Pre-Christmas Ice with Dad

Before our Christmas travels began, Dad and I took a day to find a fish while we still could. After dropping Luca off at daycare, we fished a new lake that Adam had fished a few days prior. Grass Lake was supposed to be a super charged pike slam dunk of a lake. In the 5ft fish bowl that this lake was, Dad and I zeroed out with not so much as a vibe after two hours of fishing. It just wasn't in the books for this day. We looped back home for a quick bite before finishing our afternoon on Indian. This lake has given us fits in the past but with close access and close proximity to home, it maximized our ice time. We set up our line of tippers a mere 30 feet from the shoreline. What amazes me is how quickly this lake gets clear and the water was crystal clear here again. We spent a few hours out there, and skunk was on our mind when my pike rod finally tipped. Though small, this was a non-skunker of a fish!

Shortly thereafter, Dad had to call it a trip and he headed back for Sioux Falls, leaving me to the night bite on Indian. It was inevitable that I would catch something and I did. As I jigged in Dad's spot, my pike rod tripped again. When I set the hook, I knew it was no pike this time, and with the clear ice and shallow water, I could see the walleye flipping around below me. A whopper of a 26" waldo was going to follow me home.

 I was able to catch one more eater waldo before having to pull the plug as I still needed to get to town to pick up Junior. When back home I was able to get a pic with my boy!

As 2018 comes to a close, I am grateful for many things. I am happy for 2018's conclusion, but I look forward to what 2019 has in store. Hopefully its not grey hair, but hey, at least I have hair....for now

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To Watch The Machine at Work

With Lou in working order again, and another property to trudge, it always feels good to see my work with this pup starting to pay off. She works the fields she hunts in a way that is difficult to describe.

Her blood is part prairie.

Because she is still only two years old, we still have to work with her distance, but as long as I trust her nose, and she trusts my shooting, we will continue to be successful in the field. The first bird we found on the new property brought us to the far side where my nickel plated 3s brought down the old rooster on a 60 yard crosser. Upon returned back the direction we can, we flushed, dropped, and lost another, all the while encountering a white jackrabbit. I winged that one, chased it for half and hour before losing its track as well. Crippled or not, you cannot outrun a jackrabbit as hard as you may try...

On our last walk out, Lou caught up with one of the birds that outsmarted her the first round in. This time, she played it smart and flushed the bird at my feet. I minced that one unfortunately....

The day we returned home from the hospital I was granted reprieve as we had just spent the last four days in hospital room and even my hair hurt. I wouldn't in a million years have tried to go out had Rachel's parents not been on their way. As soon as they came in the door I was out. I needed to stretch my legs, and thank the lord for my sons recovery.

Hunting the same property, Lou was again a hoot to watch work. A big rooster on our first pass flushed wild to our right and I made a single shot to drop it near Lou. We continued to work the main section of CRP and came up with nothing. As we worked the fenceline to the east, a group of birds materialized from the thin open alfalfa to the west. I was able to get a single shot off at the last rooster and his reaction told me a hit, though not a very good one. Upon the shot, he flew straight up into the air before leveling off and a gliding the quarter mile to the north side of the fenceline in which we just walked. We finished off what was left, biffing on three more roosters, before doubling back for our marked cripple. We blew right past him the first time, but Lou got a little birdy near a section so we doubled back yet again. I was not going to give up until we found this bird. It was enjoyable to watch when Lou finally locked onto the scent. She came to a screeching halt, and pointed. I gave her the command her nose buried in the grass. She was so close to catching her second bird, but this one slipped out ahead of her and was able to slowly get off of the ground. I waited all of one-thousand one, one-thou-

BOOM!

Lou was on it practically before it hit the ground. We walked the rest of the section and part of the next one before the setting sun caught up with us and concluded our hunt.

The landowner was kind enough to even give us a ride back to the car as he heard all of the banging around I was doing, and watched Lou and I pause to take our harvest photos.




Our final pheasant hunt of the season took a fair bit of work, but it produced a South Dakota ditch chicken limit.

