tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7258814626220196382024-02-19T02:09:53.745-08:00The Bumbling BushmanJamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-36947540344882302892011-10-07T17:23:00.000-07:002011-10-07T17:23:08.575-07:00Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw5nl4U3562qI7A49FL2wHLnm6LMMxuwb6XLwuKbbTxd2ao0KXz2H2Qvk9XeZdim20IjbX6fNAgSQS4eb8aevOmtUjfxNAyC3GdGtZ3x0rEJXPH4rHlV-4FDCFdcOjrVLt3R-VJqm1n_c/s1600/zipper.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw5nl4U3562qI7A49FL2wHLnm6LMMxuwb6XLwuKbbTxd2ao0KXz2H2Qvk9XeZdim20IjbX6fNAgSQS4eb8aevOmtUjfxNAyC3GdGtZ3x0rEJXPH4rHlV-4FDCFdcOjrVLt3R-VJqm1n_c/s400/zipper.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>I'm not one of those people who goes gaga for crazy roller coaster rides or extreme merry-go-rounds. Heck, the most "extreme" thing I've done in the last 10 years was an ill-advised attempt at recapturing my youth on a pair of water skis - that is until a couple of weeks ago when I went zip-lining through the Appalachian forest canopy.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.navitat.com/" style="color: blue;">Navitat</a> canopy tour was arranged by my wife, Sue, and the other women of the family as a joint Christmas gift for me, my father and my brother-in-law, Jeff. We're talking <i>last</i> Christmas here. It took the three of us this long to get our acts together and pick a date that worked for everyone.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The weather couldn't have been any better in the valley north of Asheville, where Navitat has a lease on 600 acres of undisturbed forest. After a safety brief where we met our guides and fellow zippers, it was up, up to the top of the ridge in a Kubota all-terrain vehicle to get to the first platform.<br />
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Our two young guides were pretty much what you'd expect - recent college grads (or drop-outs) with an appetite for adventure, tempered by the closing days of a long season sheparding people like me, my dad and my brother-in-law through the thrill of a lifetime. To put it another way; by this point in the season, they'd seen it all. But they were good guys and they did their best to stay enthusiastic and keep everyone safe.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buckling Dad in.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>From our perspective, however, it was hard not to be overcome by the amazing act of attaching oneself to a harness and cable, then dropping off of a high platform and allowing gravity to whisk us through and across the forest at speeds reaching 40 miles-per-hour. The first two "zips" were short and slow in order for everyone to get the hang of things. After that, it seemed the sky was the limit.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And he's off!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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We were zippin' fools - especially Dad, who decided early on that safety instruction was for suckers and using two hands wasn't what got him through the last 70 years. While Jeff and I tried to remain cool in the face of 900-foot rides across the valley some 200 feet above the ground, Dad was screaming "kawabunga!" and spinning his illegally free arm like a rodeo bronc rider.<br />
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I must admit, I have become jaded by my father's antics. After 20 years or so of picking up my messes, Dad seems to have made it his mission in life to try to embarrass me. I can't really blame him, and it sure looked like he was enjoying himself.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's where it gets interesting. See those cables stretching across the valley?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>His enthusiasm was infectious. Pretty soon, everyone was whooping and hollering as we flew down the valley, zip-by-zip.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeff - going down.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There were other obstacles too; suspension bridges and rappelling ropes that squooze our manhood in most-unsavory ways. Through it all we had fun in the sort of crazy, google-eyed wonderment kids run around with at a Chuck-E-Cheese birthday party, except it was better, because it takes more to get us there these days.<br />
