Reality Check - You Stink at Dove Hunting

In the world of outdoor writing there are a range of personalities (and egos) at play in every media format. Follow any one publication long enough and you'll develop a bit of a feel for the writer, his quirks, and passions. Everyone has their favorites. Mention the dispute between Elmer Keith and Jack O'Connor in elk camp and you're sure to raise someone's ire. Yet, despite this shotgun writers seems as a whole a bit more congenial. If you read someone like Gene Hill you can't help but feel the cockles of your heart warm. Likewise, when you are turning pages graced by Gordon MacQuarrie, Burton Spiller, or Nash Buckingham the gentility and nostalgia are encompassing. Even today, when I read an article by Field & Stream's Phil Bourjaily I couldn't help but think to myself, "He has got to be an alright guy."

It doesn't hurt that I frequently agree with Mr. Bourjaily either. Take, for instance, his most recent article published on Field & Stream's blog, "Dove Grant: Spend $50 on Skeet, Nail More Doves Opening Day." This article isn't rife with the romanticism of early wingshooting writers, but it gets at an important point lost on many sportsmen:

We owe it to our quarry to make the most lethal shots possible and to reduce crippling. 

Phil's article suggests that by shooting four rounds of skeet prior to dove season that you can considerable improve your performance on opening day. The sad fact is that many sportsmen would balk at carving out a piece of their paycheck to spend on practicing shotgunnery. Studies suggest that on average the American dove hunter will expend 5-7 shells per dove. Let's call a spade a spade here folks---that is lousy! That amounts to (at most) about five birds per box of shells. Frankly, if I only managed to kill five birds with a box of shells I would be plain embarrassed. In fact, my hunting buddies would probably cut my shirt tails off. 

What's a guy to do? Shoot! The suggestion of shooting a few rounds of skeet is a good one. However, my recommendation would be to find a local sporting clays course and take up residence there once a week for the three weeks prior to dove season. Although skeet simulates dove hunting well, sporting clays provides a greater variety of shots and ultimately leads to a more well-rounded wingshooter. Furthermore, sporting clays courses also put you out in nature more than skeet ranges, which are often simple concrete pads sandwiched between two towers. 

Two weeks ago I shot my first round of sporting clays in far too long. I tallied 34 of 50 birds presented--not a great score but not an utter meltdown. I found that my favorite station at my local course had been changed dramatically. This didn't help my score, but it help me to realize that I was becoming dependent on my familiarity with the course to shoot well. A week later I returned to the same course and shot 40 of 50 birds. That's a marked improvement and an indication that I am not going to expend 7 shells per bird come September 1st. Had I not fatefully decided to change chokes on one station I would have likely shot considerably better than that. Tomorrow, I hit the course once again and am hoping to bust at least 42 targets. 

What does all of this cost? It depends largely on your local course and which shotshells you are using. Assuming non-premium target ammunition, I would expect to pay around $32 for a round of sporting clays (50 targets) and two boxes of shells. Do this three times and your performance will be astounding in comparison to the unpracticed hordes. Considering the little time each of us gets to spend in the field and our duty to humanely harvest game, $96 is a paltry investment. 

To really take your shotgunnery to the next level, I recommend these resources:

 Breaking Clays: Target Tactics, Tips & Techniques by Chris Batha ($13 used)

Clay Coach Online - Chris Batha (Free video instruction via Youtube) 

National Shooting Sports Foundation - Gil Ash (Free video instruction via Youtube) 

The Rook Rifle Project Part 1: Concept & Foundation

A few weeks ago I came across an opportunity to divest myself from my disposable income in my favorite fashion. That, of course, means that I was going to buy a gun. However, I wanted to do more than simply buy a gun. Being what has been termed a rifle loony, I would only be satisfied by building the perfect niche gun. For this iteration, I had settled on building a modern version of the classic Rook Rifle.

