My Search for a Ruger Red Label: Looking Back

With the early morning sun at our backs we admired the vast Montana sky and let the dogs out. This was to be our first day hunting in the infamous Montana grasslands and with a few maps and a full day ahead of us, we were raring to go. As the dogs ran out into the adjacent fields and began attaching their noses to the ground, I turned back to the truck to grab my vest. At the same time I could see Mike reaching over to grab his gun case and in that instant, he slowly pulled out what would be the most impressive shotgun I had ever seen. Not just any gun, but a gun that immediately proclaimed his status as a bird hunter and made the then unfamiliar culture something that I wanted to be a part of. His gun was a Ruger Red Label, and it was fascinating.

When Mike, James, and I went on this trip I had never been through an entire bird season. I had shot my first bird with James the previous year but as of that point did not have any real hunting identity. I knew I was passionate about getting out into the woods but nothing had kept me up at night like so many of the stories guys tell around camp fires. Montana, Mike, and his Red Label changed all of that.

When Mike pulled his shotgun out of that truck I was immediately floored. It was an over-under, 12 gauge with obvious battle scars from the 30 or so years of use. The clean, smooth receiver plate gave the entire gun character and the barrels made for both an imposing and elegant sight. When he moved the top lever over and the gun broke the sound resonated with me. The initial click of the action breaking, followed by a much deeper tone as the weight of the barrels began to swing away, and finally commencing with a heavy bass like thud as the gun was fully broken. After loading his shells, the barrels were once again united with the receiver and stock. The ensuing click was simply perfect. Looking at Mike and then back at the gun I was totally fixated. I couldn’t take my eyes away and by the end of the day it wasn’t only the gun itself that made me want it but the way it was used.

For a guy like me who was unsure of his hunting identity, that day in Montana was a game changer and what I witnessed throughout the week would drive me for months to come. At one point during that day, James and I were walking out in front of Copper, Mike’s dog, and as he was pushing though the brush a sage grouse exploded up from the grassland and flushed out behind us. Without any real shot it was left to Mike to make the move. In all honesty, and without exaggeration, what happened next was hands down the day I knew I wanted to be a bird hunter and own a Red Label. With the bird flushing out away from us Mike crouched down to one knee right until the bird was passing by him. With nearly 40 yards between him and the bird he stood up and in one shot I saw the grouse buckle and fall to the ground. Making a quick attempt to fly off again, Copper came in to grab the bird and it was over. The grouse had fallen and Mike’s technique was for me, the stuff of novels. As he broke his action to remove the spent shell it all came together. How I wish I had a picture of that moment. How I wanted to be a bird hunter.

We would end up hunting for much of the week and I was witness to the beauty of Mike’s Red Label day after day. As my interest in the firearm grew he would tell me of its reliability and how that gun had been slung and dragged though more duck blinds than there are miles on my truck. He had gotten the gun in his twenties and it was still his go to shotgun. That was saying something.

Also, beyond what happened in Montana that week, simply the name, Ruger, spoke to me. I know that personally, and as I am sure many other Americans feel, owning an American made gun is something to be proud of. Having a New England city stamped on the receiver really means something and at this point, the pieces were coming together perfectly in my mind. I knew I wanted to be holding an over-under shotgun. I knew I wanted to be holding a piece of American craftsmanship.

And so the weeks began to pass and with Ruger’s Red Label page saved on my computer, my searching was incessant. Each night I would search for pictures, YouTube videos, and gravitate towards reviews far and wide. The following for Red Label’s was strong, people almost obsessed with their guns, their reliability, and what could be done with them. But there were those that thought the gun too heavy, made poorly, and too expensive. Voices from all around were screaming out in every direction but in the end, I knew I wanted a Red Label. Mike’s endorsement was all I needed and while it would take a serious commitment to save up the money needed, I was ready, and willing.

Until the day I can hold one again in my hands the attempt to save money continues. Tonight, just like every other night, I will open the Red Label page and view it with a smile on my face as I head to bed. My search will continue, my resolve will not be shaken, and after this past hunting season if there is any single, undeniable fact, it’s that I am a bird hunter and that is my passion. That is my identity, and when I finally do save enough for that gun; it will be a great day. It will be the day I get one step closer towards becoming the bird hunter I saw that morning.

