A number of years ago, I saw a stage production entitled “Hope Is A Thing In Feathers.” The play itself really had nothing to do with bird hunting as we know it now, but the title struck me as a perfect description of the relationship that hunters have with their feathered quarry. It is indeed a peculiar paradox.

Let me give you an example. Last year I decided it was time to go collect a ruffed grouse for the table. Ruffed grouse, or “partridge” as most Minnesotans refer to them, are perhaps the best eating game bird that flies. Beside being delicious, this brown bombshell of a bird has a way of bursting out of cover with a roar of wings that will unnerve even the most composed wing shooter; all in all, a very sporting bird.

Even though Minnesota is bursting with good grouse hunting, I, like most people, have to drive at least one hour before I hunt. There is an absolute rule that hunting can never be good close to home.

This particular area always had a good population of grouse. What made it even better were the cross country ski trails that split the swamps and stands of hardwoods. During the summer and fall, these trails grow a lush crop of clover, one of ol’ ruff’s favorite foods. During the last few hours of light the birds will come to trails to fill their crop with the tender leaves.

While hunting ruffed grouse, you have to have lightning quick reflexes and a nerves of steel. Perhaps that is why special forces military men, SWAT team members, politicians, and morticians make some of the best partridge hunters.

As I came to each turn in the trail, I would cautiously peer around the corner to see any feeding birds that hadn’t been alerted by my approach. At one hotspot there was a huge mud puddle in the trail with a single ridge of soft clay running down the middle. As I balanced along the treacherous ridge, I was poised and ready for anything, certainly there were birds just around the corner. I was like a coiled spring, a steel trap, a deadly grouse killing machine. The time was right. Just as the moment was reaching its climax, a bird jumped. Not out front like I had anticipated, but right out from under my feet. With a thunderous roar of wings the grouse rocketed out of a clump of grass, up by my leg and narrowly missed my hat. Instantly my inner spring uncoiled, the trap snapped, and this deadly grouse killing machine spun to intercept the bird.

There are a lot of rules that go along with proper bird shooting. Not quickly spinning around in the middle of a  mud puddle while shooting is one of those rules. My feet slipped just as I pulled the trigger, and the combination of a soft punch on the shoulder and simultaneous loss of footing was enough to send me reeling.  The puddle was only six inches deep, but that will get you just as wet as six feet if you land in a prone position.

Being demoted from a self-ordained wing shooting expert to a muddy, cold boob in a few seconds is a humbling experience. Trying to retain my composure, I started back for the truck, my mind grasping for excuses, but none seemed to quite fit the moment. I was a beaten man. As I rounded the last corner and could see my truck up ahead I quickened my pace with the thought of turning on the truck heater as fast as I could. Suddenly there was a sound that froze me in my tracks. There was the soft “kwit-kwit” of a partridge getting ready to fly. Up flew my gun as a covey of six burst from the oak scrub brush. At the report of my gun, one dropped from the group and landed upon the carpet of leaves.

As I picked up the plump bird I admired it’s beautiful plumage and thought for a moment at the recent turn of events. Yes, hope really is a thing with feathers!

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Jarvis was getting old and, oh, how he hated it. He really didn’t mind getting into his golden years, it’s just that it was cutting into his grouse hunting. The legs still worked OK and he was quick enough with the gun to get birds, it’s just that he couldn’t see very well the past few years.

For some odd reason, Jarvis could see birds fine as long as they were in the air, but as soon as they hit the ground he just couldn’t find them. It seemed he would spend most of the day bent over looking through Read More of the Story…

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As anti-hunters and so called “animal rights” groups continue in their efforts to stop sport hunting it becomes increasingly evident that not only are their arguments based purely on emotion, but if they had their way wildlife populations would suffer immeasurably.

It is a well founded fact that wildlife today cannot exist in healthy numbers unless they are managed through ecological checks and balances conducted by us. Not hunters, but all humans, have altered the balances of predators, habitat and environment to the point where wildlife cannot go back to the conditions that existed before man inhabited this land. It has been tried, and in all cases I know of the animals quickly destroyed themselves through overpopulating. The bottom line is if animal rights and anti-hunters groups are successful in stopping all hunting, it will start a series of events that would create havoc within all wildlife communities. There would be no hunting to control populations. Wildlife groups comprised almost exclusively of hunters would lose incentive to donate to wildlife programs. All hunting license fees, stamps and excise taxes on hunting gear that fund wildlife programs would be lost. Research and habitat programs would be dismantled. And, eventually, many species would face endangerment, even extinction.

Can’t the “antis” see that if they succeed in stopping hunting they will be destroying the one group that is responsible for the relatively healthy existence of wild creatures today? I am not aware of one animal rights group that donates to wildlife enhancement programs.

