Daughters 1st Hunting Trip

Well the day finally arrived and I took my middle child, Ruth on her first hunt last Friday. We had planned this day for weeks and the weather was great, it was chilly and Ruth got a little cold, but we had a great time together. We left just before sun up and went to north Greenville county to some WMA land and did some squirrel hunting, she carried along her older brother's .410 single shot just in case we got an opportunity. After walking along a trail for a while we heard some squirrels scampering along and we sat down, after a few minutes we saw two squirrels emerge on the opposite hill side, way out of range for the .410, but she enjoyed the excitement of seeing some. We then walked for a while, and found a safe spot and tried calling in some crows, to no avail. On the walk to the car she commented that this was the best day ever, and that is what makes dad's want to take their children more. We did take the time to teach her to shoot, she shot the .410 four times, after the first shot she said; "that hurt my shoulder, can i do it again!" and she hit her target! She was so proud and I was proud of her. I am learning as I grow and my children grow that when I take them it is more about spending time together than it is hunting. Sure I spend time teaching them about the woods, of the sights and sounds, the animal sign, and tracks, but it is far more to them about being with dad. We did not get anything, but what we were able to get was a day together in the woods, doing what I love, and spending it with one of my greatest gifts. I hope more dads out there will take the opportunity to take their kids hunting and fishing, and remember it is more for them to be with you than in the harvest. Enjoy the time, because before you can blink they will be gone and you will have missed your opportunity to spend with them. Before long, she and I will again, take a Saturday and take the time to be together.

Drought over

Well it took longer this year than in any years in the past for me to get my first deer of the season. On Friday, Nov. 21, I was hunting a acorn draw in my Summit, and thee doe came in to feed. After a while of watching and hoping a buck would come in, I decided to take one, I made an excellent 13 yard shot on a decent doe. Looked and the other two were still on the hill side, so when another shot presented itself I took a second one. Two doe down. Saturday morning was also good. Except it was cold, I mean real cold for South Carolina, we woke up in the tent to a temperature of 23 degrees. I went to my favorite stand and Chad, a friend of mine went to another, it was a magical morning. He saw 20 deer that morning, 19 doe and one nice 8 pointer that he tried to shoot, and had a misfire from his gun. Funny thing was the bullet had a dent in the primer, but ti did not fire. I saw 7 deer, 6 doe and a spike. That afternoon, Chad returned to his stand and saw two doe and two bucks, he shot and grazed another 8, we looked for a while in the dark and found little sign, two small specks of blood. We waited until the next morning to take up the trail, found nothing else, and no deer. Hopefully, he just nicked the deer and it will live. All in all it was a great weekend of hunting. Finally the drought is over and we are seeing some activity.

Frustrating Year

It has been a frustrating year for deer season here in South Carolina. I cannot remember a year when I had not had an opportunity at a deer this late into the season.

I have been hunting this same land for years, and have identified transition areas, funnels, staging areas, etc, and yet, this year I have seen so few deer. My records indicate that I have seen only six (6) deer all season and last year I averaged almost that many each hunt! Granted the food sources is different this year. We have a bumper crop of acorns, as compared to previous years, so the deer do not need to travel as far in search for food, still the sightings are so far down it makes me wonder what in the world is going on!

My son has gotten a big doe, and a friend has gotten three doe, I have seen several small bucks, (spikes and one decent 6 point) but nothing else. THe trail cameras have shown some does and some small bucks, but nothing to brag about. I have moved into other areas, and seen some deer. But it is not like before. This is one of the most challenging years ever in my 20+ seasons.

I am not giving up, but it is frustrating that the sightings and harvest are so far down. Hopefully before our season ends on Jan. 1 I will at least gotten one, - the goal was four, but by now I am hoping for one.

Hunting with Daughters

I am very blessed to have 5 children, 3 girls and 2 boys. Recently my middle child who is an 8 year old daughter has been asking me to take her hunting. She has been watching Lee and Tiffany Lakosky and she has seen how girls can and do hunt successfully. She loves that show, and loves Tiffany.

I am old fashioned I guess, I never thought of taking her before, I take my sons, but never thought of taking my daughters. I have discussed this with my wife, and we are planning a short trip to take her to see if she will like it, we will start by a squirrel hunting trip to a local GMA property and give it a try. I guess it makes sense, women are one of the fastest growing segments of hunters entering the sport. So now, I will add one to the fold, she will go with me and we will see. If nothing else, we will have a great day spending it together father and daughter. What else epitomizes Times Well Spent, than spending it sharing your passion with your children?

It is finally finished

After several years of work, and a lot of memories, I have finally completed the first draft of my book that mirrors the title of this blog. Times Well Spent: Ramblings from a Sportsman's Life. It contains 20+ stories, some of which have appeared on this blog. I am hopeful that I will be able to find a publisher shortly and see what happens. I will keep the progress updated on this blog. Stay tuned.

Alex's doe

I took my son's Alex 12, and Ridge 7, hunting and camping this past weekend. For my youngest son, Ridge, it was his first camp out and the first time I have hunted with both of them. (that makes a crowded deer stand)

On the first morning out, with Alex sitting beside me and Ridge in my lap, we were hunting my favorite spot and the spot where a few years ago, Alex took his first buck. At 8:30 am I spotted some doe moving through the woods, Alex quickly got his 7mm-08 ready.

"Alex, I can't see her anymore."
"Daddy, I can see her good, I have a clear shot, can I take it?"
"If you have a clear shot, take it, let me cover Ridge's ears."
"OK, go ahead"
BANG!

The doe ran to the left and we watched as she disappeared through the woods.

"I couldn't see the hit, did you hit her solid?"
"I had it right on her, I was shaking a good bit, so I held my breath and put it right on her shoulder."
"well you probably got her then, but we are going to wait an hour just to make sure."

"daddy this is the longest hour of my life."

We got down and went to where she was standing, and found a solid blood trail, after about 80 yards, we found his doe. A very nice mature doe.

Alex as insistent that he did it all by himself, so he drug her to the stand and we went to get the game cart to get her back to camp. After all of that, we hung her and he cleaned her and got her ready.

It was a great moment to be with my boys as they hunted together and he took hi s first doe.
This is what makes for great memories. I just love this stuff.

DIfficult Hunting Times

Our season open on September 1st and firearm season opened on the 15th, I finally got a chance to go this past weekend. I took my son with me and we hunted hard for three days, during this time we did not see a single deer. This is very unusual for our part of the country. My history shows that September is one of the best times to hunt on our property but not this past week.

I could not figure it out, we did everything by the book. Played the wind, hunted long and hard, were quiet, tried some calling, light rattling, everything. And we saw nothing. Like many of you, there are times when the game is just not moving. This was our opening weekend and we only heard two shots all weekend. So that tells me that the deer were just not moving. Was it the moon? Perhaps there was a low pressure that I was not aware of? What ever the case, it was very frustrating to sit for that many hours, for our first hunts after a long layoff between seasons and not see a thing.

The next trip will be better I am sure, we will give it our best, and after all, it is hunting, and we will just have to hunt harder. I just really hate it for my son, who was so excited to see some deer. It is real hard on young hunters to go and sit and sit and not see anything. No matter what I tell him, he is still frustrated and that can be the kiss of death on a young potential hunter. I will encourage him and hopefully, he will hang in there and want to go again.

But the next opportunity I will be there, sitting, stalking, still hunting until I finally put an arrow or bullet in one. That is what it is all about.

We did however, get into a mess of chiggers, and our legs and feet are covered up with them. I guess we did not spray enough - thank goodness for benadryl cream.

Alternative Food Sources

Deer hunters know of all of the major food sources that concentrate deer. Agricultural crops such as soybeans, corn, alfalfa, etc. We also know of the other "crops" that deer just love to eat at certain times of year. Items such as Acorns, (White Oak, Red Oak, Sawtooth Oak, etc) Then there are the wild fruits, persimmons, mescaline's. But when it comes to successful deer hunting, it is knowing the food sources when these are sparse. 

Here in the south we have been in a prolonged draught, acorns are sparse persimmons are there but small. Fruit and mast crops are hurting, it is during these times when we must find the other foods that congregate deer.