Concept. For those unfamiliar, a *Rook Rifle was a British arm of moderate caliber intended for shooting small game and vermin. The archetypical Rook Rifle was a single shot (often a Martini design, but not necessarily) with excellent handling characteristics, a mild report, and a weight that was a joy to carry afield.  Historic Rook Rifles range from the proletarian, to the jaw-droppingly beautiful. When I originally made the decision to build a Rook Rifle, I thought that I was quite clever and probably the only person in modern times to pursue such a notion. I was unequivocally wrong. Furthermore, one could also claim that the British Rook Rifle has now morphed into the broader category of the Walking Varmint Rifle.

* Writer’s Note: a rook is the British equivalent of a crow or raven. If you are of Scots ancestry, you would call it a corbie.

Foundation. As a lover of single-shots, I was beholden to the Rook Rifle tradition. Single-shots provide a shorter overall length, enormous strength, excellent handling characteristics, and a variety of chambering options. In order to simplify the build process (and to satisfy a long-held lust) I opted for one of the Thompson-Center (T/C) break-open designs. This means one of two receivers: the Contender or Encore. The Contender is a more petite frame, with better trigger potential, but can only handle moderate pressure cartridges. The Encore is larger, with a trigger that is less easily improved, but can handle higher-pressure rounds. Truth be told, either frame would suffice for this project because of typically low-pressure rounds utilized. However, I happened to find an Encore Pro Hunter frame at an excellent price on Gunbroker and purchased it for economic purposes. In total, this saved me about $120 off the cost of the Contender frame, which could be applied to the barrel. The factory furniture that I received with the Pro Hunter frame was black injection-molded. The forend has rubber finger groove inlays for traction and the buttstock has internal recoil dampeners built in and a very soft recoil pad. For the purposes of this build the recoil countermeasures were moot. Generally speaking, the furniture is utilitarian and not particularly aesthetically pleasing. It is weather-proof, but will likely be replaced with walnut sometime in the future.

Thompson Center Pro Hunter Frame

Cartridge and Loads. Original Rook Rifle cartridges are all practically obsolete. I suspect that one could not find factory brass for a single one. Luckily, there is a plethora of suitable cartridges existent today (some still very old). In pondering cartridges for this project, I decided that my priorities would be (1) suitable small-game performance up to 150 yards, (2) availability of reloading dies and components, (3) cost of reloading dies and components, (4) mildness of report and recoil, and finally (5) pedigree / intangible coolness factor.

The short list that I developed is included below. Included for each cartridge is an example of a factory loading, cost per box (source Midway USA), and advertised external ballistics.

.17 Hornet

Load: Hornady Superformance, 20 gr. VMAX

Advertised Velocity: 3,650 FPS

Cost: $18.79 (per 25, $0.75 per round)

.17 Remington Fireball

Load: Remington Premier Varmint, 20 gr. Accutip

Advertised Velocity: 4,000 FPS

Cost: $29.99 (per 20, $1.50 per round)

.22 Hornet

Load: Hornady Varmint Express, 35 gr. VMAX

Advertised Velocity: 3,100 FPS

Cost: $18.29 (per 25,  $0.73 per round)

.25-20 Winchester

Load: Winchester Super-X, 86 gr. SP

Advertised Velocity: 1,460 FPS

Cost: $65.99 (per 50, $1.32 per round)

.25-35 Winchester

Load: Winchester Super-X, 117 gr. SP

Advertised Velocity: 2,230 FPS

Cost: $48.99 (per 20, $2.45 per round)

.32 H&R / .327 Federal Magnum

Load: Federal American Eagle, 85 gr. JSP

Advertised Velocity: 1,400 FPS

Cost: $26.49 (per 50, $0.53 per round)

.38 SPL / .357 Remington Magnum / .357 Max

Load: Remington UMC, 125 gr. JSP

Advertised Velocity: 1,450 FPS

Cost: $29.49 (per 50, $0.59 per round)

.44 SPL / .44 Remington Magnum

Load: Remington UMC, 180 gr. JSP

Advertised Velocity: 1,610 FPS

Cost: $41.99 (per 50, $0.84 per round)

