Bloodied Hands: Inside the Deer

I cleaned my first deer last night under a veil of darkness, my movements lit only by my dimming headlight and a full moon. It was almost surreal to think back to it this morning. It was a moment I had waited many years for, to put my hands on such a large animal and work with it so intimately. To feel all that gives life and realize that it now displays death. I don’t know how to describe it, I really didn’t know what to do, but throughout the night I remember a calmness, surprise even, with how naturally the scene unfolded. I found myself covered in blood, my pants heavily stained and the rawness of it all was utterly pleasing. Not pleasing because death was before me, but pleasing because I had never felt so connected to something outside myself. With the moon casting a white light upon me, I stood outside, the wind howling before the coming storm, and I refrained from thought, immersing myself in the moment.

I had watched many others complete the process but had never partaken in it personally. I was always an hour too late or a town too far away. I had wanted so badly to experience this moment in Oregon, pushing hard and praying that I may have but one chance to feel the warmth of an animal in the cold of the state’s forests. But it was not meant to be and on this night, that moment found me.

I remember most the beauty of the animal, youthful and healthy. A coat that said she had prepared for and was thoroughly ready for winter. I remember the warmth she radiated, both freshly on the ground and hours later. As I removed the hide I remember feeling the blood dry on my arms, dark, cracked and heavy burgundy in color. I gazed over to see other vibrant shades of red, blood still new to the night’s air. I remember working every angle to quickly try and cool her down, to expose the meat and admire its quality. My knife movements were clumsy, searching for direction, but I was soon finished and before me stood a picture of death and unapologetic beauty.

John Muir had once spent over a week living in a graveyard in Savannah. He had chosen that spot to avoid roaming thieves and thought there was no better place to remain hidden than the site of which so many were afraid. But this cemetery was overgrown, neglected by man and taken over once again by Mother Nature, her arms reaching into every crevice. And amongst the headstones that symbolized death, John Muir found a wealth of life. From the birds to the plants, all that was once lugubrious now became enchanted with life. He found there was no need to be afraid for here, life and death were to be celebrated together.

While his experience only bares a small resemblance to mine, I remember that I have never felt the raw nature of life and death as much as I did last night. I was not afraid of the unknown. Alone in the darkness, the wind and moonlight were my companions. I was not afraid of what so many in this new world are so disconnected from. Alone I found myself tranquil, moved. I will never forget it.

 

Stir Crazy

I feel like I am withering away here waiting for fall. It’s all I think about; it’s all the dog talks about. Bark, bark, ruff, ruff, when the hell can we go bird hunting? And after being sidelined once again this May due to budgetary constraints I was unable to participate in a Minnesota turkey hunt, which as I walked through the woods this past month made it all the more disappointing; the prevalence of sign just about made me throw all caution to the wind. But alas, the joy of shooting another turkey this year would have quickly been soured when I was forced back down to eating rice and black pepper for dinner. Or worse yet, a can of tuna and Saltine crackers which may sound okay but after a few days well, not so much. What this really adds up to is that my one opportunity to get out and hunt this spring has come and gone with no fanfare whatsoever.

At this time of year fishing does provide some measure of relief. While it does not hold the inherent physical challenge and rush of hunting big game or upland birds it does provide a level of excitement that can keep even the most weathered hunter appeased. But once again I find myself in tough times. I am surrounded by water, the land of 10,000 lakes as this place is known, but there’s not a good fly fishing river within a hundred miles. How I long for the Eagle Cap Wilderness back in Oregon, snowy mountain tops melting and pouring their cold water down into a web of rivers. Just thinking about it almost makes me want to cry. I have never claimed to be a skilled fly fisherman but with each spring I was beginning to improve my odds. Now it seems that momentum will be stopped dead, at least for now.

There is lake fishing and to that fact there can be no doubt. Men and women across Minnesota are gearing up and heading to the lakes, thrilled with the prospect of pulling in some massive walleye or muskie, a northern pike or sturgeon. It’s all everyone talks about and lakes that were once serene oases from the calamity of modern life are now dotted with boats. Homes that line the lake shores which just this past winter were nothing more than another landscape feature are now filled with vacationing families every weekend. As I turn down a once trusty walking trail I am confronted with civilization and for that, I can only hang my head. It’s not that I shun people or don’t enjoy a good barbeque as much as the next person but often times you just want to get away from it all, eschew the noise that interferes with the wilderness. Why can I not seem to find that around here without being out in the middle of some bog, water and mud seeping into my boots?

Anyhow, sitting on a lake is not what I aspire to do when I think of a good time; I need to be moving, physically, with purpose. And not to mention I have none of the gear which would be required to complete such a task, most notably a boat. So I find myself once again waiting for fall. I haven’t even been out to shoot my gun in months now, the availability of land to just go cycle through a box of shells is limited at best and I have little doubt I would have the police tapping on my shoulder in no time.