Scouting for Spring Bear: Part II

Going into this weekend I wasn’t sure what I would get myself into. I wasn’t sure what the outlook would be but above all else I knew I had to be outdoors. From the moment I opened my back door and stepped outside this Friday the tempo was set. The sun was out, the air was warm, and spring was beckoning. With the day off from work and James gone for the weekend, I decided to head out and continue scouting for our bear season. With three weeks to go and the mountain forecast at least slightly in my favor, taking advantage of these days has become a must.

After taking Farley around the block I gathered up a few supplies, including my gun and a camera, and headed off to La Grande. On the drive up I glanced to see the mountains had gotten a light dusting and with clouds looming to the west I tried to remain positive, seeking blue skies to the north. As Farley snacked on some jerky we made one last stop at the Oregon Department of Forestry to purchase a new map and were on our way.

Once in the unit I took my first turn off Road 51, a winding two track, and with some elevation I was able to glass over the forest. I raised my binoculars and to my immediate surprise two bull elk appeared through the lenses. Early on in their antler growth, their velvet makes for an imposing sight and to see them out in an open field made me jump straight into the elk season. But it is in fact, bear season, and while elk are great to see, the long, open slope, with little snow had me marking down the spot for other reasons.

I continued along that same road and within a mile or so came upon a set of bobcat tracks. As I stepped onto the gravel the analysis quickly began. The rounded shape, lack of any visual claw marks, and walking gate were dead giveaways. At this point I had only been in the woods for about an hour and had come across deer, elk, and now bobcat tracks. I was quite content. But despite my wildlife sightings, south facing slopes were becoming increasingly hard to come by and then, without notice, the weather turned. Slowly snowing at first and then turning into something of a hail, snow mix. Blinded by the storm my hopes of a full day were beginning to break. However, I forged ahead, praying the downfall would ease up.

To my dismay, the storm never did pass through completely but I was given several windows in which I was able to look back and see some lowland slopes. I could see open ground, small meadows, and what looked to be several creeks, all of which I imagine bears will be attracted to come April. Hopefully, with three weeks to go, the spring weather will break over the mountains and expand our search radius, but for now, this ground was looking better and better.

I can’t say I was as satisfied with the scouting as I would have liked to have been, but I can’t control the weather and it is what it is. So, with points on a map and some areas circled for the next trip, I began heading down the road to work my way out of the unit. With clearing skies I was making solid progress before some large snowdrifts stopped me in my tracks. I had a piece of open ground to put chains on and did so but the result was the same. I had reached a dead end and was forced to turn around. Now, with the day winding down I knew I would need to head back north and come back home through La Grande. Not my favorite option but unfortunately, the only one.

I suppose I didn’t expect much on my way home but as luck would have it the few elk I had seen earlier in the day had now moved downhill and multiplied into a herd of about fifty, it was awesome. I slowed down to take a picture and immediately a few of the larger bulls were eyeing me down, despite being much too far away to do any harm. Isn't it funny how elk operate? Deer will stand on the side of the road, stare you down, and slowly walk away, but with elk, the vibe is completely different. They see you and are immediately on the move. Upon my temporary stop, it was no different. As I drove by below them the whole herd began to move uphill and that is when it hit me, I had to get up there.

With the wind in my favor and a backside hill to come up on, I parked around the corner, grabbed both the cameras and started moving up towards the herd. Not knowing how far they had been pushed by my passing truck, I shot for just above where I had last seen them. The ground was muddy and the rocks wet but the anticipation and excitement had me moving with ease.

As I approached the higher ground I poked my head just over the ridge and there they were. What a beautiful sight. About 75 yards separated me and the herd. I began my sneak and as I tried to keep the cameras dry I dropped down onto my knees and could instantly feel the mud soaking into my pants. I inched forward, keeping my head down and eyes forward, closer and closer. I could see a downed pine branch dead ahead and I made my way over to it, the elk continuing their progression uphill. Finally I got to my spot, 30 yards away, so excited. A mix of cows and calves filled the hillside. The bulls I had seen from below were much higher but the herd as a whole was as impressive as can be.