Ultimately, I had to consider the availability of factory ammunition as well. My final decision was a derivative of the .22 Hornet cartridge, the .22 K-Hornet. This cartridge was developed by Lysle Kilbourn in 1940. Factory .22 Hornet loads can be fired in the .22 K-Hornet with a slight loss in velocity. However, this process effectively fireforms the brass, which simplifies the reloading process. Like other improved cartridges, the .22 K-Hornet has a characteristic steep shoulder and increases the powder capacity when compared to the parent case. This translates into increased velocity potential. For instance, the 9^th Edition of the Hornady Handbook of Cartridge Reloading shows the highest velocity charge listed for the Hornet pushing a 35 gr. VMAX as 3,100 FPS. With the K-Hornet, the same velocity can be attained with the 40 gr. VMAX. However, my intent in selecting the K-Hornet was not to push the velocity envelope, but rather to increase the longevity of brass life. The parent Hornet case is notorious for stretching the neck of the cartridge, which requires frequent trimming and frequent brass replacement. The 40° shoulder and decreased body taper of the K-Hornet derivative increases brass life and minimizes required trimming.

Hornady (Left) and PPU (Right) .22 Hornet Factory Loads, Skinner Rear Sight

As previously mentioned, this cartridge selection was not based on attaining maximum velocity. As such, moderate loads will likely be used. Typically, cartridges in the .22 K-Hornet class are loaded with highly frangible bullets suitable for high velocity and explosive fragmentation on non-edible species. For shooting prairie dogs in open country this is perfect as it immediately terminates the animal upon impact and reduces the possibility of ricochet. However, I am a consummate small game eater and prefer intact carcasses for proper butchering. This necessitates heavy-for-caliber bullets, thicker bullet jackets, and more moderate velocities. Although I have not had the opportunity to reload for the .22 K-Hornet yet, I have already purchased dies and a few of the Hornady bullet #2245, a 50 gr. soft point varmint bullet with a thicker jacket. A similar bullet (#2240) is of identical weight but is constructed with a much thinner jacket to facilitate fragmentation.  According to the Hornady manual, this bullet can be pushed to 2,700 FPS in the K-Hornet. However, I believe that I will keep it between 2,200-2,500 FPS (depending on what the rifle favors). I suspect that this will minimize meat damage and will be a boon while hunting game at the end of the medium-size spectrum (turkey, bobcat, javelina, and coyotes).

Factory Ammunition, Reloading Components, and Dies are Widely Available

Bullet #2245 has a G1 ballistic coefficient of 0.214, which is relatively poor. Assuming a 25 yard zero, a sight height of 0.5” above the center of the bore, and a muzzle velocity of 2,300 FPS we receive the following trajectories via JBM Ballistics Calculator:

Calculated Table
Range	Drop	Drop	Windage	Windage	Velocity	Mach	Energy	Time	Lead	Lead
(yd)	(in)	(MOA)	(in)	(MOA)	(ft/s)	(none)	(ft•lbs)	(s)	(in)	(MOA)
0	-0.5	***	0.0	***	2300.0	2.060	587.2	0.000	0.0	***
25	0.0	0.0	0.1	0.5	2202.7	1.973	538.6	0.033	5.9	22.4
50	0.1	0.1	0.5	1.0	2107.8	1.888	493.1	0.068	12.0	22.9
75	-0.4	-0.5	1.2	1.5	2015.2	1.805	450.8	0.105	18.4	23.4
100	-1.4	-1.3	2.1	2.0	1925.1	1.724	411.4	0.143	25.1	24.0
125	-2.9	-2.2	3.4	2.6	1837.5	1.646	374.8	0.182	32.1	24.5
150	-5.1	-3.3	5.0	3.2	1752.7	1.570	341.0	0.224	39.5	25.1
175	-8.0	-4.4	7.0	3.8	1670.9	1.497	309.9	0.268	47.2	25.7
200	-11.7	-5.6	9.4	4.5	1592.2	1.426	281.4	0.314	55.3	26.4

This configuration works perfectly for a 150 yard small game cartridge.

Barrel. You might think that few rifles are chambered in .22 K-Hornet and you would be correct. However, there are a number of custom barrel makers for T/C Contender and Encore that do offer this chambering. One of the benefits of these rifles is that their barrels are easily swapped, thereby changing calibers. Barrel makers such as Bulberry, MGM, and SSK Industries all offer the .22 K-Hornet cartridge.

