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.