The first property we walked we were familiar with and we worked the fenceline as we had done in the past. Towards the backside of the property I got to watch Lou do what takes some dogs a lifetime to figure out. She could tell the bird was running, so she bolted on out ahead getting well over 80 yards before turning straight around and coming right back at me but in the grass of the fenceline. When she caught up with the rooster, it broke with a cackling rise, right back at me. Before it even knew I was there, it was tumbling to the stubble. Because of the long regrowth of the covercrop in the alfalfa field we were on, I had seen birds use the middle of the field numerous times. I figured this was as good of a time as any to watch Lou do her thing. Back and forth she would work close to 50 yards to each side of me. She worked the wind, and waited for a whiff of anything. By the time she found it, I was not prepared as well as I should have been. She pointed, 40 yards out, and another big rooster flushed. I was able to drop it on the second shot, but somehow, Lou lost it when it hit the dirt. I could not act fast enough as the rooster was running full bore away from both of us. The bird was 70 yards out before it was able to gain its composure and fly across the fence into a shelterbelt we did not have permission for.

With this property tapped out we headed to another. I got complacent again as I often get lost in my thoughts these days, and Lou was locked up on point again at a small grass and willow patch between the fields. By the time I figured out what was going on a rooster had flushed out the backside. No shot. Despite the rooster flushing, Lou was still locked up. I could again, not position myself fast enough and two more flushed behind the willows. This dog knew exactly what she was doing.

A loop around the property brought us right back to the cattail marsh in the center of the property. We found a ton of sign in there and in the epicenter, Lou flushed another rooster right in front of me. I managed to hit it with both of my shots, but was unable to drop it. This is where the chaos ensued. I was trying to double back to find the bird and Lou was still hunting. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to reconnect with my pup. When we finally met up, I stopped her, got her some water, and we went back search for the crippled bird. In ten minutes by blind luck we stumbled upon a stone dead rooster face down in the cattails. We pulled one last loop before calling it on the property.

Well, there was still daylight to see if I could pull off my limit and I headed to the last place I would check out before calling it a day. When we rounded the corner and turned on the road, I about drove into three roosters flipping around in the ditch of the public property. I pulled over, shut off the car, and stepped out. I took two pop shots at the 2nd of the three roosters that flushed but didn't even phase him. Then all hell broke loose behind me. About 30 or so pheasants were in the ditch on the other side of the road and my racket flushed all of them across the highway. With three birds roughly marked in the middle of the public section, I drove to the far side, got out with Lou and slowly guided her back to the middle again. I knew as long as I watched her like a hawk, we would find a bird. A little over 150 yards in her wide sloppy loops tightened like snapped rope. She stopped, and nosed her way into the tall grass in which I was walking. She paused at two separate spots before the bird could handle it no more and it flushed before us.

POOF!

Another shot I was not about to miss. When Lou brought it back, I sweat I could see a smile. We were done for the day. Three birds, three properties. We can't say we didn't work for every late season feather.

Slowly but surely, this dog has been roughed into a functioning machine.


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My Boy: The Warrior

December has been one of the more difficult months I have had to endure in my life. Though minor in comparison to some of the hard times some of my family members have endured, this dealt with the first true illness of our son. RSV hit daycare with a vengeance this year, and he was unable to escape the inevitable. What started out as a grumpy, clingy boy who had the sniffles turned into a hair-raising night with breathing trouble. By 1am of December 5th, we were headed into the ER. As a first time parent, I was terrified beyond my own comprehension. Over the next day, things would not improve. When the doctor informed us that if there was not marked improvements by 5:30pm he would be air-lifted to Sioux Falls, my heart sank. Everyone I know and many I do not were praying for our little boy. What little sleep we got was split between a corner bed and chair time with Luca. What seemed like an eternity marked little bits of improvement. We were getting ten minutes a day of our little smiley boy back at a time.

Our little boy is as ornery as his old man, and as stubborn as his mother. Despite the fact that we were in the hospital, we were still out of our element and scared out of our minds. By Friday, our little boy was rounding the bend.

By Friday evening, he was off the oxygen, and they pulled his IV. While out cold in the corner bed I was awoken by Rachel. The doc was in and said we could go home!!!!!! Every fiber of my being wept. It is after Christmas and we are still recuperating from this. 

It's no wonder our parents look old. It's our fault.

