At the other office...

For the next couple of months, I'll be 60 miles up a dirt road.  No cell phone.  No newspaper. No T.V.  Working 12 hours a day.  But my cubicle has a helluvah view. If you want to see more pictures of the upcoming season, follow along via facebook on the Spotted Bear Ranch page. "Like" us at  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Spotted-Bear-Ranch-Where-the-Adventure-Begins/183619038356235?ref=hl

Here's just a preview of the past few weeks:

Thank You

Throughout the season,  I’m often asked, “So… how did you get into to guiding?”  The short version, I had an uncle who sort of laid the path before me -along with the help of two other guides, who I am forever in debt to for their encouragement.
So as this part of my season ends, I can’t say how fortunate I feel to eke out a living for the past five years sharing my passion for being outdoors.   It wouldn’t be possible without the people I am privileged to hunt and fish with.  So Thank You.  And to steal some words from Havilah Babcock.. the finest legacy a man could leave his grandson is a good gun and a good bird dog… 
I was lucky enough to have two.

The dogs are taking the summer off.  They've earned it.

The Zen of Fly-Tying

Sitting in front of a vise can almost be a form of monastic prayer for some fly tiers.   Many find it relaxing, meditative.  The inner voice quietly chanting, “ wrap, whip finish, repeat..”  It can be hours of repetitive motions that calms the mind.  Collecting one’s thoughts, and preparing for those long awaited moments of standing mid-stream.  A peaceful practice of patience that rewards a fisherman with neatly organized rows of freshly tied parachute adams or blue-winged olives.  Almost Zen-like.    But for me, fly-tying feels like a mixture of having O.C.D and the flu.   

At first, the symptoms start off small, usually with tiny midges, stuff that doesn’t take too much effort or material to tie.  Then it’s on to nymphs and my mind starts to drift, what if I added a leg here? Or oh that looks shiny, I’ll add that on top.    By the time I make it to streamers, it’s a full blown affliction. 

Some nights, as I struggle to fall asleep, my brain keeps imagining  pattern variations and possible materials, like a feverish dream that keeps repeating itself.  And my inner voice shouts “I need more flies.. girdle bugs.. mini-buggers… more streamers,.. I wish I had olive sexi-floss legs….”    It’s compulsive.

*Notice the folded bath mat on the left under the table. The price tag still attached. $12 for a liftetime supply of antron.
Also, it's not hording if you can still walk through the room....

 My fly tying room starts to look like a scene from the movie, A Beautiful Mind,   The one where they find the guy’s backyard shed littered with old maps and circled newspaper headlines amidst a maze of red yarn stretched wall to wall.   The audience has the heart-breaking but yet sympathetic reaction of, “..his condition has gotten worse..”
     I say fly tying room because it started off as a desk.  But five patterns in, and a dozen patches of deer hair, marabou, and shiny strips of streamer material scattered across the table, my mess has overflowed on to the floor.  My neatly organized boxes and bins strewn throughout the room like a little kid’s Lego collection.   And the only feeling I have when I finish a fly is a impulsive need to fish it immediately.  I want to know what it looks like underwater.  How it acts.  But I can’t.  Its 3 ‘o clock and I’m still wearing my pajamas pants.  And the nearest cold water stream is six hours away.  The pot of extra strength coffee doesn’t help either.  But as with most fevers, this will pass.  And I won’t tie again until mid-season, when I really need it.  I’ll clean up my caffeine-fueled frenzy of feathers and organize my freshly tied patterns in neat little rows.  But I know, next spring, when the pine pollen sticks the windshield of the car,  I’ll start thinking.. I need midges..

Pictures are worth a thousand words

Pictures are worth a thousand words....

With a busy bird season, it has been hard to sit down and collect my thoughts. I am often asked, “Well... What do you do on the days your not guiding?” - Honestly, I try not to do anything at all. Most my guide days start at 6 a.m and bookend at 6 p.m with a car ride home in the fading light. But in the hours in between, hopefully my camera has captured the words that have seemed to escape my fingers. In the end, it’s hard not to feel good about having a job that let’s you take your dogs to work everyday.  Oh.. and the view from my office isn't that bad either...

