Hunting Dusky Grouse in Colorado
Permission Granted
“My permission slip is signed, pick me up at 3:00 am.” I whisper into the phone held tightly to my ear, not wanting Hazel to hear me in fear she might change her mind. Looking at my newborn in my other hand I think to myself, honestly, she has every right to.
“Done. Have coffee ready.” comes the reply.
Shaun can be a man of few words when appropriate, but more often, a man of many. He can sense my urgency to keep the call quick.
A couple of hours later lights shine through my front window. The Citori is thrown hastily into the car and Sage and Braker, my hunting pups, load up. They whimper with energy, annoying to others I’m sure, but to me, it might as well be Shakira serenading me.
“I love this time of morning” Shaun remarks. “The streets are as desolate as a showdown in an old western. All the drunk people already swerved their way home after last call and it’s a bit too early for the early shift workers to slide into their vehicles. The witching hour.”
All four of us ease in for the long drive ahead. To Sage this is old hat, Breaker however thinks every turn or stop is a cue for him to blast out the back of the car and lock into some birds. Oh youthful exuberance, how I envy him.
Shaun and I babble on the four hour drive like two kids guessing what they are going to get for Christmas. Oh middle age exuberance, how the dogs envy it.
I don’t have a ton of secret spots, but where we are headed is my Nirvana. Up until a couple of trips ago I would blindfolded any hunting partners, spun them in a circle ten times, load them onto a plane for three connecting flights and blast death metal into their ears (in case they could recognize the sound of this area’s particular gravel crunch) until they screamed for mercy. Then when they were properly broken of spirit and mind and promising to keep my secret, we would hunt.
This strategy proved to be a problem since Shaun was driving.
I look over to him for what must have been the fortieth time.
“I know, I know. No more pinky toes if I open my mouth.” Comes his response to my baseless threats.
The sun starts to peek out as we head up the mountain. We pass a “For Sale” sign or two as I awkwardly squirm in my seat. I can see Sage do his morning stretches in the back of the car as I make a plan to where I think the birds might be given the temps and time of year.
We pull into my first choice. We are greeted with a pack of Great Pyrenees rolling six deep that are just aching to show my pups their best Ronda Rousey impression. The herd of Q-tips behind them watch to see how the confrontation plays out.
“Uh yea, Braker is kinda a big baby and I like Sage to much to crush his ego. Flip a bitch.” I say.
Shaun’s already on it.
We hit my second choice. The area where “Point Covey” resides. These birds must have bred with turkeys at one time because they are nothing short of massive.
“Only flushing shots, right?” I throw in as a reminder.
“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” Shaun says as he walks in.
Fifteen steps in and Sage is nipping at the rear of a football sized dusky grouse. I am momentarily mesmerized by the roar of the wings, but my concentration comes back in time to send him cratering to the earth. Sage’s first for the year and he doesn’t skip a beat. The bird is back in my hand before I can reload.
Big dusky grouse.
Shaun looks over. “I can see why you’ve been hiding this place from me.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because with me being as good of a shot as I am, I would have cleared this place out long ago!” He throws back.
Just for that I keep Sage closer to me. Let’s see how he does without the dog master lobbing him in softballs.
I walk the woods with a smile on my face. Nothing but the moment. I am a rock climber, mountain biker and adventure athlete. Nothing has ever come close to the feeling I get when I’m in the woods chasing grouse. Maybe it’s the lack of intensity that is so saturated in every other aspect of my life. Maybe it’s just the clean air, my pups and a good friend.
But I think it is more than that. Maybe it’s just that this is me in my most raw form. The mission is simple and clear. Walk the woods and enjoy yourself. Breathe in that freeing gulp of air that so many others will never get to breathe in the same way.
It’s a special thing to hunt for your sustenance. A feeling that you can’t describe to people who haven’t done it. It’s a feeling of total self reliance, something that is extremely hard to come by in the age. We rely so heavily on technology and mass production that walking the woods to look for our food has become nearly extinct.
Ahhh, whatever. I’m preaching to the choir. You all wouldn’t have made it this far into the article if you didn’t feel the same way.
We hike through the morning working the dogs hard and bringing down a few more birds. I take a seat at a perfect little watering hole and let the dogs splash around.
My thoughts fade back inward as I look out over the valley. Up until this point in my life, I saw a hundred year block. This would be the maximum time (good God, if I was lucky!) allotment for me to wander this earth and squeeze everything I could out of it. Anything after that, well to hell with it, I was dead so it was irrelevant.
I can feel your eyes judging me as you read this. Hell, I’m judging me. But that all changed a month ago when my son was born.
I wonder if my son will get to experience what has moved my soul for so many years in it’s same raw form. The “For Sale” signs we passed at the bottom of the mountain make me think that maybe he won’t. I ponder the deeper meaning behind “for sale” for a bit but pull myself out of that rabbit hole before I got too deep.
Ahh human progress. The killer of all that is natural. But hey, people have to live somewhere I suppose.
We make our way back up the mountain, following cliff lines that would lead us back to the car. As we walk a few birds flush, but our guns remain on our shoulders.
I’m happy to see that Shaun isn’t using the state limit of birds to guide him on his take. We are more than content on what we have taken, two birds each, and let the rest go for another time.
The short trip is just what I needed to rejuvenate my soul. A quick reminder to keep fighting the good fight down in the city so I can have more days like this.
As we drive down the mountain I turn away from the “For Sale” signs. A problem for another day I suppose. Right now I want to enjoy the right now.
“Good shooting up there today.” I say to break the silence.
“You too man. Your pups were on fire today. And I’ve never seen so many birds!” He replies.
A smile always comes to my face when I hear a complement aimed towards my dogs.
“Just remember, no more pinky toes. Imagine how hard is it going to be to hike without pinky toes.” I say as I look over.
Shaun smiles and pins the pedal to the floor. Back to the chaos.
// Fred
Chasing Mule Deer in the High Country
Five Days In
“This is it, this is the one”, I think as I peek down the steep cliffside at a massive 3x4 mule deer. Christ, I blew enough stalks in the last five days, the odds have to be in my favor at this point or so I tell myself. This has got to be the one. I gasp for whatever air is willing sacrifice itself to my lungs as I press my back against the cliff that is hiding me from the summation of nine months training.
“Don’t blow it”, I whisper to myself out loud. I lay my bow down next to me, making sure the aluminum body doesn’t bang up against the rock. Shit… you could hear a cricket piss the air is so still. Hurricane force wind for five days and at this exact moment in time I sit in a perfect vacuum.
My head eeks its way over the rock barrier, like a shy groundhog popping it’s head out of it’s hole in hopes of a tasty insect in its near perimeter.
The insect is there, right where I left hi.
Get a true yardage this time. Do it slowly. Make pretend this isn’t a big deal. Remember what you learned from the previous days’ blown stalks.
35 yards. That’s one third of a second flight time. An easy toss of a football. Nine strides of an elk. And the lunar distance from sure success.
The arrow nock clicks into place, I twist my peep clockwise, look between my red and yellow pin and run through the shot as the synapses in my brain fire like the pistons in an F1 formula car.
“Stop overthinking it.” The bow is drawn back as I twist counterclockwise and stand up.
He sees me, but has no idea what I’m doing. A steep quartering away shot at an even steeper angle. His eyes bore into me and I do my best to ignore him. His girlfriend throws out a snort and stomps like a pissed off hussy waiting to leave the club.
“Hold on sweetheart, you’ll get your chance to run.”
I pick my spot and imagine how the arrow will play out. Go time.
The arrow bends and waivers from the raw energy it holds as it screams through the rest. Released from my influence, now has it’s own job to do.
He sees it coming, but is frozen. I wonder to myself if this will be the way I go out, looking at death coming straight for me, but too paralyzed with fear to do a damn thing about it. You come into this world screaming with fear of the unknown and leave it horrified at the realization you have no control how you’re gonna go out.
That distinct “thud” brings me back into the moment. Left of the spine about halfway back. Without hesitation the arrow continues to release its pent up energy out the chest of the mulie.
I sit back baffled as the mulie fires up the afterburners and makes for the other side of the high alpine bowl. Like a kid stung by a hornet, there is no particular destination that will ease the pain, just getting the hell away from spot that caused it is good enough.
He acts oddly, as one would think when a 29 inch shaft of carbon and aluminum lead by a pair of razor gills blows through its pipework. He tears ass for several hundred yards, then stops on a dime, and does short, tight circles. Then takes off again like he was being chased by Lucifer himself.
“Shit... “ I say to no one in particular. “How did I botch that one up?”
Perhaps a bit high, but I thought that would have pinned him to the ground.
Mule deer hunting in the high country of Colorado can be dramatic to say the least.
The glass comes back out and I follow him for next two and a half hours. He spooks other deer as they see death on his face and they run away like it’s a contagious disease.
Finally he comes to a rest and lays down two thirds the way up the mountainside. There’s no trees to hide him from my vision as we are well above treeline.
My mind races to a couple scenarios I hoped I would never have to face. Wait him out? Stalk in for another shot? Call in for an airstrike?
My gut tells me put another arrow in him. Research tells me to wait him out. My lack of contacts and resources tell me the airstrike is not an option.
I think about the blog articles, the books and the old timers that preached waiting them out to die. Something about that just doesn’t seem right. I have to be honest, I’ve never been in this situation. Every big game animal I shot settled into its deathbed within a hundred yards.
I was on foreign soil here. So like a sucker, I ignore my gut and opt to follow protocol.
My glass stays on him until I can’t tell if I’m looking at the mountainside or the inside of Hitler’s soul.
I crawl into my sleeping bag defeated and proceed into a night of lucid dreams about having to wrestle a deer in hand to hand combat for his life. My conscious has always reeked havoc on my dreams when I think I made the wrong decision. This wasn’t the first time and I can assure you, it won’t be the last.
Donkey kicking off my sleeping bag in a fever dream, I wake up and am determined to finish what I started.
The spotter is still set up from the night before and I settle into it.
I knew before I even looked… gone.
“You knew he would be, don’t act surprised”
“Don’t give me that, it was a coin flip, either way we were wrong.”
As the sun struggles with an appearance from behind the clouds, so does the voices within. I make short work of becoming enemies with myself this morning.
“You go with your gut and give the middle finger to the magazines, the Youtube videos and all the so called experts. They make a living by having an opinion on what you do out here. There are too many variables in any given situation in the deep to try to sum it up in one neatly wrapped article.The only expert is that primal beast you tap into when you put yourself in these neolithic situations. If you stopped fighting it and let it take over, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
I can’t find a valid argument to that. Hind sight is a bitch, but I know down to my toes, that if I went in for that stalk to finish him, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
“Let go, damn it. Why do you carry that outside shit in here with you? You’re alone in the middle of nowhere because you didn’’t want any outside influence. You wanted to tap into those raw times when people didn’t just do this for sport, they did it to survive. If they didn’t make that connection, they didn’t eat. This isn’t a fucking game. Your hands wounded something and didn’t do the right thing because you looked to the outside for help. You wanted control because that is how you live your life day in and day out. Instinct has all but gone out of the window with you. Let go.”
Glassing for mule deer
We have liftoff.
And just like that, the hands left the steering wheel. The car slowly listed towards the median as I let go of control while simultaneously going out of it. Expectations, disappointment and most of all control left the atmosphere.
Slide her on cruise control, put the seat back and let go of the wheel. I want to be first to say to you; welcome to DAY FIVE*.
* Five days in the backcountry seems to be the magical time where my outside influences are forgotten or dropped. I truly believe if you aren’t staying this long in the backcountry, you aren’t hunting in your most primal state, you are merely chasing game. This isn’t good or bad, both have their ups and downs and there is a reason for each.
