February Trail Camera Pics

I moved my Covert Cam from the Polk County lease because I suspected folks had grown weary of armadillo and possum pictures. I had. So, Travis and I positioned it by a corn feeder on a private ranch in Sarasota County.

The camera hangs on an oak in a small clearing surrounded by palmettos, a swamp, and scrub area. It's very much Florida.

After a month and 1200 pictures later, here are some of the best of the bunch.


This land is loaded with deer, but they shy away from the feeders, for the most part.


Plenty of hogs, but they showed at night. The hunting pressure has been tough on the swine. These pics show there's still a slew of them there, but finding hoggies during the daylight has proved troublesome.


This guy could become a stud one day.


I think this is him again.


Hogs come in all sorts of colors. This is a nice young boar.


A feeding Osceola.


Posing for the picture. Not permitted to turkey hunt here, but it's still nice to see the birds.


The gobblers hung around until mid-month then not much tom activity over the last week. Probably started spreading out. Turkey season in this zone starts this weekend.


I like this picture.

I'm heading down this week to see if I can get one of those pigs and will put the camera in a new spot. I really want to capture a huge boar on here to show off.

Two Squirrels and a Seventeen

I hadn’t been squirrel hunting in about five years. I have a Marlin 917 in 17HMR that’s been largely ignored for nearly that length of time. The moment had come to remedy these sorrowful facts.

Did you know that my first hunt was a squirrel hunt?

No?

Probably because I didn’t tell you, nosy. My dad and I were invited to a camp in Cross City in the Florida Panhandle by some friends of his for a weekend of bushytail hunting.

I was six, so the details are a little fuzzy. Try and stay with me.

The morning was largely fruitless, but we did happen across one lone squirrel literally begging to be shot. Seriously. He sat exposed on a pine branch and just barked at us.

Dad let me carry the H&R single shot 20 gauge because, you know, most six year olds can heft a firearm that’s three-quarters their size – Dad started me out as his personal gun valet early.

I remember the squirrel. I remember aiming. I very distinctly remember that recoil against my young, growing bones. It’s probably the reason my right arm is four inches shorter than my left and why, consequently, I swim in circles.

After I stood back up, dusted the pine needles off my jacket, and Dad retrieved the gun, we went to look for the squirrel. Dad claimed later that I vaporized it, scared I guess to admit in front of peers that I was a terrible shot for a 1st grader who had never fired a shotgun before. Or maybe he just couldn’t disappoint those soft brown eyes of mine. Either way, he delivered it in the same patronizing tone I’ve since employed when I know he missed a deer by a mile and reassure him his sights were probably off.

Anyway, that was then. I got older, procured a pellet gun, and squirrels started becoming scarce around the ol' homestead. Pan-fried, barbequed, it was my formative years of learning how to burn food. Over time, squirrel hunting took a back seat to more important ventures, save the days when Travis and I would go to his ranch with my Ruger 10/22 and a 30-round magazine and try to blast them off branches like we were shooting an Ack-Ack gun.

Fast forward to present day. My trail camera captured hundreds of photos of these greedy little tree rats eating the corn from the feeders. I’d walk up to re-fill them, and they’d bound up the tree - pausing halfway up to catch their breaths they were so fat - but generally caring little for me. They ruled the feeders with impunity.

Enter the .17HMR. The day was muggy for Spring and the woods still. Birds weren’t chirping; really no sound other than the trucks on the highway. Never a good sign.

But I can make them talk. Oh, I have ways. Now, quick side note, this is the kind of knowledge I would have never shared in high school for fear of being beaten severely by members of the football team, but now that I am older, have developed more self-confidence, and carry a loaded .45 ACP on me at all times, I no longer harbor such reservations.

Find a likely squirrel haunt, loudly kiss the back of your hand and shake a palmetto or other tree branch. You look like a major goob, and it’s not really for the YouTube generation, but for some reason this gets them barking. This tactic is really a credit to me not having a girlfriend for a long time.

It worked. Unfortunately, the two squirrels that responded were in oaks way back in a sea of palmettos. Seems I’m not as gung-ho for rodents as I thought I’d be.

I pressed on in a loop around the lease. At the feeder on the north end, a squirrel barked profanely at my intrusion, cocky little miscreant. I missed him twice, but the second shot could have been at Spanish moss wedged in the crotch of the pine. So we’ll say I missed once. Sights were off, anyway.

(In all honesty, I was taking the best shot available which meant shooting through twigs and leaves at times; it doesn’t take much more than a change in atmospheric pressure to swing that 17 caliber off course. Or make that fragile bullet explode.)

Reading advice on outdoor writing, they say stories of unsuccessful hunts don’t sell, so let’s skip past the next 4 or 5 squirrels still breathing fresh air and go to the glory. Now this was a big squirrel. I felt a little under-gunned. Still, I kept my nerves at bay. He bounded up the tree pausing in the stratosphere as I steadied the rifle. I’d like to tell you I threaded the needle, but boasts such as these tend to get watered down after confessing to so many misses.

