The Magazine Hunts

My wife says I receive too many hunting magazines. Patient woman, her concerns are legit. The outdoor media that washes into this home – in print, on TV, and through cyberspace – consumes much of my free time. Nothing new to me; may be more than she bargained for, though.

The truth is hunting represents the last vestiges of childhood imagination. No longer do I costume like Batman or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – that you’ll know of, at least. Around the age my superhero fixation fizzled, I discovered hunting literature. At night I’d read stories of manly men like Peter Capstick and Finn Aagaard and their African pursuits. And there was John Wooters and Gary Sitton, knowledgeable and common-sensical teachers of the technical and moral aspects of the sport. Craig Boddington was - and still is - the in-real-life embodiment of my dreams, chasing blue bears in Alaska and sitatunga in Zambia. For sure, I sit and peck on this computer today about my own modest excursions out of hero worship. I guess pretending to be an outdoor writer is the closest I approach dress-up anymore.

Quite frankly, I’ve achieved more in the hunting world than I could have ever hoped for as I cut grass and stared out of classroom windows. But that doesn’t pause my incessant scheming to ditch real life and pursue these fantasies. I tell people, not in jest, that each hunt I go on is an adventure I’ve waited my whole life for. And that’s a special feeling.

A handful of hunts from past reads continue to resonate as the years progress. While it’s no secret I’ll hunt just about anything, the following is list of whispers into God’s ear.

We’ll begin with still-hunting the Big Woods and deep snow of Anticosti Island for whitetail. When I was young, Anticosti – located in the Gulf of Lawrence in Quebec - was the Shangri-la of deer hunting, and where-to-go ads in the back of magazines were plentiful.

A dense population of deer ensured wildly successful hunts at a time when numbers of deer were more important than the Industry of Antlers today. The deer don’t grow all that large in body size or headgear, and as a result, the popularity of the island has waned. Not that I care. I can’t wait to hunt Anticosti.

We’ll stick with deer, sort of. West Texas offers a potpourri of fall hunting possibilities - Carmen Mountain whitetail or “fantails,” Desert Mule deer, Rio Grande turkey, javelina, wild hog, and a variety of small game. Way back when, Boddington penned an article in Petersen’s Hunting about a “fun hunt” near San Angelo. Those in his camp cranked shots at just about everything on the above list. After reading this, I actually called up outfitters in that area requesting brochures. Javelina and Desert Mule deer were of particular interest, and still are. And the Carmen Mountain whitetail subspecies has picked up popularity points in recent years, maybe as marketing competitor with the Coues deer. A life-long Floridian, I have an active Internet job search for San Angelo - if that relays how serious I am about this area’s hunting opportunity.

This next one is where my path splits with the majority of my hunting running mates. I want to go chasing the mountain lion out West. I blame Outdoor Life for this one. They’ve always published those adventure stories, and tales of fabled cat trackers from the turn-of-the-20th century popped up from time to time.

Done correctly, this is a grueling hunt of cutting tracks, releasing the dogs, and following the big cat into whatever corner of Hell it can scratch its way into.

From what I’ve read, it’s an endurance contest with one fanged, snarling, angry animal at the other end of success. The kill is typically easy; the physical challenge of this hunt sets it apart. Most of all, I want to see the dog men in their element, work a trail, and experience a style of hunting that is poorly understood and quickly disappearing. I just don’t want to end up immortalized in an “Outdoor Happening” cartoon in OL when that cat pounces.

This next one may wrinkle the noses of other hunters as well, and represents the greatest potential for a letdown. I’ve long wanted to hunt axis deer. Wooters did this to me back in ’94 or ’95 when he wrote a column about axis deer spreading through parts of Texas. I soon discovered these beautiful deer occupy ranches in Florida and spent many an hour on the stand with quixotic hope that an escapee would wander past me.

Today, there are several ranches that offer axis deer hunts, but the cost is considerable for what you get. Plus, these properties are high-fenced so it is tough to gauge the level of sportsmanship required on such hunts. The day will come when I’m posed with one of these spotted beauties; just hope the experience matches my anticipation – a tall order, for sure.

