The Dove Opener

It wasn’t Argentina, but this weekend’s Opening dove hunt was what I’ve always loved about a dove hunt. We shot some birds. We shot at some birds. Travis grilled venison burgers and sausage before the shoot. Some guys shot bows; others looked through trail camera pictures and swapped hunting stories.

Around 4 the shooting began in earnest. Over the previous few months, we’d watched birds pile in and out of our small plot. Now, these residential dove flew towards the millet in groups of three and four, circling the field as the field artillery banged away to shouts of “Bird, Bird!!”

I maintained by shotgun ineptitude. A few dove died on accident, though, and I am excited to grill a few in the coming days. We agreed to allow the plot to rest until the start of the second phase. No doubt it will see hunting pressure then as, hopefully, migratory birds find the field.

But with so many other outdoor things going on in November and the Summer’s Anticipation quenched, it won’t be the same experience as the Opener.


Florida’s Dove Hunting Season

Season: First Phase - October 2-25, 2010
Second Phase - November 13-28, 2010
Third Phase - December 11, 2010 - January 9, 2011
Shooting Hours: First Phase - Noon to sunset
Second & Third phases - One-half hour before sunrise to sunset
Bag Limit (daily/possession): 15/30 (singly or in aggregate)

The Boneheaded Bowhunter

Bowhunting and I have had a stormy relationship over the last decade. There’s been name-calling and threats and throwing things. Abandonment on both sides. Even today, it knows I’d leave it in a second for Full Season Rifle Hunting, and there has been casual to serious flirting with purchasing a crossbow as that season expands. We don’t have the most stable foundation.

Still, bow season is a great time to be in the woods, and I need that companionship. Things have settled down to a degree where we’ve learned to work together, but, man, I just couldn’t help but rehash the old days as we sat in the stand a couple weeks ago and whittled the hours thinking through the What-Could-Have-Beens.

I thought of the Top Five moments in my bowhunting career that have been soul-crushing and painful…

1. In 1999, I perched in a lock-on in Manatee County on a rather coolish October morning. I was fresh to this archery game, but the rubs and nice weather had me jacked up. About an hour into the sit, I pulled out my grunt call and gave it a few notes. From the swamp bottom, a six-point came rushing up to the stand and stood broadside 25 yards away.

Now, this was a young deer, but I was a young hunter. His close proximity and 30 inches of antler disturbed the Shakes within. Still, I rose carefully and clipped the release onto the string, ready to send my first broadhead into a buck.

This release was one of those palm deals that would be totally suitable for a bow that shoots arrows with plastic suction cups but not ideal for the real thing. Despite the fact it had performed flawlessly through hours of practice, as I came to half-draw the 65 pound pull caused the mechanism in the release to fail. The string snapped forward limply flying the arrow about as far as a three year old can toss a baseball, and my hand flew back into my lips, instantly fattening them.

If only deer could laugh. But as I said, this was a young deer, and I was a young hunter. The buck paced in a circle and again stood broadside. I re-nocked another arrow thinking, "There’s no way this would happen twice."

Angelina Jolie does not have as pouty lips as I did after that morning.

2. A couple years later I sat in an old wooden ladder stand guarding a corn feeder and watched a hive of yellow jackets fly in and out of a palmetto clump, no doubt plotting a vicious attack on some poor creature. A doe slipped out of the gallberries behind me and fed in front of my stand. I had no bowhunting mentor and had to learn by trial and error and error. I shifted in the seat ever so slowly and drew back on the doe.

When I hit the release, the arrow tumbled through the air not unlike Darth Vader’s ship at the end of the original Star Wars. The doe hauled tail as I wondered what the hell had happened. Then I noticed my string had come completely off the wheel and cam. When I shot, the bottom limb had been resting against the wooden rail. The force of the shot unspooled and snapped the bowstring.

I know not to let that happen again. To make matters worse, as I sat there with no functioning weapon, a herd of meat hogs arrived at the feeder.

3. Speaking of hogs. I had fashioned a ground blind out of palmettos and old logs in a scrub hammock. I grunted in a nice 8pt my first sit. As they tend to do, this buck showed up on the one weak side in my concealment and busted me immediately. Hoping for redemption, I patched the problem and returned that night, but as we all know, Second Chances are few and far between.

As dark came to the hammock, I elected to slip out to a feeder on the edge of a large palmetto flat hoping to stick a hog. When I arrived at the feeder, no hogs were to be seen, and I desperately needed to answer the Call of Number 1.