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Oh, I suppose there are people who come away from the Navitat Canopy Tour with a new-found sense of empowerment or self confidence. I can see how a trip through the tree tops could give a person a thirst for more adventure in their life. But for me, the lesson was learned by watching my dad, who could be sitting on a couch, watching football and drinking soda pop all day, but instead seems to have grabbed life by the tail and is having the time of his life. That's a lesson for all of us.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRw2g2DqRWcmmCzSuVyNIw8P3EZu4BvSP8dugHuvIw4mXi-daXJStXzFWosrAppf43PyOeGtUMYS1MPLFGGAbTlwme2XaoA0TW8PF_gdsxIgZBiTnn-FpQ1pDR6wrdNJZ1nXFpaYvKzBEW/s1600/comin+down+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRw2g2DqRWcmmCzSuVyNIw8P3EZu4BvSP8dugHuvIw4mXi-daXJStXzFWosrAppf43PyOeGtUMYS1MPLFGGAbTlwme2XaoA0TW8PF_gdsxIgZBiTnn-FpQ1pDR6wrdNJZ1nXFpaYvKzBEW/s320/comin+down+1.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-87288582498054647662011-09-22T07:48:00.000-07:002011-09-22T07:48:24.963-07:00Killboxapalooza II<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Degan's hooked up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was a trip that almost didn't happen - a Gulf Stream angling adventure right smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic hurricane season. It took foresight, tenacity and a bit of luck to pull off, but we did ... thank God we did.<br />
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Hurricane Irene threw the first punch with a track that slowly pounded eastern North Carolina and the Outer Banks just one week before our scheduled departure from Hatteras. By the time the storm's 80 mph sustained winds finally subsided, NC Hwy 12 had two major breaches where the ocean rushed across the island to mix with Pamlico Sound. Getting to Hatteras was out of the question.<br />
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I never doubted our captain. Brian Patteson and I have known each other and been friends for the last 15 years. He and his company, <a href="http://www.patteson.com/" style="color: blue;">Seabirding Inc</a>., is widely regarded as one of the East Coast's foremost authorities on seabirds and has led birding trips to the Gulf Stream in search of those fascinating pelagics for more than two decades. These days, he does it aboard his own boat, the Stormy Petrel II - a 61-foot, Maine-built headboat capable of 20 knots - that makes the long run to the Gulf Stream (sometimes more than 30 miles) expeditious and comfortable.<br />
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Patteson also happens to be the fishiest, saltiest mo-fo I have ever met. When he's not leading birding trips, he <a href="http://www.thestormypetrel.com/" style="color: blue;">charters the boat</a> out to anglers in pursuit of those denizens of the deep; wahoo, marlin, dolphin (the fish kind) and tuna. When he called me two days after the hurricane to announce he was still alive, still in business and just happened to have moved the Stormy Petrel II to the safe harbor of Wanchese ahead of the storm, it came as no surprise to me. My man is a bulldog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8V8H64YNdnPitPwZPoq1Q3Q6IAOUiCqSWCgw2V4oaBg9mDXNykaAwBxdohnMSFY3usefjhavlPZ0QIWDbwAaYNFnp7Gksuku4IGPD684C3ll7Dw8VjcaEASiLGsVqr8gg6mOIT49nKp6K/s1600/Hank+contemplative.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8V8H64YNdnPitPwZPoq1Q3Q6IAOUiCqSWCgw2V4oaBg9mDXNykaAwBxdohnMSFY3usefjhavlPZ0QIWDbwAaYNFnp7Gksuku4IGPD684C3ll7Dw8VjcaEASiLGsVqr8gg6mOIT49nKp6K/s320/Hank+contemplative.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank Shaw in mental preparation for Killboxapalooza.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It was excellent news on several fronts; I was going back East to fish with some of my best friends in the world, my dad was coming along and we were playing host to newly-minted book author Hank Shaw, who also runs the blog <a href="http://honest-food.net/" style="color: blue;">Hunter Angler Gardener Cook</a>, on the fall leg of his circuitous, nationwide tour promoting <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1605293202/?tag=googhydr-20&hvadid=7685492471&ref=pd_sl_2iynb3dcm4_e" style="color: blue;">Hunt, Gather, Cook</a>. Hank's writing and philosophy of using the whole animal and treating it in the kitchen as the wondrous gift that it is has been a huge influence on me. My admiration led to an Internet friendship over the last couple of years that culminated in an agreement - if the book tour brought him to North Carolina, we'd go fishing.<br />
