Each year I have taken at least a couple of days to hunt the rut and see if I can tag a deer, preferably one with antlers, then again, I'm not that picky. This year I took my time off the second week of November and took advantage of my great hunting spot at the Cochrane's Farm.
My first morning, as usual, I got out the door early and got to the stand with plenty of time. The cows were still in there and I knew I would have to work around them, but I didn't let it phase me outright. My morning sit was for the most part pretty uneventful. I saw the three gobblers that are locals, and a button buck that walked 10 feet from my stand. At about 10 am I did a little rattling sequence and hoped to draw in something. Within minutes I catch movement behind me in the open pasture. As I swing my bow and start drawing he busts and loops back around behind me into the thicket. He was a decent buck, but not a monster. Despite that I would have been happy to wrap a tag around him. I stood up slowly and waited. I watched as he worked back to me. When he finally popped back into an opening, I drew back, aimed a little low, and bleated him to a stop. I watch as my arrow zipped right for the boiler-room. By the time my arrow traveled the 37 yards, he had dropped significantly, and far more than I adjusted for. When the arrow hit him, he bolted and growled like a bear before wheeling around and barreling back into the thicket. I figured the hit was a little high but his reaction told me I may have a dead deer on my hands. With a beautiful 4 inch snow the night before, I could see the track job was going to be a little nicer. I called a few people and was out of luck. I was going to track on my own. By the time I dressed down and dropped gear off at the car, I was starting to doubt my shot. I ate a sandwhich and waited an hour before taking up the trail. When I drove into the camp near my stand, it was an easy hour wait. When I finally got on blood I was starting to sink even more. A very spotty trail, made easier by the snow, was still not confidence booster. I found the back half of my arrow, and with no exit, he was still carrying the front half. I tracked through the thickest, nastiest shit that the property had to offer. When I had scaled back to the tops on the south side of the property I began to find much better blood. The trail at that point was a walking trail. I came up on three bloody beds within 20 yards, and was starting to feel like I might actually pull this off.
Then I jumped him.
I backed out immediately and went back to the car for a couple more hours. I slept in the car surrounded by cows for the better part of two hours. I slept surprisingly well, but it was time to get moving again.
When I got back onto the trail I tried to follow where I had jumped him but was not finding any blood whatsoever. After doubling back I discovered that I never did jump him, but rather jumped another deer. When I got back on blood it became spotty again. By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, I had discovered two scrapes that he had freshened along the way....Definitely not a good sign.
When I came to the great passage, I lost blood completely. I went to the far end and tried to pick it up again to no avail. Without blood I was done. Of course, I found two more blood-drizzled freshened scrapes on that side as well. As I doubled back to leave, I found blood again. This got be to yet another freshened scrape and that was all she wrote. I hate giving up on blood trails, especially having missed deer by feet, but this one was over. I hit the black-hole in the vitals and this guy was long gone. I knew I needed to get back on the horse to improve my moral, but I was dragging my feet. As I turned back on the passage, I was road blocked by a giant Herford bull. I have worked with Rachel enough to build a little confidence, and this guy seemed like a big dope anyway. As I passed him at no less than 10 yards he just went back to gorging himself. Only a little bit of puckering involved.
I changed some clothes and headed out to the corn plot stand. I only had a couple of hours left to my hunt anyway, but I had to try something. Of course, not a half hour after getting set-up, so yahoo stopped and left a note on my windshield. I was about ready to break my hand on the trunk of the tree. I texted the landowner and kept hunting. The only two deer I would see on the evening were a pair of bucks, one being a bruiser, go screaming across the field and up to where I was sitting this morning.
At dark I climbed out of the tree and grumbled my way to the car. When I grabbed the note on the windshield, my face was hot I was so pissed. When I grabbed the note, I realized how big of an idiot I really am.
The note was from Uncle Al.
I had called him early to help me track deer but he was unavailable and he had not heard an update. I ended up stopping at the landowners cabin and talked to him for a few minutes before heading home for the evening.
Not exactly a picture perfect day.
If you thought Day 1 was the train-wreck;
BUCKLE UP.
Day 2 started like the previous day. Early morning blah, and a mcmuffin. My drive to the spot this morning was a little more labored, and my guts were lamenting the early wakeup call. Normally, I can function just fine.
Not today.
As I screeched around corners, I was reaching for the half roll of TP behind the driver seat.
THANK THE LORD IT WAS THERE!
When I peeled into the spot I sprinted from the driver seat to the nearest cedar tree where I proceeded to unleash the demon from inside of me. With a cold sweat on my forehead, and a shake in my legs, I came out of it without any gear casualties. As I made my way back to the car, I hitched my pants back up and began strapping my harness back on. When I grabbed the belly strap to pull it around me I was greeted by horror.
AAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As I squeegeed off what shit I could from the strap, my hand and I rolled in the snow like a dog after being sprayed by a skunk. I washed off what I could with my remaining water and a now compromised hat. It was at this point I realized that not only was the car still running, it was still in gear. Holy balls this was awful.
Trying to salvage what time I could, I collected my deer and hauled out to the stand. With the luck of my day, as I scaled the hill down to the bottoms I went feet up on a fresh cowpie, and smeared cow-shit all over my leg.
No words.
Again, the morning was rather quiet in the stand besides all of the cows around me, and I regretfully passed a doe on the trail behind me. I suppose that I stirred things around pretty well yesterday searching for my deer, but I figured it was the rut, it shouldn't matter.
