Redfish in Bulls Bay

I went this past weekend to Charleston, SC to catch some Tarpon in Bulls Bay with Capt. J. R. Waits out of the Isle of Palms marina.

We haven't had any measurable rain in almost six weeks, then I plan a fishing trip and the storms of teh year arrive! But we kept fishing. I can't say enough about Capt. JR Waits and his effort to put us on a Tarpon. We struggled the first day in the storms to catch bait, but we finally got some and fished hard and landed one big Redfish and some decent sharks.

On day two the storms really hit, blowing 40+MPH and raining sideways! but we stuck it out, and did some fishing for some reds during some of the lull's of the storm. Using ultralight tackle, and Gulp! Alive bait, we caught some nice fish. It was a real blast catching them on that light tackle.

Back out in Bulls Bay, I landed my personal best redfish, weighing 26lbs! I was pumped to catch a fish like that! It made riding out those storms worthwhile to get a fish like that.

I highly recommend Capt. J. R. Waits of Fishcall charters for any fishing charter in Charleston. If you want redfish, or Tarpon this is the man. He will show you a great time, and definitely give his all.

www.fishcall.com

William Leslie: May 23, 1943 – August 27, 2010

Sometimes even the expected is still unexpected.

The delivery of a child, for nine months you know it’s coming, but when your wife looks at you and says; “honey, its time.” You’re never really prepared.

Drifting bait along a sandbar for hours on end – slowly you are lulled into daydreaming. Then the bite comes. Startling you out of your stupor – yes you were fishing, but the bite was still unexpected.

Crawling to the top of the ridge, peeking over again hoping this will be the one. Ridge after ridge, valley after valley you walk, search and hoping. Then without warning, from thirty yards he steps from behind a spruce tree standing there in all his magnificence.

Following your Brittany through a CRP, watching as his tail comes to a halt, his nose to the ground......moving in the flush so close to your boot catches you off guard.

Sitting at a ball game watching your son play, caught up in the joy of his shinning moment. An email alerts you that a dear friend has passed on; unexpected

Human beings are good at avoiding the things we know we can’t change. We know all of us will leave this earth; some of us have had to face that reality too many times, and far too often. Still, while we know this reality is coming, when it happens - it is unexpected.

A few weeks ago, we all received some bad news when Bill told us his diagnosis. At the hearing of the news, we felt a hole beginning to grow in our hearts, a sadness for the unexpected. A void was being created for which we can never fully heal. And while we knew that the prognosis wasn’t good, we never expected this day to be here so soon. To some, this void in our heart is a bad thing, for us on this day, it’s a glorious thing. Because for us, the hole is filled with memories of a man we all loved deeply.

Someone once asked; “Is a legend made by the way you live your life, or the way you’re remembered after you are gone?”

I’m not sure as I write this that I know the answer to that question, but one thing I do know, is that for many people, Bill Leslie was a legend in his time, and will remain a legend long after he is gone. For me, and for all those who shared a moose camp, deer camp, sheep hunt, or whatever you were after, you saw one of the best at their craft.

In all of my years of hunting, all over this country with a lot of different people, one thing I know is that it is rare to find someone who shares your passion and approach to this fine sport. Bill and I had that connection. We didn’t talk about it much, but we both knew it. When we hunted together we didn’t have to say a lot to one another, we knew what the other was thinking, what they were seeing, and feeling. I knew that he knew what was going on. That was and remains a rarity in our sport, and in our lives.

For the men and women who hunt this Gakona valley for years to come, stories will be told. Stories about a pot bellied bald headed man who called this ole place home for over 35 years. This valley was more Bills home that his house in North Pole – here is where he felt free, where he felt alive. Sitting in this expanse of nothingness where many find seclusion, Bill found fulfillment and joy.