<br />
Mother Nature still thought about making our lives miserable. In the days before our trip, Hurricane Katia formed and took a track up the eastern seaboard. Happily, the storm's path kept it far enough to sea to give us nothing more than a long, gentle swell on an otherwise perfect day to head offshore.<br />
<br />
How shall I describe it? Hank did a good job of it on his blog <a href="http://honest-food.net/2011/09/19/the-day-the-tuna-died/" style="color: blue;">post</a>. "Epic" was a popular descriptive, as was "insane," "mind-blowing," and "out of control." It was the greatest fishing day of my life. Our mate, Brian King, said it was the best tuna fishing he'd seen in 10 years. Brian Patteson said we put more yellowfin tuna in the boat in five hours of fishing than he'd caught aboard the Stormy Petrel II in fours years combined out of Hatteras.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_omxIVGPLt8L_NgDcxZA2RC3M37Ph3BrScwN_N7sGzNUadHjqewQGlVa02sSBrmi4iWqoOIoHrCBfBP-MIwj0OXeoKE6gyT5rSSPB9WHUV0ZKSxx5cGCvZ26l_DMCWEWkjr8t4hCaoIGu/s1600/tuna+monster.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_omxIVGPLt8L_NgDcxZA2RC3M37Ph3BrScwN_N7sGzNUadHjqewQGlVa02sSBrmi4iWqoOIoHrCBfBP-MIwj0OXeoKE6gyT5rSSPB9WHUV0ZKSxx5cGCvZ26l_DMCWEWkjr8t4hCaoIGu/s320/tuna+monster.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric the "Tuna Monster" cranks up the first fish.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Let me start where the boat slowed down to trolling speed at approximately 8:30 a.m. We had steamed across the Continental Shelf in search of warm water at the edge of the Gulf Stream. The journey had taken us 35 miles from Oregon Inlet and had been mostly devoid of sea life. It was obvious when we got to where we needed to be; suddenly there were bridled terns in the air above the wheel house, pilot whales and offshore bottlenose dolphins (the mammal kind) breached and played at the surface, flying fish skittered across the swell, the currents had pushed a mat of sargassum together to form a long weedline that stretched as far as we could see and, oh yeah, one of the high-speed trolling rods bent over - fish on! <br />
<br />
Everyone hoped for a wahoo, but it wasn't. There was an audible groan from the mate as Eric quickly reeled in a sizable great barracuda. While barracuda from some tropical waters are safe to eat, large individuals off North Carolina are generally avoided because they can carry the ciguatera toxin. Barracudas also suffer a cultural discrimination off the Outer Banks and are considered to be bad luck by many in the charter fleet. Needless to say, Brian King scowled and never let this one in the boat, flipping it off the hook without touching the evil beastie (superstitions are funny).<br />
<br />
If a dark cloud appeared over the crew of the Stormy Petrel II because of the 'cuda, it didn't last for long. The mate reset the trolling spread for dolphin and within minutes we had our first hit. The fish were small by dolphin standards, but that is expected off the Carolinas in early September. The 1- to 3-pound schoolies are called "bailers" because they can be slung directly into a kill box by hand - no gaffing necessary. The school we sat over held more than 100 fish and Brian King quickly had us working at maximum efficiency. Six anglers drifted cut baits back into the chum that King judiciously doled out to the hungry dolphin. As you hooked up, you danced around everyone else's lines while working your way to the middle of the transom, where King wrapped the leader, flipped the fish aboard, unhooked it and rebaited your line with terrifying speed - terrifying especially for the greedy dolphin. In an hour, we had more than 70 of those delicious little fish on ice before they quit biting.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJI4IAJAR84Fa0XirWAFH_jbg0zX29vAudTFLmP1GR8U50myIYxCza7WfAi2ks71ywTlXITzopuwyc0LDt7ACpcsumkQEiK07BVuhIJjouVBaVX1fzawKMPxk177k7z1zihruKj4rOWTL/s1600/bailing+dolphin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJI4IAJAR84Fa0XirWAFH_jbg0zX29vAudTFLmP1GR8U50myIYxCza7WfAi2ks71ywTlXITzopuwyc0LDt7ACpcsumkQEiK07BVuhIJjouVBaVX1fzawKMPxk177k7z1zihruKj4rOWTL/s400/bailing+dolphin.