'Til They're Black and Blue

    
I've been stuck on a recent strange dream that involved a certain MN musician of note putting my band up in less-than-ideal lodgings after a show in Minneapolis. She became VERY cross with me when I expressed my disgust about the Bed Bugs all over the room. "YOU have been brainwashed by the Petrochemical Industry to WRONGLY believe that our FRIENDS the Bed Bugs - our sisters and brothers - are BAD. Now roll out your sleeping bag and cuddle up with them...OR would you rather I put Rush Limbaugh on the radio for you?" I finally looked up "bed bugs" on an online dream dictionary and discovered this: To dream of bedbugs indicates that you are uneasy or annoyed about some situation or relationship. You are keeping these negative feelings to yourself instead of verbalizing it. Huh...I'm gonna need to mull that one over a bit. ;-) 

      

Dear Santa,

So, we haven't talked for a long time, and I"m painfully aware of the whole deal with your obligation to uphold "the list," but this isn't just about me, and it's been like ten years since there's been anything in my stocking, so...I think I'm kinda "due." My sons Tyler and Riley have taken an interest in the "shooting sports," and we've been talking about getting a new BB gun. I mean, that's admirable, right? Geez Lousie, some nerdy kid in the 50ies wanted a Red Ryder and they made a whole freekin' movie about it. Ok ok, it's more of a pellet gun, but it's pretty much the same thing, and we promise to be very careful. It will be used mostly for target shooting, and we won't shoot at any animals that aren't either delicious OR frighteningly overpopulated, covered with red fur, and destroying the bird feeder. What we'd like to see on our hearth on Christmas morning is an all black Crosman 1377 with a rifle stock, scope, and removable bi-pod. If we can work out some sort of deal here, I'd be willing to be considerably slightly less naughty in the coming year. Thanks.

Eric (and Tyler and Riley)

P.S. Maybe throw in 3 pairs of safety glasses while you're at it.  You're the greatest.  ;-)

  

The First Weekend of November 2011 - Part 1

Here in Northeastern Minnesota, a significant number of the people in my demographic are avid deer hunters. Though I love spending as much time out of doors as possible in the fall, that’s one activity in which I’ve never developed an interest, and despite the potential danger posed by the unsafe trigger-happy minority of deer hunters, early November is by far my favorite time of year to sit in the duck blind. Over the last 10 years, I’ve stumbled into the observance of a sort of tradition during the 1^st weekend of the firearms deer season, and once again the week after Halloween found me scurrying about my garages assembling the needed gear for a long weekend at a quintessential Minnesota wilderness deer camp. A friend of mine has a county lease and a rustic shack on the banks of what I’ll refer to for the sake of confidentiality only as a “Great Northern River,” and while he and his partner and their dashing young crony headed up for the weekend with ATVs in tow to search of big bucks, Lucy the Lab and I arrived at the landing at 4 a.m. and set out into the darkness in search of ducks with the promise of a hot meal, good sauna, and warm bed at the end of the long journey upstream. 

The River possess a number of characteristics that would suggest a living, breathing entity, and with the passing of each season come changes that affect the movement of fish, the habits of wildlife, and the safety of navigation. It was once a major artery of transportation for the logging industry that thrived around the turn of the last century, and innumerable sunken White Pine boles lay at the bottom awaiting their time to fill with the gasses of decomposition and partially rise to the surface. This was the first time in 2011 that I’d been on the River, and I had no idea where the year’s hazards lurked, and as I drove my small, heavily-loaded jon boat through the mist, I quickly came to the somewhat troubling realization that my powerful spotlight was useless in the light fog suspended just above the water. I continued on in total darkness on that moonless morning using only the reflection of the stars on the water to search for deadheads. My motor droned on, the tree lines loomed and then receded, and the miles slipped by. 