As I sat in my stand, I would constantly get wafts of shit-smell from all angles. I was never going to outlive this one...
The morning dragged on, and more foul odors swirled around me. I figured most of it was in my head and I needed to just get over it, but this was not a shit smell. I could not figured out for the life of me the origin of this bonus odor, when it hit me.
At this point I was too angry to be mad.
My tiny vile of doe-pee had leaked in my bag, and invariably there was no mess as my brand new gloves did a wonderful job soaking it right up, and subsequently embedded it into my skin.
At this point I figured whatever, I can't let this ruin my hunt. I went to grab my phone to check the wind for my evening sit.
Empty pocket.
Well, I hope no one panics for my lack of updates but my phone was still up in the car. At noon or so I would head back up for my sandwich, and would let Rachel and everyone else know that I was still alive for lack of, ahem...shittyness.
It took me a good solid 20 minutes to piece everything together. If my phone was up at the car that likely meant...
So were my keys.
At noon I descended my stand, and my shit-cloud and I headed back to the car. The highlander is a newer vehicle so even if I did lock it with the keys in the car, it shouldn't lock.
Well, that was a crock of shit.
My keys and phone lay on the dashboard. I have never done anything like this before. I spent the next hour prying open the top of my door with one of my rattling antlers, and fashioned a stick to hit the unlock button. When I finally got it, I clicked the button and nothing happened. Remember that newer vehicle part!?!? Yeah, anti-theft mechanisms. The lock part and the unlock button disarm when you pry the door open. I was hosed.
I eventually flagged down someone on the road, who was not exactly the friendliest man I have ever met, but I was able to use his cell and get ahold of the only person who's number I had memorized: my sweet, sweet Rachel. I told her to call Dad, to call Al, to come help me with the car deal. As I waited by the car, trying to pry and pop locks to no avail, again, my mind pieced more things together.
I remembered a conversation I had with Al the previous day about a doctors appointment he had today, and he could not recall the time. I knew again, I was hosed.
So, I did the only logical thing I could think of; I scribbled a note to Al in the dusty back windshield, and went hunting.
I WAS NOT GOING TO LET THIS RUIN MY HUNT!
When I headed down to the passage stand, again I was greeted by the fricken cattle. These bastards just would not leave me alone today. I set out what doe pee I had left, and waited in hopes for any deer to come within 30 yards. Instead, the entire herd closed in on my stand. Ten of the beasts fed underneath my stand and I tried everything to spook them off, including throwing branches at them. Normally, they are almost as skittish as the deer, but not this year. They slowly worked to my left when 15 or so proceeded to build a wonderful roadblock in the passage. The deer and the cattle do not exactly get along, so the deer tend to avoid them when they can. I watched as on two occasions deer would come off of the ridge to my right, pause at the site of the deer, and then veer off to the north. I was in the right spot at the right time, but so were the damn cows!
I tried cracking my rattling antlers together to both spook off the cows and hopefully bring a deer down from the ridgetop, but I don't know what I was thinking. The way this day has gone of course that didn't work.
Instead, it brought Mr. Asshole angus bull out of the woodwork. He did not appreciate the noise. He ambled around my treestand for the next 45 minutes. As the rest of the herd FINALLY made their way up the hill and out of site, I had an opening. I had 20 minutes of legal light left and needed a miracle. I smashed the antlers together again in hopes of enticing a buck. When I set them down, Mr. Asshole, walked straight to my tree and gave me absolute holy hell for the racket. That son-of-a-bitch bellowed like pissed off teenager. I was about ready to drop out of the tree and club him with an oak branch. His bellowing was apparently a calling card to his harem, as the entire herd descended from the hill and came right to the base of my tree, including the dopy Herford bull. I now have switched gears from deer hunting to don't-die-by-way-of-cow. I collected my gear and even threw my butt-pad at them to spook them off. The cows retreated but Mr. Asshole lived up to his name. He stood his ground and started pawing the dirt.
Well, shit.
I tried descending the tree once, but he was having none of it and he false charged me.
You arrogant mother-fu-
I climbed back up, grabbed all of my gear, and just verbally abused him on my second descent. When I hit the ground I expected him to give me a face full of beef, but my verbal assault was just enough to let him know exactly what I was. As I backed away slowly, he did the same, heading back up the hill with his cows.
A lot more puckering this time....
When I felt I had a comfortable distance from him, I put on the burners and got the hell out of dodge. When I crested the hill, reality came crashing back down, smacking me square in the face. I was still very much locked out, and there was no Al at the car. I walked to the landowner's cabin in the dark, but he was already gone. When I returned to the car I figured I would just wait for the first available car and flag them down like I had done earlier. By the time another car had slowed down, I was finally greeted by familiar face. Al had arrived!
I used his phone to update those I needed to and try and get ahold of someone to help me get into my car. The sheriff's office was no help as they could do nothing to help me get into my car. The remaining people that could would charge me a second mortgage, so I opted out of that option. I was just about ready to break a backdoor window when Al just suggested I take their car home to get our spare key for the highlander. After some discussion again with Rachel, it was determined that she was still driving home from Miller and would basically get home the same time I would. This meant I needed to just bite the bullet and head home. I blasted home, tired and cranky, to get the damn key. A quick clothes change and much needed hand scrubbing, and I was back on the road. When I returned to the house I thanked Al and Karin for the use of the car, and paid them in beef and walleye. Al gave me a quick ride back out to the car, and after an absurd 17 hour debacle, I was back in the car and on my way home yet again.