While this is very specific to your geographic area, there are other foods that will draw deer, even knowing they are grazers, and will take advantage of any foods that they know to be available. These include but are not limited to: Kudzu, Greenbriar, poke berries, ragweed, honey suckle to name a few. Knowing where these are located on your hunting land will greatly increase your odds when your other mainstay food sources are limited. 

Also one thing to keep in mind is that even in the poor mast years there is usually one or two trees that are not as effected, these will be hot spots, and every deer within a mile will know about it. Find that tree and hang a stand and get ready, it will be loaded with bucks. 

Another thing you can do to increase these odds for alternative food sources is to locate them and fertilize them. Put some fertilizer on the greenbriar, and honey suckle. (I would avoid planting and fertilizing kudzu unless you want to be engulfed by this vine while sitting in your stand. This prolific vine will grow several feet a day in good conditions.

Hunting when it is HOT

I love early season except for the heat. Here is South Carolina, it is still in the 90's and deer season has been in for a few weeks now. I have been anxiously waiting to go, but with this oppressive heat it is difficult to get excited about getting into a tree stand pouring sweat. Some things I do to help with the heat may also help you if you are hunting in the early season. 1. Wear shorts. In the early season there is no way I can sit in a stand with long pants and long sleeve shirts. All of my stands have a camouflage wrapping around them that conceals my movement. I use this to my advantage, donning short pants and t-shirts, i can make my way to the stand and not worry about over heating, and also knowing that the bare skin will be hidden, I also wear a head net to conceal my face. 2. Thermacell: This is without a doubt the greatest invention to come to the hunting world since metal cartridges. This little device is a life saver when it comes to battling mosquitoes and flies. It will create a barrier around you that makes the hunt far more enjoyable and also allows you to stay still while hunting. I will never go to my stand without one. It also does not seem to bother the deer. 3. Hunt early. With the cooler evenings, morning hunts seem to be a lot easier to do, with night time temperatures in the 60-70 range, I can go to my stand in comfort and when it starts to heat up, I am properly dressed and ready for the day. I will usually stay on stand until 11:00-12:00 noon and head in for the day. It gets too hot and the deer do not seem to move under these extreme conditions. 4. Stay hydrated. This is a double edged sword. In the heat you must drink a lot of water, the down side of this is that you will have to urinate. Take bottles of water and something to urinate in while on stand. nothing is more miserable than having to go and have no way of going. 5. Wear a hat. I personally prefer a visor since it keeps my hear cooler, but a cap is important to keep the sun off of your face. It will lower your body temperature significantly if you wear a hat. If you keep these things in mind you will be able to stay on stand longer and increase your chance for harvesting a buck.

The Art of Still Hunting

The art of still hunting whitetail deer is fast becoming a lost art. It has fallen the victim of the marketing of deer stands, and food plots. It has succumbed to box blinds and tripods. The woods-man ship needed to effectively sneak through the woods unnoticed is fast becoming lost.

Thankfully there are still a few of us out there that would much rather hunt from the ground, sneaking, slipping through the forest unnoticed to bag a deer. Sure the success rate is reduced, but I would argue that the hunt is cherished more. The act of hunting is realized, and at the end of the day, one knows that they have hunted hard, and have hunted well.

I began my still hunting career out of necessity rather than by choice. When I first began pursuing whitetails in my native state of South Carolina, the thick pine plantations and oak covered ridges were abundant. Tree stands were in their infancy and to be quite honest I could not afford one, plus the idea of bear hugging a pine to get a better vantage point just did not appeal to me. So I stayed on the ground. Sitting on logs, behind blow-downs, on stumps, in the crevice of a big old oak. During these long sits, I would often see deer at a distance that my single barreled 16 gauge could not reach, so I began to move towards them. Often times the ignorance of a youth is a good thing. Had I read about the techniques of hunting I would have stayed put. But my anxiety got the best of me and I would get up and begin moving long a trail towards the deer. Many more times than not the deer would see me and the game would be over. But it was in these failures that I learned my lessons of still hunting that I practice today with what I consider a pretty good success rate.

In our state the season is quite long, opening in mid august is some parts of the state and lasting until January 1^st. In the neck of the state I hunt most of the time, it opens in mid September and lasts until January 1^st, couple this with liberal bag limits, it affords many failures in order to become successful.

Contrary to the early days when I still hunted out of necessity, today it is by choice. When the conditions are right, I leave the stands in the trees and hit the ground. There are several factors that come into play in effective still hunting and I would like to cover some of those here.

The best conditions in my state may be different than where you are, unfortunately we do not get very much snow, in fact I have never had the opportunity to hunt deer in the snow, when the white stuff does fall it is usually long after season is over. So I look for other weather events to increase my odds of success. Such as immediately following a rain, the rain will dampen all of the potential noise you may make. Softening leaves and sticks, it make the walking far more quiet, suffice it to say that the deer have the same advantage after a rain, it is impossible to hear them. But with a good steady wind or breeze following a rain, I will hit the trail every time.

A common mistake many make when still hunting for the first time is to pre determine a route before they leave. “I want to slip through that creek bottom” and they head off never paying attention to the wind, sun position or the conditions. Rather successful still hunters will look at the conditions and let that dictate where they go. On my piece of property I have several areas that are good for still hunting. I have set up approach areas that allow me to hunt at least on of these regardless of the wind direction. N-NW wind, I hunt the beech bottoms, S-SE the sanctuary E wind sends me into the savannah, and a west wind I am at the cemetery. All designated areas that afford easy access and good travel routes through the wind directions. If it is swirling, I sit around the campfire until the wind changes. (Note: it is just as important to know when not to go as it is in knowing when to go.)

Once an area is designated and a plan made I will approach the target area well in advance and get myself mentally ready for the concentration needed to still hunt effectively. What I mean by this, is often hunters will not get their game face on until they are at their destination. Rather as soon as I leave the vehicle or camp I am hunting. In planning a route, sticking to a plan and moving deliberately and intentionally makes the hunt longer and more enjoyable and often more successful. Many times I have seen my first deer within 50 yards of my starting point. The hunt begins as soon as you enter the woods or leave the truck.

Upon arriving at my destination I keep a few things in mind. The wind must be in my face or at the worst quartering to my face, the sun at my back or very high in the sky (or overcast) and never, ever allow yourself to skyline on a ridge. By keeping these things in mind success is greatly improved. The last thing is the most difficult. Never, let your guard down.

The conditions were prefect. Slight drizzle had lasted most of the night and had recently stopped. The woods were quiet and the wind slightly from the NW. I moved to one of my favorite ridges for a still hunt. As I was slipping along the side of a ridge being careful not to skyline myself, I spotted movement ahead. My mind told me it was a squirrel jumping onto the side of a tree, so I took another slow calculated step, and a huge buck bolted from its bed not 15 yards in front of me never offering me a safe shot. Had I deliberately studied the movement, I would have realized it was an ear flicking or head turning. But I let my guard down and missed the opportunity I was hoping for.

Deer have an unbelievable sense of knowing just when you are not ready to see them before they bolt. Hesitation can be a good thing, wait and then when you are ready to move, wait some more, looking and watching investigating in detail every movement, everything that looks out of place and even those that look like they should be there.

Walking pace is the most critical element of still hunting. So many hunters decide they will hunt the back 40 and they are determined to cover the whole thing in their allotted timeframe. Still hunting cannot have time or distance restraints. I have spent many an hour hunkered down beside an oak watching deer feeding just out of range. Watching and waiting for just the right opportunity to move. Knowing that I can only move when the opportunity presents, makes the success far more possible. Standing and waiting, watching, listening. Still hunting requires you to use your eyes far more than your legs. Most of the deer I have harvested while still hunting were seen when I was still. Leaning against a tree and surveying the surrounding areas. Then the plan emerges, shoot, wait or stalk closer.