Side note: I spent the rest of the day clearing out every living creature from that high alpine bowl. What little blood I did find lead to nowhere. Every tree, rock and nook was searched. Nothing. Losing him was a strong reminder to stay humble out there. I never left the hunting grounds with more enthusiasm and determination to make myself a better hunter. 3d competitions, Tom Brown’s tracking classes and all sorts of other training was set into motion the moment I stepped in my front door. I know we can’t control all factors in the backcountry, but I owe it to the animals I chase to eliminate as many as I can. Afterall, they pay for my mistakes with a wasted kill. Become the most proficient hunter you can before you step into that woods, then, well then let go of the illusion of control and trust your instincts.
// Fred
Brain Leather
“Do the thing and you will have the power.”
Vague at best. Yet ever since I first mouthed that sentence, it has crept into the stem that holds my brain in place with increasing frequency. I find myself subconsciously repeating this little statement when there is a hard decision to make. Maybe not even hard decisions, but ones that will require some effort on my part. Something that is easy to do, but just as easy not to. The small decisions that when made, keep us from having to make the big decisions.
Well here was a small decision. I needed to get the hell out of Denver and escape the heat of my festering neighborhood. I called a good buddy to see if he wanted to venture up to the high country to sling some arrows (that's what we tell our significant others at least) and for some general bullshitting. He's in.
Fifty arrows later, three worn out dogs and a roaring campfire with the conversation greased up by some Yuenglings, we get on one of my favorite conversations; the conversation of success.
Of course this starts off with hunting stories of our heroics, but my partially inebriated brain is drawing some correlations to success in more general terms. Work, family, love, and life. You know, the little things.
We go through the obvious culprits that breed success: Drive, hard work, being at the right place at the right time. Nothing new here. But that voice, that incessant voice that has been reverberating through my core says "Do the thing and you will have the power".
Enough already. I want the power, but what the hell is the thing? These damn riddles with their open ended interpretations. Give me the answer and I'll do whatever it takes. But we all know by now that it isn't the answer that matters, but the questions we ask.
I snap back into it as Shaun is discussing physical toughness, him being a personal trainer, it seems like the natural place to take the conversation.
"This attribute is what leads to success in the forest chasing game that we could never hope to match in strength. These animals do this for a living. They punch in to the clock the day they're born and don't punch out until my arrow slices through their heart or the nagging from their old lady makes them end it themselves. And all the time in between they are honing their skills to make me look like a fool while chasing them." he explained.
Meanwhile I sat behind a computer well into the night working towards the "worlds pastiest" award for computer nerds, I think to myself. I have to say I think I'm a step ahead of the competition.
"That can't be it. I have a better chance at winning the bronze medal in women's gymnastics than I do out performing an elk's physical toughness." I fire back through the haze.
"Glad to see you're still with us." comes Shaun's retort.
Ignoring this, I continued on. "You see, I'm often successful on my hunts. And I've thrown luck out the window when I heard Selma Hayek married that rich fella, so I refuse to believe it's that. As for physical strength, I agree it helps, but unless I punch an elk to death, it's not that either.
"Yea, but physical toughness is one of the ingredients for mental toughness." Shaun said.
"Now you're on it."
Mental toughness. Everything else is just a part of what leads to this. The thing. This is what separates the Cameron Haneses from the rest of us. This is what we strive to gain in the off season, gain with every naysayer attempting to crush our dreams because they refuse to chase theirs. We gain or lose this with every decision, whether we know it or not. Mental toughness, the THING!
Mental toughness is the stacking of experiences, physical toughness (depending on the situation), drive and above all our integrity. Yes integrity, the ability to be honest with ourselves. NEVER making excuses as to why we didn't succeed.
Excuses quite simply, are lies. Lies to ourselves to protect our egos and lies to those we seek to impress and/or hate to let down. Make them enough and we start to believe them to be true. We are creating our own reality after all.
We then become victims of our circumstances and don't take our lives into our own hands. We wait for others to hand us what we deem as "ours" by right. And if we don't get it, the fault is never our own. Instead we have an excuse in our back pockets ready to be pulled out when the first signs of hard work are in site.
Do the thing and you will have the power... DO. Not "I'll give it my best shot" and when I can't accomplish it, I'll have an excuse ready to cuddle my poor ego and tell it that everything will be alright. DO THE THING.
"You with me there buddy?" I heard Shaun through the fire.
A sharp pain in my stomach faded me back into reality.
I felt the landing gear settle into place. Stewardesses prepare for landing, we're bringing this bird down.
"Uh... yea. I'm here." I paused. "I have to go do the thing."
Shaun gave me a puzzled look as I walked towards the truck to grab a roll of toilet paper.
"I'm going to go do the thing behind that bush... Maybe tomorrow it'll give me the power." I mutter behind me as I waddled off into the woods.
Not sure, but I think I may have missed the point of what Ralph meant.
// Fred
Visit with Kifaru International
A steady wall of snow pounds my windshield as I drive to an appointment at the warehouse district of Denver. Any form of outdoor activity has been thrown out the window for the day--playing with snow at this time of year is about as appealing to me as driving in it. So I pick the lesser of the two evils. "Six more weeks you say? How is it that you are right more often than a weatherman with every form of technology at his disposal?" Comes the mumble out of my mouth. That damn groundhog and his eerily spot-on predictions.
I'm at Kifaru International for a tour of sorts. After meeting one of their ranks, Aron Snyder, at a little death march he puts together for offseason training, I'm invited to stop by and have a look at their operations. Aron's a fella that plays the part of knowing what the hell he's talking about when it comes to the needs of the backcountry.
Picture G.I. Joe taken from the big screen, bow in hand, a plug of Copenhagen horseshoed in his lower lip and the ability to motivate a group of guys to throw fifty pound packs on their back and march up a hill just for the" fun of it".
If he's this dedicated to helping others achieve their training goals, I'd be curious to see what his motivation does for the Kifaru lineup.
Deceptively Small
I step through the front door and all seems normal. A display room with a bunch of packs hanging from the wall and some well placed taxidermy.
From the back room a bald headed, linebacker looking gorilla walks towards me. A smile comes across my face as I am reaffirmed yet again the direction our sport is headed. I'm pumped to be a part of this revolution. From weekend hobbyists to fully committed mountain athletes and guys like this are spearheading the charge.
The ceremonial handshakes are given and we get right to it.
"Come on back, I want you to see something." Aron says.
We head to a back room, where it became apparently obvious that this is where ideas are hashed out and put to paper. A printer the size of a Volkswagen sits poised and ready to vomit out paper according to its masters wishes. And this case, it's master is Erik Bender, one of Kifaru's product designers.
"What do you think of this?" Erik points to a new concept the team has been working on. "Would you use it in the field?"
Alright then, I'm guessing these guys aren't afraid to ask for an outsider's opinion. I turn the prototype over in my hands and slowly start to see the many ways this could make my life easier when I'm away from the comforts of home.
"We've been working on it since this morning. I want to test it out on an upcoming trip." Aron explains.
My mind reels. Spitting out a prototype in four hours time is nothing to take too lightly. If creations evolve through generational turnover, this business model is sure to keep Kifaru ahead of the game.
"How did you get this designed and created in four hours?" Comes what I deemed as logical question.
"That's the next stop in the tour." Aron says as he motions me out of the room and into the bowels of the building.
I should have known something was amiss when I walked into the tiny showroom. That was just a fraction of what the building held.
M'erica
The heart of Kifaru is here, where hands are creating the products that the rest of us depend on to haul our life supporting gear into the backcountry.
People glide between monster sewing machines and grommet presses. You can feel the room pulse with the pride of its operators.
"Nothing that goes into our gear is from anywhere but right here in the USA. Not the material, not the zippers, not a single stitch comes from foreign soil." Aron explains. I can tell this point is important to him, Aron coming from a military background and all.
American pride runs strong through the pipe works of this place, apparently down to the last stitch.
"We are able to remain nimble because of this room right here." Aron continues. “We can concept an idea in the morning and have it created by the afternoon. Test it, refine it, then produce it. All right here."
"I remember that pack you were wearing on our training hike. Do you know why you were struggling and falling behind?"
As one to always let my ego get in the way, I respond, "Because I was carrying more weight than everyone else?"
"Unlikely. Because the pack you were carrying can't hold weight for shit." He says with a straight face.
I could tell he wasn't bad mouthing the brand of pack that I was using, just making an honest assessment of the situation.
"And your guy's packs have a way of defying gravity huh? They work on a different law of physics?" I couldn't help myself.
"Just try this." Comes his patient response.
He hefts a nearby pack on my back. I go through my procedure of buckling it down and bounced around a bit.
"Not bad. Super stable." Comes my response.
"That's 60 pounds." He smiles.
A dumbfounded look comes over my face. Newton might have missed this one. I've lifted small babies that felt heavier than this.
"The right fit and a well thought out suspension system can go a long way." Aron states.
We push on through the factory with Aron pointing out some of the highlights to their designs. All very hunter specific type of stuff. A sleeping bag that zips in the front to allow for glassing while still in the bag, a lightweight backcountry teepee, a wood burning stove that collapses small enough to allow for a small leprechaun to fit it in his back pocket. You know, stuff like that.
I've never seen anything like this in the market before. My gut tells me that once this stuff gets in front of the public's eye, the sky is the limit for Kifaru.
"So where are these ideas coming from?" I ask.
"Heard of Mountainsmith?" Aron's eyebrow went up as he asks a question he already knows the answer to.
"Indeed I have." Comes my response.
"Patrick Smith founded, owned and was the lead designer back in the day. Today, he owns Kifaru. The guy knows what's what in the game and has hired the best to help support and advance the company." Aron explains.
That's like Bill Gates going out and starting another software company, it's bound to have at least a little success.
After digging a little deeper, it sure appears that Smith is the real deal. His background alone speaks wonders, but that's not what impresses me the most. After decades working in the industry, his enthusiasm for perfection hasn't appeared to wane. He spends over 200 days a year camping out and testing his designs to this day. How many of us have that level of dedication to our work?
"Impressive." Is the only keenly witted response that comes to mind.
Drinking the Kool-Aid
I liked what I saw in Kifaru. An all American company with experience and dedication all the way from the helm to the employees manning the machines. All the elements of a successful company were certainly there, but the proof is in the pudding as they say.
"Next time we're out training and you're handing me my ass on the mountain, I'll throw one of those 60 pound gravity defying packs and see what it can do." I say to Aron as I walk to the door.
"Oh the pack will do fine, it's whether those chicken legs of yours will carry you up the hill. That is the question you should be asking yourself." Comes the response.
Like the weather man, technology will only take you so far. And like that damn ground rat said, I still have six more weeks until spring. That should be plenty of time to get these chicken legs in backcountry shape.
//Fred
After doing a little online research about the creator/owner of Kifaru, Patrick Smith, I knew I had to find a way in there to talk to this guy. He was kind enough to grant me a meeting, which I recorded because my memory is shot to hell, so remembering what he said would be out of the question and I can't read my own handwriting, so there was strike two. Recording the conversation proved to be the way to go.
What I ascertained from the meeting is that this guy was a certified badass, no question about it.
So next up, some deep down insight on the hunting industry from one of its pioneers. Will it be Hunting the Rat's first podcast? Or another poorly spelled post? We'll just have to see.
New Mexico Pig
This time of year has been known to set me off in a panic. Just when I should be mellowing out after a long season, my inner conscious of a locomotive goes crashing into my thoughts without attempting to even pump the brakes. “Hey dipshit, it ain’t over until you say it’s over.”
We’ve always had it out for each other. To be honest, he’s really always had it out for me. I consider myself a nice guy, but him… man he can really cut.
Not wanting to raise the beast’s temper any further, I give in. I figure I have enough sessions of therapy coming my way, pissing off my inner self will only add to it.