I opted to go with SSK Industries for no particular reason. To be honest, Bulberry seemed to be overly variable in the barrel prices based on caliber and I wasn’t certain that MGM would be able to install a ramped front sight on their barrel (they are, but more on that later). SSK Industries, owned by JD Jones, has a long history of Contender and Encore work.  In addition, JD has been on the forefront of cartridge development. His work includes creation of the .300 Whisper (the predecessor to the .300 AAC Blackout) and the JDJ series of cartridges. Notably, the .375 JDJ has long been held to be THE big game hunting cartridge for the Contender platform. After exchanging email with JD I decided that he would be my barrel-maker and I provided him with the following specifications:

Chamber: .22 K-Hornet

Profile: Same as factory Pro Hunter (.810”)

Length: 16”

Additions: Ramped front sight with 1/16” bead

Rate of Twist: 1 in 12”

These specifications are in keeping with the Rook Rifle concept. When applied to the Encore frame, this barrel would yield a relatively light, handy carbine with iron sights. You’ll notice that I did not ask JD to install a rear sight. That’s because I already had designs on the excellent Skinner aperture rear sight for T/C rifles. This sight, which is mounted on the factory-spaced scope mount holes, maximizes the sight radius for a short-barreled carbine. In addition, the aperture design is flexible; additional apertures of differing diameters can be ordered. By varying the aperture diameter one can let in more or less light as appropriate for the application.

Skinner Rear Aperture Sight

Photo from http://www.skinnersights.com/thompson_center_19.html

Intended Quarry. The sad truth of the American hunting scene is that the good old days of knocking on a farmer’s door and getting permission to big game hunt are coming to an end. Land access is the #1 challenge that hunters face. Although hunter numbers in recent years have declined, a deluge of next-generation hunters (the so-called “Hipster Hunters”) will likely exacerbate access issues. However, hunting needs all the advocates that it can get. These days, if you want big game access you either have to buy land outright, lease land, or hunt public land. Worse yet, public land is fraught with its own challenges. Belligerent or dangerous hunters on public land is often a sad reality. What is worse, each Congressional session threatens to sell-off the already limited public hunting land. What’s a man to do? Eat squirrel.

No, seriously! Small game opportunities still exist where big game hunting opportunities do not. Landowners don’t often expect to be paid for small game access, so prime real estate is often within reach. Despite being often overlooked as table fare, small game is also delicious. Preparations for small game are widely available and the general difficulty is low. Regardless of where you are located, prime small game hunting is likely only a short drive away. My experience hunting in Oklahoma and Kansas has been that squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, predator, and wild turkey hunting provides hours of entertainment without the pressures associated with whitetail deer hunting.

Double-Battered, Fried Squirrel is only Missing White Gravy

One of the reasons that I selected the .22 K-Hornet over the .17 Hornet (another .22 Hornet stepchild) is that the variety of .224” diameter projectiles offers much more flexibility. The lightest projectiles (such as the Hornady 35 gr VMAX, Barnes 30 gr. Varmint Grenade, and Calhoon 30 gr. Double HP) are perfect for non-edible rodent and vermin control. Yet, the option exists to shoot up to 55 gr. projectiles (perhaps heavier) that could be used for small deer-sized game in a pinch. I do not and will not advocate hunting deer with .22 caliber rifles, but shorter premium bullets (read as: non-tipped, non-homogenous) make it a possibility in the .22 K-Hornet. As I have previously noted, mid-range bullets such as the 50 gr. Hornady SP split the difference—you have the weight for larger quarry and the slightly controlled expansion does not render small game inedible.

Conclusion. At this time I am still waiting on my SSK Industries barrel, but I expect it to arrive within the week. That’s why this is Rook Rifle Project Part 1! In the next article I hope to offer up some eye-candy photos and to give my initial impressions on not only the rifle’s accuracy, but how well it fills the Rook Rifle niche.