I had spotted the group of does walking the field edge long before they were close. They were moving to a white oak tree to feed, it was 12:00 noon and I slowly moved to one knee, at about 35 yards from the tree they would soon be feeding under. Looking carefully, I grabbed my binoculars and looked at each deer, one after another showed no head gear, then out of no where, 4 minutes after I first saw them a buck appeared. I was still on my one knee that by now my feet were fast asleep and I knew I would have to get closer. Watching them all closely I waited until all heads were down and I slowly stood and waited for the blood to get back into my feet. After due time, I began my slow approach. Moving at a rate that would make a sloth appear as an Olympic sprinter, I moved closer and closer to the feeding deer. Upon reaching my desired distance of 15 yards, and 1.5 hours later my arrow found its mark in the lone buck. When the buck bounded away the does just stood there. I could have legally harvested one of these also, but instead I decided to see just how close to them I could get. So again I slowly approached. Gillie suit on, wind in my face, sun at my back I crept in. One of the large does watched the whole event. And when I was a mere 7 feet away she decided the “bush” was getting too close and turned and walked away. I recovered my buck within 30 yards.

Still hunting is moving like smoke through the woods, drifting without making a sound. Moving from one tree to another, calculating every step, feeling through your shoes for limbs, sticks, brush that may make a sound if stepped on. Finding a tree and leaning on that tree for minutes until every nook and cranny has been investigated. Every possible sign looked at and looked at again. It is often in these moments that I spot the deer. As they move along a trail, sneaking from their bed for a stretch, or going to dine on a mid day meal when I intercept them.

Another good tactic to employ when still hunting is the use of a grunt tube. Make sure it is available for quick access. I have often used it to disguise my sound, when on occasion I cannot move through a particular area without making noise, I will take a step and grunt softly, take another an grunt softly again. Giving the illusion that the sound is coming from another deer and thereby putting the quarry at ease.

One technique that I really enjoy is wading through creeks, with hip boots on, the approach is so quiet and unsuspecting. Slipping through a creek, the deer never look to the creek for danger, and all noise is lost to the water. I have walked right up on bedded deer inside of a creek.

Good camouflage is also important. Dark colors with face and hands covered, neck and ears, all areas must be completely covered. A couple of years ago I went to a gillie suit, while it is bulky and hot, it is so effective. The down side of te gillie is that it sticks to everything, every briar, stick and leaf will stick to it, but for more open areas it is difficult to beat. The jacket and head cover are sufficient, the pants are not worth the effort it is like waling with Velcro on, everything in the woods sticks to it and it makes it very difficult to move quietly.

Getting Ready

I love this time of year. I am busy with all of the pre-season preparations. Practicing shooting my bow and sighting in rifles. Cleaning out my packs full of old napkins, leaves from last season; crumbling and half rotten. Old candy wrappers, and empty cans of tobacco. Musty clothes piled in tubs ready for washing and airing out. Boots with last years mud dried in place to remind me of the raining weekend when we bagged 4 whitetails, 3 bucks and one doe. Leaking rubber knee boots that need another patch to replace the previous patch that now leaks.

I love the preparation, and in many ways it is almost as fun as the hunt itself. Each item that I gather has a memory of a previous adventure. Rattling antlers - from bucks harvested in the past still remind me of those fateful adventures when all seemed to go as planned. Knives that have cleaned several animals, moose, mule deer, turkeys and of course whitetails. Each has a story and each a memory forever deposited into the bank of my mind. My vest still has turkey calls in it, and the unused tags from last season. Left after a hurried exit. I need to put those up and replace them with grunt tubes and water bottles. Batteries need replacing in headlamps and GPS. Knives need sharpening and storing. Tents need to be set up and checked for leaks. There is a lot to do, and I have always reserved August as the time to do this.

Our season in my part of South Carolina open on September 1st. Our two week archery season is around the corner and I am getting ready. Anxiously I anticipate the first morning, wishing and hoping it will not be too hot, but experience tells me it will. Usually in the 90's with little wind. I can only hunt the morning before it gets too hot and all of my scent control is lost to beads of sweat. If it were not for the thermacell- (Still one of the greatest inventions for hunters the past 40 years) I would have to wait until it cooled down. Early season means nothing when the mosquitoes are bigger than buzzards and swarm like locusts. But the thermacell keeps them at bay and seems not to spook the deer. It too is checked and stored.

Camp stoves, lantern mantles are replaced, propane tanks filled, cots checked and the lit goes on and on. Yet it is with the anticipation of a child waiting for christmas that opening day captivates me. I count the days, and long for the opportunities to come.

Yes I love this time of year, I look forward to it, I in some ways long for it, for the anticipation, for the preperations, for the going through and plundering through things and memories of times well spent.

Making Practice Fun

One of the things I love to do when practicing is to try different shots. I get bored with shooting paper targets, dots and 3-D targets over and over. So I will set up different shots to make it more interesting and to increase my focus. Some of my concoctions include old shotgun shells placed vertically on a stick, golf balls, life savers, coins, etc.

To support these targets, I fashioned some target holders, one of the easiest is taking a clothes pin and epoxy it to a fiberglass fishing arrow. You can then push the arrow into the ground in front of your target and use the clothes pin to hold the target. (see picture) This lets me hold a variety of items. When shooting old shotgun shells, I slide one shell over the arrow, and then place another (brass to brass) on top and shoot the shell. When shooting coins or life savers, cards, I simply clamp it with the clothes pin.

Yesterday while doing this I went into my shop looking for a new target and found an old washer, I did not measure the washer, but it is about the size of a 50 cent piece with a 1/2 inch hole.

Standing 10 yards (my eyes are old and I cannot see these small targets beyond that distance) I shot the washer. Eventually after 12 shots with 6 hitting the side of the washer, I was able to send one through the center of the hole.

This type of practice helps my focus, and is a lot more fun than shooting dots, or 3-D all of the time, and I have found that it really helps my ability to shoot game. It causes a lot of repeat-ability and that is key to archery. Repeating the fundamentals over and over and over. Until it is second nature.

Get some junk and try this, it will make your practice a lot more fun.

Why we Hunt

I hunt and I am proud to be a hunter. I hunt because I descend from a long generation of hunters, from the beginning of time, human beings have hunted. We hunt for food, and we hunt for sport, mostly however I hunt because I am a hunter. That is part of who I am. It is a tremendous side of my life, I dedicate many hours in planning, scouting, target practice and actually hunting. And I do so proudly.

I hunt because I enjoy nature, I love watching undisturbed wildlife acting as if I were not there. I enjoy watching sunrises from tree stands and arctic tundra's, I marvel at sunsets over snow capped mountains. I sit in wonder at does and fawns, bull moose and black bears that magically appear when you least expect it. I hunt to be there, and to watch what is going on. I hunt to challenge myslef and my skills against the smartest and wisest of all game animals. I hunt to push myself and my skills. To test my woodsmanship and my ability to execute under pressure.

Sadly, we are loosing hunters in America at an alarming rate. Fewer and fewer young people are being introduced to this wonderful sport. and adults are turning in their guns for golf clubs. In my opinion what is worse is that many "hunters" are loosing their skills and becomeing excellent marskmen. The marketing of hunting has cause many to loose or never learn woodsmanship. THey are content with sitting in a box over a food plot and then brag about what they killed. Sure they killed the animal, but they never hunted the animal. Hunting involves the fullest aspect of the chase. It involves scouting the terrain, determining the best places to be and the best time to be there, it involves understanding animal behavior and then putting all of that knowledge into action to successfully and humanely harvest that animal.

There are many different types of hunters, big game, dangerous game, bird hunters, waterfowl hunters and small game hunters, hound hunters and others. We all are of the same mould, drvien by something inside that fouces us to put ourselves out there where the animals are to have a chance at bagging one of them. There are many different methods of hunting, rifle, shotgun, compound bow, traditional archery, handgun, muzzleloaders, and others and we all use these methods for our own reasons. Personally I hunt in the extremes, I love traditional archery and I love rifle hunting. I have harvested game animals with shotguns and handguns as well. But these are my preferences. What ever your preference that is fine. We all need to allow us to pursue game in our own way (as long as it is legal)

Hunting is a sport. As Larry Weishun says, there are only two sports, hunting and fishing the rest are just games. To be a sportsman is to participate in hunting and fishing.

I am a hunter, and my son's hunt, and I hope my daughters will become hunters, we hunt because we are hunters and we do so proudly and unashamedly.

Catfishing at Lake Murray

This past weekend we took our annual pilgrimage to Lake Murray in central South Carolina. My father-in-law owns a small house there and when we have the opportunity we go. While there I always spend the evenings and nights fishing from his dock for catfish. While Lake Murray is not known for its catfish, I have always had pretty good luck fishing for them. On several occasions I have landed fish over 10 lbs. This past weekend was the exception. While we did catch some fish, we lost quite a few big fish.

