Shout Out To SportDog™

Last weekend, my SportDog Beeper 400 started emitting crackles, squeeks, sometimes a beep, but more often than not, silence. I tried running three new batteries through it. Same result. I rummaged through all my product information- tucked away in two or three different locations- and found their warranty/customer service line.

Customer service: Do you have your warranty or receipt?

Me: No, but I have this yellow piece of paper that says to call this number?

Customer service: How long have you had your Beeper 400?

Me: Maybe a year? Got last fall/winter?

Customer service: Ok, can you find a serial number on your beeper?

Me: Hmm.. It is worn off, DS is all I got.

Customer service: Ok, why don’t you just give me your contact information, and we’ll send you a new one. Just send the old one back, in our pre-paid postage box, and this is fulfill your warranty. Your order should arrive sometime this week.


Done and done.

 

Good Shootin'

Out of 30 birds "foundt", my hunters knocked down 27. One of the few times I can remember each bird that got away. And luckily for me, I got a few good shots of my own in there:

The Bird clutched a piece of grass with its foot as it flushed

Two months left of Bird Season....

Some Nice Dog Work

It doesn’t take long for my dogs to get restless from a few days stuck in the house. And after a busy holiday season, hunting every couple of days had become routine. Then all of a sudden, only hunting once a week seemed too much to bear. The past few weeks, Dixie took her frustration out by eating my fly tying materials. I lost a bag of Grouse feathers, a bag of wet, matted, half-chewed, unidentifiable feathers (there were only three left, they may have once belonged to a pheasant), a Hare’s mask, two and a half Calf tails, half of a Pheasant tail, and some dubbing. Thank you, I appreciated that. It’s the thought that counts, really. Needless to say, I was relieved to meet Bill Blair and David Honeycutt of Wilmington up at Wintergreen for a morning Quail hunt.

At the clubhouse, I shook Bill’s hand and he answered my introduction with a humble, but jovial, “Sorry boy, you must have messed up with Boyce because you’re stuck with us this morning. Neither one of us can shoot worth a sh@#.”

I politely laughed, but silently hoped that wasn’t the case.

Dressed in blaze orange and with guns broken over their shoulders, Bill and David leisurely walked behind Gus as he quickly quartered the field. David and I were reminiscing about our previous year’s hunt and how much his son enjoyed coming to Wintergreen, when Gus locked up. Bill and David took their positions walking in on the dog and the bird unexpectedly flushed. Bill promptly swung on the unpredicted flight path and knocked the bird down with one clean shot. So far, the morning’s introductory comment was turning out just as I had hoped.

Moments later, Gus provided another attempt for Bill to prove his sense of humor. Bill walked up behind Gus into seemingly open cover.

“Can you see the bird?” he asked.

“It looks like Gus is staring right at it,” I answered.


Bobwhite Quail are perfectly designed to disappear amongst the dead pine needles and rust colored brush that litters the ground beneath the canopy of longleafs and loblollies. Over the years, I’ve learned to trust my dog’s eyes almost as much as his nose. Sure enough, four feet away from Gus’ nose, a Quail sat contently nestled in the sparse cover, camouflaged by light browns, faded greens and withered yellows


Flight won over fight and the bird exploded from its hidden position in a blur of feathers.

The panicked sound of wing beats can create a sympathetic response that causes an increased blood flow to your brain and the sharpening of your senses. Time seems to slow as you pick up your target and shoulder the gun. The sudden rush of adrenalin creates a tunneled vision, focusing you in on your target, blurring the background, and developing a sight picture at the end of your barrel.
A course of heart-pounding events that unnerves some of the best bird hunters, but Bill calmly followed the bird’s flight path and pulled the trigger. With another spectacular shot, the bird fell.

“Nice Shot!” I congratulated him.

“Thanks, I’ll probably miss every bird after this one,” he laughed.


After our first sweep and a baker‘s dozen of birds in my vest, I started towards the tall broom grass at the edge of the field. Gus suddenly stopped 20 feet behind me. I turned back. He sat frozen, staring ahead, tongue hanging out. It had the appearance of a point, but I knew better. I stepped forward calling his bluff and Gus bolted back out into the middle of the field

“What was that all about?” David curiously asked, as he and Bill stood confused over what had just taken place.

