What's Your Dream Hunt

            As a hunter I am often asked by fellow hunters and non hunters a question. It’s the one I have heard hundreds of times and if you are like me, you have heard it too. If you have ever sat around a campfire, or stared into the sparking night sky, the question has been asked. If you have ever been drawn into conversation about hunting with non-hunters you have been asked directly. What is your dream hunt?

            The question lunges into our mind as we spit our verses of animals on far away continents that we want to chase. Stanzas of species and locations roll from our tongues as we recite a chorus of adventures we long for. There are species whose heads we would like to grace our trophy rooms, or whose hides we want covering our floors. We discuss length of horn, size of skull, beards, spurs, and leg bands. I have heard them all, or at least close to them all. Leopards in Namibia, elephants in Botswana, doves in Argentina, Red Stag in New Zealand, Grizzly bear in Alaska you name it and there are some who want to hunt these marvelous animals. As long as there have been hunters there have been dreams of hunts to come.

            Perhaps you too have been asked this question and you conjure dreams of the Dark Continent or 180” whitetail bucks. Flashes of skies filled with waterfowl of every species. There are thoughts of bugling bulls, gobbling turkeys, and thundering herds. Shots that are true and adventures achieved. If you are like me, you have spent hours perusing the internet looking for opportunities. Back country elk in Montana, pronghorn in Wyoming, Impala in South Africa, the list is never ending and is as diverse as hunters themselves.

            Recently I had this question asked of me again, and it occurred to me, that while I would love to go to Africa and hunt plains game or New Zealand for Red stag, I dream of chasing big grizzly bears in the Alaskan tundra. The reality is that my dream hunt is – the next one.

            Whether it’s chasing squirrels through oak ridge’s, or bow hunting whitetails in a hardwood bottom. The thrill of the hunt isn’t defined by the quarry rather by the experience. Memories made, moments cherished. I have hunted many different species in several states and one thing is constant, whether it’s after moose in Alaska or feral pigs in my native South Carolina, the thrill of being there is equal. Hunters know that while taking game is part of what we do, it is only a part. The real thrill comes with the experience. So the next time I am in a conversation about hunts, places and species, and I am asked what my dream hunts is, I will look simply and honestly and say,  “The next one.” What’s yours?

The Day's Finally Here

          This hunt was a little over thirteen years in the making. To the casual observer, it would seem pretty uneventful and nonchalant. But for me, it was a difficult day that took over a decade to achieve.

       

   It started on September 17, 2000, the day my father died. While he wasn't what you would call a hunter, he did own a shotgun and used it occasionally at the dove fields near our home. A Remington Sportsman 12 gauge with two matching barrels, and while he seldom used it, it was still his and it became mine on that day. With little fanfare I brought it home, made a simple rack for it and hung it above a closet door in my office where it has stayed ever since. Its annual cleaning notwithstanding, it has never loaded a shell, fired a shot, or see the out of doors since I brought it home.

          There were many occasions when I thought about it. Many opportunities to take it down and carry it afield but it just never felt right. I resolved that when the time was right to take it afield I would know, and then I would honor him and the moment appropriately.

          The day arrived shortly after Christmas. My youngest son received his first shotgun for Christmas. A hunt was planned to take his first gun on a squirrel hunt, I knew instantly that this was the occasion I had been waiting for. While it was a pretty uneventful day, as hunting goes, the emotions of the day ran as deep as a river carving through an ancient canyon, I knew it was time.

          In the predawn light we walked, cradling our guns like a new father holds his first child. A rush of memories flooded my brain as we plodded to our destination. My mind hastily sprinted back to the sights, sounds and smells of our last dove hunt together. I could smell the tobacco that penetrated the faded dukbax vest. Its stretched shell loops and baggy pockets held his brier safely, smoldering with its last puff.  Visions of the old Remington sounding off in the dove field as the doves piled up. Seldom needing fifteen shots to reach his limit of twelve, he was indeed a fine wingshot. Something I most certainly didn't inherit with the gun.