Mushroom Hunting in the Land of the Mvskoke

Riparian. At least that is how the field guide would describe this place. The old timers would call it mushroom country. At first it is all proud with color—the eye-catching brilliance of Dogwood pink and Redbud purple easily visible from the highway. This is contrasted by the pure white of sand plums—blooms as sheer as a cotton summer dress and almost as refreshing to the eyes of a man beaten down by the graying capitulation of winter. But this is just the aperitif: Shangri-La doesn’t look like a garden party. It looks forlorn and shadowy: like the forest triumphed over fire and progress and humankind. Mirkwood? Tolkien must have been a forager. No one captures the essence of old timber without first tasting its fruits. That’s exactly what I intend to do. Of course, it’d be a sight easier if anything in my journal made a lick of sense.

APRIL 5^th 1996. I spent the day looking for a burn to no avail. Decided I might as well just follow the river and see where it goes. I must have crossed it four times before I finally got to ground I haven’t covered before. Took a red squirrel out of a big sycamore with the .22 and bent to wash him in the creek when I saw the downed elm. It is amazing how you can look for something so hard and then when you see it—well—it just jumps up and slaps you. Exactly 34 big yeller morels stood like miniature garden gnomes in front of that fallen elm. The largest had to be 8” tall.

Everyone has a plan until they get hit. I realized this after I stepped out of my truck into the WMA. Late March rains had swollen the Deep Fork like a dog tick. Grotesque in proportion, the river offered none of the low-water crossings that I had seen in the years before. After searching for them for an hour, I decided that I could find the morel patch in a roundabout manner and skirted the bank of the river for at least four miles. Finally I came upon a likely crossing. The Deep Fork here was only four inches or so deep and no more that 10 ft across. Three steps into the current and I knew that I should have cut a staff. The clear water here not only flowed over the rust-colored sand, but also through it. I immediately sunk, hip-deep, into the suspension. The panicked memory came back to me in a thunderclap. Not ten miles from this very spot I had experienced the quicksand before. I was a boy of only 10, following a motley pack of hounds: Treeing Walkers, a couple English dogs, and a loggerheaded Bluetick whose only redeeming quality was his loyalty. Back then my plaintive wails were crescendoing: “Dad! Daad! Daaaddd! Help!” My father, a loving and nature-oriented man, either misjudged the gravity of the situation or knew something that I did not. He continued ambling along, turning to tell me to hurry up. In half disbelief, I mustered all my might and managed to lift my left leg, then the right. I somehow made it out of the river by sheer force of will.

The situation now was no different but somehow even more frightening. Here I was literally in the middle of nowhere, at least 20 miles to the nearest town, Nuyaka. That wasn’t even a town anymore. Once it had been a community formed by the Creek Nation and named after New York. Now it was little more than a picturesque Oklahoma bridge and an oddball winery. I gave a sporting heave and the colloidal sand’s vacuum was broken with a peculiar sucking sound. Once on dry land I folded myself down into a fragrant patch of Allium canadense. Yet another reminder of the Creek, I wondered briefly if they too had lounged in this patch of wild onions and sought to catch their breath. I arose smelling of garlic and filled with a new sense of purpose.

To the trained eye, morel country is as distinct as an Escher painting. The sum of the parts creates a whole unlike any other. For morels, the prerequisites are: sandy soil, humus, elm, ash, sycamore, and partial shade. The panorama before me was practically Escher’s Relativity. All the pieces were there. Though I knew that the landmark downed elm of ’96 would be long gone, the scene did look familiar. Better yet, the recent precipitation and current warm temperatures suggested that the time was right for morels. I scampered to-and-fro through the bottomland eying each piece of ground and religiously looking for sign. My productivity was nil. My sweat, soggy boots, and exhaustion had bought me a woven basket full of air. If mushroom hunters have a fault, it is hubris. Years of combing the woods, reading dusty books in local libraries, and sautéing their bounty in butter often leads them to believe that they understand the morel. And why not? Are we not a learned race, capable of comprehending the natural world? Perhaps not. As soon as the mycophilist exhibits the slightest degree of haughtiness, the mystery of the morel deepens. Woodland flats that have produced bushel baskets of morels turn into barren wastelands. Rotting logs always good for a pocketful of Morchella yield nothing. In part, this explains why would-be agriculturalists have proven unable to reliably cultivate the morel. They are things beyond the ken of man.