Upon returning home for the second time, I ran a load of laundry, showered, and flopped down on the bed.
This kind of odyssey is the stuff you encounter on bad TV. You just can't make this shit up.
Shit...
There's that smell again...
Stay Tuned
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Monday, November 20, 2017
Divers with a BIG Splash
That was a banner field hunt, reminiscent of the Old Days. Geese, ducks, wind, snow. We couldn't have asked for a better hunt, but when the getting is good, you better take advantage. It won't take long and this will be the frozen tundra again, so on to scouting a diver hunt for the morning. Interloper had open water, and as we pulled into the road to glass the slough, one of the guys from the field hunt this morning followed us in to ask us some questions. Dad will say, "oh he's just another guy," but I will say he was kind of an asshole. He was pushing the limits this morning, and while cleaning ducks the landowner who's field we were on called to apologize for the other group which had part of their decoy set on our field.
Now, while we sat just off of the icy road, he questioned where we were going to hunt in the morning and if we were going to hunt that close to the roost water again. I told him, I really didn't know, and that the landowner was not pleased about their decoys on his field. I gave this guy the landowners number and let them hash it out (received a text later that even from the landowner stating there will be no more issues in the future).
Once Assy-Mc-Asshat left, we could get back to business and continue our scouting mission. We found birds and a lot of them, but they were on the far side. It was going to be the completely backwards wind the next morning, but we decided this was plan-A anyway.
Fast forward to the morning of the hunt. With gear and decoys collected we loaded up and fully expected to not be there first. Even with having to turn around for my facemask, we arrived at the slough with nary a track down the access road. As my waders were still not exactly in working order, Dad was the decoy man, and I worked on brushing in blinds. Cloudy skies, a mild wind from the SE, and few birds working the area. Before the sun even came up we were already having blast. As I kind of expected with a backwards wind, the birds did not work exactly as planned. Dad determined after a few flocks flared hard that the mojo mallard was not helping our situation and he pulled it from the spread. We were able to pull down a few small bufflehead that squared off in front of us. We had multiple occasions where birds would swim the point out in front of us. We even had our pair of bluebills swim right in front of us, between our set and shore. These birds were so dumb, they wouldn't flush off of the water with both Dad and I waving our arms above us. We were not about to swat them on the water, so they lived to fly south another day.
We had three bufflehead to our name and not much else was working close enough (that we had time to react to) but there were birds everywhere. After dropping another butterball into our spread I was blown away by a small group of low flying swans to my right. They were coming right up the gut and were going to be easily in range. BUT....These birds are smart and once they caught sight of Lou retrieving our downed duck, they altered course and faded out farther into the slough in front of us.
Dad and I sat in our blinds for the better part of an hour enjoying each other's company, and sometimes enjoying the water lapping upon the shoreline in front of us. It was a beautiful cloudy morning to be out, once again, enjoying the waterfowl world.
They took us both by surprise.
In one fluid motion I flip the blinds open and pick out the largest of the flock.
A flock of swans came in from behind us, and their silent flight made them stealth bombers.
I let Big Ben bark.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
By the third shot they were all of 70+ yards away, but the largest in the middle fell from the flock!
Dad and I were both as surprised as the other that one came down. The tundra swan hit the water with such a resounding splash that it sounding like another gunshot, and was likely what finished the bird off. I reloaded as quickly as possible as I figured the bird would likely still be alive. As I worked the shoreline as close as possible I could see no follow up shot was going to be needed.
Dad and I stood there in complete and utter disbelief.
DID THAT JUST REALLY HAPPEN???????????
I was dumbstruck by the whole scenario. I would go between giggle-fits, and tongue-tied silence. This was the second buckle-list species in two days, and this bird was gigantic! Once the wheels started grinding back into gear we went into recovery mode. It was the day of backwards wind, and this was the greatest blessing of the day. Because the wind was out of the SE, instead of blowing the bird away into the slough in front of us, it literally blew it back to our shoreline.
By the time the bird hit the water, it was all of 100 yards out in the freezing water. As my father was the only one with waders he was going to have to assist with the recovery because I wanted to wait no longer. He was unable to get even close to it as the water was far deeper than expected. All this meant is that I needed to suppress my inner-child and go back to having the patience of a functioning adult....
But I didn't wanna.....
The game plan was to keep hunting and pick it up when we were done hunting. The trajectory of the wind was miraculously going to blow it right back to the car. We couldn't have ordered it better ourselves. After fidgeting in the blind for fifteen minutes, I had had enough; we must go get it. Camera gear, and guns in tow, we made our way back to the car. By the time we got there, Dad had to only go out 20 yards or so. I should have waited, but this was the booner of waterfowl.
Upon tagging the specimen, we were able to revel in the moment. Some people shoot big deer, some catch giant fish, it was legal, so I had to give it a chance, and by pure, dumb luck, I was able to harvest my first tundra swan.
There was plenty of hunt ahead of us, although it felt like we were already done, but we headed back to the blind with the swan, in hopes we could pull in another diver or two. By noon, we had another butterball in the bag, but there was just not a lot going on. We packed up camp and as tradition dictates, took our photos.
I never thought when I moved to South Dakota that I would someday shoot a swan. Have I gotten some negative feedback so far for shooting a swan? Yes, but these are managed in the same way the ducks, geese, and even deer are managed, with sustainable harvest in mind. Even Dad said really didn't have the desire to shoot a swan, but he was just as excited to be apart of the ordeal as I was.