          On this day, we gathered against an ancient oak, sitting side by side as the day awakened. I found it hard to concentrate on the moment at hand, instead finding myself flooded with emotion, missing deeply my dad while embracing the moment with my son. How I wish dad could have lived to see my son. This gun and a few stories are the only things my son has of his grandfather. It was fitting that we were here together, on this day, at this moment. While I am not sure Ridge understood the emotion I was feeling, he welcomed the opportunity to try to connect with his grandfather. Even once offering me the chance to shoot a squirrel first before him so I could feel my dad’s gun recoil once more. After all, this was the gun I used to kill my first squirrel, my first turkey, and many other animals. Smiling I thanked him and told Ridge this was his day, and his grandfather and I were more than happy to yield our opportunities to him. Nothing would thrill me or him more, than for Ridge to get his first squirrel with his new gun on this day.

          As the day lingered the squirrels didn't cooperate well at all. We hunted hard for several hours covering a lot of ground in search of some willing participants. Finally, just before noon, we topped a ridge and saw four bushytails scampering around below us. Unaware of our presence, we made our stalk. As fate has its way of working things out, each of us got a squirrel at this encounter.

          Indeed the moment was right. We paused hugged one another took a few pictures and cherished the moment. To be sure, the timing was right, and dad’s gun etched into the timeline of our family a moment that will last for another generation. I am confident it won’t be long before I once again get down the ole Remington and escort it once again into the fields and forest. And cherish the opportunity to carry my dad along as we continue the legacy. 

Sunrises are Best

            As an outdoorsman there are many things within the world of the out of doors that fill my soul like few other things can. Flickering flames casting across the faces of your companions. The flocks of waterfowl announcing their arrival to a statue still lake; or the thunder of a gobbler through southern hardwoods. These moments and many others bring me closer to my creator than just about anything.

            But of all the things in the outdoors, I love sunrises the best. The sunrise offers a new beginning. It brings a hint of a future of all things possible. It promises that yesterday is gone – with its joys and sorrows, and today is new. Sunrises are best when shared, but can be glorious when alone. A man who can enjoy being alone, is a man who knows who he is and where he is going. Admiring a sunrise alone is a glorious thing to be savored.

            Recently I stood alone along a large farm pond as the sun cast its first light onto the new day. Thin layers of ice cascaded across the pond; interrupted by stumps from long forgotten trees and the occasional lily pad that had yet succumbed to the cold of the winter. The ice caught the rays and glistened with grander as they hung on for a few last minutes. The mist from the pond was as thick as smoke as it drifted into the brightening day.

            I stood in awe at this marvelous new sunrise and gave thanks for the beautiful moment I was thrilled to witness.   

            Yes, it is in the moments of sunrise that I feel closest to my creator. As Christmas draws near and the hustle and bustle of the season seems to drown all meaning from this holy day. I am taken back to the sunrise and I remember why this season is so meaningful to me and my loved ones.

            We pause to reflect at this time of year. We reflect on the year that was, and give thanks for all of the big moments that brought smiles to our faces, accomplishments that were made and we remember with solace the moments that broke our hearts. Few years pass by anymore without some heartache for which there is no explanation, save the reality of it all. Through all of this, I am brought back to the sunrise. It offers hope; the sunrise offers a sense of peace.  It offers a new beginning, a freshness of all things possible; of all things we are and can be. So my reflections are not of what was but of things to come.

 As the sunrise ushers in a new day – the Christmas season ushers in a new year. Just as Joseph and Mary looked at their child and gave praise for their new beginning. I too offer praise for my new beginning, my new year as I celebrate with them, the “son” rise – God becoming man so I could have peace, hope and a future to enjoy and embrace.

            Yes, I embrace the sunrise. I embrace the hope, the fresh start if offers and the grace I am given to have the opportunity to witness again the creation of a new day and a new life that all began with the son of God coming to cast his glory on all of creation.

I am a Hunter

     I Am a Hunter

          In a world where trophies are celebrated by measuring tapes and adventures, where testosterone trumps skill and experience is entrusted to paid guides. I choose to measure my time afield differently. I know I am not alone, I along with a few others, measure our time afield by the process. It’s about the being there, the pursuit, the challenge of hunting and hunting well. Antlers, beards, horns, skulls and skins are a bonus to the experience of quest. 

          I like it all – I love to hunt whitetail and mule deer, moose, turkey, squirrel, rabbit, quail, pheasant, ducks, geese, pigs, exotics, you name it and I love it all. I like shooting bows and arrows, compounds and traditional. I like shooting rifles, shotguns and pistols; muzzleloaders, antiques and brand-new – right out of the box guns that the sheer sight of them makes me drool. I love soft plinking rimfires and big bores that should never be shot against ones shoulder. I love the smoke cloud of an old flintlock and the recoil from a big pistol.