This all comes as a revelation to me as I am angrily kicking leaves. I channel my inner rotten brat nonetheless; kicking leaves at least prevents me from cursing. In a display of grand childishness I also punt a leg-thick Post Oak limb and am genuinely surprised to find that it has struck back. I am rapped at lightning speed on my knee-high leather boots by a brazen rope that is coiled near the limb. A broad, spade-shaped head peers hatefully at me from a position of righteous indignation. My stupidity has nearly cost me my life. The copperhead shifts, posing like a boxer. My bullhide boots show two stained and shallow punctures, but my hide is intact.

What madness has possessed me? Have I truly risked life and limb all for the sake of a humble fungus? Somewhere in my deeper consciousness a tune emerges:

One Friday morning he did go

Into the meadow for to mow

A round or two and he did feel

A paisin sarpent at his heel

When he received his deadly wound

He dropt his scythe upon the ground

And straight for home was his intent

Calling aloud still as he went

And there he lay suppose to rest

With both hands acrost his breast

His mouth and eyes were closed fast

And there poor man he slept his last

Considering this a lesson from on high, I slowly retreat from the viper and make my way back to the sandy shallows. The walk back is a long one, full of contemplation and anxiety. I have brushed the face of nature and it has responded in kind. Each sight and sound upon the trail is riveting. The red cockade of the Pileated Woodpecker and its laughing song seem to mock my return. The cacophony of unseen tree-frogs is raucous cachinnation at my expense. I am humbled aplenty and am relieved to see my Ford at the end of the access road. Quickening my pace, I toss my cap on the dash and greedily retrieve a jug of water. While leaning across the truck bed and blankly staring into the bar ditch I am rendered speechless. Within spitting distance of my Will Hunt for Food bumper sticker is a family of newly-emerged morels, shining like diamonds in the Oklahoma sun. The final verse of "Springfield Mountain" echoes through my mind: 

The seventh of August sixty one

This fatal accident was done

Let this a warning be to all

To be prepared when God does call

Know Your Limits: Choosing Not to Pull the Trigger

It's been a good year for deer hunting. I've even been able to christen a new rifle---a slick modern .338 Winchester Magnum in a nice weatherproof package. It has accounted for three deer in two states and the results have been terrific. Each deer was taken with a single 200 gr. Hornady SST bullet and all fell within eyesight immediately.

With the larder full and the bonus antlerless season open I decided to break out the Big Iron for a real challenge. Big Iron AKA the Winchester 1885 in .405 Winchester is a ton of fun to hunt with because of the history, cool-factor, and unique cartridge. The tang sight is plenty accurate at reasonable distances (125 yards in good light for me). I've taken my best buck with it and a few other animals. With the .405 Winchester pushing 300 gr bullets 2200+ FPS it really hammers game.  With reloads? Holy cow. Here's an example with my preferred powder from Hodgdon:



Despite the impressive ballistics, I only am really comfortable shooting the iron sights out to about 125 yards in ideal conditions. This became a bit of an issue this evening as I sat in a old straw barn, waiting for a corn-fed doe to meander into the field I was over looking. The first deer I saw emerged from the timber about 15 minutes before last shooting light. The two does surveyed their surroundings, jumped a cattle lane, and entered the field about 300 yards away. They crossed the field at a diagonal to me and never got closer than 157 yards (trust me, I ranged them). I didn't take the shot and had no regrets. Nonetheless, I kept hunting with hopes of seeing more deer. Just a few minutes later, not two but SEVEN more does came out from the exact location and started heading for me. Things were about to get interesting.



Finally, the seven does were 67 yards from me feeding. I had the 1885 propped up on shooting sticks and was desperately trying to make heads or tails of a sight picture. Unfortunately, by now the failing light had betrayed me and the tang sight's aperture wasn't letting enough through for me to see anything other than general shapes. If you've hunted ducks before you know that "flock shooting" is a complete waste of shells and always leads to disappointment. How much more so would this be ineffective (and ethical) while shooting game with a rifle?