Wanting to push myself farther and with only a few cows giving any indication that something was up I moved back out and came in from another angle, this time, slower yet. With my video camera rolling I made my move. Sporting nothing but my wool buffalo jacket and a pair of blue jeans I crept my way to within 15 yards of a cow, calf pair. What a moment, what an impressive animal. I slowed down just enough to snap some photos and then began to get the stare down from two elk just below me. However, the moment passed and their eyes began to drift as they went back to grazing. I had escaped their watchful gaze and now, not wanting to scare the heard, I left the same way I came in and headed back down to my truck. What a success.

"Does it get any better than this?", I had to ask myself. You head out for a day of bear scouting and suddenly you’re crawling through the mud to sneak up on a herd of elk. The opportunities are endless. This is why I love eastern Oregon. This is why I don’t want to leave and if you just place yourself in the woods or out in the sagebrush, good things are going to happen. Seeing elk up that close will certainly take even more patience come archery season, but my anticipation couldn’t be higher. Bear season is first though and while there is more scouting ahead, this was a great way to end the day.

Video (Elk): http://youtu.be/hnQslaBj018

Scouting: 

End of the Road:

Elk Herd:

The Wall Tent: Part II

On this morning I awake up to a faint cold breeze slipping under the tent’s wall. As I grip the inner lining of my sleeping bag, roll over, and try to shield myself, I yearn for just a few more hours. The dog, curled into a ball and shivering ever so lightly, is sleeping just beyond my pillow. I reach over to begin sifting through me clothes and look for my watch. It’s 5:15 AM. At this point, Farley is staring me straight at me and my mind begins to wander. I hate to admit it but the signs are obvious, it’s time to get up, time to start the fire, time to get moving.

I put on the same pants that I’ve worn the entire week, check to see if my boots and socks have dried, and let the little one out. Upon returning, now fully awake, Farley begins to find others to encourage. He sneaks around the burn barrel, slips under the table, and eases in towards James, his tail whacking against the side of the tent. James acknowledges his presence, to his utter delight, and he is up. Mike soon follows and with a few jokes the stove is quickly turned on and the sizzle of the frying pan breaks the morning silence. The smell of eggs and sausage fills the air and a breakfast worthy of any deer camp is prepared. The morning, is officially underway.

The wall tent will be the epicenter for what takes place over the days and weeks ahead. With its character it is undoubtedly the focal point of any trip and motivation enough to leave home. To come up to this place there is no particular requirement except that you have to love what you’re doing. The wall tent isn’t for those looking to sit around, drink themselves silly, and be lazy all weekend. The wall tent requires maintenance, it requires a state of mind and knowing that to be up there you need to be part of a collective. There’s no room for those looking to cut corners or skirt by. The camp works because everyone loves to hunt, loves to get their hands dirty, and wants the trip to be successful in whatever form that may be.

I have now been to the wall tent two years in a row and I hope that as we approach winter this year I will have another chance. It would be an understatement to say that every time I am up there my hunting is benefited in one way or another. Last year Mike and James were both able to take bucks off the mountain and I was given my first introduction to properly cleaning a deer. Mike made the movements and motions looks easy, using his knife to slowly pick his way around the animal and remove the hide. It was a day I’ll keep with me for years to come. Their shared knowledge is something I continually try to learn from and having a controlled hunt point myself this year, the likelihood of drawing a buck tag and returning to camp for my own hunt has me counting down the months until fall.

The daylight hours away from camp offer mixed opportunities and weather. With the skies opening and closing there are moments when the mountain is visible for all to see. In others, snow and fog close in, making progress difficult. Windswept ridges make passage along some roads questionable and the occasional shot ringing out has you second guessing your chosen strategy. You labor through snow drifts and hear branches breaking off in the distance. You slow down, stop talking, and move with purpose. In the end, sometimes your find the source and other times not, but each time your heart begins to race.

There’s no playbook for hunting and there’s no definitive way to go about finding your animal. It requires instincts and intuition. It requires focus and your presence in the woods. You have to have the right frame of mind and the wall tent does its best at night to prepare you.