          I love the feel of an old smoothbore as it rises effortlessly to my cheek and the distinct bang it makes when the trigger is eased. I like big gauges and small bores from big powerful 10 gauges to light 20’s and the small 28 gauge and 420 bore. I love the sight picture of good optics, nestled atop a fine centerfire bolt action. I love the smooth draw of a longbow loaded with cedar arrows. And the lightning fast speed with which modern compounds fling carbon arrows through my quarry.

          I love relaxing in comfortable ladder stands, and nestling on the ground against a giant oak. I love still hunting to within feet of an unsuspecting buck, and wandering through ridges, breech open across my arm in hopes an old grouse would rise against a morning sky. I love wading through black water swamps whose swollen cypress mark time in centuries instead of minutes. And I enjoy sitting in a well-constructed blind, complete with stove and heaters.

          I enjoy plodding through briar thick coverts, and across vast prairies behind well trained dogs whose ability to sniff out birds allows me to become entranced with their dance and often forget why I am there in the first place. I love the sounds of hounds hot on the trail of ‘coon, deer, or rabbit, and the sight of a flush from a hillside grouse, CRP pheasant, or the rare wild bobwhite. I love the close working of a fine setter or a long roaming pointer and their statue still points that show me where the birds are.

          I love the solitude of the wilderness, and the camaraderie of the camp. I love the trappings and the conversations. I yearn for the silence of big country and woods that stretch for miles in any direction. The quiet that can only be found in big country, the echo of one’s own mind rattles and lingers against distant memories as new ones are burned into the bank of eternal instants; those brief moments that flashes through our lives and then lingers and forever transforms us.

          I long for the honking of a flock of geese committed to a well-placed spread of decoys and the twiddle of a woodcock that flushes between my legs. I crave the whistle of wood ducks and the screaming of a murder of crows.

          Nothing fills my soul like sitting around a camp fire and comparing calibers draw weights, optics, and styles. Discussing the dress of grouse men, in their tweed jackets and duck hunters in rubber pants. I love listening to men who own Brittany’s argue with those who prefer pointers. I adore the night sound of a lonesome coyote calling to a potential mate. Along with the owl who announces his presence with grander but whose best work is done in silence.

          

          It’s all there, the things that draw us to the forest and fields, from the flooded timber, to the high country; from prairies to mountain tops, and from deserts to the arctic.

          As a southerner by birth, my style of hunting is different than many from other parts of the country. Our woods are thicker, our deer smaller and our variety sparse. Yet this doesn't slow the passion.

          I've known many who are more successful. Many who have killed far more deer and whose string of turkey beards stretch for yards not feet. I've seen men who get a limit of doves at every shoot and those of us who never seem to do so. I marvel at those who can turn a flock of mallards at will and those who seem to be able to call a coyote at every stand. I've had the pleasure of sharing a camp with men whose experiences span the globe and whose trophy room lists hundreds of animals. I've known those whose guns cost more than my truck, and whose dogs were more valuable than my wife’s engagement ring. But I have only known a few, very few who hunt well.   

          The reason a person hunts is a particularly personal and deep rooted thing. Alas, though in these times of trophy collecting, and game farming, the reason to hunt is diluted among the inches of antler. I am not a ‘collector of bone’ or ‘species’ chaser, I am a hunter. I do not specialize in a single species, or with a single weapon. I am not a ‘bow hunter’ but I love to hunt with archery equipment. I am not a ‘rifle hunter’ but few things exhilarate me more than the gentle squeeze of a trigger and the result it provides. I am not a shotgunner, but when chasing flying quarry, it’s hard to beat.