So I sat the bow down and unzipped because, you know, peeing where you are trying to attract game is always a professional idea. I had gotten down to the last drop when I heard an oink behind me. All of a sudden I had a herd of 30-60 pound porkers literally feeding within a few feet.

There I stood exposed, bow on the ground, The Great White Hunter. When I stooped to reach my bow, they alerted and slowly trotted back to the palmetto flat. I zipped up and hurried to catch them. When I hit a fire trail that circled the hammock, a large boar was wandering his way to the feeder.

He turned broadside, just inviting that perfect shot. I sailed the arrow a foot over his back and cursed my way back to the truck debating whether I should tell others about this story.

4. I had this buck dead to rights. He had just enormous rubs near my stand. I was cautious about entering this area on anything less than the right moment. But, I did hang a film canister filled with cotton on a small pine tree that I’d occasionally touch up with store-bought doe urine.

I’ve never been struck with a ton of patience, but finally the evening had arrived. The wind was agreeable and the air was cool. The rut was just about to spill out all over the place. I should have stood when the doe came trotting by. I should have stood when I heard him grunt.

You know it’s a nice buck when the first thing you notice is the horns. Dark chocolate, like so many swamp bucks in the area. Nine points outside the ears. He had followed the doe's trail right in front of my stand, and when he walked behind a palmetto patch, I drew.

The buck stopped to sniff my film canister. A lot of things went wrong. One, my bow at that time – which came across on the Mayflower – had no let-off and my arms were fatiguing. Two, I never stood to get a solid anchor point and my body was torqued. Three, I didn’t follow through on the shot, lifting my head to see the arrow fly high and right into the meaty part of his neck. I should have just lowered the bow.

The buck bounded away, and I waited an hour before getting down. I found the broken aluminum shaft a few yards into the woods where he ran, no more than 3 inches severed from the broadhead. I located the blood trail and realized if I didn’t find him fast, I wouldn’t. A shot like that either hits blood or air. Anything else is about a lost cause.

My tracking job ended well past dark, caught in a tangle of thick swamp vegetation with no more blood to find, and what sounded like a pretty riled up pack of hogs that would be at eye-level as I crawled through that mess.

I was so sick and disappointed in myself. I came close to killing my bowhunting relationship for good that evening. The experience still haunts me every time I pick up archery tackle.

5. There stood the biggest buck I had laid eyes on in the woods, up to that point. He slithered out of the pines behind me. This was a truly large Florida buck, golden antlers from rubbing pines, ten points, at least 17 inches wide, massive - every bit a wallhanger. You’d have to be a much more dedicated hunter than I to let this guy walk.

He appeared ragged and tired from a night of chasing does and was in no big rush. A friend had invited me to his family’s ranch and strict rules were in place about the size of bucks one could take. This guy met the standards, for sure.

The buck turned away from me to cross a small creek and walk out towards an open wet-weather pond. I took the opportunity to stand and get ready. But, he only offered me the rump shot until he meandered to a myrtle bush and stood broadside, surveying his land.

The shot might have been 50 yards; it may have been 35, but I never drew the bow. Two weeks prior I had sent that arrow into the neck of the aforementioned buck, and I just could not harness the confidence. I know they say you have to Cowboy Up and get back on the horse when the iron is hot and the tough get going, but I watched that trophy buck stand there for an interminable length of time until he moseyed into the swamp and out of my life forever.

I can’t say if I did the right thing or not. Hopefully a deserving hunter did finally tag him. I never heard.

Like all relationships, one must learn from their mistakes, how to compromise, and how to move past it all to become better.

As rocky as my relationship with bowhunting has been, it has made me a more complete hunter.

Florida's Early Duck Season - STA 3/4

Travis and I had arrived at STA 3/4 just before the 5 am mark when the ranger would start handing unused tags to the throngs of hopefuls lined up with their pickups and canoes at the gates. Since I had drawn a tag for the opening morning of Early Duck season, we were able to ride the VIP line past the huddled masses yearning to duck hunt. A young FWC officer took our information and thrust a map in my hand and asked which spot we would like to hunt. Not knowing anything about the property, I chose Spot 35 since it was the furthest from the majority of the crowds and had easy water access. I asked the female biologist present if there were any teal in the area. She said there were a few...plus ducks you can’t pop this time of year.