It’s these challenges and misadventures that make the outing and stay in the woods what it is. It’s the consecutive days out in the forest. The lack of any break in the atmosphere causes the days to quickly run together, each one with its own story. Your pants are dirty, your sweatshirts ripped and the knowledge that you only have one more pair of clean socks is a mere afterthought. You’ve come out here for one reason, to hunt and commit yourself in both time and space. In the end, that’s what it’s all about.

Whenever I go back I know I’ll be the better for it. I know that when I come down that long forest road I’ll smile once again. The instant you arrive on that first day you know you have returned. You know what is ahead of you and all your worries and cares are left at the bottom of the mountain. Were this tent to be one of new age material and the latest technology it would without doubt be completely different. It’s the green, tired material, it’s the barrel fires, it’s the late night anecdotes. It’s a wall tent unlike any other and I hope that someday before that tent is retired it finds its way to us. I hope we can continue to build on the tradition that Mike started so many years ago because, in the end, it is that tradition that will be passed down. It is that tradition that generations to come will cling to.

Buck Tags - November 2011:

Sunset at Camp:



 

The Wall Tent: Part I

With fresh snow falling on the mountain and darkness setting in around the forest the uncertainty of what lies beyond the mornings first light is all part of the lure. The fervent glow of the metal burn barrel, the hiss and pop of smoldering wood, and the faint sound of wind blowing across the roof are now all consuming. You pull your sleeping bag up over your head, close your eyes, and smile with the knowledge that less than twenty four hours ago you were in town, packing you bags. But now, after a few glasses of bourbon, you find yourself in the woods, preparing for the morning’s hunt, and happy to have replaced your trailer with a home away from home in the form of an old, worn down, past its prime, beautiful, green, tough as nails, all together inspiring war era wall tent. What could be better?

I remember the first time Mike, our good friend, offered to have me come up to his deer camp. He mentioned it in passing during one of our conversations and without any real understanding of what a deer camp or wall tent really was, I knew I was excited to be asked and gladly accepted. Within a few days I was in my truck, loaded with food, whisky, the brown dog, and some camping gear, heading off to Mt. Emily.

As I drove the snowy roads behind James’s black and green Jeep I had no idea what was waiting for me at the end of the road and it wasn’t long before I got my first glimpse of the camp. I can honestly say I was taken aback. You have this picture in your mind of what the camp will look like, how it will feel, and what the dynamic might be but there’s truthfully no way to know what you’re getting into until you’re there.

This tent is not one you’ll find on the shelves of stores, it has no definitive markings, and did not come with directions. It’s army green, made of tough, thick, military fabric, held up and together by old rope and rebar, and scarred from multiple impromptu on-site repairs. A single beam acts as the support for the whole structure and stacks of firewood mark the entrance. In all truthfulness, I’d never seen anything like it in my life.

After arriving the three of us were swiftly into conversation about the days ahead while Farley began to inspect his new turf. The tent and wilderness were enough to make anyone happy; however, before I could really take it all in James had his chainsaw out and was off to work. In a blink it was all too apparent that in this country the only way to stack firewood was to get it yourself and if I was going to be up at camp I’d need to make myself useful. So, with an ax on hand, I began splitting the pieces James was bringing over and the experience was now in full swing. I loved it.

The tent was all the more fascinating once I got inside. Upon pushing the entrance flap aside, you enter into a dark, dimly lit, somewhat chaotic living space. The fire catches your attention immediately. With nothing more than a burn barrel, flattop steel lid, and a metal chimney pipe, the heating source for the tent was a wonder in and of itself. With a robust fire going, the barrel’s walls were glowing red in what said to me, in perhaps the most direct way, “Do Not Touch”.

Adjacent to the fire I found wood cut from weeks past and the latest additions of assorted goods from a local pack rat. A small hatchet rested on some kindling, worn, aged, and weathered like everything else. Above my head a lamp hung from a maze of metal wire, illuminating the scene. A collapsible table, littered with items from days passed, made its mark as the center piece: dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, three varieties of whisky, cigar wrappers, assorted toiletries, cookie boxes, and ammunition were among its many decorations. As I moved around I saw a propane stove with dirty pans and the remnants of recent meals. The large blue cooler below was set to provide much of the week’s offerings which ranged from game meat to grouse. And finally, as I peered into the back, there were cots, sleeping bags, and dirty boots, the collective making up our home for the foreseeable future.

