv-woi6JQeR3lH6DfHotwSq1HlSLobB2rHVZpwy4EdNxaN6Y/s1600/sept+ducks+023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyVsqvJo-WlueC6BnZmmJxNZKKn7rUaNM7H0SpIA3_p8LSAHv4ZMEF8ZwA0NOanQ-b9WtWdNDonvMbWrSV2EDiEeww0HOv-woi6JQeR3lH6DfHotwSq1HlSLobB2rHVZpwy4EdNxaN6Y/s400/sept+ducks+023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Never figured I’d find much use for a kayak. The vessels are
popular with skinny-water anglers and eco-tourists in the state, but I don’t
fish the flats much anymore, and I’ve smelled enough cormorant and pelican poop
in my day to kill my desire to rise early in the morning and paddle through secluded mangrove islands
to ooh and ahh at manatees and shorebirds. So I was surprised by my excitement
when I procured a kayak for my first duck hunting adventure this year. Let me
explain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Over the last couple years, my buddies and I have been
hunting the STA’s in <st1:place>South Florida</st1:place>. Properly, they are
Stormwater Treatment Areas, large, shallow impounds of water south of Lake
Okeechobee filled with flotillas of invasive hydrilla, pods of hyacinth, and
cattail islands designed to filter nutrient runoff from
the surrounding sugar cane fields before it reaches the Everglades and pollutes
the River of Grass. With over 52,000 acres – and more being planned - of
man-made, vegetation-choked wetlands, they are premier waterfowl destinations
for those lucky enough to draw a permit.</div>
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The thing is, <st1:place>South Florida</st1:place> is an
alien locale. The ground pulsates with biting insects. Bizarre, foreign fish,
with nightmarish names like snakeheads and clown knifefish, crowd the waters. Snakes
that have no place in modern epochs are spreading throughout the region to the
point the Good Ol’ Alligator can’t even control them. Oh yeah, the alligators,
some the size that they could easily leap out of the water and take down a
great blue heron like a river trout snatches a mayfly. Then there’s <st1:city>Miami</st1:city>.
South of Lake O is a weird, wild place which makes hunting here an adventure.</div>
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<a href="http://thewildlife2.blogspot.com/2010/09/floridas-early-duck-season-sta-34.html" target="_blank">My first trip two years ago</a> was a complete off-the-cuff,
why-the-hell-not journey. Knowing the water wasn’t too deep, we brazenly
decided to wade into this miasma clad with waders. In the heat and humidity of
a September morning, there had been talk of slipping in without the oppressive
Neoprene, but these are essentially retention ponds; no telling the
flesh-eating bacterium that lurks in the weeds. And though there have been no
reported cases thus far, I’d be worried about a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candiru" target="_blank">Candiru</a> attack. Just saying. We
shot a couple of teal, but to retrieve them meant slogging through thousands of
pounds of hydrilla that would curtain around your waist until movement wasn’t
even a thought anymore and you'd want to give up, much like a poor soul dying of thirst in the desert. I’m quite certain that even if you trekked more than 100 yards in this stuff, a
tentacle of ‘drill would eventually reach up around your neck to pull you down
for keeps. And I suppose it isn’t too late to announce that motorized crafts
were/are prohibited. Not like it’d matter to the sheets of man-eating hydrilla;
that gunk would tear the unit off, drag it a half-mile across the bottom before
spitting it back out like that swamp whale regurgitated R2-D2 in <i>Empire Strikes
Back</i>. You get the point - it's tough stuff to navigate.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
We toyed with a john boat on a subsequent hunt – too heavy –
and inflatable rafts – too light and flimsy – before toting down kayaks which proved to be the proper conveyance for this work. In large thanks to this
craft, we were able to reach a distant cattail island and fill a three-man
limit of ducks on STA 3/4 last December. It proved to be my most memorable moment
with a kayak since I told my wife at the Homosassa River a few years ago, “No,
I don’t want to kayak down the Homosassa River.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So duck hunting the STA’s fueled my torrid tolerance-affair
with the kayak and sparked the search for one of my own or to borrow, “borrow”
being the key thought. The wonderful thing about kayaks is they are easy to
find. You can go to just about any sporting goods store and crank out a few
hundred dollars for one. But, if you play your cards right and nose around, you
can probably locate someone who’ll let you take one off their hands for a
reasonable amount. Or for free. Kayaks are about like treadmills; everyone
thinks they are a great idea at first, but then the will to use them vanishes.
So they sit around hoarding space in the garage, breeding spiders and contempt
for wasting money on personal fitness. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7tjkloZo6Os9mgYdqb77_RzN7xb03NUyVGb_rAQCAV7FOnNXxmZmom8JBUr9raTvwYwn6c0jaQPb_E7GXsXaQhepEFFEOJDPzcVxm8hx2mD6Ckgse_BlmaFYJtwRqJ-qa7-2DEKjUCh8/s1600/sept+ducks+021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7tjkloZo6Os9mgYdqb77_RzN7xb03NUyVGb_rAQCAV7FOnNXxmZmom8JBUr9raTvwYwn6c0jaQPb_E7GXsXaQhepEFFEOJDPzcVxm8hx2mD6Ckgse_BlmaFYJtwRqJ-qa7-2DEKjUCh8/s320/sept+ducks+021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The neighbor had been storing a pair under the deck of my
in-laws home in Homosassa for the length of my relationship with Carolyn and prior. In those years, I don't ever recall them ever seeing daylight. Had I not drummed up the courage to ask if I could use one, I'm quite certain they wouldn't have floated in anything other than floodwater for years to come. It didn’t take any serious pleading to gain permission for its use.