Finally, I want to hunt elephant, for a great many reasons. One, I gotta go to Africa. Talk about childhood dreams always arrive here. The old ivory hunters were men of legend. I’d like the plains game and buffalo thing, maybe leopard, but an elephant represents the ultimate adventure.

Just listen – a 21-day safari tromping through the wild African brush to get within 20-25 yards of a highly intelligent animal that can crush you to dust. After judging the ivory to be of trophy dimensions – no sure thing after following miles of spoor - you slide that double-barrel to your shoulder, fight back the adrenaline, and hope for the best.

Once the loud work is finished, the local villagers come to celebrate and retrieve as much of the animal as possible for their consumption. And from what I’ve read, it’s not even close to that easy. Some may assume this is the epitome of obnoxious trophy hunting, but if you grew up on African novels, it’s nothing shy of romantic. Even the words “ivory” and “double-barrel” make my knees weak.

Who knows about elephant? More than the rest, it’s more likely to remain a fantasy. You’d think with all the places I want to travel, this would be a tough list to narrow down, but no. These hunts jumped off the pages at me years ago and I continue to hold them dear.

This Bowfishing Thing

I would have placed my chances of cracking that gar with the 1st shot at about 10,000:1. But, lo and behold, I spasmed a brief moment of competency and, Whack!

Missed the second gar, then the line snapped on my third attempt, ending my archery day.

Easy come, easy go.

The hand reel that came with the PSE Kingfisher has a little rubber tab that holds the line in place so it isn’t blown away and unspooled by the vagaries of the wind. But the line also rubs on the screw that holds the tab in place wearing it until the 20th or so shot when it just becomes too much. Without any major gift-giving holidays or birthdays close, I may have to wait awhile to replace this travesty unless I can convince my beautiful bride that a new reel belongs in the Bunny Basket.

I’m pushing the AMS Retriever Pro. A pair of gentlemen I know have them on their bows and it just looks so easy. Have queasy feelings about the reels that actually resemble reels. Buttons have to be pushed, and I have heard stories about big tangles and messes. Apparently not so with the AMS.

I’m scared of this bowfishing thing. It is strangely addictive. I’m not even a huge archery fan for big game – something about sticking those fish with a recurve appeals to me. Not sure why yet.

Accessibility to the game could be one major selling point. I stuck this gar on Lake Bonny in Lakeland 10 minutes from the house. The water is about as filthy as a stopped-up truck stop toilet, but it is sure rife with gar. They laze near the shore in the tall aquatic grasses and reeds. You have to spy them quick while the boat is underway to take your shot. After we lost my arrow, we started gigging them; if that gives you an idea of how close you can get.

Central Florida abounds with lakes such as this. I’m also interested in expanding my bag. Banana Lake in the Highlands City area harbors a ton of plecostomus. Tilapia would be fun sport this spring as they bed up. Basically, any fish not designated a sportsfish – bass, bream, bluegill – is considered legal game for freshwater. There’s a ton of trashfish in these waters.

And nighttime bowfishing? That’s what the pros do. Before you know it I’ll be entering tournaments and granted sponsorships.

As I said, I’m scared of this bowfishing thing.

I don’t need another drug.

Florida Spring Turkey Journal 2011 - The Green Swamp Revisited

I hadn’t stepped boot in Green Swamp WMA since 1995. I was there, ostensibly, deer hunting with my Dad and Uncle. Remember lots of people. Remember lots of walking. Remember seeing one doe. That’s about it.

Over the years the stories of hunting accidents filtered out of the swamp. Folks shot off bikes and other head-scratchingly awful events. For a man of my hunting stature and prowess, my enthusiasm for venturing back was admittedly low.

Dad, on the other hand, started scouting around for turkey a few years back, and his efforts paid off with a nice gobbler two seasons ago. He was busted by a bird last year. That’s not bad action for a public land romp-and-stomp.

Pops reported a little bit of hunter interference, but mostly felt uninterrupted by others. Doing the math, the Green Swamp is 50,692 acres and allows 200 hunters in per day for a total of 253.46 acres per hunter which, in my mind, is more than a reasonable amount of land to hunt. By contrast, they allow 750 hunters a day during deer season working out to a paltry and potentially cramped 67.59 acres per person.