“That was the, ‘Oh sh@#, were headed back to the car’ look.” I answered.

They both laughed.

“Well, the dog might not need a break, but this
50-year-old a#$ does.” Bill joked.

Back at the car, Bill begrudgingly answered his voicemail.

“Here’s some advice,” he said, “Don’t ever own rentals.”
I smiled, “I don’t doubt you. I cringe when I think of what my landlords in college thought of our living habits.   I had one ask if anyone in the house worked as a grease monkey because there was so much dirt and grime in the carpets.  I didn‘t have the courage to say it was due to the rain on Mardi Gras.”

After another sweep of the field,  we ended up with some more great shots and some nice dog work.  With our morning’s inventory laid out on the back of the truck, David and Bill were both pleasantly surprised.
“I really didn’t expect us to shoot that well,” Bill commented.
“Well, at least you did,” David jabbed.
I laughed, “Thanks, guys. I enjoyed it.”

Swamp and Surf

This recipe comes from one of my hunters from Louisiana. I had a hard time understanding the accent without subtitles, but besides the rice and few other accoutrements, this version is about as local as you can get; The shrimp came from Stump Sound. The Wood Duck from a nearby swamp. And the brussel sprouts, green peppers, and okra came from the Old Man’s garden.

*Even if you can’t get all these ingredients locally, or can’t find Wood Duck at your local grocery store, or understand the cajun accent, it still tastes good as gumbo over rice with just shrimp.



Ingredients:

2-4 grilled wood duck breasts(brined, wet rubbed)

*check teal taco recipe for brining and wet rub

1 pound of shrimp(peeled, de-veined, marinated in whatever you can find in the frig, Italian dressing, steak marinate, etc.., and grilled)

Rice( read the box to see how many servings you need)

A handful of Brussel Sprouts

1 green pepper

1 Vidalia onion

3 stocks of Celery

1 can of chicken broth

2 cups chopped Okra

¼ cup melted butter


Salt and pepper to taste.



Finely dice onion, celery and green pepper and add to pot with olive oil. Let it cook down, and add chicken broth.

Read the back of your box o’ rice and start your rice in a separate pot or microwave.

Tear off brussel sprout leaves, coat in butter(or olive oil) and salt and roast in oven at 400 degrees.

Cook until they get all burnt on the edges and crispy. (It’s supposed to look like you screwed it up)

As your pseudo-gumbo mix is cooking, skewer shrimp and prepare Wood Duck for the grill.
*I chose not to soak my skewers in water before grilling, because when they catch on fire and turn to charcoal, I know the shrimp is done.

Add Okra to onion, celery and green pepper. Stir and continue to let it cook and thicken.

Grill your shramps and duck(med rare)

Rest yo’ meat. Slice thinly.

Plate your rice, spoon your gumbo mixture(if it doesn’t turn out call it a okra gravy, I did) over the rice, top with grilled duck and shrimp, garnish with roasted brussel sprouts.

There's a Squatch in these Woods

Something rustled in the tall grasses behind us.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Jon’s eyes lit up, “Yeah..? Wha-waz-that??” he whispered.

“I dunno know?” I replied.





The distinct crackle and snap of footsteps sounded closer.
“Do you have Squatches in these woods?” he eagerly asked.

“I think they’re called Skunk Apes in the swamp.” I answered.


The footsteps suddenly stopped and Rich poked his head out from tall grasses.
“Hey.. I gotta raccoon over here looking right at me.” He said.


Jon and I are long time Bigfoot enthusiasts, but all these new television shows and nicknames going around is a little much. Thanks to the Blair Witch Project, watching idiots run around in the woods with a night vision camera sells. Most of my working knowledge of the Bigfoot comes from the movie Harry and the Hendersons; He is a vegetarian, struggles with suburban life( traffic, nosy neighbors and interior archways), and loves eating chips and dip while reclining in a lazy boy and watching black and white t.v. Oh, and most recently, if you’re holding a bag of beef jerky, he doesn’t like to be messed with.