“Paint the thing for all I care,” he told me. I didn’t go that far, though I
may one day if it stays too long in my possession. But since it was silver,
some form of camo was needed. A 15-ft bolt of camo burlap from Wal-Mart was
plenty sufficient for concealment purposes. After hosing off the years of
negligence and insect dwellings, I just had to wait for the calendar.</div>
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So the time came last Sunday. I had drawn an afternoon tag
for STA 5 – my first trip to this particular string of ponds. It was the early
September season which is notoriously spotty for duck action in the afternoons.
Furthermore, in order for them to honor our permits we had to check in between <st1:time hour="12" minute="30">12:30</st1:time> and <st1:time hour="13" minute="0">1:00</st1:time>
or risk placement in a lottery for walk-ins…which didn’t matter since there
were two other trucks there, and no one came in behind us. It felt like we had
the place to ourselves, though one hillbilly smart mouth at the check-in
station was forced to comment on Drew’s bright orange kayak. “Boy, you ain’t
gonna kill ducks out of that, der, der, der, dah der.” Ignoring Cletus and his
clear assessment that we were slackjaw rookies ourselves, we blindly picked a
couple spots off the map, and set out for the hunt. </div>
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We surveyed our locale, picking out teal amongst the moorhen
and coots stationed in the impoundment. After deciding on a patch of cover that
would conceal the four of us, we unloaded the kayaks and packed them with the
essentials. I’d like to tell you I slipped on in there in the slick, Navy Seal
style. The truth is, I’m not in peak physical condition. The “essentials” felt
a lot less so after 75 yards. With the thick aquatic vegetation, it was like
paddling through cold oatmeal though still a far better deal than poling a
heavy-bottom aluminum boat. But that was just me. The other guys about had
their kayaks on a plane. The slow, fat kid in the bunch, I arrived as they were
pitching dekes in calf-deep water.</div>
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Assuming the depth was the same where I stopped to set up, I
hopped out of the kayak and plunged to my chin whiskers in a death portal, that
noxious water flooding into my waders. Luckily my boots hit hard bottom – or
the back of a very large, very patient gator – and clamored into shallower
water before the hydrilla sensed my struggle and enveloped over my head to
commence sucking out bodily fluids. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a very real problem at this point. I could stay in the
soaked waders and let my body heat excite the parasites and bacteria into a
feeding frenzy or strip to my board shorts to wade to the island where we were
to hole up. Oh, that slimy bottom was disgusting, even to my horse-hoof feet.
My legs itch as I write this, and what I can only guess was dysentery subsided
yesterday.</div>
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The kayak became a life raft. No way was I standing
bare-skinned in that water for the next four hours that we’d wait for sundown or our limit. I slid
the ‘yak into the grasses and sat with my feet propped in the cattails until I
learned fire ants thrive in semi-submerged vegetation far from dry land. To relieve this pain, I
soaked them in the water until noticing small minnows picking at my skin - South Florida. After
this I elected to keep all body parts inside the ride, sitting Indian style in the raft, which made shots at passing birds rather awkward. But at least I felt safe. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3hZwyyfvFmacBszNImnVsBUWizNWcEnkHXVOdglUpFnZGZHtMx7TVKGVu7JdzNbkvFA5H6chML9RxfwuBSq2H6TzpZkFNskPUnwy7ozHTGtDJw8vdTRtjB8eFEUAKlBXRTT9aoc1Aao/s1600/sept+ducks+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3hZwyyfvFmacBszNImnVsBUWizNWcEnkHXVOdglUpFnZGZHtMx7TVKGVu7JdzNbkvFA5H6chML9RxfwuBSq2H6TzpZkFNskPUnwy7ozHTGtDJw8vdTRtjB8eFEUAKlBXRTT9aoc1Aao/s320/sept+ducks+026.jpg" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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It turned out to be a banner hunt. We shot one bird shy of
our limit of blue-wing teal, many sweeping right past my bare, welted legs and
into the walls of steel fired by the crew. I retrieved my decoys and fallen
birds from the dry embrace of the kayak and stroked it back towards the truck. With
a successful outing under our belt, I barely remember the paddle back. </div>
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According to the game warden, we did better than the others hunting that afternoon,
certainly better than Cletus and whatever plywood and palm frond contraption he
surely captained. So if you ever find yourself hunting an STA or any number of
places in <st1:state>Florida</st1:state> that forbids motorized vessels, consider using a kayak. Can't say they are for comfort or style, but they'll get you where you need to go.</div>
Ian Nancehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01316710401882670541noreply@blogger.com2