          I am a hunter. I am not a deer hunter, or bird hunter. I am not a duck hunter or predator hunter. I am not a big game hunter or small game hunter. I am a hunter, I hunt because I am. I do not choose to hunt, I have to hunt. Hunting isn't a hobby that I engage in when I have time; hunting is a way of life that I was born to do. No, indeed I must hunt. It really doesn't matter if its deer or squirrel, coyote or rabbit. I don’t care if its feral pigs in a mosquito infested swamp or a savanna full of bobwhite. If I can be there, then there I will be. Hunting is about participating in the outdoors to its fullest. To seek, chase, and pursue a game animal for the sheer challenge of it all. It’s about getting so close you can see the eyelashes on a mature buck, or calling a turkey into your lap. It’s about watching waterfowl, glide –twisting and turning through flooded timber and marvel at the beauty of it all. It’s about sunrises on frosty mornings, and the subtle breeze that caresses your face on a cold clear day. It’s watching your breath loft through barren trees, and breaking ice to set decoys. Hunting is about friendships made and cherished, it’s shared moments and solitude. It’s challenging and surprisingly easy. It’s frustrating and exhilarating, and very humbling.

          As a hunter, I cherish my privilege to hunt. I cherish all moments afield. The opportunity to be out-of-doors are all moments when for this brief time, I can be certain; that there is no other place I would rather be than right here, right now. I know for certain, that of all the things I do, that when I am hunting, there are no better times well spent.   

Getting Ready

One of the things I love most about trapping season is getting ready for trapping season. It seems somewhat silly to some, but the preparation and anticipation are almost as much fun as actually trapping. With opening of the 2012-2013 South Carolina Season one week away, there is much to do.

Ridge adding dye to our trap cooker

Traps need attention from last season. Several dozen need mid chain swivels, others need new 'dogs'. Still others need their pans adjusted to the proper tension. Like a lot of trappers, I have traps dedicated to specific species. My coyote traps have pan tensions set a lot stiffer than my raccoon traps. And my bobcat traps have a different pan tension from either of these, then there are the fox traps, and muskrat traps. 

Adding swivels to my traps

Body grip traps need triggers manipulated, and dogs filed. Anchors need to be remade. Stakes need welding. The biggest task is dying the traps. (unlike many trappers, I don't wax my traps - I have my reasons) Lastly, is making bait - which I didn't mean to put off until the last minute, but alas, I did. 

Ahhh - the smell of cooking traps

The day is filled with anticipation. My partner, who is also my 11 year old son Ridge, and I headed out to the shop early, the fire was lit beneath the washtub that would serve as our cooker for dying our traps. (NOTE TO SELF: It takes at least an hour to bring 17 gallons of water to a boil on a high burner propane cooker - allow for this next year) While the water was heating up, we cut chain, added swivels, tightened pans, adjusted triggers, and finally added the dye (Pete's Sleepy Creek Trap Dye) It takes about a bottle and a half to do my traps in seventeen gallons of water. I like to wire a half dozen traps together so I can remove them when done. Traps were added to the water, and typically I let them cook for a minimum of one hour but prefer a bit longer. My tub would hold about eighteen traps, so I had several rounds of cooking. 

While the traps were cooking, our bait making process began. I can without a doubt this is my Ridge's least favorite part. Filling the shop with the aroma of Violator 7, or GH II is something neither if us enjoy but its necessary. Bottles were consolidated, some thrown out - (I know our garbage man loves this.) and others were made. All in all it took us about nine hours to complete our task. 

Once the traps are cooked, I lay them into their air-tight containers where they remain until they go into the ground. Bare hands will never touch again. A pair of gloves is in each tub and they will only be handled with the gloves designated for that tub.  - More about this if a future story.

As I said earlier  - trapping season open Dec. 1, seven days and counting. Sites have been scouted, sets marked and now all traps and bait are ready. The countdown to opening day begins. 

Of all the things I do in the out-of-doors, nothing beats the challenge and excitement of trapping. I love all 'opening days'. Opening day of hunting season, and the different ones that follow - Deer season, gun season, duck season etc. But nothing - nothing gets me as excited as opening day of trapping season. 

Wait to see what comes this season as we set steel to catch some critters. 

Lonestar Outdoors Radio

This past week, I was interviewed by Cable Smith, host of Cabela's Lonestar Outdoors Radio show. http://texasoutdoorsmedia.com/
The Interview involved a recent story I wrote for Game and Fish magazines. Its title, Topographically Speaking - using topographic maps to identify the travel patterns of big bucks. The show aired Saturday November 10, 2012 at stations all across Texas. 

You can listen to the pod cast by clicking the link below:

http://texasoutdoorsmedia.com/this-weeks-show-47/

Here is a Preview of my book. Its available NOW at www.lulu.com for $10.99 and will be available on Amazon in 6 weeks.