The worst part of it all is that I have new gear and new cameras to get out and utilize this fall but right now they might as well be Christmas tree ornaments, brought out when the time calls for them but currently boxed up in the attic. The want for these next few months to just fly by is killing me. But then again, I hear all the old timers often saying how they just want more time, want a few months back here or there. Maybe I should just shut up, stop whining and enjoy the summer. Maybe I should just be patient. But I have to believe I’m not alone, that I’m not the only one out there who is already waiting for the leaves to begin falling off the trees. Or, maybe everyone is out fishing. Dammit, I need a new hobby.

A Genuine Filson: The Search is Over

In the world of “Made in China” where cheap goods lend themselves to our meager budgets, we often find ourselves buying up gear at a feverish pace. Each year we travel off to our favorite outdoor stores to gaze across the racks of endless goods. They are designed and made to attract comers of all sorts; those with a genuine interest in gathering up new gear and others who simply think that they cannot survive the coming seasons without the latest in creative camo. And I, like many others, have found it necessary to buy gear that may have been of questionable quality in times of monetary austerity. But more and more I have begun to realize that even in those times of financial hardship the notion that you “get what you pay for” never fails to ring true. It is precisely this reason that I have made it my mission as of late to not let me fiscal woes interfere with a lifetime of gear; not to let my immediate circumstances lead me into a cyclical pattern of accoutrement and accessory buying. As a result of my recent travels, from coast to coast, I have made this practice my mantra.

My most recent purchase saw its roots during my first few months in Oregon; a place and culture defined by its rugged nature and a region in which the cloths of both hunters and ranchers often personify that image. The hard work of raising cattle across the undulating sagebrush and the arduous task of finding blue grouse along the ridges of the Wallowas requires the gear to match. For those tasks, for that lifestyle, men and women find themselves in possession of garments that continue to stand up to the weather and abuse.

I remember the first time I saw a Filson jacket. James had just come down from his ranch and as he stepped out of his tattered Jeep I saw a jacket that mirrored the wear and tear. It looked strong, almost impenetrable, impervious to whatever the world could throw at it. I looked over it and admired what I clearly saw as a jacket for a lifetime. The creases and crevices that lined its sleeves and chest were rigged yet soft, sharp yet smooth. And then, several weeks later I would run into another friend who himself was wearing a jacket marked with “Filson”, the discolored and worn brown buttons showing its age. I was immediately attracted to both, no doubt realizing that these jackets were different, unique in some indefinable way.

When I began browsing Filson catalogs I was astonished at the variety and enthralled by the makers. I found wool jackets I wanted to own, slicks and pants I couldn’t live without and hunting gear I relished. However, abover all, there was one item in particular that promptly grabbed my attention. An item that I knew I had to have, that I knew would continue me on my hunting journey. The item, the piece of gear I pined over was their “Pro Guide Strap Vest”. It was the upland bird vest I had dreamed about as the one that would carry me forth into my years of bird hunting across the west. It was the one I knew would find itself soiled with the mud and rain of the Dakota grasslands and the Idaho shrub-steppe; the vest that would drape itself over my shoulders as I climbed above the Oregon heavens in search of chukar and as I pushed along Montana's stream banks in search of quail. It would follow me into the Minnesota tree thickets in pursuit of ruffed grouse and cling to me as I climbed Nevada’s rocky hilltops in my quest for partridge. It would be the vest that took me and the dog into our formative hunting years and as luck would have it, there are to be no more “coulds or woulds”, for there is now no more thinking on the matter. There is no more wishing and hoping and dreaming. This past week, throwing prudence aside, I used a chunk of my tax returns to purchase the vest and made the dream, a reality.

The vest is now securely in my house and sits in the corner after having gone for its first test run today. It’s still new, rigged from its construction. It needs time to mold itself, wear itself in and I adamantly plan on helping it along the way. It’s a heavy material, ready for all the world can throw at it. But although I am happy to finally have this vest in my possession, as it sits here under the dim ceiling light I reflect on the first bird vest that was ever given to me. It was a gift from my mother and it served its purpose with my utmost gratitude. It followed me through two and a half bird seasons, the bag filled with birds large and small, blood flecks finding themselves littered across the pockets. From here I can see the Oregon dirt smeared across the back reminding me of the days sitting high up above Keating Valley looking out towards the Eagle Caps. I would often run the sagebrush with the dog for much of the afternoon but at some point, wanting to look back and gaze upon the most beautiful place I have ever known, I would sit down and rest in silence. The days when that stillness was accompanied by the heft of birds in my bag was all the better. It was a great vest for a great time.

But now I move on to a new era, a new phase in my upland bird hunting life. Times that will see my dog enter middle age and one where I will try my best to explore as much country as possible. With this new vest I mark the beginning of a new chapter, one where the gear I purchase will be a reflection of the dedication and respect I have for the wilderness and my desire to explore it. What I have made here is not merely a purchase, it was an investment. As James said:

“If you need justification, try this: over the lifetime of the vest, how many birds and hours of enjoyment (will you get back) per dollar? It should come at a cheap price.”