On the first night, using dead blue back herrings for bait, the ambassador 5500 started singing, it was not the tell tell nibbling typically know for catfish, no, this was different. The rod went from being limp to bent double with the drag singing. As I grabbed the rod to set the hook, I felt a big fish for all of two seconds before the 25lb leader broke.

Two nights later, my oldest son using his Zebco 33 was fishing in a similar spot from the dock and we heard the drag ripping from his rod, he set the hook and the fight was on. This rod only had 8lb test on it, but it did have the 25lb leader. He made a valiant fight, but after over 4 minutes of fighting the hook pulled and it too got away. Not fifteen minutes later, his zebco again screamed, this time when he grabbed the rod to set the hook, he also grabbed the line and it shattered the line, popping like a small .22 rimfire when the line broke.

We know there are really big fish in this cove, and while we were unable to land them, it kept the excitement alive. We were able to land 5 cats, with the smallest being about 1.5 pounds and several in the 3-4 lb range.

Mostly though it was a great time, sitting with my boys on the dock, watching them and talking with them about fishing, stars, making faces out of the clouds, and admiring the sunsets.

This is what fishing is all about, spending the time with your kids, or friends, and knowing that it is times like this that memories are made, it is moments like this they will remember when I am gone. It is creating stories for their files they will tell their kids. Times of fishing with dad, of the big ones that got away, and of their times well spent.

Practing

The other day, I drug out my longbow for some practice, after allowing several days for the glue to dry on the new snake skin backing. After I brought it out and started to shoot, my youngest son, who is 7 came and asked if he could join me. Feeling somewhat frustrated because I wanted to do some serious practice, I relented and he went and got his bow, a "L'il Banshee" and his 18" arrows and joined alongside.

I was not aware of how much he has grown in the past few months, the bow is still a little big for him, but he is doing better. At a distance of seven yards we set up and he started to shoot the 3-D deer target we have been using for the past few years. Time and again, he would draw back and shoot, hitting the deer in the vitals. Being a traditional shooter, I do not have sights on his bow, and he shoots with his fingers. It is my opinion that starting them in this manner is easier than beginning with sights and then taking them away later.

We stood out there for about an hour, he would shoot two arrows and I would shoot two arrows, scoring each shot. The time I spent practicing was not serious, but it was enjoyable, and it reminded me of the importance of spending this time with my son.

Was the practice session wasted? Certainly not, was it beneficial, sure it was, I would not have practiced the close in shots had he not been there, and I saw that I needed that close practice. But more importantly I was able to spend time with my son and have the opportunity to instill in him the love of archery I have. I hope these practice sessions will be something we can do for years to come as he grows and matures, that when I am an old man, he will have the patience to stand there with me, while I practice the close shots. Regardless of what happens, these moments are some of the best times.

SnakeSkin backing to Longbow

In my earlier post I shared the Timber Rattler I got while doing some scouting. I took this snake home, skinned it, dried the skin and attacked it to my longbow. Here are some Pictures and how I did it. It make a great addition to your traditional archery gear.

The easiest way to skin a snake is to take some sharp scissors and cut along their belly line the length of the snake. This helps to keep a straight line. Once the cut is made, simply peel the skin off of the meat. At the anal opening, it does get tricky, so you may have to use a razor blade to trim the area.

Once the skin is off. You can either use cardboard, or as I did small brad nails and stretch the skin width ways using the nails to keep the skin as wide as possible. Alternate the nails from side to side. It is best to keep them directly across one another. Keep the nails only a couple of inches apart and tack both sides the length of the skin.

Once stretched, use borax (20 Mule team) and liberally coat the skin making sure to cover it completely. The borax will absorb all moisture and completely dry the skin. I left mine stretched for one week. Checking it every other day or so and added borax where needed.

Once it is dry, i used a shop vacuum to remove the borax, this helps to get it all off of the skin. Then remove the tacks and you are done with drying.

To attach it to your bow; First you must clean your bow. Using either mineral spirits or rubbing alcohol, liberally apply and rub thoroughly. Allow it to evaporate completely before you begin. Using good contact cement such as Barge cement. Follow the directions. Lightly coat your bow with a layer of cement, and then coat the skin - making sure the pattern aligns how you like it. Allow the cement to dry for about five minutes, then while holding the skin in the air, place the skin next to the handle and press. It will stick immediately and does not allow for much adjusting, so make sure it is aligned properly. Gently press the skin along the length of the bow limb - again make sure you are aligned correctly. Pressing with your finger. Allow it to set for a few minutes. Then using a razor blade (I used an exacto) trim the excess skin from the bow. (be careful not to cut your bow). Repeat for the other limb. Allow to set at least 24 hours before use.

To remove the scales, the easiest way is with masking tape. Press the masking tape on the skin firmly and lift. Scales will come off with the tape, repeat this until all scales are removed.

I did the bow pictured with one snake skin. I was careful to align the pattern so I could use different portions of the skin for different limbs.

I love how it turned out. This is my first attempt at this, but it is not difficult. If you do not have a snake skin, you can purchase them from 3 rivers archery where I got my instructions on how to apply the skin. (http://www.3riversarchery.com/)

Deer Scouting and Timber Rattlers

This past weekend a friend and I went to my deer hunting grounds to set ups deer stands for the coming season. It is something I do every June. Set stands, trim shooting lanes, and open visibility in these thick southern woods. We relocated a few stands and trimmed some others. At one location, we were busy trimming lanes in a pine forest. When my friend, said in a matter of fact way. "look over there." I stopped my activity and said, "where?" thinking he had seen a deer and scanning the woods for the white tail bounding through the woods. "There is a snake." he said very calmly. I appreciated his calmness at this moment. Freaking out at a moment like that can cause some real problems when snakes are involved.

I looked and immediately noticed a Timber Rattler not more than seven (7) feet away coiled up next to a small log. Just laying there, not rattling, just watching us. "That is a timber rattler." one of us said, "be still, I will move behind him." The rattler was obviously focused on Chad, and I moved behind the snake, unsheathed my .22 pistol that I carry for just such opportunities as this, and moved in.

Approaching the snake from behind I moved to with in a few inches and shot the snake in the head with my "shotshell" .22. This is the ideal ammunition for this situation, the little #12 shot will offer a broad pattern covering a few inches, but more than sufficient for the snake. A follow up shot confirmed his demise. We then removed his head for extra security and now his skin is stretched and drying in my shop.

For a Timber rattler he was huge, tape measured to exactly 48 inches with 10 rattlers. - Note to self. Wear chaps when approaching this sand in early season. - This is the second Timber Rattler we have taken in these same woods, with the other measuring 46 inches with 8 rattles.

I will say though, this is one of the prettiest snakes in the woods, with is coloration and shape. I am glad I had the .22, but I was surprised he never rattled at us.

Chiggers and the Joy of summertime

My family and I visited my father-in-law over father's day weekend. We went to his cabin and spent some time fishing his pond, and riding his golf cart around, it was a great time with all five of my children, all of them caught some fish. The bream fishing was slow and we drowned more crickets than we should have but we had a great time. Lesson learned, when taking five children fishing, don't even think about fishing yourself. I was constantly either untangling lines, re-baiting hooks, removing fish from hooks, or untangling lines.

There are many reasons I do not like the summer woods, chiggers, mosquitoes, spider webs, humidity and mostly TICKS. I hate ticks, especially the small deer ticks that you cannot ever see! Of all of the things in nature, ticks give me the ibby-jeebies more than anything else. Luckily we did not get any ticks last weekend, but we made up for it in chiggers. When we got home and discovered that all of us are covered up with chiggers! If you are not familiar with chiggers you have not spent much time in the summer woods in the south. Locals refer to them as "red bugs" all I know is that they itch! My youngest son is covered up in areas that should not be covered up! His sisters are also covered up. My wife spent almost an hour last night "painting" them. The local remedy is to use fingernail polish and paint it over the chiggers to smother them so they will die, in the process we scratch, and scratch.