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Thanksgiving Ice

A few days after Thanksgiving I was finally able to get out on the ice with Adam and Paul. Let me say this again, A FEW DAYS AFTER THANKSGIVING. The trade-off of losing duck season days is gained back in ice fishing days. We headed up to Cottonwood as it produces well early ice, and it took a bit, as it usually does, to find fish. It was not a slam dunk, hand over fist kind of a day, but we caught just enough to keep us occupied. One of the most disheartening part for me is the lack of pike. This used to be my go-to spot for pike of many sizes, and it seems these days, I couldn't buy one on this lake. With another year of growth, the waldos we did catch were of some super quality size.

It felt great to get out on the ice again, but I will be on a quest for pike in future outings.

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Double Trouble and a Lucky Shot

It was unfortunate that Lou would recover fully, after our waterfowl season had concluded, so I did the next best thing and chased roosters with her. After Dad's visit for the end of the season, he left a 'new' gun that I have acquired from my Uncle Rick. A strange gun, the Browning double auto, only shoots two shells, and is choked super full. Upon taking some fish to the landowner thanking him for the access this season, a new spot magically presented itself. Lou and I no more than got out of the car and there were birds airborne. At the end of the slough point, a late rooster got up about 40 yards out. This ol' gun dropped him stone dead. Lou and I walked the fenceline of the quarter and had two opportunities but I had some gun malfunctions. It needed a deep cleaning and was not functioning at 100%. By the time we had pulled a loop around the field, I figured we should just go back and do it again as there was only about ten minutes left of legal light. It took us 50 yards to find a rooster and Lou did her greatest upside down cat impression after the shot smoked the bird stone dead in the standing corn on the other side of the fence. Her flip was caused by her foot and vest twisting and catching in the fenceline. After a quick unravelling, Lou made short work of the retrieve. Two South Dakota roosters with a gun probably older than my Dad (sorry Dad). 

Garage photos because my phone froze. 

On a whim, on a day I had no intention of hunting, I pulled a loop back to this same property with my new 20 gauge double to do a last minute pheasant trudge. It was so unplanned I didn't even have the dog with me. As I crested the hill I could see the snow geese still using the cornfield to the east. They were getting jumpy and as I drove closer they rose and quartered away from me, towards the field I had planned to hunt. I came to a screeching halt in the field approach, grabbed only two steel shells I had and popped out the door. When I rose there were birds in all directions. I picked the closest looking ones above me and took a poke. With only two shots, with steel 3s, it was going to take a random pellet in the right spot to bring a bird down, and I was able to put such pellet in such a place.

In the words of my buddy Ethan Shetler: "better to be lucky than good".

After my more than lucky shot I proceeded to biff on two roosters on my loop. Oh well, I burned up karma on the goose I guess.

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Waterfowl Season's End: An Insane Pass-shoot

The end of our waterfowl season came in the form of a pass-shooting run like nothing I have experienced that up close and personal. Many of us have seen these giant flocks of snow geese but few have been underneath them while they swirl through thin cold November air. Dad and I drove around looking for any open water had access to in hopes of finding a lingering bird or two. Overnight, every small slough, and much of the bigger water was locked up. We drove all over, finding huge concentrations of birds in the process, but none accessible. We ended up doubling back close to home, finding a usual concentration of birds north of town. We sat at a postage stamp of public for a few minutes watching these birds before pulling the plug as it was not a great fly-over area. With a bit of map work and some luck, we stumbled upon a no-maintenance dead end road that led us right to the greatest group of birds. These are snow geese, and I figured there was no chance in hell we would get much closer than a couple hundred yards before they all busted and Dad agreed. But we had to try!

At a steady pace we walked to the end of the dead-end road stopping only once to soak in the marvel of the thousands of swirling geese. When we got to the end at the red signs, we hunkered down. Dad found a clump of taller weeds and I used a single wooden fence post as my cover. The birds had busted but if we waited long enough they would work their way back. There were so many birds it was impossible to not get a tad overwhelmed. We sat as still as possible and waited for any bird that got close enough to take a passing poke. With as many snow geese as there were I did not expect the first flock of birds to make a pass over the top of us to be specklebellies. When Dad made the final call we pulled up and hoped for the best, my first shot folded a barred adult and neither Dad or I were able to connect again. At the shots, the roar of snow geese to the north was unreal. Again, we watched as they would swing closer and closer but we were just not able to get them to swing close enough. Just when we thought it was about time to call it a hunt, a wave of birds got up from the field to the north and made their pass over us.