A cheap price indeed; I cannot wait for fall.

A Minnesota Staple: Ice Fishing

We streak across the snowy surface of Elm Island Lake, the humming of the snowmobile’s engine lulling me into a state of repose as I watch the landscape pass by. Behind us, a young boy holds on and smiles with the credulous delight we faintly remember but warmly embrace. He is tethered on to our machine with some climbing rope and a sled; he holds on, trying to maintain his course along our freshly blazed trail. Today we are headed out for my first ice fishing trip, out onto this still frozen lake in search of panfish and while I know not what to expect I look forward to something that is inherently Minnesotan. I have a few native fishermen to guide me and as such I trust this trip will be both amusing and a learning experience.

With the temperature hovering just above thirty and a cool wind streaming out of the west you would think this day better suited for mid-March than late April. “The winter cannot go on this way”, they repeatedly tell me but as anomalies go in my life, this one takes the cake. The incessant onslaught of winter storms and cold weather continue to turn me against a previously loved season and I dream of spring every chance I get. But alas, we are stuck, almost literally in my driveway yesterday, stuck in its grasp and the most we can do is make the best of it.

A few weeks ago a friend from work finally convinced me to go out and get my annual fishing license. It was not that I was hesitant because I didn’t care to fish but rather because money is tighter than ever. And so I did, heeding his words that the fish I would catch and the bounty I could bring home would pay for the license in no time. And as a matter of fact an annual pass for a non-resident was a measly $46, how can one argue with that? So I packed up my cameras, said goodbye to the dog and headed out the door, completely unaware of what was to come.

With the warming sun combating the cool breeze I just tried to take in my first ride on a snowmobile; a machine with incredible power and surprising mobility. We had already dove off hillsides that would have sent a quad tumbling and skimmed across ice and slush that at times had me questioning the safety of this endeavor, a thawed out river working its way towards us less than 200 yards away. But the trip was most enjoyable and after a few short-cuts and some fresh snow we arrived at our destination.

Initially, I didn’t know what to expect. As we began to look for holes drilled by others I quickly realized this was not a sit and wait game. Perhaps in the depths of winter when winter breezes bring the wind chill to an oppressive -20 a small shelter and some heating source would seem prudent but here, in the midst of a warm April afternoon, holes are abound and jumping around is the name of the game. Even so, my friend pulls out to auger to drill in his "best" spots and we are off and running.

 

The size of the fishing rods are almost comical; only about 12 inches long they look as if they were made for a small child, not a full grown man. But in the end they are practical and with small fish, steady winds, and the constant hole hopping, they serve their purpose well. We use mealworms as bait and a little device called a Vexilar to detect fish. It’s almost like a fish finder, detecting with variations in color and size what is below us in the 30+ feet of water; given that it can detect my tiny worm at 25 feet, you can be fairly confident in its accuracy. As fish come in you begin to find yourself caught between the world of feeling for the “bite” and watching a small digital detection screen, somewhere between your grandfather’s fishing trips and an 80’s style video game. While I’m still not sure whether this would technically constitute cheating I see that in this case, where a man is feeding his family, it’s a compromise. Needless to say, it certainly is fun.

Before I can quite get a handle on the operation the oldest of his boys has already snagged four fish and is proudly gloating to his dad who in turns vows to make a comeback (after he is done drilling a few more holes). I meanwhile can see the fish in my little device yet find quickly my “closing” abilities need some work. However, with a few quick tips on pace and rhythm I pull up my first panfish, a crappie (pronounced CROP-IE) to my utter delight. It is small yet beautiful. From the chilled water in this lake and up through 25 inches of ice it has found its way onto my hook and up to my side. But I have barely a moment to enjoy before the fish is swiped up and thrown into a bucket, “35 more to go” he says and I am back to hole hopping.

With the sun warming my face I am down to only a light jacket. As we sit on the lake the sun moves across the lake exemplifying the would be spring sky. I continue to catch fish and while my technique is far from perfected, I find myself enticing more and more fish to bite. Or perhaps, which is more likely the case, it’s simply become later in the afternoon and the fish are raring to go; I prefer the former. But what I realize throughout this process is that the two boys treat this trip as something habitual, almost perfunctory, but no doubt enjoying the experience in their own way. They share stories of the untold numbers of fish reeled in earlier this week and of their trophies caught on the bigger lakes; the younger one of only eight boasting about a 29 inch walleye he caught this past summer. Their love of the outdoors and fishing is almost ingrained in them. I believe I got more joy out of that than actually fishing myself.

With the sun dipping below the tree line we packed up our bags and headed back home, just short of ten fish each and our limits. I would arrive at their house, grab a few cans of generic beer and head downstairs to clean fish. In this moment I was witness to another kind of ritual that was equally engaging and novel to me. The father of these boys and my good friend began to show me how to fillet these fish, his fastidious and programmed movements quickly turning a small fish into a meal. He talked about the weight of his knife, the flex of its blade, and proudly pointed out the two new ones he had bought for his boys, both embossed with their initials.