 

Hit or Miss

I’ve missed more wood ducks this year than I’d care to admit. I’m not one to keep a tally, or try to quantify a successful hunting experience based on the statistics of my shooting. But when you miss shots on ducks right on top of you, it hurts. And the experience tends to stick you with. It can haunt you. Missing close shots like that is really kind of embarrassing when you think about it. Two shots from my over/under probably puts out how many pellets? 75? Maybe 100? And I couldn’t put one of those on target at 10-20 yards? Its got to be the gun’s fault with those kind of figures. Or better yet, wrong chokes or wrong load. That’s the only logical explanation I can come up with, in the face of numbers like that. Mind-boggling. I couldn’t put one out of a hundred pellets on targert?!?! One out of a hundred…nope.

My brother is actually a pretty good shot. He claims that your pattern comes out as a cone and the key to successful shooting is to put the leading edge of that cone on your target, so as the bird continues to fly, the full pattern follows the target on its flight path. Makes sense, I guess, if you’re into science and mechanical physics. But after I saw every bird he shot one afternoon expel a spherically uniform poof of feathers, I politely told him, “Well, however your using your “cone“, you can clean all the birds next time, because I’m tired of hamburger.”

Regardless of my shooting, wood duck hunting is hard. And even harder to get them right on top of you. But once you’ve had squealing woodies coming in fast, feet down, and wings cupped, you’ll hold back on the treeline passing shots. Still, at best, it is hit or miss. But decoys do work. And if you know how to use a wood duck call, it helps too.

 

Bartering Chips

I’m not so sure that my dog, Gus, doesn’t save a few birds as bartering chips at the end of the hunt. Maybe he gets wind of a couple birds right off the bat, and thinks to himself “ I’ll save those guys for the end of the trip, so I don’t have to go back in the truck.” But maybe that’s asking a lot. Maybe that “Ting, ting.. Ting..” sound that comes from the bell around his collar is just echoing that one marble rattling around in his head going, “Birds.. Birds, Birds…” Either way, I can always count on a few points from Gus on the way back to the car.

I warned my hunter, Ron, as his friends started towards the edge of the field.

“If Gus thinks we’re headed home, he’ll false point all the way back to truck. He knows how this works. If he’s on point, we have to come to him.”

Tim, Max and Bob were already laughing about the morning’s hunt, recounting the birds that somehow dodged 8 rounds of lead and escaped unharmed, as well as the ones that didn‘t. Gus locked up on a clump of reeds.

A large part of guiding with dogs is learning how to read their behavior, their quirks, and even their faults. Gus gets psyched out by mice hiding under rotted logs. And Dixie likes to parade her down birds in front of each hunter, then drop it a few steps away instead of retrieving it to hand, as if to say, “Let me make it clear: This is my bird. I did all the work. You come pick it up.” At almost 11-years-old, she’s too old and stubborn to argue with.

You learn how to read each point. The slight tilt of the head can indicate how close a bird is. A nose to the wind can tell you if a bird is running. A slow creep into a point more than likely implies, more than one bird. Little variations of behavior that allow you to know your dog. But most of the time, it’s all in the eyes.

Gus’ eyes were fixed in a frozen stare.

“Alright, you ready Ron? We have one last bird in here.” I said.

Ron’s Browning A-5 20 ga. cycled as the bird fell on his first shot.

“Is that an original or re-issue?” I asked.

Ron smiled, “Original.”

 

The "I Only Got Five" White Quail Chili

It happens. The first hunt of the season can be rough, even if you have spent some time shouldering your gun during the off-season. Nerves can get the best of you. The birds never fly the way you expect them to. And it’s easy to psyche yourself out and forget that it’s not all about pulling the trigger. Those are my excuses anyway; I blanked eight times on opening day of Duck season.



So I could sympathize with my long time hunters, Chip and Chet Oehme, after we finished our first trip out at Wintergreen.

“Well Pop, at least we have enough to make a sandwich.”

And unlike me, at least they didn’t go home empty handed.