All in all it was nothing like I expected and more than I could have hoped for. After long outings we’d return to our home, untie our boots and try to breathe some warmth back into the tent. With kindling and newspaper down, split logs on top, and a propane torch, the tent was quickly back to life. Within minutes the heat of the fire could be felt and socks and assorted gear were hanging to dry. Your body responded instantly to the change.

The days would go by and Mike would end up becoming a wilderness chef, cooking up antelope sausage and making sandwiches or putting together pasta dishes that were undoubtedly the product of years at camp. Stories were shared and knowledge passed on. It was the perfect setting.

Ultimately, what the wall tent represents is an escape, an escape from technology, from the hectic and all too often demanding world. Out here there are no limits or restrictions, nothing holding your back from doing what you love to do but you. There are days when you slip outside and one of the rebar spikes misses your head by two inches, when your hearing aid falls off the table and gets lost in the chaos, or when you realize that didn’t bring the right sleeping bag for five degree weather, but in the end, everything seems to work itself out. These are the days of opportunity. It transports you into a time past and as I’ve mentioned before, being in the wall tent means you are hunting, and if you are hunting than you have inherently provided yourself with the opportunity to get out and be successful. Good food, good whisky, better friends, and quiet. What more could anyone ever ask for?

Deer Camp - November 2010:

 Deer Camp - November 2011:

Chukar Fever

The first time’s for fun, the second time’s for revenge…

That’s the expression that was passed on to James and subsequently passed on to me before my first chukar hunt, a bird that has an almost cult like following amongst men and women across the country. For upland bird hunters it’s one of the big names. Put plainly, they provide a challenge not only for hunters and their dogs but, more accurately, for their overall psyche. For most, the likelihood of a fun outing quickly turning into a day of anger management is all too real.

From the beginning, chukar make life hard on hunters simply due to their preferred place on the landscape. High elevations, rocky cliffs, loose gravel, and steep slopes, are all fairly representative of the bird’s habitat here in Oregon. More often than not this means you are immediately disadvantaged with the knowledge that the only way to get to them is to begin covering vertical feet, and for us, in our chosen location, this means “stair stepping”. So you climb, slipping on the gravel, trying to hold your gun up, and every so often deflated when your turn to see your dog run over to you, bump your leg, and look up, as if to imply, “what’s the hold up?”. Demoralizing really. But you take it one step at a time, you know what lies at the top, you know what’s waiting for you. Finally, you arrive at the lower shelf and have your first opportunity to listen.

If you’ve never been out on a chukar hunt the experience is worth it simply for the call. After some inevitable reminiscing about the first part of the climb you sit down, wait, and listen. For some birds, quiet is king. It acts as safety blanket for them and they constantly live with the knowledge that making any sudden movement or noise can cost them dearly, but for chukar it’s different. They almost have an arrogance to them, the way they call without regard to who’s around, as if to say, “yeah, I’m right up here, come and get me”. For them, the rugged terrain is their best protection, but for those willing, it can be overcome.

As you sit on the shelf with your eyes closed it doesn’t take long before you begin to hear the first of them, “chuk……chuk…..chuk….chuk…chuk..chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk”, in rapid succession from across the ridge. A response comes from the opposite direction, then another, and another, and at this point you fully realize the scale of what is in front of you. You’re both excited with the knowledge that the birds are here but simultaneously reluctant to commit to any one spot. It’s all part of the game.

Inherent in this landscape is not necessarily the horizontal distance you must travel but rather, how to cover that distance. The vertical feet are tough, there’s no denying that, but once you’re up high it’s just a matter of managing what is in front of and around you. If there is one thing you can plan on going into one of these days it’s that your chances will be fleeting and there are very few birds, with the exception of blue grouse, that bust up with as much force, speed, and downhill trajectory as chukar. They’re like a bullet. When, “they burst downhill like a rocket,” is the expression used to describe their behavior, you start to question, with accumulative knowledge that you have, if this was a good idea.