This is the greatest threat to the blackberry harvest, the blackberry's are almost ready, and the standard around here is 3 chiggers for every berry! We have to cover ourselves with deet to prevent the invasion, for some reason chiggers love blackberry patches, and so do we, we don haz-mat suits with our long sleeves, and long pants, spray every inch of our clothes and our hands, and pick berry's, seldom are we totally successful in eliminating the chiggers but the sacrifice for ripe blackberry's is usually worth it.

Pier Fishing at Pawley's Island, SC

Memorial day weekend we had the opportunity to go to Pawley's Island for a few days. For those of you not familiar with Pawley's island, it is a barrier island between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. The island is residential and a very uncrowded beach. It is our favorite place to vacation on the SC coast.

This time we took with us some frineds, David and Micki Ewens and their two girls, it was a great weekend.

We stay at Pawley's Pier Village which gives me access to the private pier for fishing. Most of the locals take up the end of the long pier searching for King Fish - which in the 9 years I have been going there have never seen a hook up. But there must be some since they are always out there - bait in the water, waiting.

I take my converted walking golf cart and haul all my gear to the pier for a day of fishing. People used to laugh at my set up, but now they just know it is me. - It sure beats trying to carry all this stuff, and I have a total of $1.25 in it! ($1.00 for cart from a yard sale, and some old PVC and a crate, .25 for zip ties)

Playing through!

David and I with the Pier Rig! (click on Pic for larger view)

This was one of the best fishing weekends I have had there ever. I like to use shrimp for bait, fresh shrimp is the best I believe. While my bait is in the water, i often cast or vertical jig a "got-cha" plug. It is a simple 2 inch piece of painted lead with two sets of treble hooks on it. It is a great jig for vertical jigging.

In three days of fishing, we caught and landed: Two rays (Skates) one over 60lbs and one over 40 lbs. both of these were caught on light tackle, the 40+ was caught on 10lb test and the 60 + was caught on 25lb test. What a fight. When I hooked the bigger one, it took me almost 20 minutes to land. It felt like I was pulling a car hood through the water -with flapping wings!

We also caught: Bonnet head sharks, Black tip sharks, Sea trout, Spanish mackerel, Blue fish, and whiting. The black Tip shark was over 35 inches and he was baked with butter and Old Bay fish seasoning. Man was it good! We also tasted the Mackerel, and whiting.


All in all we caught over 30 fish most of the Blues were transferred to bait for the kingfisher men while the others were released.


lesson learned: I was trying to show my children the teeth on the blue fish and how to be careful when he latched into my thumb! I told David "get the pliers! in a rather emphatic manner. He strolled over to the tackle box stopping to converse with those watching, and , after I asked him not to tarry much longer, he then strolled back pilers in hand, all the while the angry blue fish is sinking his teeth deeper into my thumb. - Later that same fish ended up as bait in my crab trap! I have real nice semi-circle puncture marks on my thumb indicating the upper and lower teeth. - I hope the kids got the point!


Many others were catching flounder, black drum, and sea bass. The water was fairly clear and the wind was howling mostly from the north east. When it turned to the east, the fishing slowed and we did not catch anything on our shrimp, but still picked up some on the jigs.


More Pictures will follow as soon as I get them downloaded.

"I Thought it was a Jake!"

I had the opportunity to go Turkey hunting last week. The only day of the season I was able to go. I went with a friend who asked me to call for him, his experience in pursuing gobblers is limited at best. Only a few hunts under his belt. So seeing an opportunity to get into the woods I accepted the invitation.

Upon arriving we set up his inflatable decoys that resembled a childs effort at painting, and started calling where he had seen some birds the week before. After an hour we heard our first gobble about 200 yards away. A few minutes later we both watched as the tom entered the logging road. i let out a few soft yelps and he immediately started strutting and gobbled. For the next twenty minutes he walked towards us gobbling and strutting the whole way. As he got to where he could see the decoys and he froze turned into the woods and started circling. The whole time my friend had his gun drawn on the bird, but he didn't shoot. I kept waiting for the report of his 870 but there was none. As the bird made its way away from us I slowly turned around and asked why he did not shoot. "too far" he said. "thirty yards is too far for you to shoot?" I started calling again, an called the bird back and he retraced his steps from before, I whispered in my friends ear; "shoot the turkey!" Again i said as the bird walked past him with his gun following the whole way, "shoot the turkey, its the last day, shoot the turkey." He slowly turned to me and said, "there is a bigger bird out there."

The tom, slowly walked back where he came from, after he got far enough away I said, "I am going after that bird." and I took aff after him. My friend was right on my heels, and after about fifty yards we stopped, i called and the tom gobbled. I took off again, and stopped after about twenty yards. I looked through the woods before i staretd calling again. And I spotted the tom staring at us. In an instant the Benelli Nova went to my shoulder, "there he is." I said as my finger let off the safety. The sound of the report and the recoil of the 3.5" Winchester's jarred me some. Looking through the woods I could see the Tom flopping. Hurrying to the bird, my friend kept saying, "it is a jake, it is a jake." Turning the tom over revealing his 9.75" beard I informed him, "if that is a jake, I will take that kind of jake everytime."

After the excitement and pictures I asked him why he did not shoot. "I thought it was a Jake." was all he could say. - Turkey Fever at its best.

18 lbs, 9.75" beard and 7/8" hooks. What a Jake!

Decorations of Remnants

If you go into my shop you will see all sorts of things. Things that to many have no good purpose. But to me are priceless, at least priceless because to most they are worthless pieces of junk. I do not know when I first began to hold onto things. I think it started when I began to spend days afield. At 14 when I harvested my first squirrel I remember my brother and I skinning it and “tanning” the hide, it still decorates my walls, missing most of its fur, but it is there in its special place on my wall and in my mind. And each time I look at it I remember that fateful day, the smell in the air the old abandoned house where it occurred. I remember cocking the single shot 16 gauge and squeezing the trigger, the feeling when the squirrel fell to the ground. I remember looking at it and feeling sad and proud at the same time. I still get that feeling each time I approach my harvested quarry.

In my shop you will find broken fishing reels and boots that no longer fit. There are tackle boxes full of lures missing hooks, plastic worms resembling tie dyed shirts and Rapala’s missing more paint than is left on them. There are bags full of empty shotgun shell boxes. I have so many empty shotgun shell boxes I had to store the “extras” under the house. I have flies that resemble dust balls. The old Ben Pearson bow I used to harvest my first deer, a collection of bent arrows, and bows missing stings. In one corner is the salt water rod and reel from a grandfather I never knew except through the stories I listened to around the dinner table. Sometimes I bring it from the corner, dust it off and imagine him hauling in a spot at Myrtle Beach, back when it was a beach. You will find pieces of wood from most of the projects I have ever begun and could not throw away the remnants. I prefer to call them remnants instead of scraps; there is more dignity in being a remnant than being labeled as scrap. Scrap carries a distinction of uselessness, while remnant implies “to be used later”.

My wife once asked me when I was going to clean out my mess. I was so insulted by the use of the word “mess” when referring to my place that I stayed out there consoling my things for two days. This is not a mess, on the contrary, it is a part of me, and it all has memories attached. On the pegboard is the lure I used to catch one of my biggest bass, a few flies I tried to make pretty but do not resemble anything alive or dead. I have empty brass from pistols, rifles and the like with no reloader to make use of them, but I always pick them up and bring them home. I have turkey calls that are more suited for paperweights than calling in turkeys. I have remnant antlers, saved during my stint at carving, an exercise, among many, in futility. But I may need them one day. So they too decorate my workbench. Clutter to one person is decoration to another. I prefer decorations of remnants, rather than clutter of scraps. It gives my things meaning and purpose.

You will also see here experienced fishing rods, long past their usefulness save for the memory they bring back. Shotgun reloaders, fly tying tools; sharpening stones, of differing types, soft, medium and hard, big ones and small ones, single stones and tri stones, grinding wheels, broken files, and a rasp that I have never used. The honing stone my dad had as a boy, framed with quarter round on a 2x4 when he was 10. Still the best stone I have.

When the rare time occurs that I invite someone to my place I am often asked where my trophies are from my many days afield. I stand in my shop and look around and point. “These are my trophies” I proclaim in a matter of fact manner. Each item has a story, each a memory, a recollection of a time, an experience; and I begin to share, one by one some of the memories. After all, I explain the real trophies of our times afield are not the animals on our walls, of which I have several; rather it is the times well spent, alone or with others. Those are the real trophies. Those are the real treasures, and these remnants remind me of times. There is the rifle casing from my moose. A simple piece of spent brass to many, to me it represents friendships made and the northern light witnessed for the first time. It represents blueberries as far as the eye can see, pancakes stashed for future use, bear tracks along a river, and cold days and even colder nights.