The moments before shooting time can be nerve-wrecking for a duck hunter. Thankfully Jon and Rich came up from Savannah and added a little bit of comic relief. It’s not so much the anticipation of shooting, but the suspense of knowing that swamp is about to come alive with the sound of wing beats. And thankfully, they both went back to the car with their first Wood Duck. I shot a merganser.

Jon finished the morning with a spectacular shot on a drake that had to be coaxed off the water and flew right over our decoys. I’ve known Jon for nearly 15 years, and last year was the first time I have ever seen him fire a gun. Before that, I was actually kind of nervous that the state of Georgia authorized him to carry a loaded weapon as a Police Officer. But as it turns out, he is actually a really good shot.

After a quick breakfast, we headed out to Wintergreen for an afternoon of Quail hunting. Jon and Rich took turns walking in on the dog’s point and I stood by the side to shoot backup. Mid-afternoon, Dixie  trailed a scent down a muddy road to the edge of the field and Rich walked up on her point. But before I could warn him that this might be a covey, four birds exploded from cover. Four shots followed and one bird dropped.


Once the excitement settled, I asked Rich what he thought of his first covey rise.

“I couldn’t figure out which bird to shoot.” he said.

“Same here, I blanked on my first shot.” I laughed.

Luckily, I recovered on my second.

It always amazes me, that when shooting over a covey, the amount of pellets and birds occupying the same space doesn’t result in more downed birds. Just the sheer physics of it doesn't make sense.  I’ve watched hunter after hunter unload their guns on a covey rise only to have the birds scatter to the winds unharmed. In the pandemonium of a covey rise, success lies in finding a single target and shooting one bird at time. It’s easier said than done.

The more birds we found, the more Jon and Rich got the hang of wing shooting. I barely got a chance to take my gun off safety. When a quail flushes, it rarely flies the way you predict it to. The key is letting the bird get up and fly, then reacting. On our final sweep back to the car, Gus marked another bird hiding in the thick briars on the edge of the road.

Jon took his turn and walked in.  A barrage of shotgun blasts followed as the bird flew to safety. But in a last effort plea for the bird to come home with us, a single shot rang out and the bird helicopter-ed to the ground.

“Who had that last shot?” I asked.

“I did.” Rich smiled.

Who Needs A Retriever When You Have An 8 Year Old?

Its been long family tradition, that before you’re allowed to carry a gun in the field, you have to pay your dues doing dog duty. As a young kid, I was called up on my first retrieving job during a dove hunt in southern Ohio. The Old Man’s recollection of my first retrieve was his son running out into the field, picking up a dove, spreading its wings, and repeatedly throwing it back up into the air.


"What in the hell are you doing, boy?" he asked.
"I just wanted to see if it would fly." I replied.
The Old Man shook his head,
"...It's dead, son... get back over here."



I'm sure a lot of parents have asked that question of their
children.




A large part of growing up is testing the laws that govern the natural world and ultimately learning that T.V is not real and that movies have something called “special effects”. It is a harsh reality discovering that no matter how many times you jump off your swing set with a cape, you won‘t fly. So in my 8 year old capacity for aeronautics, I reasoned birds have wings and so do paper airplanes. You get the right toss on a paper airplane and that thing will fly for miles. Wings are wings, right? But after that first retrieve I learned valuable lesson: All wings aren‘t wings, and dead birds don‘t fly.

During the Old Man’s Birthday duck hunt at Wintergreen, I witnessed my 8 year old nephew continue in the family tradition. And after I saw him pick up his first duck, I knew exactly what was going through his head,

 “How in the world does this thing fly?”


But before he could start putting some mechanics together, we had ducks coming over the tree line.

“Hey! Get back over here!” My brother shouted.
"Its tongue is hanging out its mouth!"
he exclaimed.
"...Its dead, son.. get back in the blind, we still have ducks coming in." My brother replied.

We had decided that we were only going to shoot drake mallards, wings cupped, feet down. Part of the thrill of duck hunting is being able to fool a duck into wanting to set down right in your lap. And when you see 500-1000 ducks during a hunt, you have the luxury of picking your shots. Its also important when training a new retriever to knock the birds down right in front of you so he gets a good mark on the bird.