Again, I was able to connect on a blue goose on my first shot, but no other birds came down. What birds were close-ish were now thoroughly stirred up. Dad and I easily could have waited the rest of the morning and afternoon at the spot and shot more birds, but with two birds in hand, and a half mile walk back to the car, we figured we should call it a season.

I could not think of a better ending, to our waterfowl season. As the lakes froze up, and the droves of geese made their annual flight south, Dad and I had the privilege of experiencing some of the most spectacular shows. Even during our less productive hunts, there was a level of enjoyment that is unmatched in the outdoor world. God willing I will have many more seasons to chase ducks with my Dad, and sooner than later, my boy will join in the insanity.

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Watching the Fall Spectacle

We saw it this spring and we got to see it again this fall; no seasonal transition. Winter to summer earlier this year with only an eighteen day transition in there, and this fall went from summer to winter with only a short window for our fall. By the first week in November, we were looking at low twenties and teens. Our waterfowl season was about to come to a screeching halt.

With our last major hoorah in order, I took some time off and Dad and I made the best of a mid-week hunt. We set up all the stops this time around. We set up with great cover, all of our available decoys and then some, and two spinners. It was cold enough to be mid-December not early November but we were in it for The Big Show. It's almost impossible to plan for, and even more difficult to hit, but some years all of the birds move at once. We may not have gotten a crazy all-at-once flight, but a load of birds were headed south and we were out in it while it was happening. What we originally thought were divers were flock after flock of mallards pouring into the slough a few hundred yards in front of us. We reveled in the waves of snow geese that poured overhead.


I made sure we were out there early enough to not miss the flight if it came right at first light, but the opposite happened. It was cold enough that the birds went into their winter pattern early; one afternoon feed. We did some of the most spectacular missing I have ever been apart of with my father. We were shooting salt shells for the first four opportunities we had, including a slam dunk single Canada goose that we shanked all six shots without ruffling a feather. I was beginning to think this was going to be a skunk outing but I knew better. With the sheer number of birds pouring into the roost, I knew it was only a matter of time before they were going to need to eat. The afternoon was long and cold, but the constant line of geese was enough entertainment to keep us in our blinds. The first mallard we were able to finally bring down was close enough to mince, and we still only scraped it down and I had to make a dog-less long bomb retrieve.

By late afternoon we could feel the shift in the skies. The first wave of birds didn't so much as hesitate and we capitalized well. The second barrage came in from out left and dropped feet down a stones throw in front of us. I told Dad to stay down as another flock was working behind us. With a small group working and dropping down in front of us I told Dad to wait yet again. The whoosh of wings came in from behind us and they were close enough to hit with a golf club. By the time the birds were committed, it was too late for them. After waiting all morning, and most of the afternoon, as well as doing the worst shooting we have ever done, in three blasting flocks, we redeemed ourselves with some of the best shooting we have done. We were two birds short of our mallard limit when a widgeon dropped from the stratosphere right into our sweet zone. I should have given Dad a chance, but the bird was down before Dad was able to get his gun up. With frozen fingers, and a pile of mallards at our feet, it was time to call it a hunt.

Last season stretched nicely into December and we were able to find birds throughout the season. This year we could pretty much watch the ice close up the sloughs before our eyes, and it was early November at that. By doing our homework, and being stubborn enough to stick it out, we were able to finish our field hunting season with great success. Not many can say they have experienced waterfowl like we have be able to these last few years. Watching thousands of birds fly south is a mesmerizing experience to say the least. Even though this season is quickly coming to a close, I am already looking forward to next year.



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Mocha's Last Hunt

This is not a eulogy of our old pup Mocha, as she is laying beside me as I type this, but after only two hunts this season, I made the decision to permanently retire the old pup.

Our last hunt together was of all places, on Interloper. It was another less than ducky day, but I needed to get out and I didn't care if I pulled a trigger or even saw a bird. I just wanted to be out there when the sun went down.