The faded orange hats, remind me of chasing grouse in Pennsylvania with a dear friend long gone except in my memory. Worn canvas vests, bring back days sitting beside my dad on his annual dove shoot when I acted as retriever. Three left handed gloves and two right, all carrying different patterns. The dull pocket knives honed past usefulness collect dust and horde memories of skinning raccoons, and squirrels.

No these are not scraps of old stuff, they are remnants of times, times with friends, times experiencing nature, times of solitude and times of camaraderie with those we care about. Clutter, scraps, junk, call them what you wish, but to me, they are decorations of remnants that collect in my mind, times well spent.

Piddling

I love winters bite, I love the barren trees and the nakedness of the mountains. There is something about the smell of pulling out sweaters, and old coats that invigorates my soul. Unlocking my coat closet and seeing that weathered Carhartt leads me to reflect on the times gone and those to come. Winter is where my favorite memories are made. Chasing whitetails on frosty mornings, pursuing squirrels with my sons, chopping wood for the seldom used fire place. I long for winter. Except when it rains. Cold and rain do not fit well with my aging body, it is similar to mixing bourbon with milk. Rain is for the spring, and bourbon is meant for ice. But when it rains in winter, then more than any time of year I find myself looking for something to do.

Putting on my rubber boots I make the journey to my shop. Some men I understand have a basement where they go on such days. I could never have such a thing, it seems to me to be akin to a conjoined twin, individuals, never really apart. Seeking solitude and never being able to get it. So out I trudge. The familiar call comes from the wife, “where are you going on a day like this?” I pause and consider a lecture of ducks and horrific weather, and how the mallards fly low in cloud cover, or how the geese tend to hunker down by the sand bar blind, but she knows that, having seen me on many occasion go out after them on days like this. “I’m just going to piddle around for a while.” I state and head out through the rain for the comforts of my palace.

When we first married I remember giving this statement and I was greeted with a response I guess I never contemplated. “What is piddling?” she asked as seriously as a confessionary to a priest. It was then I knew for sure she was a bone-a-fide city girl and needed some educating. “Piddling, dallying in the trivial activities that need doing, but really do not matter at all.”

That is what I do on cold rainy days. I love to piddle. And if you are like me, I bet you do to.

Many a man has occupied hours of his life in the joy of piddling. It is an art form that many participate in, and few of us master. It is spending hours doing nothing and accomplishing little and enjoying every minute of it. Void of televisions and phone calls, it is finding this and that and figuring out what to do with them. It is tying broken leaders into one that will never be used, just to see if you can actually connect a 4x tippet to 20lb mono. Studying, calculating and surmising that it could be done if a blood knot or nail knot was used with appropriate saliva. It is drilling holes in spent brass to make key chains, gluing antler burrs onto old belt buckles. Straightening arrows, untangling the mess of an old tackle box that some how occurs no matter how hard you try to prevent it. Sharpening knives that do not need sharpening. And visualizing our next day afield.

Piddling I have learned is fast becoming a lost art as me migrate from our rural ancestry to the suburbs. It is being surpassed with the pressure to make soccer practice and little league, with piano lessons and PTA we have lost the art of loosing ourselves among the trifle and unimportant. But not me, I hang onto this art and protect it with the vigor of a security guard at the Krispy Kreme. I will piddle and I will enjoy every minute of it.

To do this without causing a coup-de-tat of the shop, occasionally I have to make something productive of my time there, so sporadically I will tie a fly or two, reload some shells for the embarrassment of a skeet field. I find myself refinishing old gun stocks again, wrapping serving on worn out bow strings. And intermittently repairing something from the house. Once I actually sawed the legs off of a bar stool for my wife. “What in the Sam hill took you so long to saw four legs off that bar stool?” “I was only out there three hours.” came the reply on my proud achievement in completing the task so quickly. I then began explaining that such a task takes great skill and that I was trying to calculate the potential weight load this stool would bear should her sister decide to come for a visit, then needing to miter the angels at precisely 15.335 degrees to account for the earths tilt at out latitude not to mention our sinking foundation to give it the proper alignment with our crooked table that it needed. - Somewhere between the earths tilt and the lunar eclipse she just turned and walked away leaving me to enjoy my piddling.

Piddling is where we get blowguns from old arrows too bent to shoot accurately but straight enough to launch a wire nail thirty feet with deadly accuracy. It is where we get our ideas for beer can turkey calls, and hide our chewing tobacco from the children. It is where we take scraps of antlers and make a vase, where old pieces of leather come to life as quiver decorations. Some of my finest ideas have come while enjoying the trifle and unimportant. It is a place to let your mind go and enjoy some work with your hands.

There is still something pure about being able to work with your hands, if it is taking an old galvanized pipe and turning it into a trap rod, or window weights into boat anchors. It is simple and complicated and few can find so much to do with so little as one can who piddles.

One such piddling venture got me to transform the old frame from a front tined garden tiller and a 35 gallon barrel and into a wheel barrow. I used that wheel barrow for years, pushing it proudly across our yard, hauling kindling and wood for the wood heater.

It is in piddling that I have had some of my most intimate moments with myself. It is a time to reflect, to clean guns and remember that squirrel in the thicket that always seems to get away. To pull out the fishing rod and wonder if the bass under the willow might fall for the plastic lizard come spring. To dust off antlers collected and treasured, old lures, patching waders and remembering the branch you slipped on that gave you that tear and the brook trout that took your fly just before the fall. It is the place I dreamed of my sons first hunt long before he was born. The trivial, the trifle, the unimportant to many, but to me it is just piddling. And it is some of the finest times I spend, with myself.

The Masterpiece

I have always been in awe at the display of God’s creative power. I have found myself standing slack jawed at the artistic work with which he displays daffodils at the first sight of spring. I love the array of azaleas in a Charlestonian April, the cobalt blue of the sky in the heat of the summer, and the Appalachians in the fall. Everywhere you look the creative artistry of God is present.

I always felt that I had a healthy appreciation of the beauty in the nature of things around me. I find myself marveling at the cooperation of a hive of bees, busy working together for a common cause. Knowing somehow instinctively that none of them can accomplish alone what all of them can accomplish together. I sat and watched as my flowers change from wilting to full attention, when given water to quench their thirst from the summer heat.

I have, I believe witnessed a great deal of the variety of God’s artistic creativity, and have had an appreciation for it; that is until I went to Alaska. Never in all my dreams could I have imagined such a place, colors as bright as the sun, mountains as high as the stars, snow so pristine it looked as if it would break when you if touched. It was a world full of beauty and contrast. Golden yellow birch trees contrasting against the evergreen of the spruce, rough jagged mountains coated with the softness of snow. Fast flowing rivers so shallow as to barely get ones feet wet when wading through them. It’s a world of beautiful contrast’s.

While I was there, the group of us camped at the base of the Gakona glacier, a river of ice that moved at the rate of 1.5 inches a year, winding its way through the valley depositing tons and tons of silt into the valley below. Contrast’s; white snow laden glaciers, depositing gray-green silt into the valley.

Clear-calm skies, all of the sudden in moment turning into gale force winds that all but blew everything we had away. The full moon rising on one side of the valley while the sun setting on the other. Stars appearing so close as to be able to touch them. Alaska truly is a place where the creative power of God can be experienced like no other. It truly is a place of beauty and contrast.

As I sat in those mountains over those weeks I pondered the prospect of our creation. A human being located in this isolated spot in this remote place on the planet. And I thought, “in comparison to all of this, we human beings really are insignificant.” Except; for the contrast’s. Surely the mountains are taller, and the sun is brighter. The flowers are more colorful, and the trees are more majestic. And while we may occupy only one area of this beautiful creation of God, our feeling of insignificance really lies within us. ----- Because the glacier is not created in the image of God. The mountains are not created in the image of God. The flowers, and trees, the valleys and the snow are not created in the image of God. So while I stood there in this vastness of God’s creation, I realized that “no” I am not insignificant to all of this, but I, as a human being am the most significant thing here, for I am an image bearer of the artist. I am his signature at the bottom of the masterpiece. I am a card carrying authentic original for which there are no others.