Three ducks came over the tree line and circled our blind. On their final approach, a hen sandwiched between two drakes sat suspended in the air 10 feet over our decoys. The stuttering “ba-BAM!” of two almost simultaneous shots echoed through the blind as her two escorts fell on the water.

“Can I go get those??” My nephew eagerly asked.

“Wait, there’s still ducks working, you just worry about calling out drakes.” My brother answered.

Three hens caught us off guard and set down right in front of us. As we relaxed, a drake buzzed our blind. If you’ve ever wondered what goes through your duck dog’s head when you pass on a shot, my nephew voiced it perfectly.

The hardest part of his retriever training was trying to hold back his enthusiasm and keep him quiet in the blind, not unlike most duck-crazed labs.

A dozen drakes later, we called it quits and took the customary “put-all-your-dead-ducks-in-the-back-of-your-truck” picture.

My brother and I did the most calling, my nephew did the retrieving, and the Old Man did most of the shooting.


Authors Note:  If you need a 3 1/2 inch shell to put down a duck, you're not doing it right. And if you're wondering where those two big front teeth came from,  I found it.

Dog Tired

With 4 hunts this past week and nearly 120 birds found, my dogs have laid claim to the couch. Good Luck finding a seat.  Here are a few highlights from this week’s hunts. Happy New Year!

Long time Wintergreen hunters, Jeff, Jack and Steve spent their morning taking turns putting down birds, and reminiscing 20 years worth of funny hunting stories.

“We really didn’t come here to hunt,” Jeff remarked, “apparently we just like coming out here to eat peanuts, sardines, and Vienna sausages at the car.”

“I tell ya, one time we ate ourselves sick on chocolate covered peanuts, remember that?” Jack added.


With plenty of birds to take home, they left in search of the closest place to eat fried shrimp and oysters.

Jaime Cook and his family complimented their quail hunt with a morning of duck hunting.

Their chocolate lab “Houdini” had plenty of work to do with 22 ducks to take home.

Johnny Ferguson put on a clinic with his .410 side by side, and Linwood Parker figured out a way to get him and his grandson, Jordan, out of a day shopping with the women on New Years Eve.


Happy 2012! There's three months left of bird season and the ducks are flying. Come book a hunt! www.wintergreenhuntingpreserve.com

"Houdini-ed"

Three generations of hunters walking through the woods and sharing a duck blind is the best Wintergreen can offer. When I met Boyce at the clubhouse he introduced me to Bray’s Island and Cherokee hunting guide Jaime Cook, Jaime’s family and a chocolate lab escape artist known as “Houdini.” Jaime came to Wintergreen, like many hunters do, for a overnight, Quail hunt in the afternoon/ Duck hunt the following morning. And after our first sweep of the field for quail, “Houdini” had chewed through the bottom half of his dog kennel and sat anxiously awaiting our arrival at the truck.


A closer inspection of his crate revealed numerous repairs from previous escapes. Pieces of wood patched here, metal brackets there, and a 6 foot heavy chain were all signs of Houdini’s spectacular career. As I laid the contents of my vest on the back of the truck, I realized the dog wasn’t the only one who had pulled a Houdini on us.

Jaime has worked dogs before and knows this game well. Birds that run, muddle the scent making it difficult for a dog to pinpoint its location. And a bird that hunkers down after dodging a gauntlet of shotgun pellets can give a dog hell trying to find it. Sometimes the best strategy is hunt your way back to the truck, water your dog, and let the birds settle.





As the sun hung close to the horizon, we finished our afternoon chasing down the birds that had escaped us earlier. And Houdini had two little kids positioned as chaperones back at the truck. I enjoyed hunting with Jaime, talking shop, and watching him teach his children the importance of having a safe hunt. In many cases, gun safety is something passed on from generation to generation. But just because your father taught you well, doesn’t mean someone else’s father did the same. So I was glad to see Jaime putting such an emphasis on safety whether you’re carry a gun or not.

“Its just a bird, let it go. Its not worth shooting a dog or someone else”

Jaime’s Grilled Quail

Whole quail marinated in Game Tame and Italian dressing

Grilled, wrapped in bacon.