Most people will spend their lives searching for the peace and joy Bill found each time he rode along this track to this trailer. I saw it the first time I rode out here with him. Standing on the side of the track rig for three hours as we plodded along this path, I saw someone who loved this place with a passion seldom seen. When we crested the ridge with the valley lying below, a sigh came from his chest, and his eyes lit up like a groom seeing his bride for the first time. I didn’t know why then, but I would learn in the coming weeks we spent together why. This was his sanctuary.

It is fitting that we are spreading his ashes here, at this place, and at this time. This was his favorite place and his favorite time of year. As the seasons change, and the leaves turn vibrant colors reminding us of God’s glory and majesty; we too are changed, and our lives turn and we stand here and remember. The void we feel in our heart may not ever heal, the emptiness will linger for some of us for the rest of our lives, and that’s ok. Each time we crest this hill and stare into this valley we will remember Bill Leslie. We will honor his life, his legacy and we will know once again, that we are all better people for having known him.

Stories will remain as one generation passes onto another, laughter will be heard around the campfire as another story is told, hot links are eaten and someone shares a moment in time. That for them has become an eternal flame in their memory of Bill. Because we know, that while we expected one day to be here doing this for our friend, his lasting impact on our lives and hearts was unexpected.

So I raise a glass to my friend, Bill Leslie, may you rest in peace, and may I always remember – my dear friend, may I always remember. . . . . . . . .

The Perfect Hunting Dog

I have come to a crossroads as a sportsman. It is time for me, at this stage to get a new hunting dog. Therein lays perhaps the single most important decision a sportsman can make in their career afield. This choice will impact your time afield more than just about any other we make as ourdoorsmen and women. Years of frustration or joy hinge on this decision. So I tread lightly into this verdict and take a methodical approach to the process.

I’m not certain what it takes to buy a dog, other than money. I have read the advice from the professionals who offer; first ask yourself; “What do you want your dog to do?” What kind of question is that? “What ever I train her to do.” That’s what I want her to do. And notice I said, her, because I am convinced that males of dogs or dogs of dogs – whatever we call them nowadays - can only be trained to a certain level. After they reach that level, (and it varies from dog to dog), they cannot be trained any further. No amount of switching or coaxing, feeding, bribing will get the male to go any further in his training. So I will stay with a female. In reality, I am only considering dogs that have a tradition of being bred to perform certain tasks related to hunting. All hunting breeds can be trained to retrieve, and flush to some extent. Most can be trained to do some form of pointing. After that it is only a matter of preference, temperament, size, color, pedigree, location, and of course cost.

I have been studying breed books for months. I have looked at pictures and attended field trials. I have talked with owners and handlers who love their breeds and I have spoken with those who haven’t been very successful with breeds. And through this intensive research I have narrowed it down between the retrieving breeds, the pointing breeds and the flushing breeds. Which, mind you, is exactly where I started.

I know from the onset that I don’t want a Labrador because of their popularity, and quite frankly, I just don’t want a dog that everyone else on the block has. Not to mention their destructive behavior during their puppy years; which for some lasts until they are dead. So in the retrieving breeds, I am looking at the Chesapeake, the Portuguese water dog, the curly coated retriever, the Irish water spaniel and the Boykin Spaniel.

Within the pointing breeds, of which there are many fine strains, I like the English Setter, (for nostalgia reasons) the wirehaired pointer, and the German Shorthair. When we move to the flushing breeds; we find the English Springer Spaniel, the Boykin Spaniel, (again) and the Brittany Spaniel top my list. I would never consider a cocker, or King Charles spaniel, or even the Clumber spaniel, does it really make sense to have a hunting dog that is a clumber? Just his name spells disaster in the field.

Of those listed above…..I quickly eliminated the Portuguese Water Dog for financial and political reasons…..they are simply too expensive, and they are a democrat’s dog. No self respecting republican would ever cut their dogs hair that way so they must be a democrat’s dog. And I want my dog to be my friend, and if we can’t discuss politics and agree from time to time, there is no reason to own one. Next, I have eliminated the Wirehaired because my wife thinks it is ugly and the Brittany because one of my best friends has one and I don’t want the same type of dog he has. So the list shortens even more and I get to the real important questions I have to ask before I can move on.