Of course, not every acre is brimming with gobblers. Some people work hard, some people work smart. I worked smart by letting Dad work hard. Dad had put the legwork in and found these birds away from others and well off the beaten path. The time was nigh to allow the Green Swamp another chance.

The gates open at 5:30 and when we arrived at a quarter after, there was already a sizeable line to enter the Rock Ridge Road entrance. Going by dangerous biases and pure snobbery, I half expected the other folks in line to be popping coldies and blaring David Allen Coe awaiting the shotgun start.

When 5:30 arrived, we got through the gate in an orderly fashion and received our daily permits from the man at the check station. We drove far into the property, believing we were abandoning the chumps who'd hunt 100 yards off the road. Well, other trucks were streaming in from the 471 entrance, probably assuming, as we did, they were distancing themselves from others. There’s a curious sociological experiment here that an aspiring behavior student should tap into.

What makes the Green Swamp so inviting is the chance to hunt Osceola’s without a quota permit after the first weekend of the season. For an out-of-towner who wants a solid chance at connecting with a Florida tom, this would be a fine place to start.

But, with all that land, it is an intimidating venue. Dad began scouting with aerial maps and applied boot leather; he trekked me on a long hike to an island of pines and palmettos at the intersection of two old firebreaks. 150 yards ahead was a line of taller pines and oaks, with a cypress swamp behind me. The open sections had been burned within the last year offering strutting zones, feeding areas and easy travel routes for any incoming gobblers. If it were private land, this is where you’d want to set up.

Realizing that hunting pressure was still a dominating concern, the only difference in my approach was in setting up the decoys. Having hunted private land most of my turkey career, I would plant the dekes in whatever fashion I thought would be most appealing to toms; here I had the additional consideration of how to position them where a gobbler could see the decoys yet I not catch a face-full of number 5’s if an Itchy Trigger Finger happened by.

The gobbling was non-existent this morning. I heard hens early, but the dawn life settled quickly as fog grew over the flats. The birds quit chirping – just one of those dead mornings that knocks the enthusiasm out of me regardless of where I am. I heard one shot within 30 minutes of first light and that was the extent of the hunter activity.

In the dark, I didn’t fully appreciate the area Dad had discovered. Again, if it had been private land – and a livelier morning – it’s possible you could have been trampled by turkey. One, there were no signs of other hunters. No foot traffic, no beer cans, no trash. But there were certainly turkey tracks, and the woods were well manicured with the recent burns. And it just looked healthy.

I found this to be true as we returned to the exit. The FWC, God bless them, either does a great job of maintaining lands or it goes to crap. For all the bad things I’d heard and the number of people who hunt here, I anticipated so much worse. The chalky limestone roads were in good order – despite the revving of engines early in the mornings. Most of the land appeared as our little area did. Clean and downright beautiful, as much as this thick, wooly Florida land of pines, palmettos and cypress can be.

The Green Swamp won’t be my number one turkey hunting destination anytime soon, but it is nice to know a well-kept and possibly productive place is so close to home. And I’m putting a Green Swamp Gobbler on my list of hunting goals.

Honestly, the only difference between here and a number of private land places I’ve been is you’ll have to hunt a little harder, and a little smarter.

There’s certainly nothing wrong with that.

Click here for more information on the Green Swamp WMA

Oven Baked Wild Pork Chops

The Prize Pig for this recipe is a 90-120 lb. dry sow or young boar, preferably a fat one taken during the acorn drop or who frequents the local friendly corn feeder. Any smaller and you won’t have much of a pork chop. Bigger – well, who knows? Could be tougher, maybe not.

But let’s hypothesize that this size swine constitutes the majority of the wild hog harvest in these here parts. Makes up most of my feral hog body count. You could cut the backstraps out and have a lovely meal – most folks do. This is just another option that is a crowd and finicky-eater pleaser.

Take the dressed hog to the local butcher with the backstraps and tenderloins still attached to the carcass. I don’t have the tools necessary to make the clean cuts necessary for chops. I have tried with meat saws – it’s messy and I don’t recommend it. The meat man will have it sliced and wrapped in no time flat. The chops should be about an inch thick.