As for James and I, it was simply about the challenge, and a challenge it was. One thing I personally hadn’t taken into consideration was what happens to these birds after you shoot them. With James above me, the call came; birds were flushing down my way. I spun around to meet the oncoming covey, brought my gun up and caught a bird about 20 yards out. I watched the bird jerk and waiver, I knew I hit it, and then, its downward descent…farther down, and farther down, and down, and down. For some, their dogs may go all the way down and bring the bird back up, but for Farley, who is very good at finding birds, his retrieving skills are still a little rough, and thus meant I had to head downhill to recover a bird that I would never recover in the end. Defeat, my confidence was shaken. But we pushed on, covering ground and trying to figure out where these birds preferred to hang out.

The day went on, we worked the hillsides, and James was able to take two birds off the mountain. Farley, pushed to his limits and in need of a cool down was dunked in a nearby water trough, and towards the end of the day, with my energy levels near empty, a bird fell for me as well. The day was hard, challenging, and frustrating all at the same time. You climb around, picking your way across the landscape, to get to a spot where you think the birds landed and then, in a flash, their up and weaving their way across the hillside. You get a few shots off, nothing drops, and you see them land in the exact spot you just came from.  You think to yourself, this can’t be happening. But ultimately, what this does mean is that when you finally do take a bird, the satisfaction is inevitably greater. For James to take two and me to snag one was not only a hunting victory, but a moral one as well.

The first time’s for fun, the second time’s for revenge. Worn out and running out of shells you begin to take the expression much more seriously. These birds with their home of rocks, unrivaled speed, and bold calls, are most definitely a worthy adversary.

Before you can blink the evening light wanes and the day approaches its final hours. The hunt was successful, as good a day as any, and after a long drive you are home. With a turn of the key you enter your trailer, crawl into your bed, and right as you close your eyes for the evening you hear, “chuk…chuk”. The love, hate relationship emerges. You minds races, when will I go back? When will I have another chance? It’s only then that you realize, the fever has you.

Chukar country down the Burnt River Canyon, just outside Durkee, Oregon:

 Rise to the lower shelf:

In the end, success:

Scouting for Spring Bear: Part I

As of yesterday we have officially begun to walk down the uncertain road that will lead us to our spring bear season. It’s a season neither of us has pursued before but one that quickly caught our attention this winter. Over the weekend, our scouting began.

The weather was perfect, a March day that rivaled any warm weather day up to this point in the new year. For us, the opportunity to get out and begin looking around was too good to pass up and while we are still learning the strategy behind bear hunting, we’ve concluded that come April, getting out early and scouting will give us the best chance possible. So, with the dog loaded up, we threw our gear into the back of the truck and headed off.

Looking back, this journey began over a month ago with the two of us flipping through the pages of our state reg book, checking to see if drawing a tag was even feasible. As with most states, controlled hunt points quickly become a factor and with James only having one and myself with none, our options were limited. But not all was lost. We looked over the numbers, compared units, and in the end, put in for the Starkey Unit. It’s a unit with low success rates on paper, even less hunter interest, and while it has never been openly touted for its bear population, the chance to get out into the woods and put our boots on the ground was motivation enough.  So, we made our selection and looked ahead, on February 20^th we would get the results. The wait was not going to be easy.

After two weeks of pacing we were ultimately successful. Our math had worked and as we sit here in early March we now know that we will have the opportunity to get after bears next month. Since learning of our good fortune we have been down to talk with our local biologists and were told that although bears would be hard to find, numbers have been good and with some hard work and long days, the odds could be turned in our favor. Hearing that was practically like being issued a challenge and we were more than ready to accept. However, despite James and my willingness to push farther and harder than most, our energy, we concluded, would be ill spent unless we had a clear idea of where to go. Neither of us have ever ventured far into the Starkey Unit and with an endless number of unknowns, we decided that getting out early was key.

Among blogs and websites the general mantra for these hunts is that south facing slopes holding early season green-up will be the primary attractant for emerging bears. The logic makes sense, the sun is in the southern sky at this time of year and with northern slopes still covered in snow, the bears will want to make things easy on themselves. So, with a starting point, the search was on.