The reality? This bird was like nothing I have seen or experienced before. Luckily, I was in the right place at the right time. To drop a goose from heights only my Uncle Al could drop them, the bird would bounce five feet off of the ground and shake your chest. To drop a swan from 70 yards onto water was like slapping a wet ham with a Volkswagen. I have day dreamed the scenario over and over, and was blessed to have my Dad there to share the experience, but there was no way to expect everything to go the way it did.
I wish I could stare up at thing from my comfy couch at home, but I chose to remain married instead. I clean up the bird and took the necessary measurements.
22 pounds 3 ounces.
5' 6" from beak to tail
6' 6" wingspan.
I am no ornithologist, so I cannot get a definitive age, but the small yellow spot on the beak indicates an adult bird. I am not sure how this mammoth bird will taste, but it is in my freezer awaiting some adventurous guests.
I'm afraid I have burned up a year's worth of positive karma in the last two days.....
Stay Tuned
Now, while we sat just off of the icy road, he questioned where we were going to hunt in the morning and if we were going to hunt that close to the roost water again. I told him, I really didn't know, and that the landowner was not pleased about their decoys on his field. I gave this guy the landowners number and let them hash it out (received a text later that even from the landowner stating there will be no more issues in the future).
Once Assy-Mc-Asshat left, we could get back to business and continue our scouting mission. We found birds and a lot of them, but they were on the far side. It was going to be the completely backwards wind the next morning, but we decided this was plan-A anyway.
Fast forward to the morning of the hunt. With gear and decoys collected we loaded up and fully expected to not be there first. Even with having to turn around for my facemask, we arrived at the slough with nary a track down the access road. As my waders were still not exactly in working order, Dad was the decoy man, and I worked on brushing in blinds. Cloudy skies, a mild wind from the SE, and few birds working the area. Before the sun even came up we were already having blast. As I kind of expected with a backwards wind, the birds did not work exactly as planned. Dad determined after a few flocks flared hard that the mojo mallard was not helping our situation and he pulled it from the spread. We were able to pull down a few small bufflehead that squared off in front of us. We had multiple occasions where birds would swim the point out in front of us. We even had our pair of bluebills swim right in front of us, between our set and shore. These birds were so dumb, they wouldn't flush off of the water with both Dad and I waving our arms above us. We were not about to swat them on the water, so they lived to fly south another day.
We had three bufflehead to our name and not much else was working close enough (that we had time to react to) but there were birds everywhere. After dropping another butterball into our spread I was blown away by a small group of low flying swans to my right. They were coming right up the gut and were going to be easily in range. BUT....These birds are smart and once they caught sight of Lou retrieving our downed duck, they altered course and faded out farther into the slough in front of us.
Dad and I sat in our blinds for the better part of an hour enjoying each other's company, and sometimes enjoying the water lapping upon the shoreline in front of us. It was a beautiful cloudy morning to be out, once again, enjoying the waterfowl world.
They took us both by surprise.
In one fluid motion I flip the blinds open and pick out the largest of the flock.
A flock of swans came in from behind us, and their silent flight made them stealth bombers.
I let Big Ben bark.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
By the third shot they were all of 70+ yards away, but the largest in the middle fell from the flock!
Dad and I were both as surprised as the other that one came down. The tundra swan hit the water with such a resounding splash that it sounding like another gunshot, and was likely what finished the bird off. I reloaded as quickly as possible as I figured the bird would likely still be alive. As I worked the shoreline as close as possible I could see no follow up shot was going to be needed.
Dad and I stood there in complete and utter disbelief.
DID THAT JUST REALLY HAPPEN???????????
I was dumbstruck by the whole scenario. I would go between giggle-fits, and tongue-tied silence. This was the second buckle-list species in two days, and this bird was gigantic! Once the wheels started grinding back into gear we went into recovery mode. It was the day of backwards wind, and this was the greatest blessing of the day. Because the wind was out of the SE, instead of blowing the bird away into the slough in front of us, it literally blew it back to our shoreline.
By the time the bird hit the water, it was all of 100 yards out in the freezing water. As my father was the only one with waders he was going to have to assist with the recovery because I wanted to wait no longer. He was unable to get even close to it as the water was far deeper than expected. All this meant is that I needed to suppress my inner-child and go back to having the patience of a functioning adult....
But I didn't wanna.....
The game plan was to keep hunting and pick it up when we were done hunting. The trajectory of the wind was miraculously going to blow it right back to the car. We couldn't have ordered it better ourselves. After fidgeting in the blind for fifteen minutes, I had had enough; we must go get it. Camera gear, and guns in tow, we made our way back to the car. By the time we got there, Dad had to only go out 20 yards or so. I should have waited, but this was the booner of waterfowl.
Upon tagging the specimen, we were able to revel in the moment. Some people shoot big deer, some catch giant fish, it was legal, so I had to give it a chance, and by pure, dumb luck, I was able to harvest my first tundra swan.
There was plenty of hunt ahead of us, although it felt like we were already done, but we headed back to the blind with the swan, in hopes we could pull in another diver or two. By noon, we had another butterball in the bag, but there was just not a lot going on. We packed up camp and as tradition dictates, took our photos.
I never thought when I moved to South Dakota that I would someday shoot a swan. Have I gotten some negative feedback so far for shooting a swan? Yes, but these are managed in the same way the ducks, geese, and even deer are managed, with sustainable harvest in mind. Even Dad said really didn't have the desire to shoot a swan, but he was just as excited to be apart of the ordeal as I was.