In this dim cellar below the main floor deer antlers, arrows, hooks, lures, and reloading equipment litter the tables and shelves; an environment that would make any hunter smile. With a few beers, the radio fading in and out, and the warmth from the wood burning outside I felt myself winding down. When all the fish were cleaned and the carcasses removed a few pieces of crumpled up newspaper made quick work of the excess fish mix on the cutting boards. The knife was wiped dry, the lights turned out, and the tedious work complete.

We would sit down to a dinner of venison, sliced thin and cooked over the stove. A few more beers would cement the evening and a Saturday afternoon turned into night was over. I drove home with fish in my truck, meat in my belly, and another adventure to reflect on. I think there will certainly be some more fishing in my future and now the only question is, when do I get to do it again? 

 

 

 

"Magnificent Obsession..." by Tom Davis

While under most circumstances I would describe bird hunting in my own terms, with my own voice, I have found several others over the years who have elicited my own sense of passion; others who through their words and pictures have transported me to the open range and put me to bed with dreams of fall. When I find these authors, these men who capture the culture, I hold onto them and continue to lose myself in their stories.

One such article that brought out the best in what it means to hunt upland birds is called, “Magnificent Obsession: Pursuing prairie chickens may be the purest form of hunting…It’s surely the most introspective” by Tom Davis. Published in a popular sporting magazine, Davis eloquently and cogently wraps you up in the world of grouse, and more specifically, that of the prairie chicken. If I had not even gotten past the cover photo (below) I would have walked away with a smile on my face; it’s perfect, symbolizing rural America at its finest. But alas, there is a great article that follows and the experience is divine. From elaborating on the struggles in the field to reflecting on the current state of grouse across the country, Davis makes us all want to head off to the mid-west and try our hand at these elusory birds.

But enough of me, best to enjoy it for yourself…

"Magnificent Obsession..." - Tom Davis

 

April 2013: A Month of Firsts

What has been a long, cold winter in which I have found myself tolerating the onslaught of snow in three different states has perhaps saved its best punch for last; the arrival of a mid-April snow storm in what is supposed to be the time of year we are awaiting turkey season, not anticipating icy roads. As I look to the sky I can sense that Old Man Winter is holding tight and while his resistance is admirable he will soon fall as he always does. It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff and his grip is flagging. While his fingers reach and search for each and every crevice to dig themselves into, the tremendous force of gravity will soon pull him down and give way to a new equinox. As we await the change it is no longer a matter of if but when.

As I look back though I have little reason to complain as this has so far been a month of firsts, a spring in which I have realized the fulfillment of one of my most longstanding and sincere wishes; a month that added an equally moving ripple to my wish and a month that as is by all accounts, only half way past. I can only hope that the next two weeks live up to the preceding two.

A few weeks ago I wrote an article entitled “Encounters of the Wild Kind” in which I delved into the unexpected wildlife encounters we are often confronted with in the outdoors. But there are other times in the course of our lives in which we have these face to face meetings outside the hunting world and find a very routine day turn into something entirely beyond words. These days are the ones we talk about with friends for years to come as those moments that keep the day to day living out in agrarian America exciting.

Without divulging what I do for a living I can say that I often times find myself in the middle of nowhere, driving around in the land of no cell service where getting your truck stuck means you and your shovel are in it for the long haul (quick tip for rural living: make sure you have a shovel). Earlier this week, shortly after the sun had risen I was beginning my work day when I approached a small, inconspicuous town in east-central Minnesota.  With the brakes pressing against the wheels I could feel my rig begin to slow and then, there in front of me out of a ditch came a broad figure, moving quickly and clearly intent on beating me across the road. It took me only half a second to process the image but what I had just seem emerge from the woods and take two or three bounds across the county highway was a bobcat, my first ever.

He was beautiful and sleek, his powerful legs driving him up across the road, his short bobbed tail following suit. His coat was lighter in color, perfectly adapted for the winter wilderness. He moved with a speed and art that clearly separated him from anything I had ever come across. He looked powerful and stalwart yet realizing his vulnerability at that moment, decidedly wanted to immerse himself in the woods once again. It was as I mentioned a ripple, an anomaly, a break in the stillness of time as to go unseen by so many but presenting itself right before me. That day is a blur, I’m not even sure what I did or if I really accomplished anything but that moment was more than enough to leave me feeling thoroughly gratified. However, I had no idea at the time that the bobcat was only a precursor in what would soon be one a wildlife week worth remembering.

The very next day I woke up, still picturing the cat in my head and began my work before dawn. As the morning progressed I found myself driving down an old dirt road and without warning I was removed from the forests that lined the landscape and entered a stretch of open hay fields. With the inclination to let my eyes wander I looked over to see what I had been wanting to see since I was a teenager, what everyone should see once in their lives; the animal that is both loved and hated and the center of much debate, a wolf. And not some wolf kept for show or some wolf rehabilitating in a wildlife facility but a real live, wild Minnesota wolf. The pleasure was something bordering on ecstasy and to think about it now is to feel my cheeks tighten as a smile works its way onto my face.