In the end, I watched the herd feed, play and do what deer do before silently slipping out of the barn and walking back to the truck. Did I want a deer? Absolutely. Did I think that most any chest hit with the cannon I was packing would dump a deer on the spot? Absolutely. However, you just can't take unethical risks when an animal's suffering hangs in the balance.  I'll keep packing Big Iron and the next animal taken with it will not suffer---even if means waiting until next year.

On Jump-Shooting Gadwalls

Crouched before the great earthen berm

Ear deep in crackling prairie grasses

With the northern wind lamenting the slate-gray sky

The contented gabbling, feet away

Promises that the rugged miles

Have not yet been wasted

Muted ducks for a muted world

The white speculum—a cotton boll

Amidst the browning field

A raft of Gadwalls

Dabbling among the ringtails

The sleet begins

As I spring the flock

Pellets of ice

Pellets of steel

Could one be harder than the other?

I wade into the frigid waters

Only denim to fight the chill

Yet one duck lost

Is one too many

When we understand the gravity

 of this gray duck kill

The ice now coats the barbed wire

And each step a harrowing feat

I’ve reach the summit

Of this hill called ‘Hell’

An abandoned homestead at my feet

The birds will hang within the barn

A day, at least, or more

Some Port, an orange, red currant jam

The sauce, called Cumberland, their paramour

The Feeble Bowhunter

$15 worth of camouflage fabric, an uncomfortable stool, and a dream. The poor mobile man's deer blind! In truth, it didn't look bad. I stretched the die-cut fabric taut between two red cedars and secured it in place with 3 ft. garden stakes before I slouched onto the stool. Bow in hand, I waited until the soprano chorus of frogs from the nearby beaver pond was interspersed by a barred owl's baritone proclamations. As evening's shadow settled on the canary-yellow soybean field I had to wonder, "What am I even doing here?"

Three weeks ago the field had been a deep spring green and was covered with deer sign. You could not walk without noticing the absolute obliteration of the tender leaves by hungry deer. Better yet, I had stumbled unto the figurative gold mine of whitetail signposts: a fresh scrape-line culminating in an aggressive rub on a cluster of small trees. I literally cancelled my Wednesday night plans when I found it (sorry church group, I made the wrong decision). Yet, once Kansas' archery season rolled around the temperatures hovered at unseasonable highs. If anything stymies a deer hunt, it is warm and humid weather. No doubt the activity continues, but it all occurs after dusk.

Two weeks later, my veritable gold mine turned out to be full of pyrite. I had hunted, battling literal clouds of mosquitoes, without so much as seeing a single deer. Worse yet, the green sea of soybeans had turned goldenrod and the tender leaves shriveled. At once I stopped finding tracks, much less rubs and scrapes. The deer had simply moved to better forage. Yet, I hunted this very spot once again today, grasping that maybe just one buck would wander by to check the scrape left weeks before. Alas, it was not to be. I had to settle for enjoying the playful chirps of a covey of bobwhite quail. Holding my bow loosely, I couldn't help but feeling incredibly feeble. "How can I expect to actually kill a deer with this?" was all I could think to myself.

Disregard that fact that I have already taken game (including deer) with the very same bow. When one fruitlessly bowhunts for any given amount of time, the effort eventually takes on an air of futility. In fact, the very weapon that you hold feels feeble. Yet, take the same weapon to the archery range and you can hurl lethal shafts deep into totem animals. Disregard the fact that our ancestors killed giant megafauna with indescribably less powerful tools---the thing begins to feel like a tinker toy!



Too strong is the pull of the rifle. Zero the scope. Rest the gun. Exert dominion over everything within eyesight. Yet, conservation departments either know us too well or they have a twisted sense of humor. Bow seasons last months (September-January in Kansas), whereas rifle season lasts only days (less than two weeks in Kansas). If you really want to hunt the best times in the season (the so-called chase phase) you simply cannot use a rifle legally in most states. Therefore, we are back to the bow. I'll eventually overcome the self-doubt. I'll adapt, just as the deer have adapted. Abandonment of the soybeans means wholesale utilization of another food source. This weekend I'll wear out some bootleather in hopes of finding it.




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