When it really comes down to it, there are 3 basic criteria that are the deal breakers and my new dog must meet all three.

1. Looks of the Breed. If it’s ugly – I don’t want it.

2. Size of the dog. I don’t want a dog I can’t carry out of the woods or field. So anything over 50 pounds is immediately eliminated.

3. Temperament of the breed. Is she going to be easy to train and a good companion. (like your children before they reach the teenzilla stage)

So with this in mind we eliminate even more breeds. Gone is the English Setter ---- females are at the breakeven point in weight and no female alive will ever be honest with their weight. And if I can’t trust her, she can’t be around! Who knows she might be pointing one day and I move in expecting a covey rise and a cottontail bursts from the cover.

Gone is the Chesapeake…well over 100 pounds. If I tried to carry that animal out of the woods, search and rescue would have to identify both of us. Gone is the Curly Coated Retriever….just too big and they look like Dr. J. from the 1970’s! Gone is the German Shorthaired…looks dirty all the time and a little leggy for my liking. Gone are the spaniels with the strange names, cocker, king charles and clumber……..I just could never look my hunting companions in the eye if I told them I just bought a cocker spaniel –or a Clumber spaniel. It just wouldn’t be right.

That brings me to the Boykin and the Springer – both spaniels. It is these two that are the finalist….along with the Irish water dog…but this is so similar to the Boykin that the Boykin has to get the nod because he’s our state dog.

Springer and Boykin the two breeds that have passed the tests thus far. Both are the right size, both have the temperament needed for a combination lap/hunting/companion dog. Both have beautiful markings and wavy coats. (Something I am partial to) I love the copper wavy coat of the Boykin and the Black and white (or liver and white) patches of the Springer. I love the long ears, and cropped tails.

So now that we have narrowed it down to these two….let us look at them in detail (from my perspective of detail) and make the decision once and for all.

The English Springer, has a great nose, they are known to be much calmer than the Boykin at an early age….but bred more for the show ring than the field. She can be trained to readily retrieve on land and water. Takes commands well and is a fast learner. When a field line can be found they are usually well bred. But there is the slight fear of “Springer fever” a temperament that causes them to sometimes be somewhat unpredictable. Still all in all a good choice.

The Boykin was designed to “not rock the boat” is a wonderful waterfowl retriever. They are great companions, and they have a great nose. Many are taught to flush upland birds and retrieve in fields as well. They do have the reputation of being somewhat high strung as young puppies. Then they are considered to be one of the best companion dogs alive.

So with all else being comparable it comes down to availability and price. The Boykin can be found for a modest price. And the Springer just about half again as much. Here in South Carolina, Boykin’s are readily available, while the Field line of the Springer is less available.

But in my gut, I am drawn to the Boykin. When I first saw a young Boykin with that copper wavy coat I immediately fell in love with the animal and have decided that the Boykin is the perfect hunting dog.

I have now begun the tedious process of selecting a name for my copper colored wavy haired Boykin female. After much deliberation, I have decided to name the dog after one of my closest friends and closest hunting companions. The name Walter doesn’t fit a female Boykin. But she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know that Walter is not a fine name for a beautiful Boykin girl – so barring a protest from her therapist, Walter it is.

So stay tuned and get ready to join me as we share in the trials, tribulations and tales of Walter, my new female Boykin as we cover the fields, forest and water in the years to come.

Bottom Stand

Recently I submitted this piece to an outdoor magazine. I haven't heard from them yet. But I wanted to share it here.

Bottom Stand

It was one of those moments that are etched into our memory like a fine checkering on a treasured double’s walnut stock. Intricate, detailed, mesmerizing and invaluable.

It was early season, the leaves were just beginning to turn from their summer green into shades of yellow, orange and red. A soft chill filled the air, our jackets proving to be barely enough to fight off the coolness.