We began our day out near the Wolf Creek Reservoir but quickly found ourselves slowed up by snow lingering along the roadways. After James put a dent in his new truck and chipped the paint we were subsequently forced to turn around and look for another way into the unit. The day had not started the way we had planned. Pushing forward, we headed north to La Grande to try and make our way in via several forest roads and highways. After spending some time out near Beaver Creek, just west of Ladd Canyon, we eventually found ourselves in better country when we got out onto Highway 244. We weaved in and out along the dirt roads, patched with ice, but drivable by most standards. Soon, we found what we were looking for, south facing slopes, rolling hills, and somewhere we both agreed bears would want to be. Our outlook for the day and season was now on the rise, our first circle on the map.

As we moved through the woods elk sign was readily present and mule deer seemed to be jumping out around us left and right. Farley could barely contain himself; his body rigged and ears in their full alert position. A fun day to be out in the woods and the reality that we would soon be into a bear season and back up in the woods was beginning to sink in.

As the weekend comes to an end we’re not sure where we’ll go from here. More days of scouting are ahead and as the spring brings sun and rain we will begin to find a forest, closed up and dark throughout the winter, open her doors and allow us access. We still need to isolate the spring green-up, sight in rifles and get our practice in, but the effort will be worth it. We now wait in anticipation for our next day out, keep an eye on the mountains, and continue with our home preparations for the months ahead. A good first weekend by most standards.

 Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wsYB1znAEQI

Controlling the Human Element

There have been many days where James and I have sat down and talked about the day’s hunt. We’ve reflected on the successes and failures of a particular outing and tried to figure out how we could improve on what we had done. We’ve asked ourselves, what can we do better? What can we control? And ultimately, there is really only one thing you can control, yourself.

When you’re out in the field the variety of factors working for or against you are endless. Sometimes you wake up for a bird hunt and the sun is shining. The wind is slowly weaving its way across the landscape and you’re able to remove your gloves for the day. Other times the rains begin to fall. The clouds darken the sky and the winds serve only to enhance the numbness in your fingers. The same goes for big game hunts. You wake up and the mountain is dry, easy to climb, and quickly you are on a ridgeline, glassing the slopes around you. Other days you wake up to a fresh coat of snow on the ground. You suddenly find yourself slipping up the rocky slopes. Your clothes quickly become wet and your daily energy supplies are tested early on. These are the unknowns. These are the factors that make hunting, hunting. They make it both frustrating and exciting and in the end, what they really represent, are the variables that you will never be able to control.

 So what can we control? What can we manage? How do we take the most inherently unpredictable variable, ourselves, out of the equation, so that we can address the multitude of other forces acting upon us? The answer is simple: hard work, practice, and attention to detail.

Early on in my hunting career James instilled in me the importance of controlling what I could control. For me this was perhaps best personified in my preparation for the archery season last year. I had to ask myself, how can I make sure that when it comes time for that shot, my body does what I need it to without question or delay? How do I contain the human element?

What it came down in the end was countless evenings after work adjusting my technique. I set up straw bales against my trailer, tied some carpet onto the front and began sending arrows down range. I took it step by step. First, it was all about getting the arrows on target from 10, 20, 25 yards, placing my hands and feet properly. Then I moved on to my cheek placement along the bow string. Repetition and more repetition; bring the bow up, put it back down, bring the bow up, and put it back down. James even suggested closing my eyes, bringing the bow up, and seeing if I could clearly see through my peep-sight once I felt positioned. You’d be amazed how quickly your body begins to adjust.

Then it became about controlling my breathing. Deep breath on the way up, slowly out at full draw, and then, release. Eventually I began to coordinate the pieces. At first, hundreds of arrows into the bales, then thousands. My arms got stronger, my eyes focused more quickly, the motion became instinctual. Every time, the same position, the same technique, developing muscle memory. The goals, become a machine, control the human element, and give yourself the best possible chance to take an animal. I could feel it all coming together.

With hunting, misses are simply a reality of being in the woods. We all hope that as we progress through the years we are never the victim of losing an animal but the fact that it may happen is never lost on us. In the end it comes down to an ethical question. Have I done everything I possibly can to ensure that when I go after any species, whether it is birds or elk, I am fully prepared and confident that I can make the shot? If you have worked tirelessly, given the practice your all, and then you miss an animal, such is the game, but it will not be for lack of effort.