After about 30 minutes the sky opened up as my destination drew near. At a spot where a large wild rice-filled bay joins the main river channel, I cut the motor and slid up on the floating bog to unload some gear, debark Lucy, and prepare the decoy bags for business. Tossing out 4 or 5 dozen duck decoys in the dark is potentially hazardous and is best done with as little extra weight or important gear in the boat as possible. Lucy, who knows the routine very well, curled up on the bag of camouflage netting and kept an eye on me from shore, and the occasional glint from her eyes illuminated by my small headlamp provided a ready reference as to where the blind was in relation to where the decoys were being placed. At this particular spot a large mud flat of water two feet deep or less drops off dramatically to a maximum depth of nearly thirty feet, and that poses a number of problems where decoy anchor lines are concerned. After nearly an hour of setting, resetting, tying, and untying, I set about the back breaking work of pulling my boat completely up on the bog through knee-deep muck, and after some quick work with the camo netting and abundant dead grass, I left my concealed boat, carried my bucket and gun over to where Lucy was waiting, and poured a cup of coffee.  Five minutes into legal shooting hours, the coming day had more than announced itself, and I was acutely aware of the fact that I’d neither seen nor heard a duck all morning. 

To reveal a curious truth, I planned and packed for this trip with the full knowledge that, as in previous years, I would very likely come home with few or NO ducks, and that was just fine. For me the goal of that weekend was to hang out at deer camp, have miles of beautiful river all to myself, enjoy good company, and sit in the duck blind to the point that I was darned good and sick of it for the year. The migration patterns of waterfowl in North America are currently in an erratic state of flux, and while locations long revered as “hot spots” across the State have been reduced to “hit or miss,” more marginal areas like the River, though consistently “not too bad” in the past have become virtually devoid of significant numbers of ducks. I was prepared to take home only photos and memories, and the numerous Tundra Swans and occasional small flocks of Hooded Mergansers (some of the last waterfowl to fly south) revealed that the migration was coming to a close. Lucy watched all of these birds with great interest, and although I generally don’t shoot ANY type of Merganser, I decided that if that was the only duck I was going to see all weekend that one in the bag would be ok. As a single Hooded drake rocketed by high and outside, I drew a bead, and it crashed down on the other side of the river. Despite the 28 degree air temperature and 37 degree water, Lucy plunged in with great resolve, and after a long retrieve, she went to heal and deposited it in my hand…and then shook off all over me. 



Buck and Me in November 2004



A few cups of coffee, two sandwiches, and a couple pieces of pilfered Halloween candy later (standard duck blind time increments), I heard a motor in the distance, and about 10 minutes later a distinguished older gentleman in a well-worn Filson hat maneuvered his small boat carefully through my decoys. It was Ted, the owner of the shack, and his Chocolate Lab “Buck,” and they were making their last trip upstream to the shack for the year. "Good morning, Eric!" he said with a big smirk on his face. "Say, if you have a pile of ducks you'd like me to run to the shack for you, I'd be happy to grab them." I found this reference to the sad state of duck hunting on the River most amusing and laughed out loud, and we chatted for a couple minutes. I asked about the position of any deadheads on the river, additional hazards caused by the very low water level, and the whereabouts of the rest of his party while Lucy jumped annoyingly in and out of his boat in an effort to greet Buck. Standing to start his motor, the cheer briefly left his face as he solemnly spoke his parting words. "Be alert." To a person all alone miles from rescue without wireless capabilities and with plans to travel in the dark, those words carried great weight and served as a powerful reminder of the potential hazards inherent to my situation. "I will be. See ya in a bit..." was my reply. 