As I read and re-read the creation story of God in Genesis, I saw that God said that it “was good.” Then he created animals and said it “was good.” He created birds and fish, trees and plants and for each of these he said it “was good.” Then we find in the last part of chapter one where God created humans in his own image and said “it was very good” the exclamation point on creation. The signature at the bottom of the masterpiece: was you.

I see people all too often who undermine their importance to this world, people who forget just whose image they bear. People who watch a rose form from a bud and wonder; “am I as intricate as this?” I see people whose imagination is their only hope of discovery; whose dreams remain only a nightly occurrence. People who ponder their worth and simply forget they are image bearers.

Nothing else in all of creation is as valuable to God as you are. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not more valuable than they?” Jesus tells us in Matthew chapter 6. Because when it is all said and done; Jesus did not die for the snow covered mountains, he was not nailed to the cross for the daffodils, or the rose. His resurrection will not alter the fate of the glacier. ----- He died for his most precious of creations; YOU. The signature on the masterpiece, The exclamation point on creation. The most valued of all there is.

I had never thought about that before, oh I new we were created in the image of God, I understood that we were important to him, and that we were treasured. It just seems sometimes that God takes special care, at certain moments of our lives and says; “hey, don’t just read about me, but listen to me.” It is God’s careful intentional wake up call to all of us. I believe God does that for us all from time to time. I also believe some of us choose not to listen. As I stood there in the valley of the Gakona glacier, somewhere in Alaska, I knew that I was important to God, the insignificance I felt looking at all those beautiful snow laden mountains, was really an admiration of his artistic ability. It was the thesis statement for which human beings are the punctuation. It was an intrinsic reality that I am an image bearer of the creator, the signature on his masterpiece.

I believe all of us carry the same importance in God’s eyes. All of us share that place on the canvas that tells all who look, who we are. We share a place in history, a moment in time, a significance to the creation, for we are the image bearers of the artist.

The Box

Today, like many days, I traveled the winding mud soaked path that led to my workshop. I had something that needed to be done and it could not wait; a few days before I inherited a box from my father. This was no ordinary box, this was his box, and I was eager to see what had long been forbidden, what was so captivating, so private, so personal. Now, though it was mine, at least in possession, but I desperately wanted to make it mine. His recent passing made the walk all the more solemn.

For years I had admired this box from afar. We all knew all too well to actually look inside. It sat atop his dresser and contained his treasures. Treasures that today would loose their mystique and become reality.

I felt my feet slip as I open the door into the familiar darkness that was my workshop; everything had it place in this chaos that I called order. Fumbling for the light switch, I quickly tried to remember where everything was on the floor before the lights revealed their domain. Fearing that my memory was not as accurate as I hoped, I froze my advance as my fingers searched the breaker box for the appropriate switches that would reveal my sanctuary.

Moving over to my work bench I searched for a place for the revealing, moving scraps of old sandpaper, a broken screwdriver, and with the reverence of a minister consecrating the elements at the Eucharist, I gently lay the box on the bench.

The box hailed from an old hardware store, once used as a catalogue for credit references. It appears to be made of pine, but I am not sure, its dark finish is crackling with age. As I hold it to the light I can see that the finger joints are tight. The hinges are small and the lid is a perfect fit. I marvel at its craftsmanship, and I wonder about its maker. Did he know that this simple box would mean so much to someone so many years later? Could he have known that many decades later his simple box would reveal a lifetime of someone we never really knew at all? Nevertheless, here it is, and it is mine now.

Emotions race through my veins, I fight to hold back tears and rage as memories of a childhood flash before my minds eye. Slowly, I raise the lid of this cryptic tomb to reveal things whose meanings are as lost as my memory. Old pocket knives honed beyond practical use, business cards whose color remind me of my wife’s sun tea revealing his previous jobs and previous failures, cuff links with trains on them, tie clips as broad as a tongue depressor. And an old black and white picture of my mother. There was a change purse, and one tarnished 50 cents piece. I never knew why he always carried the 50 cents piece, but he always had it with him. I wish now I had asked.

The evening turns into night as I respectfully exhume each relic from its place. One by one I removed them from the box; each telling its own story of someone we called Dad, but never really knew. Some items brought back memories of the house we lived in, the smell of Sunday morning apple turnovers, and a happy time, while others brought only recollections of missed opportunities.

I placed them on my workbench in some sort of order, lining them up by size and function as if this would reveal the reason these were saved. Was it intentional that these items were in here or was it by accident? Why these cuff links? Why this change purse? He had always carried a change purse, in fact he was the only man I knew who did, I recall him going though several through my life with him, why was this one saved? What is the significance? As I struggled to make sense of these mementos, I realized that I would never fully understand. He was gone now, perhaps Mom could explain, perhaps she had some insight into the randomness of his treasures. Were they really treasures at all, or were they simply afterthoughts, items whose function had faded with his smile, and whose memory was lost in his stroke laden brain. Perhaps all I really have is a time capsule of a life that meant nothing to so many, and everything to so few.

Nevertheless it is mine now; it is a safe place for my treasures and afterthoughts. A place my children will look at in wonder and amazement. It is a place where dreams are kept safe, lives are interned and wonderment abounds.

I have already been collecting for this day; I too have some old knives of my own to place in here. There are collections of rocks from places I have visited, business cards from long lost jobs, and careers gone haywire. Items that to anyone else would be called junk at best, but to me are priceless. There is the casing from the bullet used to kill my biggest deer. A father’s day card signed by all five of my children, there is the lure used to catch my biggest fish, and a picture of my oldest son on his first hunt. I will also place some items that for no good reason have to have a home. There are 5 $2.00 bills, collected before I knew how many I would need. Some handmade wing-bone turkey calls and a couple of knives I made years ago. I have already envisioned how they will fit and where they will lay.

My mind is drawn back to the box, as I lay it on the workbench. With all of its beauty, it needs a new bottom, and today I am going to make one for it. Carefully taking measurements so it will fit snug, I gingerly cut and place the bottom in this box, wondering if its original maker would approve of my work.

I stand there for the longest, and wonder, my mind rushes to the day my children walk the mud soaked path to the workshop to remove this battered old box from its hiding place. I envision a ceremony of sorts, as they all gather around the supper table with their children and reveal my capsule. I see my oldest removing item after item, telling stories and hearing the laughter and seeing tears as they recount another moment from my life. My only hope is that the laughter will be honest, and the tears will be of joy. Until then, I will complete this task, place the items back inside and leave it alone. Maybe tomorrow, I will replace his items with mine. It is not time now, but soon it will be, and I will know that it is right.

Hat People

I have noticed that there are basically two types of people who enjoy the out of doors. Hat wearer’s and everyone else. I am a hat wearer. When you come into my house you will see hats. Some are worn and faded, showing the wear of many miles covering my head and shading the sun. Others look as if they just came out of the box, and probably have. The signs of wear does not necessarily denote their age. Like people from certain parts of the country, some just carry their age better than others do.

You see when you are a hat wearer you are not simply someone who wears a hat, not at all. It is part of your persona. It is who you are, you are a hat wearer, and you have hats for every occasion.

I for example have a few hunting hats. There are those that are orange for safety, ball caps mostly, and they usually denote some sort of logo or name to show all your buddies that you bought something from McAllistar or Orvis. This gives the illusion that you are more than a hat wearer, but someone who makes a statement with his hat. This if the truth be told that is exactly what we hat wearer’s do. We make statements about things that are near and dear to us.

But mostly we are just a superstitious lot. We have the hat we were wearing when that big striper took your spoon and now is on your wall. That is our lucky fishing hat. Never mind that you have never caught another fish while wearing it. It will always remain your fishing hat. Covered with two cycle oil stains, tattered and worn, covered with dried scales permanently embedded into the cloth. And a smattering of sunscreen that kept the bill from fading, but never kept you from getting burned. Nevertheless, the trips you take without it somehow just aren’t the same. It does not matter how many fish you catch, you always say. “if I had my fishing hat, I might have not lost that big one.” And the day is ruined before it even starts as soon as you realize that you picked up your lawn-mowing hat instead of your fishing hat.