Hunting seasons can be short. You wait an entire year to hunt for 30 days, and often times less. For many of us, the preparation will begin months before. It will include late nights running through the motions in your head. It will include night sessions where the fading evening light is all you have to acquire your practice bales. The season is only so many days. Why not get the most you can out of those days? You may only get one chance during the season to take your animal and it would be the ultimate shame if a variable that you could have controlled, that you could have worked on, caused you to miss. There’s just too much at stake for you to not give it your all.

A Gun Experience

I’m not sure what the tipping point was for me to begin my search for a gun. When did I get to the point of decisive action? What was I thinking? Who really knows? I do know however that it began with my move to Oregon and subsequent introduction to James. I remember I once told him that I almost felt bad owning one, that is was practically inconceivable that at some point in my life I would own a gun, a weapon as my mom would refer to it. But I also remember James telling me that there was no reason to feel bad about wanting to go out and buy one, after all, it wasn’t illegal to own a gun and when handled properly and safely a gun could be thought not of as a weapon, but rather a tool for accomplishing a variety of tasks from hunting to sport shooting to just plain good ole’ no point fun. And so, with a little encouragement and the idea firmly cemented in my brain, I set off to pursue this forbidden fruit, without any real knowledge that the pursuit would change my life.

Months went by and finally it was time. When I arrived at the store I already knew what I wanted, a Remington 870, 12 gauge, 26 inch barrel with a laminate stock. The gun that no matter who you talk to is indefinitely the gun that more guys and gals have slung through the nastiest muck, dropped off the tailgate, and failed to clean for months on end, yet was as sure to fire as the sun is to rise. And someday, when that gun is old and worn, there may come a day when that gun doesn’t fire, but that day will come long after we have passed on from this world and far beyond its practical use.

I had called the clerk earlier that day and he confirmed he had one in stock. As soon as I heard the good news James and I were on our way. When I got the store I had a singular focus. I brushed right by the hunting knives, pushed aside the latest hunting apparel, pulled my number from that machine and waited for them to call my number. Strange I thought, here I am, a kid who grew up in a society where guns were not the norm, a kid who only years ago had never given any thought to actually hunting, and here I am about to buy my first gun…strange indeed.

Soon it came, my number was called. I approached the clerk, the same gentleman I had talked to on the phone earlier that day and he stepped into the back and brought out the box. I wasn’t sure how to feel but the second he opened it up I felt more excited than ever. I had gone for the laminate stock because I wanted the wood. The synthetics have their purpose, and there’s no doubting that, but for me, the wood symbolized everything that came to mind about generations past; strong, vibrant, colorful, and tough. I picked it up and eyed it over. Wow, “Am I about to do this?” I thought. Then, before I knew it, the checks were complete and the money exchanged. What I’ll always remember, perhaps more clearly than anything else, was putting that shotgun in the back of James’s old Jeep and heading home. I couldn’t stop looking at the box. I was so excited. My first gun.

That day was a little over a year and a half ago. How much I’ve learned. Before I bought the shotgun, guns were something so incredibly foreign to me. For many out there, and especially here in Oregon, guns are a part of life growing up. For them, it’s almost second nature to own a gun, to carry one in the truck and pick off the occasional coyote on the way home from work. But for me, it was entirely new. It took some time and patience but eventually it became natural. I now head out to bird hunt and after endless nights sitting in my room, shouldering the gun; it’s become second nature. It really all comes together that first time you shoot a bird and watch it drop. You almost don’t even realize that the motion, the feel of the gun, the movement of your head and hands, is now practically instinctual.

Owning a gun is an experience. From the purchase to the field and back home to cleaning, the gun becomes a part of your life. James once told me that he loved the smell of gun oil. I won’t lie I thought he was a little crazy when he told me that but as I look at where I am today, I can see how then and now he was right on the mark. After you return home from a few days out on a hunt you place towels down on the table, line out your cleaning equipment, and begin the methodical process of wiping away the grit and grim. The pieces aren’t random; they all serve a purpose and deserve attention. As you reassemble the gun you place each part together, trying to avoid getting your prints on the inner pieces. After a quick test fire you admire your handy work and put the gun away in the corner. The smell of oil now soaks your hands and permeates the air around you. “I love the smell of gun oil”, he said. What a peculiar statement. Little did I know then how appropriate and how much that statement truly encompassed.