As the sound of his motor faded off into the distance, I stood in my somewhat shoddily constructed blind and looked hopefully for any ducks set to wing by his passing, but none came. As the sun crept higher in the sky and noon approached, I stretched out on the large mat of dead grass assembled for Lucy with the intention of grabbing a quick 30 minute nap. I dozed off quickly and slept for an hour or so until a few quiet but serious "ruffs" from Lucy brought me back to life. I slowly regained my senses and realized that she was "ruffing" AT something...a familiar sound...a sort of...burl...the kind made by...a duck? I poked my head around the blind to see an impressive Ringbill Drake bellied up to one of my prized hand-burlaped Herter's decoys, and I slowly reached for my gun. Now, one of the things I find most confounding about the art of shotgunning is my personal tendency to connect with difficult targets on the outside of my range while at the same time ineptly bungling the easiest shots imaginable. Suffice to say that this particular duck went safely on his way, and all I was left with was the very distinct feeling of being stared at...by a dog...which I was. "What?!" I asked indignantly. Lucy looked away. 

About an hour later I missed a surprise Mallard, and then a Green Winged Teal flew by followed by a couple more. By the close of legal shooting hours, I was both happy and surprised to have observed 50 or more ducks, and the three in the game bag - all retrieved by Lucy - made the day an unqualified success. After struggling in the mud for 10 minutes freeing my boat from the bog, I pushed out and started to collect decoys, and in the gloam of that early November evening, a phenomena known only to duck hunters in quiet, swampy places materialized before my eyes. I have no idea where they spent the day (Pelican Lake? Lake Vermilion? Voyagers National Park? Beyond ALL of those?), but literally hundreds of ducks in groups of 20 to 80 started to pour into the rice bay to spend the night. I learned a long time ago that, in the exact style of a Warner Brothers cartoon, those ducks were "un-huntable" and would have left the rice in the 20 minutes before the start of shooting hours the next day, but it was an amazing sight none the less. I felt blessed to have been there there to witness it, and as I collected my dog from shore and cracked the first beer of the day, I was overwhelmed by the joy that came from the great start to an exciting trip.  I adjusted my boat seat, cinched up my life vest, and turned my little boat upstream.

...down into a dream we go...

 

I've posted this song online before, but this is just such an amazing version...this lady has "mad ninja" chops in every department.  Wow...


  

Wait For It...

Preface ~ Aside from two uncles with whom I visited only a handful of times each year, I grew up in a family of non-sportsman. It wasn't until I settled down back in my hometown in the early Nineties that my love for being in the woods in the autumn gave rise to a mild interest in Ruffed Grouse hunting. That interest slowly grew into a serious pursuit, but due to the nature of the quarry and the decided advantage the grouse has over a lone hunter on foot, I enjoyed only limited success. Numerous times after having been made a fool by a number of birds flushing unexpectedly from all directions, I'd catch myself in the midst of deep frustration thinking, "Damn! I wish I had a DOG." Despite countless proposals, negotiations, and pleas throughout my childhood, I was never allowed to have a dog, and very much in keeping with my thought process during those days, some time passed before I resolved to start the search for a suitable pup. A trusted friend who I regarded as somewhat of an expert on the sporting breeds pointed me in the right direction, and I narrowed my choices down to either a Visla, a German Wirehaird Pointer, or a German Shorthaired Pointer. Through what I've come to regard as equal parts remarkable divine intervention and ordinary dumb luck, I found my Kelty - a stunning example of a German Shorthair from the storied Hege Haus bloodline. The Universe sort of dealt her a less-than-desirable hand by placing such a high-powered dog with the rank amateur dog handler that was 20-something Eric, but after a couple years of head butting, hard work, and lots of yelling...and whistle-blowing...and cuddling, she and I came to an uneasy understanding and gradually evolved into an efficient team.
 