Probably noticing our lack of vessel, Lady Biologist warned that water levels were higher than in years gone by. But, we pressed on to Spot 35 gauging the advances of the thunderstorm towards the south. We had no clue what we were doing. We had no canoe, no kayak, no skiff, no kid’s floatie tube, nothing but our waders and determination to avoid being eaten by alligators.

Travis was the first in the waders, and we scoured the cattail-infested banks of the levee for an entrance into the water. T cautiously stepped a few feet into the reeds and began sinking up to his nipples.

“This ain’t gonna work. And I don’t want to be chewed on by a gator.”

I was adamant about staying. The STA’s are popular draws and well-known duck Meccas. I needed to know how things would shake out come daylight. This had turned into an advanced recon scouting trip. Travis agreed to wait out daylight. Official shooting time started 6:42, more than an hour-and-a-half away. We figured we’d just lean back and catch a snooze to fight back that 3:30 wake-up time.

Travis was well into snoring when I heard another truck pull into Spot 34 behind us. They banged and crashed about as the Sandman was about to waylay me. The last thing I heard them say was, “I wonder where these guys went, east or west?” And I fell asleep.

Located in western Palm Beach County and covering nearly 17,000 acres, STA 3/4 is the largest constructed wetland in the world. STA’s (Stormwater Treatment Areas) are manmade marshes designed to trap phosphorus and other excess nutrients from reaching the Everglades (click here for the details). Standing in the middle of the property, all you see for miles are aquatic grasses, cattails, hydrilla and various other plantlife. The avian population – to speak nothing of waterfowl – is quite amazing. Purple gallinules feed along the levees. Doves are everywhere, and raptors sit on perches lording over this unique part of the world. (And, yes, hundreds of gators!)

The hunting program is a co-op between FWC and the South Florida Water Management District. Tags are issued by a random drawing several weeks in advance of the start of the waterfowl seasons. To ensure this opportunity is maxed out, successful applicants must check in and pick their spots before 5 am or risk losing out to walk-in’s.

This was the first season I applied. I had never hunted Early Duck, and Travis and I already had designs to hunt Lake Okeechobee. When I found I was selected for the opening Saturday morning, we agreed to make the trip from Moore Haven then return to Lake O in the evening to fill out our bag or scout.

I did my research, of course. I knew we probably needed a water-based conveyance of some manner. No motors – trolling or otherwise – are allowed here, so Travis’ duck boat was out. I could not secure a canoe of any kind, plus I am typically too lazy to paddle, it is hot, and I figured the two of us could come up with something easier. I polled several veteran STA hunters who agreed, yes, a canoe is probably the best, but the water levels are so low that one could slog across it in a pair of waders.

And that plan was out. As mentioned at the beginning, Lady Biologist warned us of the high water, and it appeared we’d be returning home with nothing more than knowledge of the area - a learning experience, so to speak.

As shooting light neared and the thunderstorm that had been cracking lightning all morning long dissipated, T and I both awoke from our slumber and rolled down the windows. The crew who had come up behind us had clearly paddled across the east marsh leaving a visible trail through the hydrilla. The guys in front of us worked their canoe maybe fifty yards from their truck and were now walking in knee-deep water through the western marsh setting up decoys and settling in for the shoot.

I was concerned. I didn’t want to blow anyone’s hunt by gawking in the truck at passing birds; these boys to the west were pretty close. And cranking up and leaving would disturb the whole property as I’d have to drive back through it all. But Travis noticed something I didn’t – those guys were walking in knee-deep water. The toughest part is just getting through the layer of muck around the cattails; it gets shallower as you walk out.

Not convinced, I resigned myself to sitting in the truck for the next couple hours until my conscience would let us leave. Then we turned and saw the teal appearing out of the black, pouring by the dozens into the eastern marsh.

Travis and I were out of the Dodge in seconds, grabbing our shotguns and shells and scurrying to the bank and into the cattails like children running away from their parents towards the beach with their sandcastle buckets and shovels. He was right. The water along the edges was chest deep, but once you got through that, it only came up to the waist.

The shooting started soon after. The boys to the west shot first and the guys to the east fired a salvo that dumped a couple birds that buzzed them. Travis waded out to a finger of weeds, and I held tight in the reeds near the levee shore, eye open for moccassins or our new-found serpent, the python. Within moments, a pair of blue wings blew past T, and he dumped the first one, and I tagged the second. She would have skipped like a stone across the water had it not been for the hydrilla. Teal sure move fast.