You see a true hat wearer has a hat for everything, each hat unique to its function. It is not just a collection of ball caps; on the contrary, hats are a function specific item. No self respecting hat wearer will have an all for one hat. Why would one wear a tidal flats hat while fishing for trout in the Rockies? What need is there for that four-foot bill with the neck cover when you are at nine thousand feet? Likewise, the hunter will not wear blaze orange in a duck blind, nor will he wear his filson in the dove field. It just isn’t done. It is a perversion to those who paved the way for all of us. Hats are meant for the out of doors, a hat wearer is always conscious of his appearance, never does a hat wearer keep his hat on while inside. (unless you just came in from hunting camp where you haven’t washed your hair in a week.)

The good thing about a hat is that you can find them everywhere and they are seldom so expensive that your wife actually asks how much it was. I have found some of my best hats at surplus stores, and some of my worst at custom shops.
I have ordered them and I have found them at gas stations. But there is one certainty about a hat. A true wearer knows the instant the hat hits his head whether or not it will become one of his tried and true, or just another in the assorted pile. You see there is no such thing as “one size fits all” there are no heads the same, I as a matter of point have a head that falls exactly between a
7 1/8 and 7 ¼ . That makes me exactly a 7 3/16. There are no hats made that are 7 3/16. No amount of adjusting will make a 7 1/8 stretch to 7 3/16. And no amount of washing will make a 7 ¼ stay on my head. So I have to try it on, and when I do, I know. It is as instant as seeing that first girl across the room when you realized they were different from boys. You just know.

My wife has bought me hats, pretty hats, hats with class and demeanor. Hats that sit my closet shelf and gather dust because they are a 7 ¼ and I need a 7 3/16, or worse yet, hats that denote their size in small, medium and or large. How can someone know if a 7 3/16 is a small or medium? Does that mean that a 7-71/8 is a small and that 7 1/4 – 7 ½ is a medium? If that is true, I would hate to see those heads that would hold a large! The few heads that are larger than 7 ½ do not need hats, they need flower pots or buckets. Heads that big never looks right with a hat on their head. It comes closer to resembling the stem on a pumpkin. You know what it is there for, but it just does not look right.


I have sections for the different categories. I like to keep my fishing hats in the storage building so that my hunting hats do not smell like pork rind and plastic worm oil. But my hunting hats are also segregated. There are the bird hunting hats, usually orange, some are ball caps, others are full brimmed. One is from my father who never hunted in it, but I wear it for the reminder that it was his. On those days I don’t care if I kill a bird, or hit a target, that is not why I wear it.
Then there are the big game hats. I have a bonafide cowboy hat purchased in Cody, WY. That is my “picture taking hat” the one I pose in when I stand on a bluff overlooking a draw or when I am sitting by the fire. I would never think of actually hunting in it. That is what my hunting hats are for, I have too many to mention, but since you asked. There is the one I killed my moose in, that one is retired until my children want to hunt. They will start in that beanie hat. It is for them. Then there is the array of Gore-Tex hats with built in earflaps. This does not include at least one in every style of camouflage available. In every style, and at a definite 7 3/16!


There are those already mentioned, then I have in my room, piled onto posts of my dresser mirror. The list is long, and assorted including my leaf raking hat, lawn mowing hat, and car repair hat. Then there are the golf visors that I wear on both occasions that I play golf each year, and the play in the yard with the kids hats, the Indianapolis Colts hat that is reserved for watching the Colts on TV. My fly-fishing hats, one for using dry flies, and one for wet, and then there is the third for saltwater. It just stands to reason, that it is in our blood, like women and their shoes. Men who wear hats, have a hat for every occasion, and un-apologetically we wear them with pride, so long as it is the right hat for the right occasion.

Different Similarities

We stood around the campfire getting reacquainted after a year of not seeing one another. Bill stood there in his faded wranglers, black suspenders, and tee shirt with a pocket on the left front containing a pack of camels, with his weight shifted onto one foot more than the other, you could see in his eyes he was deep in thought. Cigarette smoke circled his bald head like some pungent halo captured in the calm night air, wearing a beard kept so close to his face it was difficult at first to determine if it was intended to be there or not. Leaning in, rubbing his hands towards the fire as if he needed its warmth, he started talking.

Bill is as solid as a man comes, with experiences that most of us only read about in a novel, Bill has lived. As he talks, his deep voice gently fills the cool desert air with another story from his jaunts through life. Many of his stories revolve around a past hunting trip in Alaska. The place Bill has called home for the past 35 years. I guess that is where Bill belongs, when I think about Alaska, and the experiences there, I think of Bill; hard, yet beautiful, complex yet dynamic. He is breathtaking, yet refreshing, rugged yet polished, crude yet gentle. They say that once you go to Alaska, you never really leave it behind; it becomes a part of you. That is how it is with Bill, once you get to know this man, you never leave him behind, he is always a part of you. And I am better because of it.

As we stood around that fire in the middle of the Chihuahua desert of South Texas, with the reflection of the flames flickering across our faces, we reminisced about our experiences together, We remembered the day a little over a year earlier when Bill led me to my first Alaskan Moose in the Gakona river drainage just south of Paxon Alaska. We told our stories and shared laughs, swapped lies about other hunts long gone, and dreamed of others to come. We talked for hours about our individual triumphs and heartaches, about lost opportunities, and proud achievements, about lost loves and future possibilities. Wherever the conversation led, we were completely comfortable expressing what we felt, sharing our true feelings, and knowing without question that even when we disagreed there was a mutual respect there, but more importantly, there was a mutual love for one another.

As the night grew and the fire faded we made our way to our tent to get ready for another day, another day spent doing what we love to do, and doing it with people we love being with.

As we entered the tent, the snoring of Walter was easily recognizable, soft at first, then gaining volume as his lungs search for room to place the needed oxygen. Walter goes to bed early, as if more hours in the bag correlate to better opportunities in the field. But that is Walter, he does things his own way.

Walter, at first glance, resembles a French trapper from one of Louis L’Amour’s novels. With his white hair, and strong features, wearing a dark stocking cap, and blue plaid Filson jacket, all that is needed is a trusty Mule, an iron skillet, and a flintlock and Walter is a splitting image. One thing is for sure; Walter is certainly someone that you notice in a crowd. He demands that you do, with his Northwestern accent that echo’s a steady stream of one liners, you know Walter is around when you see people laughing or eating.

Because Walter is a gifted man when he gets in front of a stove, whether it is in the desert of Texas cooking Steaks, or the bush of Alaska where he turns Spam into a delicacy, and wild blueberries into food that transforms otherwise sane men into conniving packrats. With Willie Nelson as his back up, he starts cooking and telling stories. Some argue which is better, the stories as he cooks, or the cooking as he tells stories. Whichever side you take, there is one certainty, you are sure to be well fed and entertained.

A couple of days before Walter and I tired of chasing Mule Deer in the 100+ degree heat and headed for a bluff overlooking a dry creek to see if and pigs would emerge at dusk. As we sat there, the beauty of the place evoked us into a conversation of places we had been and things we had seen. “Remember last year when . . .” I started, and we instantly were drawn to the memories we created in the Gakona river valley the previous year.

As Walter and I sat on that bluff waiting on pigs, I learned a lot about this man, and myself. We sat there separated by over twenty years, yet in complete harmony. You see Walter is one of those men that get under your skin, not like a bur under a saddle, no, Walter is more like an age spot. To some it is a sign of age and wear, but to others, it is a mark of beauty, and wisdom. Walter is a mark of beauty and wisdom. He is a light of hope to many whom otherwise don’t have any. But just like age spots are not appreciated for what they are, neither is Walter. At least he doesn’t seem to think so. But we all know better, He is easy to love, but reluctant to let you love him. He is a man searching for faith, but scarred by years of being let down by people who say one thing, and do something else entirely. Regardless of how Walter may appear, he has touched a place in my heart, and not a day goes by when I don’t think of him and how he is and dream of when we will again sit around a fire and marvel at the church sculpted with divine hands.

Many people have asked how we became friends. How did we hook up when we seem so different in so many ways? My answer is simple. . . we love each other for who we are. There are no requirements, no excuses, just a certainty of respect between three men who have different similarities.