It is not important that hunters read these arguments on their behalf because they are already convinced. It is not important that anti-hunters and animal rights parties read this because they usually refuse to believe it anyway. Who needs to read this are those who don’t know which way to believe. These undecided people create the vast majority in this issue. According to state facts 15% of Minnesotans are pro hunting while 4.5% are anti-hunting. That leaves over 80% that need to know of the naive’ arguments of anti-hunters.

If you want to do something to instruct this 80% on the way it really is, you can do two things: educate them on the facts of the issue and keep your reputation as a hunter clean.

Who’s a neutral person going to believe on initial exposure- a well meaning person who speaks of gentleness toward wild creatures, or the slob hunter who poaches, litters the woods, blasts road signs, and irreverently tells blood and guts stories as if to glorify themselves.

Don’t be lulled into thinking the “antis” are far removed from a pro hunting state like Minnesota. They have made it a point that we are a target of theirs.  For now hunters need to inform the undecided majority on the real story about animal rights and anti-hunting factions. And, perhaps more important, clean our own ranks of irresponsible hunters who do more to promote anti-hunting than anything.

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Even though tourism marketers insist their demographics and surveys reveal outdoor sports like golf and tennis are equal, or even surpass, fishing and hunting in popularity today, my heart says it isn’t so. True, golf and tennis are admirable sports, games at which I embarrass myself at occasionally. But when ever has a tee shot onto the green or acing an opponent on the serve really made one’s heart race or cause hardened global entrepreneurs to turn giddy? It happens all the time when hunting and fishing!

My friend Jim is such an example. He is a self-made millionaire from out east who earned his fortune with an unrelenting work ethic, nerves of steel, and veins with ice coursing through them. He appears to fear no one, and has enjoyed wild success in all he’s set out to do. Yet a simple walleye unnerved him.

Jim visited the Brainerd area awhile back to speak at a convention of utility professionals. Once he was through he had one request: to go walleye fishing. He had done many things like mountain biking across France and claimed victory at prestigious sailing regattas, but he wanted to catch a walleye.

To better assure success, we lined up guide Rob Rasinski who had fished Gull Lake all his life. He had been guiding his clients to limits of walleyes for a few days, so we left the dock with expectations on high. The day was one of those rare Indian Summer days. The leaves were in full autumn glory, the sky was brilliant blue, and the unseasonable temperatures had the thermometer up over seventy degrees. We agreed that no matter the outcome, just being out on the lake that day had already made it a wild success. Still, we both wanted walleyes.

The recommended bait offering was typical fall fashion – a red tailed chub hooked on a slip sinker rig and fished on the bottom. The first spot held fish, but none that cared for red tailed chubs. Same with the second, third, and fourth spot. I listened to Jim’s stories of high stakes business launches and hard-nosed negotiations. Rob got more serious. Like any proud fishing guide, he said the empty live well wasn’t looking too good.

On our fifth spot, we finally hit active fish. Rob caught a keeper walleye and showed Jim what they looked like. Witnessing a little success got us going. Jim started telling the fish they had better bite. I told him it wasn’t the same as cutting a deal with humans. Then he got a solid walleye bite. He tried to feed it line, fumbled with the reel bail, and tried to keep the tangle out of his line -  all at the same time. High buck investments and Wall Street deals couldn’t rattle him, but a scaly, small-brained fish had him talking to himself.

Jim was quick though and rebounded well. He gathered the line and set the hook. The look on his face was priceless. Nervousness, excitement and joy all at once. Rob netted the walleye and brought it in. Jim was as giddy as a kid at Christmas. Here was a man who had all financial and professional success a person could want, and catching a walleye was at the moment the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

The fascination of all things wild can indeed make grown men and women act like youngsters. And youngsters, well, they are the best to watch as they experience hunting for the first time. Trevor, who is the last of my boys, turned nine earlier this year. He was old enough to come along and watch on the opening day of duck season. Like us older folks, he found joy in all aspects of the hunt. Packing a lunch with favored goodies, loading up the gear, and driving the ATV far into the woods were all just little slices of the day to be savored.

There were wet places to cross and woods to travel through before we arrived at the beaver dam that we expected to hold wood ducks, mallards, and teal. Trevor carried our lunch and some gear in a small scout back pack that I had gotten when I was about his age. There’s something very satisfying in seeing kids today leave the video games and cable television behind and strike off on an adventure with Dad.

We stopped at a traditional spot in the woods for lunch with family and cousins. Season was still two hours off, so some of the younger hunters, and Trevor, sneaked down to the water’s edge to see if there were ducks or not. Trevor’s eyes were fired with excitement when he came back to say there were lots of ducks in the water. I, too, hummed with excitement as we hunkered down to wait for noon to come.

I told Trevor that his job was to keep our retriever Bandit on the leash until we wanted him to go out and fetch ducks we, hopefully, were going to bag. I told him the dog would be very excited because this was his first hunt of the year, and when he heard shots, he would want to run out right away. Trevor assured me he would keep him under control.