I had over the years wondered if I would actually be able to spot a wolf if I were to come across one. You often hear these stories of mistaken identity (a large coyote, a domestic dog) but when I laid eyes on that animal at just over a hundred yards, I knew it instantly. His physique, size, and stature were that of an apex predator and he looked every bit the part. His head had weight to it, his body was muscular, his tail long, and his feet as big as on any canine I have ever run across. And there he stood, literally, looking dead at me, unsure whether he should run or go about his business, everything in my head hoping for the latter. It was awe-inspiring and as it turns out, unlike so many wildlife moments that are fleeting, he decided to stay a while. I rolled down the window, put my seat back and watched him as the morning moisture burned off.

I was tempted to reach back and get my camera but told myself that the seconds wasted fumbling in the back would be precious seconds I could never get back. I knew that I may never get this chance again and if I was going to watch this amazing animal I was going to see him with my own eyes, not through of that of a camera lens. And there he stayed, poking his head into gopher holes, ignoring a group of sharp-tailed grouse dancing in the distance behind him. He strolled along lifting his head every so often to look at me and then back down to the ground. I just remember thinking he was so big, so unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. It was as the Gods had seen to personally taking my wildlife wish list and were presenting me with a gift. To whoever is up there, all I can say is, “Thank you”.

Eventually the wolf would meander his way into a willow stand and fade off into the distance and I had never been so happy. I stepped out of the truck, put my hands on my head and smiled. Does it get any better? And I have to wonder, if not for hunting, would I have ever noticed him. We, over time, as hunters, develop a sort of peripheral vision, tuned in and locked in to any small movements, incredibly wild in essence. But it gives us that slight edge, that slight advantage that may just make a missed opportunity the moment of a lifetime. This was certainly one of those moments for me. I still can’t believe it, a wolf, a wild wolf. And despite the national conflict that has emerged in the past 25 years there is still something to be said by everyone in laying their eyes upon this secluded predator.

As we move onward the first will keep coming. This month is only half over and tomorrow I make my way out onto the frozen Minnesota lakes to drop my first line in for ice fishing. We’ll head out in the evening in search of freshwater crappies and bluegill, a co-worker, a seasoned fisherman preparing to show me the ropes, literally. With 30 inches of ice still bearing down on the lake’s underbelly we are assured a measure of relaxation.

Bobcats, wolves, and ice fishing...what more could an outdoorsman ask for?

What's in a Blog?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Over the past few years writing this blog has brought me a lot of joy. It has forced me to put down in words what I was experiencing in the field and I have subsequently found myself reliving intricate details of events that would have otherwise been forgotten. I have found myself scrolling through photos which filled me with inimitable happiness and recounted great successes. But I would be a fool to think that just because I enjoy writing and believe that I have something to say, that that alone would translate into readers.

I’ve had this notion in my head that if I wrote enough and documented enough of our adventures people would begin to follow. But alas, and not to sulk or in any way diminish what I have been doing, I fear there are very few readers outside my immediate friends and family come here. I have long thought that I could just put pen to paper and that the “people will (would) come”, as Terrance Mann so profoundly proclaimed in “Field of Dreams”, hoping somewhere along the line those readers would connect with me. And maybe they have, maybe some reader or readers have visited and found something to move or inspire them, something to get them out of their routine and enter an unknown world; one can only hope. As they say, “nothing ventured, nothing gained”.

As I see it though, writing alone is not enough. For anyone that follows hunting sports the name Steven Rinella has recently come to the forefront of American hunting culture and many, like myself, have become fascinated by his adventures and moreover, jealous of his lifestyle. However, in a recent interview I learned that Steven actually has a Master’s degree in writing, a crushing blow to a small town, rural blog dreamer. However, recovering from the knockdown I reminded myself that writing is but one dynamic of engaging an audience; it is only one aspect of creating a world for people to escape the salt mines. To engage others in this world is to employ multiple senses in a short period of time. More and more, whether we like it or not our interactions with the outside world and with others are perpetually being driven by a digital reality. Others like me have been able to avoid the chaos but at some point, at some junction we have to accept that to be a player in this game, one must enter into foreign territory to be successful. And that unknown, that uneasy path, inevitably leads to video.

I have never recorded or clipped together any film of any kind. I have never been called a movie editor or really ever cared to piece something from many parts into one. It just seems complicated. But I have always known that I wanted to incorporate video into the blog. I have always wanted to bring to life some of these adventures and with the latest addition of a GoPro Hero 3 into my life, I may just finally have that chance. I cannot promise anything spectacular or something that will end up with tens of thousands of hits on YouTube but, it’s worth exploring, it’s worth interacting, it’s worth a shot; I mean, hell, not like I have any readers to lose.