　

Here is an easy way to make a little go a long way…and a creative way to use game.

5 Quail Breasts

1 can of Great Northern Beans (un-drained)

1 can of Cannellini Beans (un-drained)

Optional: 1 can of Black Beans (drained/washed)

1 packet of McCormick White Chicken Chili Seasoning

2 cups game stock or water

Sour Cream

Cilantro

Avocados/ Guacamole

Serves 4

Grill or Roast Quail Breasts just to the point where you can pick the meat of the bones. Finish them off in a medium to large sauce pot with a little oil and packet of seasoning (cumin, cayenne, paprika, garlic, salt/ pepper, oregano).

Cook until each piece of Quail meat is coated with seasoning. Use water or better yet, game stock to sort of deglaze all that goodness stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Note: I save/freeze all my carcasses from ducks, quail, pheasant, etc. to make stock, as well as keeping my trash can from smelling for a week.

Add Beans, reduce heat and bring to a slow boil. (15- 20min)

Place in bowls and top with cilantro, sour cream, cheese, avocados or guacamole

 

A Slow Walk Back To The Truck

The field in front of us was filled with covey calls, when a lonesome Bobwhite lit through the tall pines and landed 50 yards ahead of us.

I warned Johnny Ferguson and his hunting partner.

“Heads up, guys. We got birds wanting to covey-up just ahead.”

Dixie had been working close and tracking these birds for the past 30 minutes, and the errant bird gave us a goal line on our slow walk back. A few steps later, she froze next to a patch of Sweet Gum saplings and suddenly we were right in the middle of it.

“Alright, be ready for more than one bird to get up” I cautioned.

Johnny’s first step towards Dixie sent a bird sailing towards safety, weaving through the trees. The bird fell on his second shot. Another bird jumped. Johnny anxiously searched his pockets for his next two shells and quickly reloaded his top barrel. Suddenly, a chain reaction of nervousness set bird after bird into the air and a single shot rang out as the birds scattered unscathed.

Dixie still sat frozen.

“We still got more birds in here .” I said.

Johnny laughed, “Well, I’m out of shells.”

In just under 4 hours of hunting, we had already moved close to 50 birds. And the fact of the matter is this: The busier Wintergreen is, the better the hunting is for everybody.

I offered a couple of 20 ga. re-loads from my pockets and we set up on the final bird. The reluctant quail fell 10ft from his panicked covey mate who seemed so anxious to fly.

With singles scattered all the way back to truck, and the wind in the dog’s favor, we couldn’t have asked for a better way to ending the morning.

　

　



　

Gobble, Gobble... Bang!..(Wait.. for it..) Bang!

Two gnarly-looking, blue-ish heads covered in bright bulbous red bumps poked out of the treeline overlooking a field of waist-high wheat. The Old Man and I had been hunting these turkeys for the past four days. Most likely brothers, these two gobblers had been hen-ed up along the thick creek bottom below and wouldn’t budge. Finally hen-less, the scout stepped out into the open 30 yards away and the strutter followed.




“Ok, you take the one on the right and I’ll the one on the left.” the Old Man whispered.
“Ok” I whispered back.
“Ready?”
“Yeah”

The Old Man started to count, “One.. Tw..… “

“Wait!…” I interrupted.,“I don’t have a shot.”.
The strutter momentarily ducked his head behind a clump of grass, then reappeared.
“Ok, got it.” I whispered.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, One… Two…Thr..( BANG!!)


The head and neck of my gobbler disappeared behind the grass and the built up tension and adrenalin gave way to a sudden rush of endorphins. As I lifted my cheek from the stock of my shotgun, I realized I didn’t hear a second gun shot. Something wasn‘t right. My Dad’s gobbler startled and flushed six feet in the air towards the woods. Why didn’t he shoot? I looked over at the Old Man.

“!@##$ IT, SON!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!???” he yelled.

I shrugged my shoulders. Honestly, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. I felt pretty good. I was under the impression that I just shot a turkey. But then, the reality of the situation snapped into focus and put a pit in my stomach.

“You can’t count to three?! You have a @#$#-ing college degree, and you can’t count to @#$%-ing three?” he continued to yell.