Unlike Lou, Mocha laid down patiently along the shoreline while I set out my decoys. When I got back to the shoreline and was putting on my jacket, a single mallard came right over the top of Mocha and I, so close, that I was only able to bring it to the ground when it was behind me. Mocha's nose didn't fail her and she was able to help me find it in the long grass. As the evening progressed I could see that birds were flying high, and it would be an at sundown flight. I had chances at other birds but did not want to drop them far into the slough and have Mocha retrieve them. I waited for a flock to finally make a pass behind us and I pulled up and took two shots. One connected and I watched it sail into the prairie behind me. Mocha and I went out into the open prairie and Mocha chased down the crippled bird. What she brought back to me was my first and a specimen hooded merganser. I was blown away! I could see that more birds were flipping around so we crouched behind a cottonwood that a beaver had dropped. When the flock made another pass, I did the same, taking only one shot this time, pulling another from the flock. This time it was a hen hooded merganser, giving me a pair of hoodies.

As you can see from the photos, Mocha has become a grizzled old dog. She is still our gentle marshmallow eater, but she just doesn't have the stamina anymore. As much as I want to let this old dog do what she wants to do while she is still here, these two powderpuff hunts took a toll on her. She was weak enough after this hunt that she couldn't get out of the car. I can't in my good conscience hunt her anymore. 

I have found peace in my life from something that my Uncle Paul said to me a few years ago. 

"All good things come to an end"

This has put a lot of things into perspective for me since and has made me appreciate things while I can. I pet Mocha more, she gets more treats, and I will make sure when she finally goes, she will be a fat, happy pup. 

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There is Always a Contingency

Not three days after Lou got her second rooster of the season, we were presented with a major, and potentially deadly setback. We had been diligent with cleanup of anything related to Luca, but somewhere, somehow, Tallulah found a diaper. It took two or three days for the affects to be known as Lou was having some difficulties. An early morning X-ray showed enough for Rachel to make an executive decision. It was time to open up our pup......With Luca sleeping (thank you Lord) in the carseat, Rachel did surgery at 2am on Lou. The most frustrating part of the whole experience was that we never did find any evidence of the diaper. It was later determined that the little gel goo in the diaper really messed up her guts and that was what caused the main issue. What made the deal worse was Lou's reaction to the anesthesia. It took roughly four hours for her to come out of it and almost two days before she was even remotely functional. It was terrifying. Because of her slow recovery as well as the major stomach surgery, Lou was out of commission for three weeks minimum.

This presented a bit of a conundrum as I obviously wanted to keep hunting but, Mocha is older than the dirt we were hunting on, and Lou was out. After some discussion with the high commander, we decided as long as we took it super easy, Mocha could go on some powderpuff hunts.

Lou was able to come out of her stooper, and we had Halloween during the week with our little calf to distract us from the tough week.

After Halloween I decided another field hunt with Mocha was going to be my best, if only bet for getting to hunt without Lou. I scouted as usual, found that the birds were using the corn field as usual, but due to circumstances, I needed to make sure I had options in case there were others there. When I got out to the spot, there wasn't a pickup in sight. I drove into the cornfield and worked along the fenceline. I figured because of the pressure I could just bury myself in the fence for best cover. When I crested the rise in the field, I was greeted by the Spanish Inquisition of lighting. Towers of floodlights and five pickups were in the field getting their set prepped for the morning. The second they caught sight of me, a stack of lights turned my way. I was not about to start a turf war, so I turned tail and headed for my plan-b. 

My contingency plan required me to haul in all of my gear, including the bag of decoys, my blind, and my gear. I don't let these guys get the best of me anymore, so I doubled back to the green cover crop field this time and put myself between these guys and the birds. I set my decoys near the far fenceline and waited for first light. When you are not on the X you have to make the best of any opportunities at birds and I did a deplorable job. I was too picky and what shots I took were poor, but it was an outing. I was able to get Mocha to retrieve two mallards for me the entirety of the morning. 

It is amazing to see an old pup like Mocha get back out and do what she knows best. Her hearing is shot, her eyes are not much better, but her nose still works. She just needs to get close. The difference; her body is failing her drive. She wants to do it all, but she is physically incapable anymore. Had I shot a full limit of birds, she would really have been a hurting even more so than already. She made it through the hunt and was able to come home and sleep soundly. 

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