OK so what to hunt? Coyote in the eastern plains of Colorado? Meh, might be fun, but I’ve done it before and it’s lacking in adventure. Besides Mother Nature has decided it wants to rescind on our temperate winter and instead puke a bunch of the white stuff on us this weekend.
It’s February and I’m over the cold. Even more so I’m over complaining about the cold and doing nothing about it. I want to be in my Speedos and flip-flops chasing aggressive animals through the thorn infested deserts of the south.
Mexico is kinda dicey right now, what with them having these small tiffs over drugs or something of the sorts. So that’s out.
Texas? Not feeling the love there either. I’m told it’s easier to find a patch of clothing on a Playboy bunny than it is to find a piece of public land to hunt there. True or not, I think I’ve found a better option.
Time to pack the bow and mosey my way on down to New Mexico. It’s just the newer version of Mexico right? What could go wrong!
I figured it’s long time that I did my patriotic duty and help eradicate a non-indigenous species of the south. Calm down bleeding heart liberals, I’m talking about feral pigs.
After a bit of online research and talking with the Fish and Game, I’m setting my eyes on the Capitan Mountains. If that fails to produce, on to Roswell for a little alien glassing and pig hunting in the Pecos River.
The work schedule is cleared and the gear is packed. Wish me luck. If you New Mexicans see a pale looking fella running threw the cactus in a well-fitted Speedo with a pair of Kenetrek flip-flops, give a wave and try to hold of on calling the mental health clinic. I assure you this is all a well-formulated plan!
//Fred
Keep and eye out for the report on this haphazardly planned expedition. In the meanwhile here are some great resources I’ve found to plan the hunt.
Resources//
Posts on the subject
New Mexico Fish and Game Contact
Tomorrow
I've learned to hate that word, tomorrow. It's never really sat well with me, not when I was a kid and not now. "Don't worry sweetie, we'll go tomorrow." I'd hear and wonder to myself why tomorrow was a better option than today.
It's become a lame excuse; a way to put off what should be done today in hopes that it will be easier the next day. It's almost as bad as "someday", only this lie inflicts more damage.
At least with "someday" you never really believe that you're going to accomplish what follows that word, nor does anyone else you're proclaiming this statement to. It's a harmless, far off dream that you never really intend to chase anyway.
"Tomorrow" on the other hand is the true killer. It allows us to believe just enough that we are really going to obtain that goal, that we really are as committed as we wish we were. That tomorrow we will take the necessary steps to wrestle that dream to the ground and make it ours.
The lie needs to stop if we want to take what is ours. There is no tomorrow, but there is a today.
Post Season Post Mortem
As my season comes to an end, I look back at the good and bad of what went down. What I was happy with and what I vow to change. It's the perfect time to reflect, as the pain of defeat still festers like an open wound, burning enough to make us want to avoid its repetition. Looking back allows us to systematically go over what led us to failure and take steps to avoid letting it happen again the next year. Sure there are instances that we have no control over, some would call it bad luck. But those are few and far between and if we're honest with ourselves, we more than likely had some control over those situations.
So what was it that kept you from success?
I'll review some of mine with you and hopefully we can look into some of yours as well. Write down what prevented you from success and come up with clear and concise ways to solve the problem. Don't wait for tomorrow to do it. Fire up your word processor, get out a piece of paper or scribe it into your forearm, I don't care how you do it, just do it!
Work
This one, well this one gets in the way for most of us. I missed my most coveted hunt this year because the "need" to work. What actually caused it was the lack of planning. I allowed myself to get caught up in work because I didn't plan far enough ahead to get the required work done in order to free my time up for this hunt.
How will I resolve this?
Once I have the dates of the hunt in the calendar, it's set in stone. Just like a meeting with a client would be treated. This is time that I make with myself to pursue what makes me happy. Don't put off what you love on the back burner because of lack of planning. Treat yourself as your most important client and don't accept "no" for an answer.
Preparing for War
Not being prepared equates to excuses in the field. We as humans have the ability to come up with an excuse for just about anything.
"It was too cold out there, the animals were hunkered down and out of sight."
"I missed the shot because the moon was in my eyes."
The list goes on. The funny thing about these excuses is at the time, they seem legitimate. When we have a chance to look back we realize that we actually created them in order to get us out of an uncomfortable or painful situation.
There are three things that make it onto my list of being prepared for long backcountry hunts.
Physical Training
I know, this is all the rage these days. There's a good reason it's popular, it freakin' works. Feeling physically powerful when I'm deep in the woods affects more than just what I can carry in and carry out. It makes me feel like I'm the king of the domain, that I'm quieter, faster and more in tuned to my surroundings. It has a profound mental effect on how we see ourselves at the head of food chain, not just some tourist asking permission to spend a few days in the animals' kingdom. Don't underestimate the underlying effects of physical strength.
How do I prepare for this?
I treat hunting the same way I treat any other competition I involve myself in. I train like I'm going to the Olympics for bow hunting or upland game hunting in the backcountry. I find competitions such as Train to Hunt and sign up for them. I don't allow myself the excuse of not attending these events because of a lack of preparation. I go to the event regardless of how much I trained, not allowing excuses to keep me from the embarrassing failure that is sure to follow if I don't prepare myself properly.
I also sign up for bike and adventure races. We as hunters are naturally competitive, let that push you to the next level.
Leadville 100
Mental Training
Training should include more than just the physical aspect. Breaking down mentally has sent many a hunter home empty handed. What about the ability to handle the loneliness of the backcountry? A day can feel like a week when you're out there by yourself, especially if you don't know how to handle all that time alone. The mind wanders into odd, sometimes all to revealing arenas when it doesn't have the stimulation from our day to day interactions.
This is probably what causes most people to quit. Something will always come up on why you should walk out, there will be no lack of excuses, I can assure you that.
How do I prepare for this?
Get out there and see what your mind does when you're by yourself. I started out with just going a night by myself, as to not freak myself out. I take a notepad with me and write down whatever excuses that start to come up on why I should leave. This may not happen the first time you're out there, but keep this pad with you as you start to lengthen your stay in the backcountry.
Once you have a list, you can start to analyze it from the comfort of your home. What comes up out there?
Example: I noticed a pattern about myself when I would get lonely. If I didn't see any game moving about in a relatively short amount of time, I would convince myself that they weren't there and that I should just pack up my gear and head out. After all it was futile to be out there hunting if there weren't any animals to hunt.
The thing is, I knew there was game out there. I allowed myself the cop out of walking out because I was uncomfortable being alone in an unfamiliar area, not because there wasn't any game. It was just a convenient coincidence that I didn't see any game at that immediate time. A convenient excuse. By being able to analyze it later, I was able to see my weakness and not allow myself to succumb to it again. Find your weaknesses then make them your strengths.
Gear
This is a fun one. I'm a total gear head and love trying to find the perfect combination of equipment to become as efficient as I can in the backcountry. There certainly isn't a lack of it these days. There are several hunting companies that built their brand around making strong, lightweight equipment that would make any alpinist jealous. Because of these options, we also have an unlimited number of excuses as to why we can't hack it, blaming equipment failure instead of our own. Know that your gear functions properly ahead of time and you can scratch it out of the excuse equation.
How do I prepare for this?
We have plenty of time to scout and camp with friends and loved ones during the spring and summer to test our gear. Use this time to hone your system in. Again I carry that same little notebook I talked about earlier to help me perfect my gear choices. I write everything down that I am using on that camping or scouting trip. I check off what I end up using and make notes of what I only use occasionally. Anything that doesn't get used at the end of the trip has to have a damn good justification on why it will be with me the next time (ie. just because you don't use your first aid kit, doesn't mean you shouldn't bring it the next time out, use common sense here). I even refine my list on hunts. The key thing is make sure that everything you're taking with you has justification for being out there with you. Look for ways of doubling up on uses.
Example: If you're taking Mountain Houses with you, don't take bags to use for your garbage. An empty Mountain House works terrific as a garbage bag. The top seals back up preventing all of its now nasty contents to stay securely within.
That's the start of it. Get a plan laid out and do it NOW, not tomorrow. Tomorrow is for suckers.
What's your excuse? Hit me up in the comments below and let's get a conversation going.
//Fred
Colorado Pheasant Hunt
I stood over the kitchen counter, jaw gaping, as I poured over the autopsy report. The results were in and there was no use questioning it. I mean facts are facts. "You've got to be kidding me." Was all I could manage to get out. "Not a single BB, not a broken bone, nothing. There is no damage to this bird."
"Maybe he had a heart attack Doc. Did you run your diagnostics on his circulatory system?" Came Hazel's grinning retort.
At this point I think she was tired of me harping on the subject. But damnit, it was a subject well worth harping over. CNN worthy, maybe not, but Fox news will air any damn thing, so this should be running as their top story by morning.
I mean one pheasant down and not a single shot fired all weekend. There's a story there and I would love to be the hero of this drama, but I'm afraid I wasn't. I was walking along, an audience member gawking up at the stage just like the rest of the hunters that witnessed the events.
I carry on. Let's get to the meat of it.
The sun was just making it's lazy appearance over the horizon as Hazel, some of her more adventurous family members, two hyper dogs and I pushed out into the field. We spread out wide, letting the dogs work between us. This field has often produced an appearance by a ringneck or two, the problem being the undergrowth is usually so dry that they hear us from a mile away.
That day was no different, add some crunchy snow to the mix and we might as well have called them on the phone to let them know we were coming.
"Are those pigeons taking off out ahead of us?" Came an accented question, thick with the ring of Tagalog. (Don't worry, I thought that word had something to do with a bad guy in Lord of the Rings as well, until my girlfriend filled me in. They speak it in the Philippians.)
"No those aren't pigeons." I grumbled. "That's what a pheasant looks like at three hundred yards."
I hate bringing new hunters out only to show them how not to do things.
We pushed towards thicker cover, hoping that they might be holding tighter in its security.
Sage was out in front, so birdy that I was waiting for the sound of a cracked whip to come from his tail.
"That good, huh buddy?" I whispered to him as words of encouragement.
At this point he might as well have been in another universe; zoned in, doing what he was born to do. A single motivating purpose, not flittering between twenty different things like the rest of us A.D.D. riddled humans, but a precision focus to rival any Olympic athlete.
God I love this dog.
I was not the only one taking notice. My fellow hunters were starting to put an eye towards him as well.
His hard work paid off and he was tight up on a bird's ass. I readied myself with my Citori, naturally working its way to the most efficient snap position, but there was no need.
Out went Sage in a fury. Up rocketed a beautiful ringneck pheasant in a picture perfect takeoff.
Before my double barrel began its approach to my shoulder, Sage was in the air, stretched out to his full length and meaning business. Three years of flushing countless birds for me and this time, well this time he was taking one for himself.
Just as the bird's landing gear came up, Sage had his mouth wrapped around him. Down they both went in a tumble.
"Haaazzzeellll diiiiidddd yooou seeeee thaattt!!!" Came the slow motion response to the utter disbelief of what we all witnessed.
She shook her head, knowing that this incident would give me one more reason to put my pup up on a pedestal.
Sage trotted over to me, pulled in tight to my side and held the bird until I gave him the release; just as he had done a hundred other times.
Proper hunting dog etiquette be damned.
//Fred
Your pup ever pull off a stunt like this? Let's hear about it in the comments below!
Southeastern Colorado Scaled Quail
I'm a mountain man, to that I have no doubt. Ninety Nine percent of the time I'll take to the steeps, leave the flatlands for those wanting to milk cows and mow grass. The mystery the mountains possess have kept me entranced since I was a little scooter wandering the Appalachians with my BB-gun. That "What's over the next ridge?" mentality pushed me deeper into the woods than a little fella should have been, the same holds true for this not so little fella today. So you got your calculator out and did the math; that leaves a lingering one percent floating around, right? If not the mountains, then where?