Clouds of vapor bellowed from our mouths, even as we made our way down a long quartz covered roadbed to what has become known as our “bottom stand”. Located along the edge of an unnamed creek surrounded on two sides by hardwood ridges and a plantation of planted pines on the other.

This part of the piedmont is covered with white quartz, at least that’s what we call it. It appears in great numbers where the sand-land of the lowcountry meet the red clay of the midlands in South Carolina. Along this ridge just off of the Wataree river is a piece of property that has been in my wife’s family for more generations than anyone can remember. Long ago logging activity carved this road through the heart of this ridge leaving a scar on the landscape that we now use as a passageway into our future.

This was his first hunt on this treasured land, his brother before him had made this same walk several years prior. Now he makes his pilgrimage to the “bottom stand”. I’m not sure he understood the significance of this event. He was much too young to shoot, just a few months into his sixth year, and while some introduce their sons and daughters into harvesting game animals at this age and younger. I choose to wait until he has a better understanding of the responsibility of being a hunter, not just a shooter. Still he longed to be a part of the experience. So on this day, I endeavored to take them both. This stand is where I took my first deer off of this property, and where his brother took his first buck. Soon in a few years it would be his turn and this stand would be here to welcome him.

It was still dark as our headlamps caused the white rock to glow an eerie shade of yellow-white. I whispered to the boys, “walk slow, these rocks are noisy, we don’t want to spook anything on our way in.” Our pace slowed briefly, but the excitement quickly took over again as I found myself gasping for breath from the speed of the pace.

We had been walking single file down the road, me leading the way, followed by Ridge the youngest and Alex the older of the two boys. When suddenly it happened. Without warning, an unmistakable instant when all Dads know this is a moment to remember. As we walked down that road in the glow of our headlamps - Ridge reached up and took my hand into his and we walked down that road together. Hand in hand, father and son to his first deer stand. Alex followed in the rear, unaware of what happened. Ridge, I am sure not understanding the significance and me wanting the walk to be just a tad longer. I knew all too well that in a few years, this son will grow just as I had, and his brother had, and holding your dad’s hand in the dark is something we no longer do. But for this moment, for this brief interlude on this day, my mind will always know and remember this walk in the dark with my boys.

Until, that is, the day in the not to distant future, when we again make our way down this very road. A grown son and his aging Dad, going one last time to the “bottom stand”. Uncertain of his footing in the predawn darkness. I am convinced, if I can, I will reach out a shaking and twisted hand – and take his and I will remember thirty years before when the roles were reversed and I led him to his first hunt, as he leads me to my last.

I hope I am around to see it, I hope I am around to see when the day will come when he walks in the predawn darkness, headlamp on, the glow of the quartz rocks, the shuffling of uncertain feet, and small fingers find their way into his waiting palm as they usher in a new generation of hunters into the “bottom stand”.

Woodsman ship Lost

Gone are the skills needed to be woodsmen and women. Gone are the days when men and boys would go into the woods for days at a time with little for provisions other than a can of Vienna sausages and canteens of water, slices of jerky and a cold biscuit. Replaced with camel back packs, trail mix and power bars. Gone are the days when we would sit on a stump all day so still that spiders would build a web between your legs. Replaced with condo type stands with carpet and heaters. Gone is the ability to distinguish the difference between a squirrel running through the leaves and a doe trotting for cover. Gone is the childlike excitment at the sight of a squirrel, or listening to the calling of a murder of crows in the distance. Replaced with an iPod blaring Lady Gaga into our minds while the natural world’s wonders go unnoticed. Gone are the days when fires were made with kitchen matches and fat lighter logs, piled with dead branches and lined with rocks. Replaced with propane heaters, and duraflame processed logs. Gone are the days when coffee was made in porcelain pots on an open flame with the grounds dumped into the boiling water. Replaced with automatic drip makers plugged into generators inside campers. Gone are the days when men could pick up a deer track in a forrest of leaves, or a squirrel nest in the popular hollow. Gone are the meat poles that proudly displayed the harvest of a successful day afield; replaced by processors, who for a fee, will skin and gut your deer for you.