I had messed up the Old Man’s count and blown his chance at the second gobbler. We had been waiting and hoping for this situation for the past week. And I literally jumped the gun. We had been over the Old Man’s count system numerous times. I was even reminded 15 minutes before the gobblers showed up.

“One.. Two.. Three, then shoot where Four is supposed to be, that way you have time to whisper wait if you lose your shot.” he explained.
So in my defense; it's actually a “on four” count--not a one, two, three, shoot count--, I had plenty of time to say "wait",  and it goes against everything you learned growing up about doing things as the same time.

“Will you help me lift this?”
“Yeah”
“Ok, on three.. One.. Two..Thhrree.” (The lifting happens on three)

“Wanna race?”
“Ok… Ready.. Set..Go!” (you break on Go!)

"Paper, Rock, Scissors?"
"Yeah..one.. two..three. (you throw on three)

“Ok, let’s jump on three..”
Do you know what happens to the person who waits after three?
They don’t jump.

　
So all the lifting,running,jumping, banging, etc.. happens as soon as you hear three.

The “on four” system is like giving someone a telephone number in the wrong rhythm.
“52-396-9-4”
“What? Did you just give me a social security number? Say that again.”
It’s just confusing.

So pumped up full of adrenalin, it was instinct to shoot “on three”. But the Old Man had reason to be pissed. The same situation happened to him the previous week in South Carolina with another hunter which ended in a blown shot at a double.  I stood up to take the next round of profanity.

“wa. wa.. Wait.” the Old Man interrupted.

In the 5 seconds in between my shot and the subsequent cursing, the second gobbler settled down and stepped back into the open. Probably the result of months of constant fighting and pent-up aggression, the sub-dominant bird moved quickly towards the dead strutter. He paused and craned his neck towards the dead bird giving the impression of, “It’s about time.. I’m gonna come over there and finally whoop up on your…”, but before he could make his move, the Old Man leveled his gun, bang!

The second gobbler flopped in the grass and the Old Man looked back at me. “@#%$#!...You’re the luckiest !@#$%#% alive.  Your  @#$ would have been walking home, if I didn’t get a shot at that bird.” I think the Old Man's natural ability to cuss, comes from a mixture of growing up under an old Southern mother who could cuss up a storm just as well as she could cook, and watching the HBO series Deadwood.  My brother-in-law's father is the only other person I've heard speak so eloquently.
 We both got up to check our birds.

Cookie cutter longbeards. One inch spurs, 10 inch beards.

The family’s first father/son double. After a few fist pounds and sighs of relief, the Old Man’s mood relaxed and I started to pick up my gear.

“Wait a sec..I’m not ready to go yet. I just want to sit here and bask in this glory.” he said.
“And you know, if I didn‘t get a shot at this bird, I probably had it coming. I can‘t count how many times I‘ve shot a gobbler out from underneath your brother. ” he added.

The Signs of a New Season

On my last trip to Wintergreen, my eyes scoured the green fields of winter wheat off the highway. It doesn’t seem long ago that the rust colored browns and fluffed whites of cotton littered the country-side like an exploded bag of popcorn-- the closest thing to snow I’ve seen this season. Carefully checking my speedometer to avoid the authoritative question, “Is there a reason why you were speeding?” and the painfully apparent answer, “ I was being stupid, officer…” I counted four different flocks of turkeys on my morning commute.   

And as my hunter and I chased down our last pair of singles, a wing feather from an old gobbler stuck out from the dead pine needles. Wintergreen has a couple different flocks of turkeys that lurk on the outskirts of the fields during bird season. Wing feathers and footprints aren’t uncommon, but rarely does a hunter see one. Like cryptozoological creatures, they stay hidden in the unexplored corners of the woods. A rumor among the clubhouse surfaced that a hunter’s dog flash pointed a bush only to have a Rodan-sized bird explode from cover.

My dog’s last point produced the usual-sized quail. But with an old worn wing feather tucked in my vest, I couldn’t help but look forward to hunting these fields without blaze orange.



….April 14th