The plains of course! The ones I was just poking fun at of in the opening paragraph. Hypocrite, I know.
Though my gravitational pull will always be towards the vertical world, the plains certainly has its own charm. Like the ocean, it's vast expanse is almost intoxicating in a homogonous way. Its unobstructed horizon has a beauty and magnificence of its own, not for its neck craning majesty but certainly for the magnitude of its vastness.
It was time to get lost in some emptiness. The dust bowl region of southeastern Colorado would do just the trick. The quarry? Quail. Scaled quail to be exact. Two days of wandering aimlessly through native grasslands with the occasional broken down homestead was in order.
The Jeep was packed, foot on the gas with enough caffeine consumed to keep the eyelids pried open until the next millennium. This raiding party was headed out when the rest of the heathens (I like to call the that when I take the rare instance of not joining them) were headed home from last call.
Birds were shot, dogs were worked and we were all tired and happy. My fix of the plains was thoroughly satiated.
Enough of my babble, enjoy the pics... I have some cows that need milking and a lawn to mow.
Pheasant Hunting with the Family
My sister, Becky, and I never really got along as kids. This following statement won't be a revelation to anyone; most siblings don't get along at a young age. But we had a distinct disadvantage and I won't candy coat it for you; I was a dick. Most kids squabble over who gets to name the cat. Not me (oddly enough that was what she ended up naming it, Not Me), so long as I got to "decorate" her cat. The screams ensued while I looked helplessly at my parents, figuring I improved the situation by making the ugly fur ball into what looked like an Amish quilt with legs. I mean who doesn't want their cat painted in a plethora of colors from Sharpie pens? And what's more, who wouldn't want them coated from head to tail? Time went on, she may or may not have forgiven me and we both moved away to different colleges. As often happens with distance, lines of communication were stifled. After school I made my way out west as many people do to find themselves. What is it about that cardinal direction that brings us hope in starting anew? Perhaps it was the western movies I grew up watching with my dad that told me the answer was out there. Funny enough, it was.
She one upped me and moved further west to San Diego. Maybe she had more to figure out than I did. We gained a few things in common; we both lost our vegetarian ways and we both started to take on the mountain-man attributes of our father. She got the beard and I got the affinity towards flannel. I guess we both made out ok.
Thanksgiving for my group of friends has been a long tradition. A Friendsgiving of sorts, created out of necessity. We were all poor and didn't have the money to get home to see our families. My sister and her husband Chris have been making it out for the event for quite a few years to join in the debauchery that we loosely called a holiday.
This year was the same, they made the long drive out from San Diego, with the car packed down, looking like they were headed to a booth at the local flea market.
Hunting became a part of Becky and her husband, Chris's, life and for the second year in a row we were going to head out to the eastern plains of Colorado to get them their first pheasants. That was the unsuccessful plan last year and it continued to be the plan this year.
We left for the plains at 3:00am on Black Friday. Along the way I hyped them up on stories of a successful opener this year and how the cover had made a comeback to rival the New York Giants 2012 Super Bowl win.
Sunrise in the Colorado plains.
The morning sun set the horizon into flames as we parked at a field that looked to have potential.
"Let the dogs do the work, you just worry about knocking the right ones out of the sky. Look for the long tails and gaudy feathers, those are the ones you want to hit." I said with a smirk as we spread out into the field.
They must have smelled my confidence coming and high tailed it, because there wasn't a bird to be found.
Field after field the same rang true. Panic set in, as this felt awful familiar. If this was anything like last year's hunt, I might lose my big brother's guide status. These two have never shot at a pheasant and I desperately wanted to instill a sense of success with them.
We pressed on until our legs could take no more. Off to the hotel, maybe a good night's sleep would reset the frustration button.
The next morning was a glorious previous. We set out into the fields in search of that one pheasant dumb enough to stay within shooting range. There had to be at least one left that had been held back in the first grade. There was and let me tell you we searched high and low for him.
We were creeping the car down a non-distinct back road that at first looked like all of the others, completely barren, and then there he was, standing in a flat field no further than 150 yards from us.
"There's one!" I whispered to the other two who were nodding in and out of sleep. With the way things had been going, I somehow rationalized to myself that these birds had bat-like hearing and cleared out before we approached the same county.
"In the middle of that bare field? There's not a blade of grass out there for him to hide under!" Becky said.
"He's trapped with no cover, and he sure as hell is gonna fly." I replied. " Let's see where he wants to go."
Shutting the doors quietly, we made a bee line for him. There was no way to conceal ourselves, so a straight shot at him was our only chance. Luckily we were on a big tract of public land, so unless he was headed south with the Canadian geese, we would find him.
Sure enough he rocketed off well out of shooting range. He took flight across the desolate field and made his way to a set of trees in an old stream bed.
"Look at that, he even picked an obvious landmark for us. We should drive around, I'm not sure if that field was just seeded and I'm not looking to piss off any farmers today." I said while double and triple checking the landmark.
We moved the car and made a plan.
"Becky, you take the top, right next to where the field meets the grass edge. Chris you take the thicker cover in the middle of the stream bed. I'll work the dogs in-between you two." Came the directions.
We were walking for about five minutes when I noticed the dogs weren't with us. Observant, I know. I turn around to see them both sitting. There is only one thing that would cause them to do that.
"Cactus." I muttered under my breath.
Their paws were so saturated with them that you couldn't find even find their pads. Out came the tweezers and the next ten minutes consisted of us pulling out these porcupine impersonators, then the dogs hopping into another patch just to start the process all over again. Much to their protest, Chris and I end up carrying the dogs out to the safety of the car.
"Let's try this again." I say with a sigh. "Same plan minus the dogs."
The wind was pushing straight at us. I knew this would slow the bird down on his flush, that was if he was still out there. I had a bad feeling that the temporary veterinary clinic that we had set up might have given the ring neck time to make the slip.
I kept my mouth shut about my fears and we pressed on; after all we were running out of options. At least we knew one was within the same vicinity.
There was the double tree landmark. I slowed down a little bit to allow Chris and my sister to get head. I wanted to see this, probably more than they wanted to find the bird.
Then it happened. Like a painting out of Gray's Sporting Journal, the rooster exploded out from my sister's feet, leaning his head forward, gaining speed, fighting for distance between himself and his executer.
One shot rang out.
A second later came a smile over my sisters face that I haven't seen since we were young children.
She picked up her bird and cradled it like a pet, smiling at it. The gesture made me thankful that she understood what she just did. Aside from his love of the outdoors, our father also instilled in the both of us respect for taking life.
"Way to go sis." Were the only words that I could get out of my mouth, poetry I know. My mind was racing with too many emotions to formulate anything more eloquent than that.
There was little else to say as we walked back to the car. My emotions eventually settle down and I realized I hadn't even picked on her yet.
"Guess I won't have to paint this pet for you, the man upstairs already did that." I nudged at her.
On the drive home, she took the bird in an out of her game bag, blown away by the beauty of the feather's explosive colors. I don't know what see was thinking about at that moment, but I was sure glad that I was there to see her get this victory.
"So we're hunting California for quail over Christmas right?" I asked as I looked at her through the rearview mirror.
"You're damn right we are."
//Fred
Pheasant Hunting, LaCreek, South Dakota
We have four days to get in, lay waste and get out. Heading up to South Dakota to chase pheasant has become a tradition for me over the last few years. I love my state of Colorado, but let's face it, it doesn't come close to the pheasant Mecca of South Dakota. Greg, Bryce and I, along with our four-legged crew packed up Greg's F-150 to the hilt and pointed her north. Lacreek is the destination, a National Wildlife Refuge that offers a fair amount of terrain to hunt that's an ideal distance from where we pay our mortgages; a mere six hours away.
There is a common theme with the trips Greg and I go on; we spend as little as possible and get the full value out of the day. This will be my first trip with Bryce, so his vote was already outnumbered. If he was hoping for a cushy hotel room, he had a rude awakening coming. He was going to be spending four glorious nights packed into the bed of a truck with two other stinky dudes. I always wonder why I get a sideways look from my girlfriend when I leave town explaining this exact plan. Women.
This obviously isn't Bryce's first rodeo when it came to road tripping on the cheap. Not a complaint was heard.
We come to a stop around 1:00 am at camp and crashed out with high hopes for the morning. Hopefully I haven't hyped up the area too much as I tend to do on long car rides. Neither of these guys have hunted this area and I'm sure they are looking to make some stories of their own after I regale them for endless hours on past feats of wing shooting in these hallowed grounds. They heard every irrelevant story that I could think of, and I now have the sneaking suspicion that they pretended to be asleep just to shut me up.
We woke up at a leisurely 8:00 am to cook burritos and coffee, getting the day started right. I won't lie and say that I don't like the enforced later start that South Dakota mandates. Taking your time before a hunt is a rare treat, we take full advantage of it.
Day 1
Thank God. The birds are everywhere. The pheasant gods have not made me a liar. We pummeled them hard in the rare warm weather the day offered up. I take the guys to the spots I know that have held pheasants in the past. They seem to have held to these same spots as if glued there. We all limited well before closing time.
Day 2 & 3
Now this was more like it. The temps dropped considerably as the winds pick up to a point where I kept looking for the engine of a 777 over my shoulder. The weather was brutal and the hunting even more so. As we leaned into the winds and searched for cover that we thought would protect the birds, we consistently saw them take off hundreds of yards ahead of us. It didn't matter if we were walking into the wind or with it, they spotted us. I know they get a little paranoid in the wind, but this was crazy. I looked to Greg and Bryce to see who had the guiltiest look.
"One of you two tipped them off." I said under my breath.
Due to some impressive shooting on the other guys' part, a few more birds were taken down in spite of the conditions.
Day 4
The cold and wind hadn't eased up. Actually it more than likely increased. We weren't stopping however, this was the last day and we wanted to put some birds on the ground. We started off in some fields I hadn't tried before. No more than 50 steps out of the truck and up flies a barrage of them. Bryce quickly puts one down and we moved on. The wind increased as we leaned into it and our eyes teared up from the cold.
I looked over at Greg and his pup Tikka as they stared at a bird hovering in the air, trying to gain distance from them in the headwind.
"Shoot it!" I yelled in the tearing wind.
Nothing.
I slowly mounted my 12 gauge to my shoulder and squeezed off what must have been the easiest shot I'd ever taken. Down plummeted the bird from its holding pattern.
"I forgot to tell you there are Sharpies out here as well!" I yelled over to Greg. We gathered around to take a look.
"First time I have seen one of those, looked like a hen pheasant with its tail feathers shot off." Greg relayed.
" There will be more." I warned as we headed off.
And there were. Maybe 60 or so more, but they weren't letting us near them. They took off at a mere 300 yard rifle shot from us. No dice.
The day was getting long and we decided to hop out of the refuge to check some other fields. Smart move. We saw some of the thickest cover of the trip and decided to barrel in head first.
Pheasants were everywhere. Gun shots rang out as birds fell from the sky. Birds were stuffed into game packs as closing time neared.
"One hell of a way to end our trip." I said to Sage, my lab, as we made our way out of the field.
The corners of his eyes were bloody with scratches from the thick cover, but if it hurts, he's sure wasn't showing it. This dog is a warrior. If they gave out Purple Hearts to canines, this guy would be lined with them from nose to tail.
We all make it back to the truck just before dark. Birds were cleaned with frozen hands in front of the piercing headlights of the F-150. Freezing and tired, we were nothing but smiles.
"There's no doubt, we're all starting a tradition out of this, right?" I asked as we cleaned.
Both looked at me like I was an idiot for even asking.
"Without a doubt. But with this tradition starts a new one. Stop being so cheap. Next year it'll be a cabin and the girls come up. No more sleeping next a bunch of dudes in the back of a freezing truck." Was Greg's reply.
"Done." Came my elated response.