I am concerned not about our heritage, rather about the legacy we will leave behind to our children. I am concerned that as sportsmen and women, we are recruiting people into the fold who know very little about the art of hunting much less the out of doors. And whose desire to learn is forever relegated to the guides they pay. We have replaced the art of reading signs of travel corridors and rub lines, wallows and coverts with well established food plots, automatic feeders, game bird preserves and fenced animals. We have traded our knowledge of orienteering, for a GPS, satellite imagery, and Google maps. We are training our youngsters to become clients instead of sportsmen. We are training our children that it is “hunting” when we pay for a pen raised preserve pheasant instead of walking the miles through the plains in search of wild birds. We are teaching our children that trophies are judged in antler size rather than the experience of just being there.

It concerns me that my sons watch professional hunters on TV and never see the work that goes behind it, believing it really is that easy. Their idea of hunting is sitting in a box over a food plot waiting to shoot an “acceptable” animal. It concerns me that the joy of the out of doors is no longer sitting by a fire and watching stars, it is no longer listening to the chirps of birds as the sun cracks the horizon, or the beaver slapping his tail in the near by pond. Rather it is wanting to place piles of corn or alfalfa in large piles and waiting to see what happens by. It concerns me that the killing has replaced the hunting. – The game of trying to outsmart an old buck in his home is replaced with manipulating the landscape to get an unfair advantage.

Don’t get me wrong, I use modern rifles and tree stands, I use camouflage and some of the commercial scents, and I own a GPS and binoculars but in my estimation the line has been crossed when we replace skill for convenience, when we replace the desire to learn about the game animals, with the killing aspect of the sport. The line is crossed when the emphasis has moved from the experience to the harvest.

I want my children to understand the skill of hunting, understand what the sign means, what trails to look for, what it is like to sneak up on an unsuspecting deer, or squirrel. I want them to experience the thrill of a covey rise and watch as a flock of geese circle the well placed decoys and the art of calling them into shotgun range. I want them to know how to build a fire in a snow storm, and what the glow of a moon means. To understand the animals they are pursuing and to enjoy the pursuit more than the harvest. – A harvested animal is a great accomplishment when done well. It satisfies the core of who we are as hunters, it completes the journey that began in some instances years before.

When we find a buck’s bedroom and area able to sneak into range and harvest him cleanly, we have accomplished something. When hunting skill takes precedent over marksmanship, we have become a part of the out of doors not merely a spectator. I want them to be good outdoorsmen, not merely good clients. I want them to become woodsmen not just hunters. If you are as passionate about hunting as I am, you would too. You would want the next generation to learn and know what the woods tell you about the game you are pursuing, all of the information is there, we have to learn to read the signs.

As a young hunter in my early teens, I was not privileged to have a father who shared my passion. After weeks of begging I convinced my parents that I needed a .22 long rifle so I could hunt. It was in those early years that I learned how to listen to the sounds of nature and determine what my next move was. It was in thousands of failures that I learned to become successful. It was in gaining understanding that a barking squirrel can be successfully harvested while they are distracted. It was in my experience in being there that I learned what sounds were and what they meant. Getting snorted at by hundreds of deer taught me that sound and how to avoid it more often than not. It was in getting lost that I learned how to pay attention where I was going so it wouldn’t happen again. It was in wading creeks that I learned to find a better way around unless you wanted to hunt in wet clothes the rest of the day. It was in harvesting animals that I learned about anatomy and the importance in good accurate shots.