The morning slowed down, as it often does, but we could still hear the shooting around us that kept birds flying. One group to the south was slaying them. You’d hear shots, swing around to look and see little black dots fall from the sky. I had a single come from that direction, and he fell into the weeds behind me.

As the morning wore on, I understood the purpose of the canoes. Birds that were coming into range flared off at the cluster of trucks behind me. Also, we were in such a hurry we forgot the decoys in the truck. Three teal doesn’t sound like a whole lot for this effort, but I assure you it was, especially for how half-cocked it all went down. Watching the teal dip and dive, the mottled ducks quack their way by, and the whistling ducks flocked over in hordes...it was enough to fire up even the most casual waterfowl enthusiast.

Around 8:30, we made the call to return to the truck and head back to Lake O. At the check out station was Lady Biologist shoving cotton swabs up the rectums of teal the party in front of us had tagged - a strange activity for a Saturday morning. That crew had their limit. When it was our ducks’ turn for defilement, Lady Biologist explained she had to test for avian flu. I asked that she notify me if I am in sudden need of inoculation.

We reported what species of ducks we’d seen. She told us that the winter time is when it gets awesome. In addition to teal, other migratory ducks such as pintail, wigeon, and redheads are popular temporary residents. I may have to look into this.

Next time, I’m certainly bringing that canoe.

If You Go

A management area permit is needed. One member of our party who wasn’t me didn’t know this – and I forgot to tell him – and was mercifully let off with a warning since we were under our bag.

The law of the land requires you to pick up all shotgun shell cases. And they do check to see if you have them.

Arrive early if you have a tag. Arrive a lot earlier if you don’t.

Bring a camera. A more unique place to hunt, you will be hard pressed to find.

Florida Deer Journal 2010 - The Archery Opener

The doe’s ribs stuck out and her back swayed, resembling a forgotten pasture mare with a similar nonchalance about her surroundings when it’s feedin’ time. Old doe. Trophy doe. I gave her the taxidermy thought, in fact. She had wandered out of the swamp bottom behind me - like I’d planned when I hung the lock-on - with a younger, though certainly mature, doe, possibly one of her numerous progeny from years of dwelling these woods. I know I’d seen this animal before in my days of hunting this hammock.

I wasn’t in position for a shot. As I said, I had counted on deer emerging from behind and wandering past my stand on both sides to feed on acorns. It was the classic transition zone set-up. A funnel of trails led into the swamp at my back. In front was a string of oaks that lined a sea of palmettos and gallberries.

When I hung the stand, I had to decide whether I should point my arrows at the convergence of trails and turn my back to the oaks, or face the food.

Food. Besides, they are coming out of that swamp to feed, and that wasn’t exactly the only pathway to the groceries - would hate to miss the forest for the trees, so to speak. I positioned the stand at such an angle that a clearing in the oaks would sit offset left allowing an easy shot, but I also had a shooting lane behind me.

It was a solid plan that was just about to pay off. Unfortunately, the younger doe was nervous, catching my scent or alerting another sense that triggered uneasiness about that Saturday morning.

Swamps breathe. You don’t notice it a whole lot sitting on the inside, but this phenomenon is palpable on the perimeters. Evaporating moisture rolls in and out even without a breeze. Perhaps it’d mixed with my stink and sank to the forest floor and put the deer on guard.

The old nag didn’t appear to take note. She’d occasionally check back on her unsteady friend, but fed closer until she was directly beneath my stand. All I needed was a distraction for the other doe so I could lift my bow and stand for the anchor shot when she passed by. Just give me a diversion.

The turkeys obliged. The first fly-down cackle re-directed the second doe’s attention, and it held as the flock descended into the hammock. I carefully rose from my perch even though any mud clinging to my boot soles could have shaken loose on the foot grating and pelt the old lady in the head.

My target put her head back to the chow and began to feed away from the tree, circling to the first opening I had to fling an arrow through.

I’m sure you’ve willed a deer to do what you want:

C’mon, you backstrap baby, just a few more steps. Ian, remember to keep your head down when you release. C’mon, beautiful, just a few more steps. Carolyn is gonna be so happy about some fresh venison. Just a few more...what the %*&!! is that noise?

I broke concentration about the same time the doe did. A staccato hiss was emanating from in front of us. A gobbler had flown down unnoticed and was strutting in the middle of the hammock, spitting and drumming like his rites of Spring.

OK, this is a new one!