As an amateur dog trainer who was very excited and impressed by what to me was the "new" world of gundog training, I read the book The Training and Care of the Versatile Hunting Dog by Bodo Winterhelt 5 or more times and consequently joined my local NAVHDA chapter. Like the other members of the so called "Continental Breeds," the German Shorthaired Pointer was developed in the mid to late 1800's to provide the emerging German middle class, people going afield "on a budget," with an all-purpose dog. Whether the task at hand was pointing upland birds, chasing furbearers, retrieving waterfowl, or tracking big game, Shorthairs were intended to be equally well suited for each task, and the tests developed by NAVHDA were designed to evaluate each of those abilities in a non-competitive environment were the dog was judged according to a set standard - not against the other dogs in the test. From the start of the MN Woodcock season on Labor Day weekend to the end of the small game season on December 31st, Kelty and I would go afield in search of birds nearly every day except for a two week break during the firearms deer season when dogs were not safe in the woods, but it was only due to mild curiosity and for the sake of improving her score on the next NAVHDA test that I agreed to join a friend on an early season duck hunt with the hope that she'd be given some work.  Over the course of the day we saw one duck fly down the middle of the lake several hundred yards away from us, and that very well could have been the end of the story, but a couple weeks later something happened that quite literally changed my life forever.  Fate brought me to the garage of a local carpenter whom I'd hired to help me with some windows as he excitedly ranted about his amazing morning while standing over a line of 10 or more Greater Scaup. These were large and impressive ducks, and with them as a backdrop to his colorful narrative, I warily agreed to accompany him to the same lake the next morning. The details of that experience alone would fill several pages, but suffice to say that while standing on a floating bog in the gathering grey light with a gusting wind and stinging sleet as great flocks of giant northern Bluebills rocketed over the decoys, I was overcome with the strange feeling that I'd been there before...or at least that it was a place I very much belonged.

My commitment to getting Kelty out to find birds on an almost daily basis gradually turned to a pattern of early morning duck hunts, a nap, and then an evening in the grouse woods, but by the time she reached 10 years old and was unofficially "retired," Lucy the Lab had joined our family and my primary activity in the fall shifted almost entirely to pursuing ducks. I should note as always that my motivation to dedicate countless hours and dollars to what the uninformed layperson could so easily write off as nothing more than a primitive "blood sport" in reality has very little to with any sort of thrill or satisfaction derived from the killing of unsuspecting birds. Nor is it related in anyway to the misguided quest for dominance or "male affirmation" sadly exhibited by so many of the folks who appear on the unfortunate hunting shows on the Outdoor Network and the like. I go afield in the autumn at sizeable expense and even considerable risk to honor and carry on a centuries-old American tradition.  I'm fascinated by the history of waterfowling in America, and I love sitting out in the garage on ever cooler August and September nights painting decoys, working on duck boats, and fine tuning gear. Giving a loyal and dedicated dog like Lucy the opportunity to fulfill the purpose for which she was bred is highly rewarding, and the fact that I'm able to combine my enthusiasm for duck hunting with my passion for canoeing allows me to chalk up nearly 20 trips a year that many people who live far away from my part of the world would consider individually to be "a trips of a lifetime." I actually pull the trigger on a very small percentage of the total number of ducks I see every year, and I make it a point to be the most careful and ethical waterfowler that I know. Beyond that, looking into my mouth will instantly reveal to all but the dumbest and most delusional among us that I am an omnivore, and wild duck, partly due to it's lack of any sort of chemical additives or corruption by evil corporate agriculture, is one of my favorite foods. There is but ONE way to acquire that great delicacy, and the ducks I bring home every fall make up nearly 30% of my personal meat consumption over the course of the winter. All that being said, due in part to the conflict of open seasons and also because of the stigma attached to the sport by countless well-documented "accidents" and other forms of unspeakable idiocy, I have no interest in deer hunting.

Dressing in high-tech camouflaged clothing and sitting in a duck blind during the firearms deer season in the State of Minnesota is problematic at best and just plain dangerous at worst. Like it or not, there are an upsetting number of irresponsible deer hunters who actually shoot at movement without taking the time to positively identify their targets. I am (with a number of qualifications that would instantly reveal my preference for non-motorized modes of wilderness travel) a believer in the concept of multiple use for public lands, and there's no way that I would ever hide indoors during deer season the way that so many people do. Asserting my right to sit in the duck blind for the duration of the season has been the source of a number of unique adaptation and techniques, and many of those along with an entertaining and compelling account of my adventures from last weekend will appear in my upcoming post on this blog. Stay tuned. ;-)