If you feel the swine smells a little gamey, soak it in milk for thirty minutes to an hour. This will subdue any unpalatable flavors. Trim fat and gristle. I realize this is sacrilege with store-bought pork, but trust me with the wild thing. It’s usually sinewy and gross.

Preheat oven to 425 and spray a baking sheet or broiler pan with Pam.

Season the chops with whatever spices you prefer - garlic salt, pepper, garlic pepper, paprika, garlic paprika. Most recently I used Penzey’s Chicago Steak Seasoning.

Dip the seasoned chops into an egg wash, then into Vigo Italian Breadcrumbs, coating well. Line on pan, place in oven, and cook 15 minutes or until done. Let sit for 10 minutes before eating

Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ is a fine complementary sauce. Sticky Fingers Carolina Style sauce is excellent, too. Eat with hands.

Not all wild hog belongs on a smoker or ground into sausage. Next time you pop a hog, give this a try.

Florida Spring Turkey Journal 2011 - The First Few Days

The thoughts of particular things frighten the snot out of me. Like the motion sensors on the urinals in the guys room having video recording and transmission capabilities. Or seaworthy friends discovering that even after growing up around water and boats, it still takes me at least 20 minutes to launch a boat.

Not hunting the Opener of Turkey Season is another such notion. Tremors to the bone. Even if it’s a dud as this last weekend was.

Saturday on our Polk County lease was indeed a nonstarter. The weather was beautiful, the set-up good; just no gobble gobbles. The cowboys have been running fence through the swamp. That could have contributed. There are not a whole lot of toms on this land. Expectations were kinda low, but I still enjoyed every minute of the morning.

This morning, a young bobby cat snooped around our set-up at point-blank range. Had he been around three weeks prior, blammo! As is, he flicked his tail a few times and crept into the woods. No gobbles, either.

On Sunday on private land near Orlando, PJ and I called a hen into the decoys. I dared PJ to shoot her and wondered aloud why gobblers rarely peel across a field right into the dekes like she did. Later in the morning we saw another hen and a pile of deer. Good times.

Nice, nice, it all is...but still no gobbles for me.

Friends did much better. I’m envious and filled with rage, of course.

Jack shot a fine tom Saturday on his lease near Mayo. Harris blasted a bird this morning in North Lakeland (shown at top).

My favorite story by far was PJ and Cole hunting that private land near O-Town. PJ had been scouting these birds for the better part of the month. And, sure enough, one tom flew into the field across from their ambush and did what field birds tend to do – strut, gobble their heads off, and not come any closer than 70 yards.

Cole has it all on videotape – kind of. His new camera – and this being his first attempt at videotaping – focused on a clump of muscadine vines between him and the tom. The result was 17 minutes of intense, rattle-your-teeth gobbling and crystal clear video of a green leaf with the occasional blurry bob of a white head in the background.

I can’t decide if it was just rakishly amateur video, or Cole was pioneering the first conceptual art hunting short film. I have my guesses, though.

It gets better. The gobbler, after 17 minutes, grew tired of gobbling at their slate calls, and passing noises, and even whistling bobwhites. He topped a berm that runs the western length of the field, probably towards hen noises that didn't sound like they were dying of strep.

(Just a quick videography tip. If you have smartass friends you plan to show your hunt to, edit out your calling attempts. It doesn't matter if you're a regional grand champion. One slipped squoink or squink and the critics pile on.)

The camera shuttered off amidst much trembling and whispering and clanking of plastic.

As the story is later retold - many times over during the course of Saturday afternoon – PJ and Cole hopped up from their positions and ran to the berm, army-crawling to the top. There they spied the bird, 45-50 yards away slowly walking across an opening.

They both unloaded to the plug. PJ was supposed to shoot first, but knowing Cole, the time lapse between their first muzzleblasts probably occurred in an increment the human brain can't comprehend.

The felled gobbler looked exactly what you would think a large bird that caught 5-6 rounds of #5’s from frenzied and jacked-up hunters would look like. Several tail fan feathers missing. The breast bare of plummage. It looked like it flew into a powerline or windmill. But it was the first Osceola for the both of them and made for a fine story. 9-inch beard and inch spurs. Not too shabby.

Turkey season marches onwards.

If you have any stories to tell, please share!