But enough of the internal processes that drift through my head. Immediate results will be slow but hopefully by the time fall hits the recording will be in full swing. Until then, it’s typing as usual. Check out the blog, read our old posts, get to know us and wait for a revitalized campaign, wait for Haines Hunters v. 2.0!

Encounters of the Wild Kind

If it’s been said before, well, it’s worth saying again. A large part of the reason we wake squinty eyed to the buzzing of our alarm clocks in the waning hours of the night’s darkness is not only to aspire to find the animals which we seek but also, to encounter the ones we never planned on seeing in the first place. To come face to face with another organism of whom we had no intention of visiting yet before the day ends, an animal we will know well as either an antagonist or ally; the latter being preferable.

These confrontations, if you will, provide us with a spell of ephemeral amnesia during which we are allowed, almost unsuspectingly, to enjoy life beyond a particular goal or objective and just enjoy the woods for what they are…wild. I have had many such encounters during my time in the woods, especially while hunting. I have seen a great grey owl perched in a Douglas fir, watching over me as I wailed away on a predator call, turkeys gobbling in the distance. I have been in search of early season deer when I heard a bull elk crash through the undergrowth across a ravine and then gazed up to see his chest distend and release a most euphonious sound. And I have been fighting a head on snow storm crossing a barren, frozen lake only to see a bald eagle burst forth from the adjacent tree line and soar out over the white world, a potentate of this forgotten landscape. But these moments are not unique to me; they permeate our backwoods and mountain tops. They know no bounds and the men and women who fight their way every day in the wilderness must have collective stories that would rival the publications in the Library of Congress in sheer volume and content. What stories there must be out there.

Most recently while out for a stroll with my dog we had a meeting of a very different kind. I was not hunting nor was I actively seeking anything but rest for my tired mind and some exercise for the dog; both of which are necessities for my daily sanity. But while my brain was shutting down my dog had spotted some deer across an open field and with the body clinching that can only be described as a dog on a mission, he was locked in. Knowing that the snow was some 20 inches deep I knew the deer would be long gone before he could ever catch them and as I watched them watching us, I let the dog go.

Faster than one can blink he was off, working his little heart out to make ground on “his” adversary. But the moment was not to last and without warning, another foe was upon us. I looked quickly and saw the outline of a robber, a thief, a masked killer, a bandit or, as is more widely accepted…a raccoon. He immediately jumped in the air which I believe just about caused my dog to leap out of his skin and then, without hesitation, the inquest was abruptly begun. Wavering back and forth the two animals looked like ancient warriors from a lost Chinese culture; my dog sporting his best “Contorted Crane” while the raccoon chose a form of what can best be described as, “Slender Dragonfly”. The scene was a combination of wanting to get my dog away from the foe and wanting to let him handle his own encounters with the wild. They would size each other up over the next minute, both no doubt feeling a sense of imminent danger but unable to resist the attraction. However, I will admit my dog was certainly more interested in the coon than the coon was in him. But nonetheless, the chance meeting was something for all to enjoy. The action was brief and once I pulled my dog away the small larcenist steadily worked his way back into the woods, unsure how his afternoon had taken such an erratic turn. And away we went, the image of an urban brawler now seared into my memory bank.

These run-ins with wildlife and other organisms lead us down all sorts of roads and while I have had many pleasurable interactions in my life others have not been so fortunate. There are examples right here in Minnesota where birds hunters have been forced to make difficult decisions when confronted with wolves, a man shooting one dead last fall as his canine companion was in quick retreat. But overall these are the exceptions and even though those stories can be harrowing ones, they will be told over campfires for friends and posterity alike, adding to the diverse array of anecdotes behind us. In the end though, the stories we hold on to and retell over and over, occasionally embellishing as we get older, are all what make hunting a unique American tradition. We keep these stories close to us, we keep them so we can share them with the ones who will understand, and we keep them to keep them. They are what make the hunter the hunter and the man the man. So, here’s to our next encounter.


Our Bandit:

Beyond the Culture & Into the Language

With my ongoing exploration into our country’s hunting culture I have, over the years, been inundated with a panoply of backwoods terms and common vernacular; phrases and expressions that when spoken out of context would seem better fodder for a mythical children’s book than everyday gas station chit chat. But while theses terms are common to all hunters and relatively consistent across the country as a whole, there is often no accounting for regional differences.  And, like any language, confusion and debate are likely to ensue.

The diversity of seasons and regional cultures provide us with a plethora of examples of how across the country a word in one area meaning one thing is the antithesis of a word’s definition in another. We see these differences in New England where a white-tailed buck sporting eight tines would be referred to as an “8-point” or “4x4”, whereas in the foothills of eastern Oregon that same buck would simply be known as a “4-point”. We hear illustrations of these differences on the east coast where the term “spike” simply implies a second year deer. But out west, where elk also roam the landscape, a spike refers to a young elk with a non-forked antler (or just one antler forked). I remember I once ran into a group of hunters along an old forest road and, as is practically law, chatted with them about their hunt. They mentioned they were looking for elk and after some casual banter I told them I had only seen a spike (in my mind a deer) down the road about 15 minutes earlier. They quickly bid me adieu and were off. I never understood their rush but looking back, I could see that I had inadvertently led them on a wild goose chase. Poor souls, ignorant me.