I learned to properly clean an animal after I harvested my first one and and asked: “now what do I do?” my dad said, “you killed it, you clean it.” “But I don’t know how?” I protested. “If you are big enough to take that animals life you owe it to the animal to take care of it properly.” He said and walked inside the house. I have held on to that philosophy and I have never paid someone to clean an animal I harvested. I never will. It is my responsibility. Sadly I know many well versed sportsmen, who have harvested more deer than I and who have never cleaned their kill, they take it to the processor and pay him to do it for them. I don’t understand that at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to progress, and the use of technology but in my estimation the lines have become so blurred that the purity of our sport is quickly being lost, I fear for good. And this is evidenced in many areas: High fence estates, game preserves, GPS, ATV’s, night vision, compound bows shooting 350+ ft/sec. rifles shooting over 1000 yards, your list may be different from mine. Regardless of where you are, and what is on your list, we all must do what we can to ensure that the great sport of hunting maintains its integrity, and its lore. Just because something is legal doesn’t make it right. Just because you “can” do something does not mean you should.

We each must decide for ourselves, but for me, the purity of hunting is in the small things that make the times afield special, putting the pieces of the puzzel together to find that covert full of migrating woodcock. Or discovering the hideout of the buck you didn’t know lived on your land until you found his shed while scouting in the spring. Listening to the trukey’s gobble on a cool spring morning and feeling the chills run up your spine. Take the time to teach those coming after us, what it all means take the time to learn yourself what it means to be a woodsman and you will never look back.

Kansas Whitetails

Two weeks ago I received an email that I never expected.

It started last summer when I found this website www.mydreamhunts.com I looked at the site and registered for free. This site gives away dream hunts every day of the year. 365 hunts per year PLUS an additional hunt per week for weekly referral give aways.

I won a seven (7) archery hunt in Kansas donated by Bell Wildlife Systems of Harveyville, Kansas. Mr. Daniel Bell is the outfitter and our phone conversations have been great. he has shared a lot of information, and been fully open to my coming. I will begin my hunt on October 27th - November 3rd. It will be a wanning gibbous moon in south east Kansas where the average buck is 140 inches!

Being from South Carolina, I can assure you I have never seen a buck even remotely close to that size. I am excited and hopeful about my opportunity. And I am grateful to www.mydreamhunts.com for this opportunity.

More to come later.......and If you go sign up, make sure you tell them that you were referred by me use my email. progers63@gmail.com.

End of season report

Well the 2009 whitetail deer season has come to a close. And I must say it was without a doubt one of the most frustrating seasons in memory.

It started out great, seeing bucks every time I went into the woods. Then after the third week of October, I never saw another deer the entire season. Not one deer! Forget bucks, I couldn't even find a doe. I must admit, I was rattled to my core. I visited every aspect of my hunting: scent control, camouflage patterns, wind directions, sitting for longer periods of time, hunting at different times of day. Full moon, new moon, and every moon in between. Calling, rattling, and sitting quiet. Re-scouted the area and moved some stands, sat in different locations. Hunted from permanent stands, climbers, and from the ground. I am at a total loss. I just could not find the deer this season. And I hunted hard and often. Logging 20 days afield.

As i ponder the reasons, I am sure I will be scratching my head for several weeks and months trying to figure out what happened. But through it all I kept trying to remind myself that it is the "hunt" not the harvest that I enjoy. My patience was tried more this season than any since the mid 1980's, a drought that beat all droughts in a long time. But again, I enjoyed the hunts, the silence of the woods, the sights and sounds of nature, the fight to put the puzzle together and solve the riddle. This season the deer won, and that's OK. I'll be back after them next year with a vengeance. In the mean time, I switch gears to small game and waterfowl.

In fact this past Saturday my oldest son and I went squirrel hunting and had a great morning getting five squirrels, with 4 coming from the same massive oak tree! It was a lot of fun. Sunday after church, we poured the parboiled squirrels over some rice and had a feast!

I hope to get after some feral hogs in the coming weeks so I can get something for my freezer.

As for the deer season of 2009 - it will go down in the Rogers annuals as the season when I didn't harvest a deer. But that's OK, it just gives me a reason to go back next season. So when September 15th rolls around in 2010, I will be back in the woods, with my longbow in my hand chasing whitetails once again.