The reality? This bird was like nothing I have seen or experienced before. Luckily, I was in the right place at the right time. To drop a goose from heights only my Uncle Al could drop them, the bird would bounce five feet off of the ground and shake your chest. To drop a swan from 70 yards onto water was like slapping a wet ham with a Volkswagen. I have day dreamed the scenario over and over, and was blessed to have my Dad there to share the experience, but there was no way to expect everything to go the way it did.
I wish I could stare up at thing from my comfy couch at home, but I chose to remain married instead. I clean up the bird and took the necessary measurements.
22 pounds 3 ounces.
5' 6" from beak to tail
6' 6" wingspan.
I am no ornithologist, so I cannot get a definitive age, but the small yellow spot on the beak indicates an adult bird. I am not sure how this mammoth bird will taste, but it is in my freezer awaiting some adventurous guests.
I'm afraid I have burned up a year's worth of positive karma in the last two days.....
Stay Tuned
Reminiscent of Reneson
I don't know how to improve a fall season like I have had this year. It seems like each adventure is as great or better than the last. I have not abandoned the deer hunting, but I have focused my energy on waterfowl. All of my energy.
As this time of year comes each year, each fall shows nuisances unique to itself. Like a snowflake, no two are alike. Despite the timing and unpredictable weather, the only thing predictable is the critters. They know things that we don't and depend on their instincts for survival. As the sky swirls it's turmoil, the waterfowl work their way south where skies are clear and water is warmer. Being on the northern portion of their transit, we do our best to take advantage of the climatic unpredictability that gives us a shred of an edge on the already wary birds. What looked like a snowy, blustery morning hunt in the forecast, ended up being a grey, waterfowler's dream morning.
In the fumbling around with gear and decoys, I managed to lose my headlamp by the time we got out to the spot. As the breeze swirled on this sub-20 degree morning, I was already cold. Of course, this is when I realized that I not only needed my headlamp, but my wool windbreak was sitting on the cedar bench in the living room. I knew I was not going to last without it and convinced Dad to haul back and find my forgotten gear while I trudged out with the decoys. As I hauled out to my spot with Mocha by my side (YES, Mocha!!!), I notice there are five pickups in the field to the north of us, not 300 yards from us. Hopefully this would not become an issue.
By the time I had gotten started get our set out, Dad was struggling to find my headlamp, but had found my sweater. I told him to abandon headlamp and just get out here. With an extra bag of headless honker shell decoys, we could almost double our spread and hopefully pull in some wary birds.
As light bleed into the darkness, the morning hunt was upon us and we were not prepared. When Dad crested the hill with my sweater and blind, we were two minutes from legal light. I finished the decoy set, turned on my mojo, and helped Dad finish brushing on our blinds. We were seeing and hearing more birds than I could have ever imagined. Dad was starting to get a little panicky and finally pushed me to get into the blind.
Our goals for this hunt were simple: one duck, one goose. The rest was about enjoying the experience and reveling in the magnificence of our morning. If the shooting was superb, we decided greenheads and pintails only for ducks. It took a little bit for the right birds to work, mostly because we still couldn't pick on the drakes. When our first chance at drakes came, we made short work with great shooting. This merely awoke the beast behind us. A cloud erupted behind us and half headed west the other half turned south and laid back down on the water.
The mallards worked in small groups, pairs, or singles and we were able to slowly accrue a respectable bag of birds. While retrieving a cripple drake that sailed a little to the south, Mocha and I brought the roar to the sky. Seconds after Mocha found the bird, the 2000 snow geese on the slough behind us decided we were too close. Mocha and I waited in the fenceline for the birds settled, and then we hauled back to the blind as the number of birds in the air was simply staggering. After dropping back into the blind, we reveled in the magnificence that was waterfowling.
Out of the north, a pair of specks started to work over our spread. Though quite high still, it looked like this was going to actually work. I honked until my lips were ready to bleed. I couldn't help it any longer as it looked like they were going to flare and I called the shot. We did some poor shooting, but we were able to pull down one of the specklebellies!
When Mocha retrieved it to us we were astounded to see it was a beautiful plumed adult. My first speck!!!
This bird was so fantastic I had to set it aside. This bird was going to find its way into my living room.
We worked birds on and off all morning. An errant group of snows came off of the slough behind us and didn't exactly work our spread, but were low enough to pass shoot. Dad and I were each able to pull a bird from the small flock. My bird sailed out to the water's edge and Mocha was on radar lock before I even knew it. What we thought were snows were actually Ross' geese, a much smaller sub-species of snow geese. Beautiful birds that we were adding to the mix. Another group of specks came just within reach, and Dad made a spectacular shot and pulled one from flock.
We watched as another small group of snows started to circle our spread. They were losing altitude fast and it honestly looked like this was going to happen without too much trouble. Off to the right Dad and I catch movement. A single speck is locked up and on the edge of the spread. I thought for a second about waiting for the snow geese but Dad said "Take em"!
One swift shot, and we had ANOTHER speck on the ground.
We now have three specklebellies on the day and are one short of a two man limit. I thought I would shoot my swan long before I shot a speck and we now have three to our name.
This hunt was off the charts.
We did have a final flock locked up and ready to drop in when the other group started pounding away at something. Our proximity was just close enough that the flock flared and we did not end up getting a shot.
With one more duck to our limit and any dark goose or white goose we could shoot yet to our limit, we waited for a big duck. We had many a chance at gadwalls and widgeons, but not since we decided to finish the limit up.
Enter Jon's hair-trigger.