But there are other terms, much more basic in nature that as you become enveloped in the culture you begin to say without even thinking. We see evidence of this when we are out on a bird hunt and a guy asks what shot you are shooting. You quickly holler back, “high brass 6’s” and you have immediately passed on that information, nothing more need be said.   When out on a deer hunt a guy asks you what caliber you rifle is and you respond, “it’s a .308”, again, immediately conveying a single piece of information upon which the questioner can extract a wealth of information. They are basic terms and knowledge but ones which until a few years ago would have had me thinking more about algebra than hunting.

And then, for those moments when talking would only serve to scare off your prey, hunting has developed a sort of sign language. It’s a crude, coarse, and inchoate language that has no universal guide but one which takes many lessons from the phrase, “necessity is the mother of all invention”. Whether through finger signals, Special Forces hand signs or full body gestures, the information to be conveyed is often simple yet highly informative. And when hunting with a partner whom you have spent much time in the woods with, a sort of pattern emerges. Something as simple as making the shape of a “C” with your hand after hearing a disturbance in the forest below; the “C” implying the noise came from a cow elk. On to the more involved signals such as quickly pointing to your ear and following that up with two fingers placed together, pointing downwards, and moving them up and down across the forest floor, implying you heard a deer bounding through the woods. This would differ from an elk in which your two fingers, instead of bouncing, would kick, or scissor, back and forth, as elk aren’t quite as graceful as their smaller brethren. They are very simply gestures but depending on which game you are after, those non-verbal cures can make all the difference in deciding how to proceed.

The language of hunting is no different than any of the other numerous dialects spoken across the globe. The more we immerse ourselves into these worlds the more we learn. We learn not only basic definitions but how they present themselves in speech. This jargon helps us relate to one another and with this knowledge we inch ever closer to a secretive world hidden from the national spotlight. Knowing and understanding this language means that we can go anywhere in the country and immediately connect with another. In a sense it is comforting to know these terms. While many of us may travel the country and visit new states we will find that despite regional accents and indigenous vernacular because we understand and speak English, we adapt quickly. Thus, we can move on to understanding a place, rather than getting caught up in the basics. For hunting, it is exactly the same. Once you get beyond the beginner’s nomenclature a whole new world opens up to you and from there, the adventures begin.

Minnesota: Grouse, Moose, and Wolves

When I finally left Oregon three months ago it was preceded by much internal debate and subsequently followed by great sadness. It was a place I had learned more about hunting than I could have ever imagined and it was there that I found a mentor to push me harder than I had ever been pushed. I met many hunters along the way and was privy to elk bugling in the snowy mountains and ruffed grouse flushing from the water soaked lowlands; all experiences I will never forget but ones which are, ostensibly behind me.

Now I find myself in a very different land and one filled with, at the moment, layers upon layers of snow accompanied by temperatures that surely rival any of our other states. It’s flat, covered in hardwoods, and true to its self-professed motto, it’s the land of 10,000 lakes. The land to which I speak of is none other than northern Minnesota; a part of the country that like much of the west has maintained its aura of wild lands and sports some of the largest numbers of outdoorsmen in the lower 48. Its southern neighbor Wisconsin sports nearly 600,000 deer hunters annually making it, in pure numbers, the eighth largest army in the world. Even the name given to this region by the southern metropolitans of “The Northland” brings to mind archaic woodsmen begat from the Vikings and as of yet, still roaming about undiscovered. But more than its remoteness, it’s the wildlife that lays claim to this place which has any sensible hunter itching for the fall, myself included.

For me, the biggest draw of this region is the birds and in no place have I ever been where so many grouse covered the landscape. Ruffed grouse fill the woods in a seemingly endless supply. On average, over the past 30 years nearly 545,000 per year have been harvested from Minnesota’s timberland. In the past decade spruce grouse have experienced annual harvest numbers between 10 and 20,000 and the sharp-tailed grouse, while less common, can still be found in many northern parts of the state. What more could a bird hunter ask for? And to be bordering one of the most prolific pheasant states in South Dakota I would dare say I have found myself in the bosom of upland bird country.

But their big game is not to be overlooked and with so much forested land and moisture abound, deer and moose find themselves perfectly adept to walking through this state’s many wetlands and bogs. It should be noted however that moose will not be in my future. For reasons as yet to be explained the moose population has seen dramatic declines in the past five years and as such all seasons have been called off. For both the greater population and myself, that is a disappointing discovery, but nonetheless their presence speaks volumes to the country forgotten by many. Knowing I may have the chance to get out and chase deer through such a wilderness already has me skimming over game units and planning my trips.