At five minutes after noon, a small flock of mallards left the pond and winged their way over us. I rose up and missed with my first shot, but not my second. A drake greenhead in budding plumage splashed in the water in front of us. Behind me I heard a crash in the brush and turned to look as Bandit went tearing out into the water with his leash trailing behind. Trevor was picking himself up and sheepishly told me he didn’t know the dog could pull that hard. He was relieved when I laughed and said we would make the dog behave himself when he got back with the duck.

For the next several minutes, sporadic flocks of mallards left the beaver pond and flew over us well within shotgun range. I showed Trevor how to keep his head down until we were ready to shoot. When we were successful, he would send Bandit out for the bird and take it from him when he returned. He agreed that sending the dog to retrieve ducks was more fun than throwing a stick or ball for him to bring back. Trevor laid the ducks out in a neat row and kept careful count so we wouldn’t go over the limit. When I bagged a green winged teal I showed him how small one duck can be compared to others.

Soon we had our limit and prepared to leave. My cousin, who was our host, asked Trevor what he thought about duck hunting. It was not so much what he said, but how he said it, that made me believe he felt the same excitement that I and all our fathers before had felt when first hearing the whistling wings  of mallards coming in from the sky.

Do not ask me to define the reason behind the passion, the excitement that draws us to hunt game and catch fish. All I know is that it is there and it is powerful enough to make accomplished men laugh with delight. It is the same thing that makes boys’ hearts race when a flock of ducks turn their way. Golf doesn’t do it, tennis either.  In fact, nothing seems to move the soul like pursuing the wild things of this earth!

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This post came to me via email from my brother Robo…thanks buddy:

The photographs of the piebald deer shown below are real, although the animal was apparently taken in East Texas (not Wisconsin), and it was not sold for $13,000.

According to the Texas Big Game Awards website, “Bellville resident James Curtis took this unique piebald whitetail in Palestine opening weekend of deer season” in November 2008. The Buck Manager website provides the additional information from Curtis’s wife that:

The deer was actually killed November 2, 2008, on a privately owned ranch outside of Palestine, Texas. The piebald deer scored 138 5/8 gross with a total body weight of 195 pounds. My husband is getting the deer full body mounted. Anyways, I just wanted to give you this information since there are lots of emails going around saying the deer was harvested in Michigan, Arkansas, West Virginia, and Georgia just to name a few. One email even says that the deer was sold to Cabela’s for $13,000! It is crazy.

Prez. @ Davis. J. Hennes, LLC

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If you would take a look at the Small Game Hunting and Trapping Regulations pamphlet that is handed out when you purchase your license, you would see there are lots of hunting options for the outdoorsman to get into over the winter. Rabbit and some trapping seasons run all the way through February and fox, badger, opossum and raccoon season, along with some trapping, goes into springtime.

Cottontails prefer hardwood forests and lowlands, while snowshoe hares are most common in coniferous forest areas.  One type of habitat both species love are recently logged over areas.  The remaining brush piles offer both food and cover.  Hunting for these rabbits doesn’t require any special gear, except maybe a pair of snowshoes or cross country skis.  Most rabbit enthusiasts make do with their favorite shotgun.

Hunting jackrabbits is another story though.  These long-legged speedsters prefer wide open prairie country with some brushy spots for cover.  This type of terrain and the jack’s eyesight make it necessary for hunters to use flat-shooting, scope mounted guns, such as a .223 or similar rifle.  However, your deer rifle with lighter loads can work just great.

The most challenging winter hunting is for red and gray fox; these critters didn’t get the reputation of being wiley for nothing. Whether they be red or gray, fox like rolling farm lands with mixed sections of field and woods.  Getting permission to hunt on farmer’s property is usually no problem if you courteous and very careful.

There are basically two ways to get a fox in your sights.  One is by sitting quietly and using a varmint call to bring them to you.  Varmint calls are not hard to use and are available in most sporting stores.  Practice on your new call until you get the hang of it, and then find yourself an area with plenty of fox sign.  Locate a spot with a good view of the countryside and start calling.  If nothing shows after 15 to 20 minutes, move to a new spot; eventually one will come looking for you.

If you are energetic, you may want to strap on a pair of snowshoes or cross country skis and take off on a fresh set of fox tracks.  The idea is to keep watching as far ahead as you can and see the fox before it sees you.  You might just catch one napping on a sunny hill side.

Again, most hunters in Minnesota do not participate in these winter hunting seasons.  But remember, fall hunting is a long way off and doesn’t last very long once it’s here.

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Most of us, if not all, have had that dream of harvesting a monster buck. But have any of us had a dream about harvesting a fawn? Well, I know I haven’t yet.

Think albino deer are rare? The attached photos are of a black whitetail fawn in a neighborhood north of Austin, TX. All the deer pictured are wild. The fawn is melanistic, which means Read More of the Story…

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