We had a group of greenwing teal that would not leave our spread alone. They would come in like fighter jets and blast out as fast as they came in. When one of the flocks buzzed over my right shoulder, I went into radar lock. I had no intention of shooting until I saw Dad flinch. This was my inner instinctual cue to shoot.
BLAM!!!
With a very, very, well placed shot, our duck limit was complete.
I looked and Dad and he was dumbfounded that I shot. I felt so bad as the last bird was supposed to be his and I went rogue. He laughed about it and proceeded to razz me about it the rest of the hunt. It was well deserved.
Continuing to watch birds come in and out of the area, the weather started to get more questionable. There was snow in the forecast for the day, but it just hadn't started in our area yet. I consulted to interweb, and according to that, we were in the middle of a snow squall. Off to the south, things were getting darker by the second. This was the kind of weather waterfowlers dream of each time they hunt. We could pick up now and beat the majority of the storm; or.....
We could wait it out and see what becomes of it.
When the snow started, the mallards started coming out of the stratosphere from places we didn't even know existed. There were geese in the area, but they had other plans. As the wind whipped the snow around, the birds flipped around us like leaves. No, we did not end up shooting another bird the rest of the day, but we got to be apart of some spectacular action on the field and in the sky.
As we lay in the fenceline, the snow pelted us from the southeast.
It seemed as though the birds were not going to cooperate the rest of the day, and with a hefty bag already, it was time to take down. With the snow coming down harder by the second, we knew we had to get photos of our astonishing hunt.
After photos, it was time to get our stuff packed up and hauled out of there!
There has been a common trend with our waterfowl hunts this year; each is as magnificent as the last or better. It is hard to describe to a non-waterfowl hunter how remarkable this day played out. Each moment is etched in time, and burned into our memory. The average sane person would call this a day to work in the shop, or better yet, enjoy a hot cup of coffee in the warmth of their home. To a waterfowler, this is what dreams are made of. This is the playoffs. This is the perfectly cooked prime rib. This is the glass of wine and a book without screaming children. We wait all year for these kinds of days. Many an artist has been inspired by days such as this. The spectacle is so vivid, each moment can be drawn from memory like it was yesterday.
Have you ever seen a Chet Reneson print?
We lived one.
Stay Tuned
As this time of year comes each year, each fall shows nuisances unique to itself. Like a snowflake, no two are alike. Despite the timing and unpredictable weather, the only thing predictable is the critters. They know things that we don't and depend on their instincts for survival. As the sky swirls it's turmoil, the waterfowl work their way south where skies are clear and water is warmer. Being on the northern portion of their transit, we do our best to take advantage of the climatic unpredictability that gives us a shred of an edge on the already wary birds. What looked like a snowy, blustery morning hunt in the forecast, ended up being a grey, waterfowler's dream morning.
In the fumbling around with gear and decoys, I managed to lose my headlamp by the time we got out to the spot. As the breeze swirled on this sub-20 degree morning, I was already cold. Of course, this is when I realized that I not only needed my headlamp, but my wool windbreak was sitting on the cedar bench in the living room. I knew I was not going to last without it and convinced Dad to haul back and find my forgotten gear while I trudged out with the decoys. As I hauled out to my spot with Mocha by my side (YES, Mocha!!!), I notice there are five pickups in the field to the north of us, not 300 yards from us. Hopefully this would not become an issue.
By the time I had gotten started get our set out, Dad was struggling to find my headlamp, but had found my sweater. I told him to abandon headlamp and just get out here. With an extra bag of headless honker shell decoys, we could almost double our spread and hopefully pull in some wary birds.
As light bleed into the darkness, the morning hunt was upon us and we were not prepared. When Dad crested the hill with my sweater and blind, we were two minutes from legal light. I finished the decoy set, turned on my mojo, and helped Dad finish brushing on our blinds. We were seeing and hearing more birds than I could have ever imagined. Dad was starting to get a little panicky and finally pushed me to get into the blind.
The mallards worked in small groups, pairs, or singles and we were able to slowly accrue a respectable bag of birds. While retrieving a cripple drake that sailed a little to the south, Mocha and I brought the roar to the sky. Seconds after Mocha found the bird, the 2000 snow geese on the slough behind us decided we were too close. Mocha and I waited in the fenceline for the birds settled, and then we hauled back to the blind as the number of birds in the air was simply staggering. After dropping back into the blind, we reveled in the magnificence that was waterfowling.
Out of the north, a pair of specks started to work over our spread. Though quite high still, it looked like this was going to actually work. I honked until my lips were ready to bleed. I couldn't help it any longer as it looked like they were going to flare and I called the shot. We did some poor shooting, but we were able to pull down one of the specklebellies!
When Mocha retrieved it to us we were astounded to see it was a beautiful plumed adult. My first speck!!!
This bird was so fantastic I had to set it aside. This bird was going to find its way into my living room.
We worked birds on and off all morning. An errant group of snows came off of the slough behind us and didn't exactly work our spread, but were low enough to pass shoot. Dad and I were each able to pull a bird from the small flock. My bird sailed out to the water's edge and Mocha was on radar lock before I even knew it. What we thought were snows were actually Ross' geese, a much smaller sub-species of snow geese. Beautiful birds that we were adding to the mix. Another group of specks came just within reach, and Dad made a spectacular shot and pulled one from flock.
We watched as another small group of snows started to circle our spread. They were losing altitude fast and it honestly looked like this was going to happen without too much trouble. Off to the right Dad and I catch movement. A single speck is locked up and on the edge of the spread. I thought for a second about waiting for the snow geese but Dad said "Take em"!