I think my days of Ramen noodles and sleeping like a hobo are limited. It's time to welcome a bit of the good life.
//Fred
Lifestyle Design
“The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall.”
It's Tuesday morning and my eyes snap open as the alarm blares in my ear. In my peripheral the glow of the clock is telling me it's 2:15 am. Few thing will get me moving at this time of the morning, hunting is one of them, the other, well, I'm keeping this post PG.
At the sound, Sage is at my side and he knows as well as I do, it's been far to long since we put down some ducks. Time to remedy that situation.
I can tell you a long winded story about making my way back up to the mountains to take down water fowl, but I won't. This one right here will do that for you. However please look at the pretty pictures of Jon, Sage and what appears to be us hunting in Siberia.
What really has me smiling this early in the morning is the fact that it is Tuesday and I have the day to do as I please. Freedom. It's what Mel Gibson and Zack de la Rocha from Rage Against the Machine have in common, they both like to scream it. Add me to that roster, because this morning I have it as well and what I'm realizing more every day is that this freedom is bringing me happiness. And even what's more important to me is the fact that I'm finally making an effort to gain it for myself.
We are creatures of habit, to this I am certain. What I am also certain about is that more often than not, these habits are created for us, not by us. We are taught at a young age through excruciating repetition on how we are to behave to become conforming, contributing members of society. Let's keep the machine well greased and moving forward.
And that works, for a while at least. Then we hit a point where we start to question, "When the hell did I agree to this?"
So today, I don't agree with it. Tuesday is a workday, well not for me, at least this week. Tuesday is a hunting day. Tomorrow, I don't know, but every day I take a piece of that control back is a day that I find a piece of me that I never new I had.
No, I don't think Che Guevara would be patting me on the back for this little internal revolution. In fact, he might be punching me in the face for my political and social views, but that is irrelevant. What's important is that we take action and make the decisions that will create our own personal freedom. So join with me, take the step and design that lifestyle you've always wanted.
Oh yea, and go shoot some ducks.
// Fred
Colorado Pheasant Opener
“Nobody looks good in Speedos, nobody.”
Don't worry, you won't have to divert the children's eyes, all pictures are from the waist up. I'll spare you the Speedo shots.
That was about the only way to keep cool in the sweltering heat in the plains of Colorado on the pheasant opener. Al Gore might have a leg to stand on after all.
"So what time you wanna take off?" Is the question coming through the phone from Greg.
"Well lets see, sunrise is at 6:30 so we can start hunting them at 6:00. We should leave Denver at 2:30 am." comes my logical reply, thinking nothing of it.
"Oh, I see, pheasants are morning birds, huh?" then an awkward pause. "I should just be walking out of a show at The Boulder Theater by 2:30 am. That might cause a problem." Greg says in complete innocence.
Oh boy. I proceed to explain to him that in the plains for some reason, everything likes to get up early.
"Yea, they don't drink out in the plains like us mountain men do. Their birds don't have the common courtesy to make themselves available for shooting at a decent hangover hour." I reply.
The decision is made to meet at a parking lot at a more forgivable hour of 6:30 am, then make the three hour venture out east. We'll let the droves of orange clad flat-landers head in for a country breakfast, then pick up their scraps.
Four humans and five dogs (don't ask) pile into Greg's Ford F-150 and lay into the pedal, pointing towards the sun.
As the caffeine infused conversation rolls out, I take numerous double takes out the window. I notice that the cover is looking good, I mean really good. This could be promising.
We pull into one of my favorite spots and quickly have to double check the Walk in Access brochure to make sure we didn't get the date wrong. Aside from a cow or two, the land is empty.
I laugh nervously as I look at the brochure, then check my watch to make sure the dates line up.
"Yea, unless you hit 88 mph and threw the flux capacitor and we went back in time, it's the right day." I verify.
"It must be our timely arrival." Greg suggests.
And with that, the truck was thrown in park and everyone and everything fell out of our circus vehicle.
It felt good to walk the fields with my friends and a slew of dogs. After pounding the mountains and scrambling it's darn near vertical slopes chasing Duskies all fall, gliding along the horizontal prairie felt like a just reward.
What felt even better was to see the flatlands in remission. The barren wastelands that resembled a scene from Mad Max just a year ago, now showed signs of life. I wouldn't say it was a full on Grizzly Adams beard, but more like a Brooklyn hipster trying to imitate a lumberjack. The stubble looked promising.
The honey holes provided their honey. Out of the three flushes of the weekend, all three were roosters. I'm convinced Sage is learning to find only the males, an obsession of sorts, which might explain his love affair with his male brother from another mother, Braker.
"What can I say, my dog likes boys..." I say to no one in particular.
I'm a man of the times, I can handle my dog's "tastes".
We pack up and leave the rolling plains for the foothills of the Rockies. Everyone looks thoroughly exhausted as we settle in for the drive.
"I thought this flatland hunting was supposed to be easy." I half complain as I kick my boots off for the ride home.
"Try it on a few hours sleep." Greg says as his hands grip the steering wheel.
"I left a bottle of whiskey behind for the birds. Maybe that will put them on an equal playing field for next weekend."
The Broncos blare through the radio as another opener comes to a satisfying end.
A Hunter's Guide to Dusky Grouse
There isn’t an animal out there that is more exciting, explosive, frustrating and satisfying to hunt than the Dusky grouse. Well, at least in my mind there isn’t. Years have gone into research and scouting in order for me to just flush my first bird, let alone to recover from the ensuing heart attack caused by it’s thunderous take-off to get a hurried shot off. You may think I’m a slow learner and I would have to agree with you, but sometimes the things hardest learned are the things we learn best. Easy money is easily lost, right? Same goes for the hard knocks of the outdoors and grouse hunting. So here is a guide to what I have learned chasing these mountain chickens every fall for the last few blessed years. You may disagree with every tactic written below, hell I would expect at least some of it to raise some eyebrows. Keep an open mind and use what you can to help you out. If nothing else, look at the pretty pictures, smile and think to yourself, “At least this guys isn’t going to wipe out the population for the rest of us.” Enjoy.
Escape - Know What They Are Thinking And Use It Against Them
This quite simply can be the single most important factor once you have a general idea of where they’re at. We’ll get to food and elevation shortly, the two other important factors in finding them. I’ve walked through perfect habits, I mean the correct elevation and a buffet fit for a grouse king and not seen a single bird. What I started to notice is that there are plenty of areas at the right altitude and food, but the ones that hold the birds alway have a quick escape route close by. And what constitutes an escape route for these bombers consists of is quick elevation change. They love it steep, pure and simple. They are used to being chased by coyotes more than humans, so the trees is a logical spot to avoid them. If they can flap their wings five times and make it to safety, they’ll call it good enough and do just that. So the steeper the ground, the quicker they can get to the tree tops (think back to those trigonometry days… you there yet? Wow, you were quicker than I was, good job!)
A nearby cliff works just as well. I find they are more likely to be in flatter grounds if there is a cliff within a couple hundred yards. Same laws apply as above.
So how do we take advantage of this information? One way is to get in-between them and their escape route. Walking uphill and flushing them can throw them for a loop and make them a good bit easier to shoot at. Coming at them from this angle usually forces them to fly straight up to clear you (or your four-legged friend) before they maneuver themselves downhill and nine times out of ten, they will fly downhill. This helps us look like rockstars behind the scatterguns and keeps the pooches happy when your not shooting inches over their head. This works as well with cliffs by having your dog or hunting buddy kick them out and you cut them off. Important Note*: Careful hunting your dog around drop-offs for obvious reasons, they don’t always think before they go chasing after the retrieve. (Yea, yea, get your dog steady to wing and shot and this isn’t a problem. My pup’s current Union contract clearly states that these rules don’t apply to him.)
Classic dusky grouse terrain.
Elevation Usually Equals Food
Reverse migrators, a quirky habit of these guys. When you start your season you’ll be chasing them in the lower elevation sage brush/aspen edges. Just as the snow starts coming in they pack their bags and head up higher to the conifers. Now, I never claimed they're logical creatures. But I guess in a certain way it makes sense. They are following the food. It goes something like this. Bugs, berries, leaves then needles. Now this isn’t an exact science. I’ve seen bugs, leaves and berries in the gullets all at the same time. So this is useless information right? Not really. Here is a breakdown on where and when I hunt them. Please note this can vary according to where you live. I’m in Colorado and hunt the Western Slope. This is also assuming it is a “normal” weather year (I know, there is no such thing in Colorado, let’s make pretend). It could be totally different in Idaho. So I won’t give you exact elevations, but I think you can put a good guess on what it will be like in your area according to this:
1st - 3rd Week of September: I hunt sage fields that have have aspen patches nearby. Again, some type of angle to the land is crucial. Escape always applies. If you see grasshopper jumping about, you’re in a prime food location and they should be around. Berry patches (currants) are a slam dunk as well. Look for small trickling streams. This is super important this time of year as it can get damn hot out and they like to cool their throats down. If the heat is cranked up, I also look for nearby, small patches of conifers where they tend to hide in the shade, attempting to cool off.
4th Week of September - 2nd Week of October: I’m getting into the denser/taller aspens by now. I never really find them in the sapling aspens like I hear that Ruffed grouse love so much, but rather the bigger trees where they can get a purchase on a solid branch after they flush. The trickling stream isn’t quite as important as they’re feeding on leaves that probably give them enough water at this point. If there are any berries left, hunt around them.
3rd Week of October - Mid November: All the good tasting stuff is gone so we’re in the pines. This is their primary food source for the winter. Again a good angle seems to be the preference. If there are aspens mixed in they will tend to fly towards the pines for cover. If there are no leaves on the aspens they don’t usually fly to them because they will stick out like a sore thumb while sitting on the bare branches. If there is snow on the ground you can sometimes find their tracks. If you do, get ready, as they are nearby. Unless the tracks are completely iced over (therefore being old) I almost always find them nearby. This may be a little counter intuitive if your a pheasant hunter, because when I’m out in the plains that’s all I see; tracks but no birds. Grouse don’t run like pheasant do so you’ll often find them close to their tracks.
*** A little tip for you: When you find them, stay within that relative elevation. Once I find them, I’ll mark it on my GPS for future studying and then just follow that contour. It works pretty well.
Dusky grouse tracks.
Weather and Time of Day
These two factors draw many similarities. If it’s stormy and the weather is just breaking, they tend to act as they do in the morning. Under these conditions they tend to clump up in their coveys. This is when you have the best chance at a covey flush. As the day progresses and they feed uphill, they scatter and you’ll get into them one at a time. Again, I’m generalizing here.
In the evening they will fly downhill to roost in the trees for the night. Many an evening while getting camp set, I was dive-bombed by a squadron of grouse making their way to their sleeping quarters.
Online Scouting
All of the above information is well and great, but if you’re not in the same zip code as these guys, no amounts of pounding the terrain is going to help you. You need to find good habitat and then apply the above information. In steps technology. Some complain about it (it’’s not like the old days!) but I love it. There’s no denying it’s benefits and it’s here to stay, so jump aboard gramps or get left in the digital dust.
Those satellites whipping around above that we all think are spying on us (is your life really that interesting?) can prove to be beneficial. We now can see just about every tree in the forest. I’ve even found camp spots ahead of time by seeing other campers parked in the woods. Big brother is watching, so don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to show up on Youtube out there. While we’re on the subject of technology, I figured I’d stay with the times and use it to help show how I use it to find my potential honey holes. Watch the video below for the breakdown of how I find my spots. I’ll use a generic area that everyone knows about so no on gets butt hurt. If you think this is your secret spot and the next time you go there it will be swarmed in a sea of orange, you obviously hunt with your eyes closed. There’s more orange here than in a October pumpkin patch. So here’s the breakdown.