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bailing dolphin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Patteson turned the boat away from the weedline to search for a bigger bite and he didn't need to go very far. More bridled terns and Cory's shearwaters flocking in the distance told him something was up. As we drew closer to the commotion the cause was obvious - tuna were tearing things up on the surface. Again, Brian King's vast experience paid big dividends. Within minutes he had switched out the entire trolling spread - five rods in all - to tuna gear and within seconds after doing so we had hooked up.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYkhOCkNOPDY3OkwtIFJmxFSqOsyRI8vYQR4mPCQknig6TaZR8S4N5RUra_kI4_Pvr97L6DsKXuRBVpHqGSUjnVXWDvX5EHLJENA19KnHnYAh3YQZZAL_EGbdiXDS0uROUd6Hr0cIMTEJO/s1600/Tom%2527s+YFT.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYkhOCkNOPDY3OkwtIFJmxFSqOsyRI8vYQR4mPCQknig6TaZR8S4N5RUra_kI4_Pvr97L6DsKXuRBVpHqGSUjnVXWDvX5EHLJENA19KnHnYAh3YQZZAL_EGbdiXDS0uROUd6Hr0cIMTEJO/s320/Tom%2527s+YFT.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad's first yellowfin tuna at 70 years young.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Hank took the first fish, followed in short order by Brian Degan, Seattle Chris and Asheville Nate. Hank's was a small skipjack tuna. The others were hard-charging yellowfins in the 15-20 pound range. This was what we'd all hoped for, as yellowfin tuna are special. Not only do they fight like runaway locomotives and look like exquisite quicksilver bullets, but they also taste like nothing else that swims in the ocean.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizb0nQ_lLRc1UmgAXZ0fY7Z3weRGByGJsCVS4c6aOmZU6Y4n40SOka3is_cZMi7W3iO1g4R7dyj4ZXHUuzjyQCHyqS8JsooZ31kt1FOQvZVm5mAsDa_7psMs__2xyxTFm28lNsyqgisUMi/s1600/Nate+and+Chris+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizb0nQ_lLRc1UmgAXZ0fY7Z3weRGByGJsCVS4c6aOmZU6Y4n40SOka3is_cZMi7W3iO1g4R7dyj4ZXHUuzjyQCHyqS8JsooZ31kt1FOQvZVm5mAsDa_7psMs__2xyxTFm28lNsyqgisUMi/s320/Nate+and+Chris+1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nate and Chris in hand-to-fin combat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That first triple-header was followed by another ... and another ... and then four on at a time ... and again ... and again. It was the stuff of legends. Patteson would troll through the feeding frenzy and we'd get multiple hook-ups. He'd take the boat out of gear as we fought the fish. Brian King gaffed and re-rigged as Patteson came back up to trolling speed and brought her around for another pass, and the fish kept biting. When Morehead City Nate asked him what was creating this perfect storm, Patteson replied, "I have no idea. I'm just going to keep making circles until it stops."<br />
<br />
When it finally did stop, there wasn't any room left in the two giant fish boxes at the back of the boat. At the dock, the fish processors weighed us in at just over 450 pounds of yellowfin tuna. We had sacked the rest of the charter fleet and set ourselves up for a generous winter of meals featuring the kobe beef of the sea.<br />
<br />
Even now, two weeks later, I shake my head in amazement when I think about it. A person only gets so many days in the woods and water that are truly worthy of being called "epic." Mine are stored right up at the front of my memory banks and Killpoxapalooza II will be spoken of often in the coming years. The fact that I shared the experience with great friends, both old and new, and my father, who taught me how to fish so long ago, makes it that much more.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWV2baO6dnkr8ziCe_Eu1WAM30ORA-L17-cKxWuBOQmnEF3zo95itmxpE_YPRsouAkKZRks1OukfTIrDbXt6L4BBEm-3m0bNs301JftfYomiDtYcfmbKvjXqGZyObV4W3kD3FLnddry9X/s1600/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWV2baO6dnkr8ziCe_Eu1WAM30ORA-L17-cKxWuBOQmnEF3zo95itmxpE_YPRsouAkKZRks1OukfTIrDbXt6L4BBEm-3m0bNs301JftfYomiDtYcfmbKvjXqGZyObV4W3kD3FLnddry9X/s400/sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-66591622889909677002011-07-26T06:51:00.000-07:002011-07-26T06:51:56.246-07:00The State of The Bushman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgJ2dq2ot3qDXcsoe4sxfBsueEB3pjY3YVO2vYbHo3RCbj6iysLzls4OuwEo6bZUP7IWf-9EGWAyt_dA0jUbr4olsUetOviBW6ZLXc6tRAh7FQ8WX4eGF_tkFRGgRmKlRB2EwAqwBIsCt/s1600/DSC_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgJ2dq2ot3qDXcsoe4sxfBsueEB3pjY3YVO2vYbHo3RCbj6iysLzls4OuwEo6bZUP7IWf-9EGWAyt_dA0jUbr4olsUetOviBW6ZLXc6tRAh7FQ8WX4eGF_tkFRGgRmKlRB2EwAqwBIsCt/s320/DSC_0013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Greetings and salutations. At long last, a quiet moment in which I have no pressing commitments and an urge to write.<br />
<br />