One squirrel just didn’t feel like success. But, it was nearing dark and I wanted to snap photos with my new camera, which, by the way, if calling squirrels doesn’t make you feel a little gooberish, setting up a tripod and timer to take your picture of one should usher you straight into Dorkville. (In fact, it was a conflict of conscience that I even posted the picture I did...yikes.)

I got lucky. On the hike back, one smug squirrel posted up in a scrub oak began barking incessantly at me – kind of like that vaporized rat from my youth. After reloading the magazine and trampling through the palmettos I avoided earlier, I finally tagged him. It was time we could all go home.

A lot of fun, squirrel hunting is, and it’s kinda sad I forgot that. I burned through half a box of ammo, got some exercise and dinner for a night when my wife is away.

Turkey season is pressing, and I did a lot of predator hunting this winter. Sure was nice to switch up to an event without so much scheming and detail.

The Almost Blew It Bobcat

I almost blew it. I know better than to leave my rifle leaning against a tree when I’m in the woods, even for the briefest of moments. That’s when they take advantage of you.

I had finished my final calling session of the evening, eager to leave the mosquitoes and hit the showers for a birthday party I had committed to Friday night. Once again, predator calling skunked me, and I was over it anyhow.

On the way to grab the flipping and flopping MOJO Critter, two previously unseen gray foxes bounded into the swamp. Didn’t really matter – can’t shoot them anyway. I proceeded to the decoy and glanced down the road. Half-crouched, eyes transfixed on the MOJO, a bobcat was keeping watch.

Frozen in the open, with no weapon - there’s no way he didn’t catch me! Why he didn’t bolt like the foxes is beyond me.

How amateurish. From both our angles.

I had set up at the end of a truck trail along the fence that divides our lease in half and cuts perpendicular through a cypress swamp that strings north to south. On the east side of the swamp is a pasture consisting of scattered pines and scrub oaks, with just enough palmettos in between that clear shots would be short. Nick fired at a coyote here in the summer, and a month ago Krunk and I dialed up a bobcat that slinked away before a decent opportunity.

Walking in that evening, I noticed a healthy set of cat tracks in the deep black muck of a pothole in the road. Also found scat and claw marks where a feline had clearly relieved him or herself and tried to hide it from the world. So bobcats were certainly in the vicinity.

I unwound the thin black cord from the base of the Johnny Stewart Digital Call and hung the megaphone in the crotch of a pine branch about seven feet off the ground to give it that Reach Out and Touch Someone effect. The MOJO was placed at such a distance relative to the call and my haunt that I would be the fulcrum point of an isosceles triangle.

The tricky part was deciphering from where intended game would emerge. The breeze was flat dead, but I still wanted to have downwind covered as coyotes tend to swing around to that side. Smart money was to focus on the road along the fence, though. That’s where the sign was and predators tend to use well-worn paths on their approach. If anything wandered down the trail, it would easily catch sight of the motorized decoy. Then they'd come bounding in, I'd raise the rifle and shoot, and friends and family would host a Hero's Welcome upon my return.

I settled against an oak, shifted my rifle to cover the decoy, and the hunt was on. I selected the Cottontail in Distress offering and played four series, waiting 5 minutes in between each sequence.

Thinking strongly of coyotes, I was discouraged. They’d be here by now, I thought. Plus, my wife was assuredly anxious for me to return home to go to this party. Time to call it – they beat me again. The Canyon of Heroes would have to wait for another day.

That’s when I stood and leaned the Savage against the tree and advanced towards the MOJO.

The foxes.

The leering bobcat.

If only I could slip back...

I slowly sidled out of the cat’s view, quickening my pace to a trot when obscured by the swamp. I snatched my rifle, tossed it to the shoulder and crab-walked like a Navy Seal point man about to pop around a wall and blast a terrorist. In this case, a Turkey Terrorist.

Miraculously, the bobcat was still there. I guess it's true about the curiosity and the cats. Or maybe that MOJO works better than I surmised. More miraculously, what with all the hurry and anxiety, I connected on the 30 yard shot.

Gorgeous animal - the first I had ever called in and shot. The party would have to wait a while as I hiked to the truck, drove back, and set up the camera and tripod for the Grinning Idiot Hero pictures.

Birds of Spring

The white-winged dove have returned to town. I typically notice them around April. They migrate from the south as Spring approaches, leaving before dove season resumes in the fall. Pretty convenient.

I have shot a few. They are striking birds compared to the dumpy mourning dove or the collared dove, also native to my yard. Their calls are not as sorrowful, either. Rather upbeat, which is appropriate for this time of the year.

White-wings are indigenous to the Southwest and parts of Florida, best of my knowledge. Aptly named, while in flight their wings flash a vivid white. Taxidermy-quality animal, methinks. White-wings are also not in as big of a hurry as the rush-hour morning dove. My shot-to-kill ratio on a dove hunt would improve dramatically if they were here in October.