One swift shot, and we had ANOTHER speck on the ground.
We now have three specklebellies on the day and are one short of a two man limit. I thought I would shoot my swan long before I shot a speck and we now have three to our name.
This hunt was off the charts.
We did have a final flock locked up and ready to drop in when the other group started pounding away at something. Our proximity was just close enough that the flock flared and we did not end up getting a shot.
With one more duck to our limit and any dark goose or white goose we could shoot yet to our limit, we waited for a big duck. We had many a chance at gadwalls and widgeons, but not since we decided to finish the limit up.
Enter Jon's hair-trigger.
We had a group of greenwing teal that would not leave our spread alone. They would come in like fighter jets and blast out as fast as they came in. When one of the flocks buzzed over my right shoulder, I went into radar lock. I had no intention of shooting until I saw Dad flinch. This was my inner instinctual cue to shoot.
BLAM!!!
With a very, very, well placed shot, our duck limit was complete.
I looked and Dad and he was dumbfounded that I shot. I felt so bad as the last bird was supposed to be his and I went rogue. He laughed about it and proceeded to razz me about it the rest of the hunt. It was well deserved.
Continuing to watch birds come in and out of the area, the weather started to get more questionable. There was snow in the forecast for the day, but it just hadn't started in our area yet. I consulted to interweb, and according to that, we were in the middle of a snow squall. Off to the south, things were getting darker by the second. This was the kind of weather waterfowlers dream of each time they hunt. We could pick up now and beat the majority of the storm; or.....
We could wait it out and see what becomes of it.
When the snow started, the mallards started coming out of the stratosphere from places we didn't even know existed. There were geese in the area, but they had other plans. As the wind whipped the snow around, the birds flipped around us like leaves. No, we did not end up shooting another bird the rest of the day, but we got to be apart of some spectacular action on the field and in the sky.
As we lay in the fenceline, the snow pelted us from the southeast.
It seemed as though the birds were not going to cooperate the rest of the day, and with a hefty bag already, it was time to take down. With the snow coming down harder by the second, we knew we had to get photos of our astonishing hunt.
After photos, it was time to get our stuff packed up and hauled out of there!
There has been a common trend with our waterfowl hunts this year; each is as magnificent as the last or better. It is hard to describe to a non-waterfowl hunter how remarkable this day played out. Each moment is etched in time, and burned into our memory. The average sane person would call this a day to work in the shop, or better yet, enjoy a hot cup of coffee in the warmth of their home. To a waterfowler, this is what dreams are made of. This is the playoffs. This is the perfectly cooked prime rib. This is the glass of wine and a book without screaming children. We wait all year for these kinds of days. Many an artist has been inspired by days such as this. The spectacle is so vivid, each moment can be drawn from memory like it was yesterday.
Have you ever seen a Chet Reneson print?
We lived one.
Stay Tuned
Monday, November 13, 2017
Dreary Drake Day
With the weather taking that nasty turn that has everyone in a snit, I went into fits like a rabid mongrel dog. This is when all of the birds we have been shooting at call it quits and head south for warmer temps. This also means that all of the birds that have been in Canada will start their trek south as well, stopping here on their way down. I took this opportunity to do a diver hunt on Interloper with the Lou dog. The night before, the wind was whipping bare tree branches around, and making the nice warm house feel nicer, and warmer.
When morning came I had to sit myself down and really understand why I do what I do. No matter, my heart desire over-rid my brain and I suited up. The night before Dad, and I discussed taking the layout blind merely from a warmth standpoint, and boy am I glad I did. I hauled decoys and gear out, brushed in the blind, and set out decoys. Even with all of my bundled up self, I was cold. 25-35 mph winds and 23 degrees will do that.
At legal light I could barely see a thing but Lou was going berserk. She could see the birds everywhere and as light crept into the darkness, the sky was littered with flocks. When it was finally light enough to see what was going on, I had cans in the decoys. When I stood up to flush them, they all broke into the wind and I picked out a drake and dropped him without hesitation. On the board!
With the blind being tucked away from the water's edge, I really had to pick my shots and it was getting frustrating before I had barely begun. I dropped a bird to my right that dove and dove, and Lou was never able to recover. I had a bufflehead come screaming in and landed right outside the pocket of my decoys, well within range. I dropped it but the diving commenced and four swatter shells were still not able to bring him to hand. Again, I had to call Lou off.
As we watched birds swirling all around us, a pair of large birds were homing in on us at mach speed. I knew they were cans before I even pulled up. When I took my first shot I rocked him but a flapping headfirst drop meant he was still kickin'. I finished him off before he hit the ground so Lou could actually retrieve without the diving. The shot was just a little on the far side but I was still able to pull it off.
When she returned I reevaluated my situation, said screw it, and pulled my blind to the water. The cover was thinner, but I was able to make it work. In fact, I set up in the exact same spot that I was the last time I hunted there. I rebrushed in the blind, being far more diligent this time, and it worked like a charm. I didn't even get the left side of my blind shut after crawling back in, and a bufflehead dropped into the same spot the last one was. This time I was 12 yards away instead of 30.
I really got to enjoy the show this way. Because I had filled my canvasback quota, we just got to watch them everywhere they went. For 10 minutes we had a flock work us, giving multiple shot opportunities, and at one point, they sat down, not five yards from us.