Just one year ago, I started blogging; partly at the urging of friends from whom I'd recently been displaced, partly to pass the excruciating hours of seemingly endless unemployment (15 months worth, thank you very much), and partly to write down my stories and ideas to keep my skills sharp. I have been a writer by trade you see - 10 years in the newspaper business, along with a flirtation with freelance environmental and outdoors articles. My first newspaper editor once advised me, "Writers write." It was good advice.<br />
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I won't lie to you. As The Bumbling Bushman found its footing in the blogosphere and a semi-regular crowd seemed to like what I was doing, my ambitions and expectations started to rise. Maybe I could turn this thing into something more than an online journal. Maybe I could make money at it.<br />
<br />
Ah money. The root of all evil. I started blogging when I should have been job searching. I started telling myself that if I could just raise my profile amid the sea of online outdoors writers, someone would take notice and give me money. Every new "follower" was a victory. Every endorsement from another blogger was cause for celebration. I wasn't exactly sure how that was going to happen, but I knew that it did for some of the talented folks I admire and try to emulate.<br />
<br />
The trouble was, the emergency fund Sue and I had dutifully built up during 10 years of marriage was dwindling with every trip to the grocery store and the big Cabelas sponsorship wasn't coming. I didn't have any book agents or publishers knocking on my door either.<br />
<br />
And then, serendipity.<br />
<br />
There was a job interview, followed by an offer. There were hoops to jump through; background checks, psych tests, a state budget crisis and waiting - lots of waiting. Finally, towards the end of May, they gave me a badge and a uniform and I started my duties as a North Carolina State Park Ranger at <a href="http://www.ncparks.gov/Visit/parks/laja/main.php" style="color: blue;">Lake James State Park</a>. My indoctrination is not over yet, not by a long shot. I still have Basic Law Enforcement training to go through starting in January and all sorts of requirements to fulfill before that. But, I have a job and I love it. I get to share the responsibility of stewardship over 3,600 acres of beautiful North Carolina foothill habitat. I get to teach thousands of visitors about the wildlife and natural history of the area. Eventually, I will be honored to help keep them safe and sound as well.<br />
<br />
What does this mean for the blog? Obviously, the frequency of my posts has dropped. When I have time off, I've rarely felt the pull of the computer screen. It would be easy to thank you all for reading, say goodbye and sign off, but I don't think so - not yet anyway.<br />
<br />
I'm not ready to give up on The Bumbling Bushman. I've made too many friends here and had too much fun. On the cusp of my fourth decade, I mark my life with the adventures I've had and the anticipation of many more to come. Somebody is going to have to write them down.<br />
<br />
To all of you who have visited and commented here, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It's an incredible feeling to know people are interested in you and your life's pursuits. You helped me through the most difficult year-and-a-half of my life just by logging on. <br />
<br />
I finally know what I want from this blog. It isn't money. It isn't fame. It isn't free stuff. It's companionship and participation in that grand old tradition of storytelling. Henceforth, I will not post for the sake of "fresh content," and increasing readership. I don't need anymore readers than what I have right now (though everyone is always welcome at this camp fire). I'm going back to the beginning - when this blog was about staying connected to friends, no more, no less. When I have something to share, you'll see it here.<br />
<br />
Your friend,<br />
JamieJamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-66622911078364535712011-05-24T06:22:00.000-07:002011-05-24T06:22:51.113-07:00Whole Lotta Nesting Going On<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3p1x7eXYE8wNLAvzrb-bJp8NSc8hQFSkJVfo1uR8652bit1mlB0sqf1J6hMuLN4dfpuG-IGalsU4ldk2t9Za17notUsnYpifv9SVmip1bj7rVcEbxT_yy0-VQMniq7-PBaaYh-kEGnnT/s1600/nest+box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3p1x7eXYE8wNLAvzrb-bJp8NSc8hQFSkJVfo1uR8652bit1mlB0sqf1J6hMuLN4dfpuG-IGalsU4ldk2t9Za17notUsnYpifv9SVmip1bj7rVcEbxT_yy0-VQMniq7-PBaaYh-kEGnnT/s320/nest+box.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>The migration is fairly well over in western North Carolina. There have been a few tardy travelers passing through our yard in recent days; blackpoll and yellow-rumped warblers in particular, but for the most part, the remaining birds are here to stay throughout the nesting season.<br />