While the dove are early coming, another group of birds is late going. Strangely, there’s a gigantic flock of robins hanging around. They’re typically winging it back north by now. Some tree – I am not an arborist – by our kitchen door is budding berries and the red-breasted birds are bustling around this buffet, chirping and screeching. Always nice to see them in the fall; know ducks will be down soon.

And in the beauty of interspecies harmony and cooperation, the two species roost in the pecan tree that looms over my driveway, completely hosing down my beautiful truck with what looks like puked up blueberry pancake batter courtesy of a drunken houseguest. Thanks to our outmoded gun and game laws, I am barred by regulation from remedying this predicament. Otherwise, I'd sit on my tailgate with a semi-automatic shotgun at night in my crowded neighborhood in downtown Lakeland and lay waste to the little crapheads.

Makes me awfully hostile towards the avian kind. Luckily, turkey season is nearing.

Speaking of turkey, I almost caused a very serious traffic accident yesterday morning. Approaching the entrance to the Circle B Bar Ranch on the north side of Lake Hancock, three jakes pecked in a pasture near the road. I slammed the brakes on my caca-covered truck. Luckily the cement mixer that had been following me didn’t park on my cab.

Sadly, I had no camera, and thanks to our outmoded gun and game laws, I was barred by regulation from U-Turning and blasting them with the shotgun that may or may not have been in my back seat. Still, it was cool to see them and so close to home. The turkey population in central Florida appears to be expanding.

Unfortunately, and despite my numerous protests and letters, the silly County Commission closed the Circle B to hunting. I guess when they need funding down the line for whatever observatory platform, paved pathway or other gimmick birdwatchers require for their hobby, an auctioned turkey hunt will be out of the question.

Afterall, there's very little demand for unspoiled Osceola turkey hunting, right?

Last Friday night while predator hunting, the owls were going bonkers, their Who-Cooks-For-You’s? vibrating through the woods. Owls are so primeval in their mannerisms. Their pace is all off, reptile-like in patience and sheer coldness. Hearing one rev up the hoots around you in the dark will certainly result in goosebumps.

Soon their music was followed by the misereres of the chuck-will’s-widows. Folks often mistake the chuck-will’s for a whip-poor-will. Both are depressing names for a bird, if you ask me. I’d call them repetitive-songed night-haints. Both are members of the nightjar family, though you’d have to be a pretty serious bird dork to tell them apart by casual appearances alone.

If you ever see one. Occasionally one will fly in front of your headlights while returning to camp. Sometimes in the dark you can catch their glowing eyes with a spotlight as they hunker in a myrtle or palm. Many people down this way refer to them as Bull Bats.

The Chuck is more often found in my part of the country than the whip-poor-will, and his call is singular in refrain and lyrics. It’s crazy to know that, actually.

Beyond the power gobble of a tom in the twilight, the pleading of the owls and the dirge of the nightjars I identify more with March and April than any songbird.

I like them.

Most notably because they don’t defecate on my truck.

Reconstructing The Wild Life

For me, blogging is a lot like singing karaoke, without people heckling me to my face. And much more sober. I enjoy writing. Some folks enjoy reading. It can be rather cheesy and amateurish, but, for better or worse, it’s in good fun and entertaining for all involved. Still, I continue to harbor a small measure of hope that from out there in Cyberspace, a publisher or editor will step forth with a lucrative contract and a 10-day Tanzanian Cape Buffalo assignment.

Doesn’t hurt to dream.

I did realize recently that my blog has become somewhat stale and awfully linear. If said executive was seeking a piece on deer hunting, he or she would have to scroll down through the garbage of 180+ posts on everything from ducks to cows licking turkey decoys. Busy people like this want to be presented with information quickly, not have to hunt for it. Likewise, I receive a load of traffic from various search engines. These visitors tend not to stay on the site long - nothing to really keep them in tune.

It came time to cut the Kudzu back and provide sunlight and air to the better elements of this site. I needed to categorize and spread things out for easier access. So, I’ve added these links at the top of the page. It was, literally, the least I could do. It did, however, take time to sort through the last year or so and copy and paste all the links to past posts – if you don’t spend at least an hour browsing through my handiwork, my feelings will be gravely injured.

Anyhow, take a gander about. The headlines are pretty self-explanatory – if they aren’t, I explain them once you click on them. I’ve written about a wide variety of subjects and not all fit perfectly. And more than a few posts will just be left in the archives, uncategorized and unloved.

If you have any advice or criticism, I’m welcome to hear it – unless there is too much criticism, in which case I will quickly and ruthlessly quell your rebellion.

Also, unless the mood really strikes me, I am taking a couple-week hiatus. The February Funk has me in its fangs. I spent several hours trying to get a post on Turkey Hunting Tips to fly and ended up junking it, frustrated and annoyed. This post is my last spurt of creativity for a while. I may try and tweak the feel of this website per your suggestions.

But don’t go far; I’ll be back to sing a few more songs a little later.