There’s the short of it, in all her glory. Feel free to comment below with your advice to those frustrated beginners out there in need of a little guidance. Grouse hunting is a brotherhood (and sisterhood of course), there’s not many of us that take in the joys of hiking miles of vertical terrain for the potential chance of shooting at one of these glorious birds. Lets hear what your thoughts are on the subject in the comments section.
//Fred
Male and female dusky grouse.
The Best Hunting Shooting Positions
With a antelope hunt coming up in my near future, I’ve been scouring the internet in search of some information on how to improve my shooting positions. The tall grass of the plains can leave us in some awkward positions, somewhere between kneeling and standing. I blew more shots than I care to admit last year and I made a promise to myself and my ego to remedy that this upcoming season. I found a terrific article on http://thebiggamehuntingblog.com that quickly summed up what I needed to know. I contacted the author, John McAdams, and he was more than gracious to share his article with us. John has some solid information that we could all learn from so feel free to jump over to his site at http://thebiggamehuntingblog.com and give it a peruse.
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Unfortunately, many hunters do the vast majority of their shooting from a bench rest, which is not the best practice for taking shots under typical hunting conditions. Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve never taken a shot at a deer, or any other big game species for that matter, from a bench rest. For this reason, it is important that hunters learn to shoot from positions they are more likely to use when hunting. This article describes my choices for the best hunting shooting positions and the advantages and disadvantages for each one.
There are four primary positions that most hunters and shooters use that I’ll discuss in this article. From least stable to most stable these positions are: standing, kneeling, sitting, and prone. All of these positions may be used both with and without additional external support, such as shooting sticks or a sling.
The descriptions of each position in this article are those that I’ve found are best suited for hunting and will not necessarily be the best choices for shooting in a competition. Additionally, the exact details of each position listed here are the ones that work best for me, which may not be the best for you. Luckily, there are several variations of each position that you may use in accordance with your equipment, flexibility, and the exact situation that you may find yourself in. Finally, keep in mind that I am left handed, so all of the photographs of me demonstrating these positions will need to be reversed for a right handed shooter.
STANDING SHOOTING POSITION
The standing shooting position is the fastest shooting position to assume. The standing position also typically gives the hunter the best field of view, allowing him or her to see over all but the tallest grass and brush. Unfortunately, the standing position is also the least stable shooting position.
However, this is not really a problem when shooting at very close range ( During all of my years of hunting, I’ve only taken a handful of completely unsupported standing shots while hunting. However, every single one of them was at an animal that I encountered at very close range (5-20 yards) in very thick cover. In these situations, my ability to take a rapid shot was more important than assuming a more stable shooting position.
When possible, I use a supported shooting position. Support can come from a variety of sources: shooting sticks (which make great gifts for hunters by the way), a tree, etc. Of these, a tree is my favorite choice because I don’t have to carry it with me and there is almost always one within easy reach when walking through the woods.
Support can encompass a wide range of objects such as a backpack, a log, or a bi-pod. Of these, your backpack is an especially good choice. Think about it: you’re probably carrying some sort of pack with you on most hunts that contains stuff like some food, water, extra ammo, some basic gun cleaning supplies, a jacket, etc. Just slip if off your back and use it as a rest for your rifle. Depending on how tall the backpack is, you could potentially use it as a rest in the prone as well as the sitting and kneeling positions.
When using a “soft” form of support, such as a backpack, place the forend of the rifle directly on it. When shooting across something harder, like a log or a rock, it may help to place some form of padding between the rifle and the object, such as a rolled up jacket or even something like your gun cleaning mat. Do not let anything directly touch the barrel, as this will adversely affect your accuracy.
Be careful not to let anything touch the rifle barrel.
KNEELING SHOOTING POSITION
The kneeling shooting position is the second fastest shooting position to assume, and when done correctly, provides a fairly stable shooting position. Unfortunately, only one elbow is supported when using the kneeling position, which is obviously not ideal. The kneeling position also gives the hunter the ability to see over brush, grass, and other things obscuring the target, though not as much as when standing. At the same time, the kneeling position also presents a smaller, more difficult to spot profile.
The kneeling position is a very good position to use when the hunter doesn’t have much time to take a shot, or needs to shoot over brush or grass obscuring the target, thus making the prone or sitting positions unsuitable, but the target is too far away to take an ethical shot while standing.
To assume a kneeling position, place your dominant side knee on the ground at an approximately 90 degree angle from your non-dominant knee. If you can, turn your dominant side foot so that as much of it as possible contacts the ground, then sit on your foot. This will provide a more stable position than sitting on your heel. However, not everyone is flexible enough to do this, so do what works best for you.
Rest your support side arm on the front of your non-dominant knee using the flat, meaty part of your arm just above your elbow. Do not rest the “point” of your elbow on your kneecap, as this will provide a very unstable platform. Though not demonstrated here, the kneeling shooting position may also be used in conjunction with other forms of support such as shooting sticks or a sling to make it more stable. When ample time and resources are available, it is always a good idea to use additional measures to assist you in making your position more stable.
See how my left elbow is unsupported?
SITTING SHOOTING POSITION
The sitting position takes a little more time to achieve than the kneeling position, but is very stable. Though the hunter’s line of sight is usually slightly lower when compared to the kneeling position, it is still typically high enough to see over most objects obscuring the target. This is usually the best shooting position to assume when the hunter has ample time to prepare for the shot, but the circumstances are not suitable for using the prone shooting position. The big advantage that sitting has over kneeling is that both elbows are supported instead of just one when kneeling.
There are several variants of the sitting position, but here I’ll discuss probably the most common: cross legged. To assume a sitting shooting position, sit down cross legged and pull both legs as close to the body as you can. The idea is to get as close to the ground as possible. Push your knees down as far as you can, lean forward, and rest the flat, meaty portion of both of your arms just above your elbows in front of your knees. Just like when shooting from the kneeling position, do not rest the “point” of your elbow on top of your knee.
The sitting position is usually uncomfortable the first few times you try it. However, the more you practice, the more comfortable it will become. When used properly, the sitting position can be nearly as stable as the prone position and experienced shooters can shoot accurately at long range using this position. Additionally, like the kneeling position, the sitting shooting position may also be used in conjunction with a sling, shooting sticks, a bi-pod, or some other form of support to make it even more stable.
The sitting position provides support for both elbows.
PRONE SHOOTING POSITION
The prone position is the slowest position to achieve, but it is the most stable. Since the hunter is so close to the ground when prone, this makes it easier to hide from game without being spotted. However, this also makes it difficult for the hunter to see the target if there is any grass or brush in the way. Because of these disadvantages, the prone position is only the best choice when there is plenty of time to prepare for the shot and when there are no objects in the way to obscure the target.
To get into the prone shooting position, assume the push-up position behind your rifle. Then, lower your body to the ground straight behind your rifle with your non-dominant hand supporting the forend of the rifle, as close as possible to being directly below it. Next, spread your legs and point your toes outward with your ankles flat on the ground. Not everyone will be able to do this, but the idea is to get as much of your body as possible in contact with the ground. Then, pull the butt of the rifle firmly into the pocket of your shoulder with your dominant hand. Though it is possible to shoot from the prone position in both a supported and unsupported manner, if you have enough time to get into a good prone shooting position, then you likely have enough time to use some form of support. Doing so will dramatically increase your stability and make shooting at long distance much easier. Support can encompass a wide range of objects such as a backpack, a log, or a bi-pod.
When using a “soft” form of support, such as a backpack, place the forend of the rifle directly on it. When shooting across something harder, like a log or a rock, it may help to place some form of padding between the rifle and the object, such as a rolled up jacket. Do not let anything directly touch the barrel, as this will adversely affect your accuracy.
Note how high the grass is compared to my line of sight.
Additionally, it is always a good idea to use some form of support beneath the rear of the rifle’s stock if possible. You can purchase a purpose built mono-pod or shooting bag for this purpose, or you can just use an old sock filled with sand or beads. Using your support hand, place the bag beneath the rear sling swivel and increase or decrease pressure on it to depress or elevate your muzzle. Using a rear bag makes the prone shooting position even more stable and a good shooter is capable of excellent accuracy when using one.
Note the black and green sock beneath the butt of the rifle.
Keep in mind that, while various shooting positions are favored in different parts of the world (like shooting from the prone on a red stag hunting trip in New Zealand or standing from shooting sticks when pursuing cape buffalo on an Africa hunting safari) there is no single “best” shooting position for all hunting situations. Each position has strengths and weaknesses and it is up to the hunter to choose the position that allows him or her to take the most accurate and ethical shot.
Chasing Dusky Grouse in the Orange Forest
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Another?” I mumble under my breath as I bump into yet another Under Armor, orange clad hunter sitting under a pine tree. I tip my hat towards him and reel Sage in closer to avoid an unwanted interaction between the two.
I reckon I should have taken a look at my calendar, now realizing this was opening day of Colorado’s second season for elk.“Well, I guess I have as much right to be here as they do.” I tell myself to justify my presence. I think this and try to believe it, but regardless a pang of guilt hits me. These guys have been waiting all year for this hunt and I know having some guy and his mutt zig-zagging through the woods is not the scenario played out in their heads while sitting in the office, praying for this day to come.
I decide to move into the woods a little deeper, as everyone I see so far has an ATV parked off the road, not a hundred yards away from where they sit and wait for a lazy elk to tromp by. A little over a month ago I was after the same quarry, although perhaps looking for them in a different way, but hunting the same animal none the less. I felt it peculiar however that I felt such a disconnect with these hunters.
Sage and I dig in deeper and we see not a soul. The tension in my shoulders melts away. Grouse hunting in the fall, just a man and his dog, this is the way God intended us to dawdle away our time. My thoughts are pointed inwards towards how the minutes of my life are being distributed, when as per usual, Sage kicks up a bird not 20 yards from me. A huge male takes flight.
“Sorry boy.” I sheepishly apologize to my hard working pup. I always feel guilty when this happens. And make no mistake about it, it always happens.
“Promise, I’ll pay more attention to ya.” I plead with him, hoping this doesn’t steal his motivation to find me another.
He accepts my apology and kicks up the paired female. The top barrel in my over-under cracks as she falls from the sky. Sage is on her, mere moments from when she hits the ground.“I see you accept my apology.” I say to him as he heels up, waiting for me to take the bird.
“Let’s go find her mate."
He’s off. He saw where the male flew to and leads me that direction. I slow him up, wanting to give the big bird some time to leave the safety of the trees he’s been chased to and hit the terra firma.
The plan works and he blows out of an old mining road tucked deep into the woods. He choses the path of least resistance, down a perfect opening in the pines. He choose wrong and my #8 shot catches up to him and makes him pay the ultimate price.
When Sage comes back with the bird in his mouth, I take him along with his female counterpart and lay them in the snow together. I know they’re not monogamous creatures, (I’m sure this rascal has seen his heyday) but they seem to just fit together. I’m happy in an over-thinking and weird way that one doesn’t have to go on without the other.
“Alright buddy, we got what we were after. Let’s head out and give these elk hunters a fighting chance.” I say to Sage as we flip a 180 and head back to the truck.
We drive down the dirt road as the hunter orange trees appear at regular intervals. Hoards of ATVs kick up dust as they peel down the road looking for the elusive ditch elk. I smile at Sage and he returns it, nothing needed to be said.
// I have be writing a short guide to hunting Dusky grouse that I plan to release soon. Sign up to the newsletter to make sure you get it when it comes out.
Duck Hunting the Mountains of Colorado
“It sounds like an old man is dying.” I whisper to Greg.
“I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like a mix between an obnoxious roommate advertising that he finally broke the dry spell and a clogged up New England fog horn.” is the whisper back.
"Well whatever it is, it sure sounds lonely” I mutter. I notice Greg is fidgeting with his safety as well. If that zombie or whatever it is tries to flank us, it’s going to catch a couple of rounds of #3 steel shot.