We watched as the mallards and pintails poured into another portion of the marsh, and I hoped eventually we would pull a few our way. Again, we had pair B-line for us but worked off to our left and dropped down not 30 yards beside us. It was a pair of mallards and I knew what they were going to do. As soon as the rounded the point we were on, they were no more than 20 yards. I slowly flipped up the side, and when they caught my movement, they flushed straight up into the air. I dropped the drake with one perfectly placed shot. When Lou returned with the bird I was astounded with the size. This was a giant compared to the big canvasbacks I shot earlier, and it made the buffleheads look like sparrows. A big Canada migrator.
With only one more bird to satisfy a limit, I vowed to save the last for a drake. I didn't care what it was, it just needed to be a drake. Lou and I shivered in our blind for the better part of another two hours. I whiffed an easy shot on a drake shoveler, but then again, I wasn't all that disappointed. Our final bird came screaming in with the wind on his tail, another specimen of a bufflehead, and I dropped him right off the end of the point.
That ended our duck hunt on this frozen, windy October day. If I didn't know better I would have said it was late November, but than again, Mother Nature has her own ways.
I attempted multiple pics with the dog, but with frozen hands, and some missing camera arm parts, I had to improvise. I finished round one with serious frustration, and decided to just take everything down, warm up and try again.
When I finally had everything out of the water, I was wrestling decoys into the bag when Lou caught my attention. She was tracking something in the sky and when I turned around, a small group of swans was passing just out in front of us!
By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late, and taking down decoys is a sure-fire way to have birds come in. Despite that hiccup, I regretted nothing. It was a duck hunter's dream day. Cold, shitty, windy, and even a little snowy.
I have said it a few times now, but I sure do enjoy this waterfowl thing. Despite my drive to try different things, I am still very hesitant to get in a boat, but Dad keeps trying to convince me....
Maybe...
Stay Tuned
When morning came I had to sit myself down and really understand why I do what I do. No matter, my heart desire over-rid my brain and I suited up. The night before Dad, and I discussed taking the layout blind merely from a warmth standpoint, and boy am I glad I did. I hauled decoys and gear out, brushed in the blind, and set out decoys. Even with all of my bundled up self, I was cold. 25-35 mph winds and 23 degrees will do that.
At legal light I could barely see a thing but Lou was going berserk. She could see the birds everywhere and as light crept into the darkness, the sky was littered with flocks. When it was finally light enough to see what was going on, I had cans in the decoys. When I stood up to flush them, they all broke into the wind and I picked out a drake and dropped him without hesitation. On the board!
With the blind being tucked away from the water's edge, I really had to pick my shots and it was getting frustrating before I had barely begun. I dropped a bird to my right that dove and dove, and Lou was never able to recover. I had a bufflehead come screaming in and landed right outside the pocket of my decoys, well within range. I dropped it but the diving commenced and four swatter shells were still not able to bring him to hand. Again, I had to call Lou off.
As we watched birds swirling all around us, a pair of large birds were homing in on us at mach speed. I knew they were cans before I even pulled up. When I took my first shot I rocked him but a flapping headfirst drop meant he was still kickin'. I finished him off before he hit the ground so Lou could actually retrieve without the diving. The shot was just a little on the far side but I was still able to pull it off.
When she returned I reevaluated my situation, said screw it, and pulled my blind to the water. The cover was thinner, but I was able to make it work. In fact, I set up in the exact same spot that I was the last time I hunted there. I rebrushed in the blind, being far more diligent this time, and it worked like a charm. I didn't even get the left side of my blind shut after crawling back in, and a bufflehead dropped into the same spot the last one was. This time I was 12 yards away instead of 30.
I really got to enjoy the show this way. Because I had filled my canvasback quota, we just got to watch them everywhere they went. For 10 minutes we had a flock work us, giving multiple shot opportunities, and at one point, they sat down, not five yards from us.
We watched as the mallards and pintails poured into another portion of the marsh, and I hoped eventually we would pull a few our way. Again, we had pair B-line for us but worked off to our left and dropped down not 30 yards beside us. It was a pair of mallards and I knew what they were going to do. As soon as the rounded the point we were on, they were no more than 20 yards. I slowly flipped up the side, and when they caught my movement, they flushed straight up into the air. I dropped the drake with one perfectly placed shot. When Lou returned with the bird I was astounded with the size. This was a giant compared to the big canvasbacks I shot earlier, and it made the buffleheads look like sparrows. A big Canada migrator.
With only one more bird to satisfy a limit, I vowed to save the last for a drake. I didn't care what it was, it just needed to be a drake. Lou and I shivered in our blind for the better part of another two hours. I whiffed an easy shot on a drake shoveler, but then again, I wasn't all that disappointed. Our final bird came screaming in with the wind on his tail, another specimen of a bufflehead, and I dropped him right off the end of the point.
That ended our duck hunt on this frozen, windy October day. If I didn't know better I would have said it was late November, but than again, Mother Nature has her own ways.
I attempted multiple pics with the dog, but with frozen hands, and some missing camera arm parts, I had to improvise. I finished round one with serious frustration, and decided to just take everything down, warm up and try again.
By the time I realized what was happening, it was already too late, and taking down decoys is a sure-fire way to have birds come in. Despite that hiccup, I regretted nothing. It was a duck hunter's dream day. Cold, shitty, windy, and even a little snowy.
I have said it a few times now, but I sure do enjoy this waterfowl thing. Despite my drive to try different things, I am still very hesitant to get in a boat, but Dad keeps trying to convince me....
Maybe...
Stay Tuned
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