And of course there is the matter of wolves. I don’t believe that you could ever talk about Minnesota without talking about wolves and as was unknown to me upon my arrival, there are nearly 3,000 in this state; multiple packs in my county. Needless to say I’ve been keeping the dog a bit closer than usual. But wolves, like the cougars of eastern Oregon, provide an added element to the woods that cannot be overlooked. It heightens your senses and when you are out there, to know that amongst such powerful animals is inspiring and exciting. However, that is not to say that their presence doesn’t elicit the occasional pause in the woods, but as a good friend once told me, if you spend all your time looking over your shoulder, you’ll never be able to enjoy the adventure. Since that day, I’ve never backtracked and have always kept my eyes ahead of me.

It will still be many months until I can pull out my gun and head into the woods but when the time comes I’ll be ready. Until then, one of the other wonders of Minnesota will have to keep me occupied.

When I arrived here I was quickly taken aback by the not only the number of lakes but by the fact that they were all, well, frozen over. And like a scene out of documentaries I have watched over the years, trucks and ice fishing hunts speckled their surface. Upon telling a co-worker I had never seen such a thing in my life, let alone gone ice fishing, he quickly called together all his cohorts and began the planning. It would appear I am soon to cut into some ice and bring home some fresh Minnesota crappies, oh boy.  Let the Minnesota boondoggle begin.

"No Hunting on Sundays"

Are there any more sacred days on a hunter’s calendar than those that fall between Thursday and Monday? Do any of the other days really matter if we cannot have those few precious mornings to get out in the woods? And what if those days were taken away from us? What if we were told that on some of those days, the days we rise early to slip into the darkness of the forests and beat the morning light, we could not hunt? Well, for some in this country that is the law of the land. A law that dates back to our begins and one which is still followed in its entirety. But looking more closely at the practice, perhaps it is time we take a step back and reevaluate what hunting, and Sundays, really mean to us.

As I have found myself in a period of change and uncertainty I have moved back to New England, the place where I grew up and the place that will forever define me. It is a place with vast beauty, unique culture, and unprecedented history; a land where our nation was founded and where millions upon millions of people now call home. But inherent in our region’s co-evolution with the birth of this country, this area has been exposed to an ever changing culture, one where shifts in laws and attitudes are nearly an everyday occurrence. However, despite this, there are some laws, namely Blue Laws, which have held on since the colonial days and which many still see as having purpose in our modern day society.

Blue Laws often refer to legislation that was designed to enforce religious standards, such as protecting Sunday as a day of worship. They were put in place to act as a shield and guide for our citizens and allow for a universal day of reflection and rest. The idea being that by prohibiting activities on these days one could protect shop owners, saloon owners and others of the like from being forced to open their doors on a sacred day. But the question has recently become, do these laws still apply in today’s world? Is the banning of certain activities fair?

Without going into boring detail, the Supreme Court has several times voted in favor of Blue Laws, stating that they are not exclusively religious in nature but have a secular basis as well. The day of rest providing all citizens, religious or not, with a day to recover, relax, and enjoy one another’s company. But who defines what one finds as relaxing? Who defines what is best for me personally?

I think Blue Laws walk a fine line. I like them in theory because they promote the religious values that this country was founded on. I like them because in an increasingly secular society having a little religion in our lives is, for me, still very important. However, we come back to the question of who decides how I should practice my religion? Why does one have to follow a strict standard when it comes to faith? My point is not to sit here and push religion or talk about the ins and outs of faith, but simply to question the true meaning behind the law.

I am a Catholic. I believe in God and I have tried to live my life in a moral and honest way however, I am sure that I do not conform to the model of a standard worshipper. I find that I connect with God in many ways outside of organized religion and one of those ways is in the early morning, on top of a dew covered mountain glassing for deer in the sun’s first light. When I am up there I feel more connected to my faith that anywhere else on Earth. I appreciate all that is in front of me and when I am thousands of feet above the valley floors I am thankful for all I have and for the promise of a new day.

Why do we need to sit idly by while a perfectly good day passes by? It is on those days out hunting that I relax, that I find my relief from the world and when I am able to take a step back from the chaos that is life and just let everything go. Those are the days when my little dog finds himself up early and at the ready. He waits patiently all week, knowing that one day I will come down the stairs, shotgun in hand, and the game will be on. For him and me, that is our time together, a time of complete happiness and joy. A bond reinforced every five days, over and over again.

Looking over some of the New England states we find that in Connecticut, Massachusetts and Maine there is still no hunting on Sundays (some exemptions apply). Can this really be the case? These laws were designed to protect our religious traditions but I only write to ask, could they in fact, be hindering the few opportunities I have to get closer to my faith? Or, if you have a more secular view, are theses laws hindering your ability to just let go, hunt, and enjoy my weekend for what it is, a few days away from work?

So, I say, let’s hunt on Sundays, let’s enjoy it for the recreational activity it is and let us connect with nature. Whether God is included in that is up to the individual, but let us have our Sundays. Let us have our day of repose. Let us hunt.