"I hope it stops before the ducks start flying. There’s no way we’re gonna call them in with that dying beast throwing out it’s death rattle.” say Greg.
“Yea, that’s going to be the cause of the ducks not coming in. I’m sure it will have nothing to do with our calling.” comes my retort.
The sounds subsides as we bury ourselves into the blind for a bit more cover. Several teal land a few minutes before shooting time as is customary in duck hunting. They take off as the dogs' whines plead for us to shoot them.
Go time. Ducks are spun out of the sky and three eager pups make retrieves in the frigid Colorado. I can’t imagine dipping my little toe into that icy water, let alone fight someone else to be released and be the one to dunk my whole body into it. Then again I’m sure my pups look at me every morning and wonder why the hell I take off to work instead of roaming the mountains hunting with them.
The fury ends early and we pack up, deciding on heading north to explore some potential new spots. As we’re loading the trucks all three dogs go on full guards, back hairs pointed towards the sky.
“What the hell?” comes out of my mouth as I take a look in the direction their eyes are fixed on.
There’s a rustle in the willows no further than a Payton Manning’s pass behind where we were set up.
Greg is standing by my side by now.
“Well we might see the old man after all.” he says.
The old man comes busting out of the bushes. Six foot tall at the shoulders and shooting snot from his nose.
“Would you look at that. I guess he was lonely. And now he’s found a little honey to keep him company.” Greg notes as a huge bull moose comes charging out of the bushes hot on the tail of a female.
“Mystery solved. Let’s head north.” And with that we head out in the search of new hunting grounds.
Ducks, Calling and Breakfast Burritos
“Have you been practicing your duck calling?” Blares the voice on the other side of the phone. “Well…” I whistle through my teeth. Guilt sets in. I cycle through the reservoir of excuses I have stored just for such an occasion.
"Why do I need to call?" I think. This guy's from Louisiana. State law requires they only speak duck from birth to five, then their parents teach them a few guttural grunts that pass for English, they grow beards, then construct duck blinds that are more extravagant than my house. I smile at myself, knowing how dead on my perception of reality really is.
“Alright, I’ll carry you for another season. See you at the parking lot Friday morning. We’ll put a flag in our spot, it’s going to be busy up there.” Dane says and hangs up the phone.
I roll out of Denver and make the trek into the mountains bright and early Friday morning.
"Twenty-four hours before the opener,” starts the conversation with the dogs. “This year we’re getting our spot locked down. Hope you two have been taking those swimming lessons seriously that I paid so much for. Mr. Phelps doesn’t come cheap, though for some reason he agreed quicker than I thought he would. Something about Colorado’s lax laws. I’ll have to look into that…”
The conversation goes on like this for the two-hour drive and by the time I see Dane in the agreed upon parking lot a Murdocks, my jaw is cramping. The dogs bolt out of the truck. Hmm, must not have agreed with my improvised monologue of the Gettysburg Address.
“Ready?” Comes the question from the gentle giant.
I nod.
Shells are bought and we head out. We should have the pick of the litter being here so early.
I’m dumbfounded as we drive by the dirt parking lot after dirt parking lot filled with trucks and bearded men. We pull over.
“This place looks like a Walmart parking lot having a Duck Dynasty DVD signing on a Black Friday. I didn’t know this many people even lived in Colorado.” I say in exasperation.
“Yea, slim pickings, let’s mosey,” Dane replies, unfazed by my wit.
We run through plans B through H before we find something suitable. Text messages are sent out to the rest of the crew meeting up with us tonight. Food is eaten, fires are put out. Time for a few hours of shut-eye.
Reluctantly, we pull ourselves out of our sleeping bags at 3:00am. Coffee is fired up in the Jetboils AS we head towards the Colorado River. I learned this tactic on long drives down to Mexico in search of dorado. The driver attempts to keep the vehicle on the road while the passenger boils the coffee in a Jetboil. Pee in a Gatorade bottle and call in the Air Force for on-road refueling, cross the border at 60 miles and hour and hope there isn't machine gun fire. Another story for another time, back to ducks.
As we approach our predetermined spot, we realize our mistake. We should have slept in the parking lot. Illegal, yes, and apparently we were the only ones to get the memo. Everything is full.
I’ll spare you the frustration and cursing that pursues. Let’s fast forward.
We squeeze into a spot with just enough room to swing our guns. The blinds are made and dogs tremble in anticipation as Dane and I go about setting up the decoys. The quarter sized tear allowing the Colorado river to fill up my waders to the ankles can’t get me down, this is freaking opening day.
“One minute boys. Oh, and girl. On my signal, unleash hell.” Dane says in his best Russel Crow imitation.
Hazel, Shaun, Dane and I are tucked in the willows, everything is temporarily silent. We see some movement in the air, then the whistle of air as it interrupted by high-speed projectiles. We assume they are ducks, or possibly invading Russian mig jets.
D-Day. The moment arrives with a wall of lead in the air. Guns roar in every direction. What has been a peaceful nine months turns into a nightmare for these unsuspecting ducks. This must be close to what pilots and their crew experienced over France while frac pummeled the skies and their planes.
Birds are everywhere as Dane feverishly howls on his calls. A pang of guilt hits every time a bird comes in closer because of his expertise. Next year, right? Right.
We bag a couple of birds before the sun creeps into the bluebird sky. The dogs retrieve flawlessly. Their nine months of unemployment doesn't erase what hundreds of years of breeding instilled. At the strike of 9:00am the faucet is turned off. As fast as the action started is as fast as it stops.
"Breakfast burritos." Hazel smiles at the thought, not realizing her words were said allowed.
I love tradition. Almost simultaneously everyone murmurs the same in unison, "Breakfast burritos."
Decoys are packed and we head out. Crazy as opening day is, I don't think I'll ever skip it. Yes, it's busy, but busy by other like minded people enjoying it for the same reasons I am; friends, ducks and breakfast burritos.
// Fred
Hunting Mule Deer in the Backcountry of Colorado
Where Generals Are Made
Shaun and I are tucked into nature’s umbrella, a shallow cave set unto the rocks 12,000 feet above where the dolphins play. It’s downright brutal out. Man evolved into what it is today, solely to stay out of these heinous elements, or at least this is what I’m telling myself at the moment.
We’re up here testing our grit in attempts to find elk, mule deer, and if all goes right, perhaps possibly sneak an arrow into a bear if the situation allows. We walk into this full well knowing that we would be punished by nature for having the audacity of challenging it’s wrath. There will be no mercy for the stupid on this trip.
The night before we started our leisurely stroll at 3:00 am. This would give us enough time to hike the necessary six miles back to start glassing before sunrise.
“I can’t believe they’re out in this weather.” I whisper to Shaun as I see three buck mule deer appear out of the clouds.
“Since the beginning of time they’ve been doing this same routine. Eat, sleep and avoid hunters. They don’t have the luxury of sitting on the couch and ordering a pizza when mother nature decides it wants to have a pissing contest.” is Shaun’s response.
This reminds me what a severe disadvantage we have over them. They spend every day honing their skills of survival, while I sit in front of a computer and slowly become less and less like my badass, wooly mammoth slaying ancestors.
“Yea, we’re screwed. Our chances may only be about 10%, but I tell you what, they fall to 0% if we’re home sitting on our respective couches, watching hunting shows of what we should be doing.” I throw back at him.
“Agreed.”
So that ends our long list of pre-rehearsed excuses that both of us had squirreled away for just such and occasion. Either do or don’t. That simple.
So we do… and then we don’t. We sit and plan stalk after stalk and have them fizzle out for one reason or another. On the third day an opportunity arises and we devise a plan that just might stand a chance.
Escape routes. I’m tattooing this on the back of my bow hand so I can see it every time I’m at full draw. If you hunt with a partner, this is one advantage you have in the woods that otherwise is diminished by not just one bumbling fool stumbling through the woods, but two.
Know where that animal will retreat to when person A blows the stalk. That way person B is in their direct path. And I happen to be person A in this situation.
We make the 1,200 foot drop from our glassing area into the valley that separates us form the 800 foot climb that holds the mulies. This grueling transition gives a nice incentive not to screw up, because if you do, you’re doing it again tomorrow. Get the job done right the first time and avoid the stair master the next morning.
The plan runs through both our minds until it is burned in. On our descent, we repeatedly stop and make sure the landmarks we picked out to keep us in the correct positions don’t become warped by perspective like a Funhouse mirror. As our angle changes so does the look of the landmarks. These repeated stops keep everything in check.
Fists are bumped and we go our separate directions. I’ll be making the stalk, Shaun will be lying in wait in their escape route. Neither of us are military, but we feel we should both be promoted to Generals because of our flawless tactics.
I make the climb, taking about 45 minutes to get into position. The steps are laborious, the angle of the mountain looking like GoPro’s recent stock gains.
I arrive. I can’t believe I actually hit my mark. Now, this seems like an easy thing to do when looking at a perfectly two-dimensional perspective from across the valley. But this flat map of a world from over there turns into a three-dimensional nightmare over here. Everything looks different. But the time we spent memorizing our landmarks paid off.
There he lays. One of the three. A abnormally wide 2x2. A rack as disproportionate as Dolly Parton's. I thought either one of the other 4x4s would be my pick, but man this guy has some character. And I love character.
I push in as the wind swirls around me. I’m feeling invincible after getting two amazing animals this season with my bow. I’m on fire right? That’s an asshole thought can give you asshole results.
I move in slowly with a juniper tree between us for cover. I watch my feet as I attempt to keep them on solid granite to silence my steps. Ten more yards and I will have this guy covered with my 30 yard pin. That’s what would happen if I took the time to check my wind.
I’m at my mark, however, he isn’t. Not a sound, not a blurred movement. Just gone.
Like a college student slipping out the back door of a less than inspiring one night stand, he’s gone.
"I was never that slick." I think to myself.
Now I sit and wait, hoping that my dreams of becoming a General don’t slip away with my botched stalk.
You’re on Shaun.
I wait for what feels entirely to long. Then he’s there. Shaun comes walking up the only chute that slashes the cliff the deer were only moments ago sleeping on. He has a smile on his face.
“Yea?!” slips out of my mouth.
“Well, yeah. And no. Both.” comes his response through his camo face mask.
“Enough with the mysterious horse shit. Spill it girlfriend.”
“The plan worked. After you blew the stalk (dammit, he knew...) they sauntered down the trail. I drew back, aimed at the closest…. And he proceeded to do his best Jessie Owens impression just as my arrow let fly. I missed, but I shot at my first animal ever with my bow.”
Success. Our plan worked-ish. No prize to hold in our hands, but that wound only lasts a heartbeat. We put a plan together, stuck to it and it worked. We were not able to control all the variables so the end result wasn’t a guarantee. I wouldn’t hunt if it was.
We walk out of the woods with smiles on our faces and an uncontrollable urge to get home. There should be a parade and some snooty dignitary waiting there for me. Time to get some stars pinned.
The General, over and out.
// Fred
Hunting Sage Grouse in Colorado
Sage's Sage
The dogs paw the slug trails from their eyes as I wake them at the God awful hour of 3:30 in the am. I’m not sure they’ve fully recovered after their backbreaking duties of the previous weekend, entertaining me and four friends in the grouse mountains of Colorado. They’re troopers, and I’m pretty sure they’d both hunt with broken legs if need be. I wish I had half the drive as they do in certain areas of my life.
Today’s agenda is to take a new friend and hunter, Ross, out to hunt the precious few days the state allows for us to chase sage grouse. From what I’ve seen from Ross so far, he’s a pretty stand up guy. I think the Army instills those characteristics in many of their men and women and Ross happens to be one of them.