He was a ratty bird with his middle four or five tail feathers missing. His beard was about as thin and wispy as a moustache on a fifteen year old. He strutted in a circle, puffing up and spitting every second or two and creating quite the scene. The tom’s actions put the young doe off her feed. Already unsure of things, she trotted back into the swamp with haste, probably as confused by the gobbler as I was. The old doe took notice and slowly retreated, never offering a shot, and disappeared into the vegetation.

Such is life. That was my only action over the weekend. The biologist at Duette told me Sunday morning when I left that the deer were feeding at night, and only one doe had been brought to the cleaning station, atypical for this place. Dad saw a bunch of hogs and turkey, and I heard some swine. The weather was gorgeous for early Bow Season – 65 degrees Sunday morning. I would have guessed at a spectacular morning of antlers.

It wasn’t to be, but what a fun way to start the season.

Weather Resources for Outdoorspeople

I laughed at ol’ Red Forman when he told Hyde in an episode of That 70’s Show that he watched the Weather Channel because, “It comforts me to know that there are people out there more miserable than me. Like those people in Buffalo...”

One, it’s a comment eerily reminiscent of something my own father would say. Two, I’ll confess to open schadenfreude while planted in front of the tube when the elements aren’t doing me any favors.

Case in point, a couple winters ago, cooped up for three days during a sin-driven storm not too far from Dothan, Alabama, I was getting my jollies any way I could. Deer hunting was out of the question in the gale force winds, lightning, and pouring rain. The Weather Channel and the poor folks of the Northeast buried under snow whittled through the hours.

“At least it’s not that bad here,” I kept thinking.

But just barely. I scanned the radar, waiting for the Local On The 8’s for signs of mercy. Finally, between squalls I sneaked down to the lease and busted some wood ducks, a welcome jolt of action between microwaving more Chef-Boy-R-Dee ravioli and cursing satellite imagery.

This week the FL humidity has given way to dry air, a blessed relief from the oppressive summer. This weekend – my opening archery trip – looks excellent, if not a little hot. But, I’ll still neurotically scan the weather websites for any change.

On average, the outdoors-person will study the weather closer than a typical civilian. Beyond hoping a long-scheduled trip won’t be ruined, many different variables affect game movement: moon phases, barometric pressure, humidity, wind, etc. Learning how each piece completes the whole hunting puzzle will stake a person to madness and has contributed to a sea of spilled ink in the hunting press.

I’ll probably wander down that road in the future, but for now I want to concentrate on the numerous resources at your disposal to help plan for and guide you through a successful hunt.

Radio

If you are a saltwater fisherman in Florida, you are probably well-versed in the monotone delivery of current conditions and forecasts by the National Weather Service provided by NOAA. I got my first weather radio – well, really, police scanner – when I was 15, and it still goes hunting when TV or Internet won’t be available (GASP!).

While sea conditions won’t be as important to the average deer hunter – that is until Global Warming totally takes over – these broadcasts provide a wealth of meteorological info.

The Post-It Note I taped on the back of my scanner with frequencies to favorite locations is still intact. Here are frequencies for weather broadcasts in your neck of the woods.

TV

Well, we have the aforementioned Weather Channel. The one trouble with this station is it never seems to stay on what you want long enough, especially if there’s inclement weather in other regions of the country or a hurricane is spinning anywhere on the globe or Jupiter. Better is local news, but typically that’s on at 6 a.m., 6 p.m., or 11 p.m. Most hunters will be hunting or sleeping (or both!) during these times. Bay News 9 in Tampa is about the best I’ve run across and plays on a Sportscenter-like loop.

The Internet

The choices on the World Wide Web can be intimidating. Access away from home is the real problem. Of course, you could subscribe to the go-anywhere Internet service they offer now; it won’t be long before that’s the standard anyhow. Most cellphones with Internet capabilities have excellent access to local weather radars and maps.

But if this is outside your budget or cell service is lacking, here’s another thought – visit the local library near where you hunt. Many of these Nerd Huts will allow guest passes for limited time on their computers. Here you can not only catch up with Facebook but take a gander at the weather as well.

My favorite website, by far, is Intellicast. The resolution on their radar images leaves much to be desired, but you could type “Mayberry RFD” in their city search and it’d come back with a ten-day forecast. Also, moon phase, wind direction and speed, and other such information is available on the dashboard. A click away is local radar and satellite. I don’t plan a trip without visiting this site, and more often than not, it’s on a constant loop on the computer at home.

With a touch of luck, using these weather resources before or during your next hunting adventure should leave you less miserable than those people in Buffalo.