Ross went through two tours in Iraq pushing the front lines as an Army scout. No matter what my feeling are on the current wars, I have the utmost respect for his service. This won’t turn into a rant of any sorts, hell I don’t even have a leg to stand on in this one as I don’t know how I feel on the subject completely. I do however want to introduce you to one of our soldiers and fellow hunters.
The morning couldn’t be more perfect, which happens all so often in Colorado. Not for one second have I regretted the decision on my migration out here from the armpit of the east.
So the question of family asking “When are you moving back home to New Jersey?” are usually answered in hysterical laughter.
“Just as soon as MTV invents a time machine, goes back and gets Congressional permission to deport the cast of Jersey Shore to Nigeria instead of giving them that God-awful reality show.” is my alternate response. That’s also when they ask if I’m still seeing my therapist.
We get an early start, the sun hasn’t shown it’s smiling face yet. Just the alpenglow, two dogs and two content hunters. We press the sagebrush.
Sage, my yellow lab, hits the ground with the focus of a Ritalin infused CEO. He’s all business when he’s out here and takes his job very seriously. Braker, my girlfriend’s pudelpointer, on the other hand... Well let’s just say he is that CEO’s hormone infested teenaged son in need of his dad’s prescription.
After a few miles the routine sets in. The dogs are quartering like champs. Ross and I are separated by a football field’s worth of sagebrush. It’s quiet, like it’s supposed to be out here. There is no other place in the world I want to be, other than the rolling field I am standing in right here and now. This is one of the things that gravitates me towards bird hunting. With the chance of a flushing bird at any given time, it reminds me to stay in the present moment. To enjoy this exact second, craving more to follow.
I snap out of my stupor as Sage gets birdie and I call Ross in closer. I haven’t have many years experience with bird dogs, so maybe this is common among all of them, but when Sage is birdie an observer from a jetliner above would notice it. His tail wags so hard it seems to defy inertia. According to the laws of science, it should be spinning him in circles.
In he goes and up goes a grouse, a sage grouse to be more specific. Two guns roar only a second and a half apart. My finger might have been a little faster but Ross’s aim was just as true. Before the feathers touched the ground Sage has the bird in my hand.
This was the first time seeing a sage grouse up close. Bigger than a dusky and a good bit more pungent for sure. Like an alcoholic expelling his intake from the night before, this grouse exuded such a strong odor of sage that I celebrated my chance to find something that my girlfriend couldn’t cook to perfection.
We wander the rest of the morning thorough the foothills, not seeing much more action, but not caring either. With a handshake and future plans of antelope hunting Ross and I part ways.
There’s a smile on my face as I drive back to Denver. The Broncos take there second win of the season on the radio and from time to time I look over at the two passed out dogs next to me in a comatose state, dreaming of next weekend's hunt.
Yea, New Jersey doesn’t stand a chance, Snooki or no Snooki. I’ve found my home.
- If you enjoy my blogs, sign up and I’ll email them to you as they are ready.
// Fred
Bowhunting Elk in the Backcountry
Couch Fire
"The couch is just asking for it. I mean, look at that thing! How many years of abuse has it taken? There's enough DNA splattered across it to put Monica’s entire wardrobe to shame. Go put it out of its misery.” These were the words of instigation I chose to spew from my mouth to coerce Little Steve into setting her ablaze. He agreed and the fire was lit; to think we would both be graduating a few short months later. Twelve years later and I’ve heard nothing from Little Steve. Last I knew, he had left school to pursue a new career in aviation. Seemed like a smart move, except for the facts that this guy had never even flown on a plane and it was now the post-9/11 era. Ballsy. I remember he liked to shoot ducks, so maybe that gave him enough insight into flying to make this life changing decision.
If there is one thing I can respect in a person, it’s the ability to barrel, head-first, towards a goal while throwing the middle finger to all the nay-sayers hiding in the background, playing it safe. Most people abhor a go-getter; it makes them look a little too deeply into their own lives for comfort. This guy needs to go elk hunting with me.
Through the thick wall of negativity that Facebook emits in our lives, there are a few rays of hope. An old friendship was rekindled and Little Steve and I decided to meet up for an elk hunt here on my stomping grounds in Colorado.
“What should I expect out there?”
“Rain, cold, thunder-snow, and worn-through boot leather. I’m not going to lie to you buddy; the elevation is going to be an ass kicker.”
"So the asthma isn’t going to help my situation, huh?”
“We’re going to be camping above tree line, so you’re lungs are pretty much F’d. That landfill you call a mountain in Delaware doesn't count as above treeline either. More than likely you are going to die out here.”
Steve starts to worry, further egging on my prodding. His training schedule sounds intense enough though, so I figure he’ll only be halfway F'd. Keeping him on edge, every few months I send him a photo of the territory we're going to be roaming. I debate Photoshopping a few climbing harnesses on the elk I see back there, but I figure he has enough to worry about without me harassing him.
"Alright, plane ticket is booked, I cleared out half of Sitka’s warehouse and the wife is knee deep in the kid’s poopy diapers, let's go hunt some deer!"
"We call them elk out here, but alright, let's go hunt some deer."
Discharged arrow.
Back at my home; We dig in 5 miles the first day, taking our time to allow the ocean air to escape Steve's lungs. It does so violently, as he develops a cough that would last the trip. Although, I'm surprised as I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He's keeping up, and what's more he's not complaining about it.
We see some human traffic in the valley, but figure we will escape it in the clouds.
"Where the air thins, so do the people." I tell him with a smirk on my mug. This sagely crock I keep throwing at him is wearing thin on me, I can't imagine what it is doing to him. He takes it in stride, which I figure is only because I am his only way out. Once he figures that he just needs to head downhill to get back to civilization, my cute quips are only going to be heard by the ptarmigans.
Little Steve taking in the view.
We post up at my regular spot. It's really only good for mulies, but on either side of us a few miles out are great lines on avalanche chutes that usually hold elk. We hunker in as the prescribed thunder-snow punishes us for being arrogant enough to sit on top of it's mountain.
"Those nice new clothes of yours are about to get a workout" I tell Steve.
"I was going to wear them while mowing so they wouldn’t look like they came fresh out of the box." he replies shyly.
"Good thinking, nothing says I'm a hardcore backcountry hunter like fresh grass stains on your finely pressed camo."
I think Steve is feeling the pressure of holding up his end of the bargain. In my own way, I’m feeling the same thing. His is to keep up, mine to show him that elk actually live in this land. He's spent a lot of money to be here and I want to make sure he enjoys it. I don't have kids yet, but I can imagine what it's like to have a wife at home with two little terrors filling up diapers while her husband is out playing neanderthal in the woods with his old college cohort. He must have a secret I don’t know about.
The job that never ends.
We take a beating the day before the opener, but it happens. The golden hour arrives to elk in both afore mentioned spots on our peripherals. A full 35 by my count up on the “Football Field” to the left and two nice sized bulls out to the right in the avalanche shoots.
“Tomorrow we can chase whichever you want.” I say tell him, thinking the decision should be his.
“I’m here because you invited me. If we were in a duck blind in Delaware, I would tell you when, where and most importantly how to shoot. I’d even let you know not to slide the brass end in first. But we’re not in Delaware. I’m a stranger in a strange land and you’re the captain, so it’s on you."
Damn. Solid point. Guess there is no weaseling out of this one, where later I could throw in the quick, “I told you so!” of his terrible, nay laughable choice of location. Sidestepping wasn’t an option, time to man up.
If I didn’t make poor decisions, then I’d never make one. I choose the football field. After seeing Mexican sized family of them the day before, more is better right? Gotta be better odds. They clear out just as the starting whistle for the season begins. We see a few here and there over the next few days but fail to put on a respectable stalk. I know this is the way of west, but I’m not sure Steve is seeing it the same way. With unlimited deer allowed to be taken in his home hunting grounds, he has his selective choice of what animal he wants to take down and which he gives a ‘get out of jail free’ pass. If I can see the hairy ass of an elk throughout the season, I’m in my glory. Different expectations of what determines a successful hunt have ruined hunting partners for many, and I wasn’t sure if we were headed down the same path. My worries are alleviated with Steve’s incessant grins. He is happy just experiencing what this land has to offer, no preconceived notions of walking out of the woods with a state record. Just true happiness with his present situation. I’m remembering why I liked this guy to begin with.
Time moves on and we are getting close to leaving. My neurotic obsession starts to take hold of me. I know that the experience is really what we’re after, but lets face it, “just the experience” can have a bitter taste, at least in the short term. Besides ‘the experience’ involves giving a hurricane sized effort. The last morning Steve gets a good dose of the 100 mph Fred.
“We’re moving. Grab your shit and lets go.”
Fred's Hoyt.
We’re headed 4 miles further into the deep. I can see his hesitation. We have a chance at two bulls we had seen in the wee hours and it’s time to make a move. Eyes on the prize and let nothing get in the way. We lay out a strategy that would have General Patton giving us a fist bump. I head up the edge of an avey shoot meaning to push into the trail the elk strolled into a few hours ago. Steve would lay ambush on the other side. They were stuck in the timber and we had them pinned.
I tried to keep my sweat to a minimum while grinding up the black diamond ski slope these animals use as their sidewalk. How the hell a 600lb beast can make this look like an easy stroll through a mid-west strip mall, I will never figure out.
I knock an arrow, twist my peep so it aligns just right and take my first step in to the black tunnel of the timber forest. I let my eyes adjust for a minute. One second the sun is promising to burn holes in my retina, the next, it’s a black as a steerstutkis on a moonless night. I let the darkness seep in.
I’ve been creeping through the forest like a thief in the night for the past five days, but this time it is different. Everything goes 3rd person on me, like I’m a fly in the tree looking down at this intruder entering his forest. My ears ring and I’m layered with a thick helping of goose bumps. He’s in here, and he is watching me.
I watch my feet and remember to step with the heel first, then follow through to the toes. All my teenage years of sneaking out of the house finally pay off. Silence: check. Wind: check. Two more steps forward, and oh shit! He’s been there the whole time watching me.
I look up to what should by all rights be a mythological creature. I shot an elk once before, but that was with a rifle. No intimacy, we didn’t look each other in the eye. I wasn’t able to understand the magnitude of this creature at the time. I was in his domain, I was the intruder and I felt it to my core.
Christ! I was terrified. Not that I was going to get hurt, but I knew at that moment that he knew what I was and what I intended to do. And what twisted me up was that he accepted it. How is that for noble? The knowledge of that acceptance was staggering. We both knew our rolls in this chance meeting. There was no guilt for my participation, but I can damn well tell you there was respect.
We acknowledged each other for roughly 450 heart beats… and then he turned. He knew it was time. One last look back at me as I watched my 3 degree helical vanes spiral towards his life support system.
Bone. Lung. Heart. He was gone.
Fred's elk.
I approached him laying there in the woods. Steve soon followed with a papa bear hug that would have snapped my neck had I not been tensed up from the adrenaline.
“I’m not sure I want to take any pictures of him. It just kind of seems like a dick move.” I said sheepishly.
Little Steve understood the meaning of hunting more than any person I ever met.
“You’re paying your respect by doing it.” was his meaningful reply. I’ve seen and heard this in various iterations over cheesy Facebook posts and magazine articles, but coming from someone I respected and who had dedicated a good part of his life to hunting, it sank home.
Emotions faded as the mechanical work took over of removing the animal from it’s environment and putting it into ours.
"I hope you’re ready for the two hardest days of your life” I grin.
“Every day that I’ve been here has turned into the hardest day of my life, why change it now.” was his only reply.
There was no more scaring him with tales of backbreaking work in the backcountry. Maybe it was time to drop the “Little” from the Little Steve. He earned it.
“Let’s get the hell out of here and go find us some hot springs to soak our bloodied and broken bodies in. Maybe we can find a couch on the way to light on fire.”
// Fred
- If you like this story and want it in print, you can pick it up in Extreme Elk Magazine, Fall 2015.