<br />
Some of them, like the neighborhood wood thrush and red-eyed vireo, are just getting started. Others, like American robins, Carolina wrens and mourning doves, have already fledged their first broods and started in on their seconds.<br />
<br />
Our first indication the 2011 nesting season was underway happened back in late March when a pair of Carolina chickadees started carrying mouthfuls of moss and lint into the nest box I had erected in the front yard last summer.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZAwWqiMZ5skWfri5Tn7POl9z_QIvBtTwujm5xKVLNUdKe_GJnvkI1FfFZyuiYxCdFGRwkCuaGERP0oFGZvV44qjEunHFv0LWE7oWFd2QudAj_4M8cvRetQklDHOeOdzQZes5kXI4Udz7/s1600/poking+out.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZAwWqiMZ5skWfri5Tn7POl9z_QIvBtTwujm5xKVLNUdKe_GJnvkI1FfFZyuiYxCdFGRwkCuaGERP0oFGZvV44qjEunHFv0LWE7oWFd2QudAj_4M8cvRetQklDHOeOdzQZes5kXI4Udz7/s200/poking+out.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>After completing their nest, the female set to incubating and before long, Sue and I were sitting on the porch watching the adult chickadees ferrying inchworms and caterpillars to their growing family.<br />
<br />
Long after we figured the babies would finally emerge from their cozy womb, the chickadees left the nest box for the environs surrounding the house. Unfortunately, in the two weeks since, the only chickadees Sue and I have seen have been the adults and they aren't behaving like they are feeding fledglings. In fact, it appears they've gone straight to courtship behavior, leading me to the sad conclusion that the fledglings perished shortly after their maiden flight.<br />
<br />
That would not be unusual. Fledgling mortality in songbirds is extraordinarily high for many species. For those that conduct long-distance migrations (Carolina chickadees do not), mortality can be as high as 70 percent before the end of the first year.<br />
<br />
What happened to our nestlings? It's impossible to say. Maybe they emerged from the nest box just hours, or even minutes, before we were hit by one of those strong spring thunderstorms that have been rolling through. It's also quite possible they fell easy prey to one of the feral cats that roam the neighborhood. <br />
<br />
One thing is certain, those little chickadees had a great life before their ultimate demise. I opened the nest box last week to clean it out in preparation of a second nesting attempt and had a chance to examine the elegant little structure the adult chickadees had built for their first go-round.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMWhIkjZ5t1f7TK6uGEueJ2VSJ-xM2Pmfiqua1OFQGFULCLddQeT4xLDOcHqjHwQz5wIHAye0juQotMdjRizKUl8LXOsto2YEw-y7PcnCxjR90UDbGkICDz76dPecrlNpEJPrnmzM151z/s1600/CACH+nest+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMWhIkjZ5t1f7TK6uGEueJ2VSJ-xM2Pmfiqua1OFQGFULCLddQeT4xLDOcHqjHwQz5wIHAye0juQotMdjRizKUl8LXOsto2YEw-y7PcnCxjR90UDbGkICDz76dPecrlNpEJPrnmzM151z/s400/CACH+nest+1.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swedish memory foam.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A thick base layer of the finest green moss, followed by a bed of dryer lint, dog hair and pine needles - where do I sign up?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZtPWhZh3DexK-aRKupQWWqta4NLcyDV4bDq3faEcExGERHR1GTDBzribj3HmdttwdN17kZASuNg3G0C3_sIgDBME9mU4mMp5UacQEzqplBEoW5604ccYYamyuczK-MG2LS3hU318Lu9U/s1600/pine+tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZtPWhZh3DexK-aRKupQWWqta4NLcyDV4bDq3faEcExGERHR1GTDBzribj3HmdttwdN17kZASuNg3G0C3_sIgDBME9mU4mMp5UacQEzqplBEoW5604ccYYamyuczK-MG2LS3hU318Lu9U/s320/pine+tree.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good tree for blue jays.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The chickadees have failed for now, but that hasn't been the case for some of the other breeding species around Black Mountain. The yard is filled with the sounds of begging fledglings. At least two broods of song sparrows are using our backyard as their base of operations. The Carolina wrens have also pulled off a successful attempt and I often hear the adults scolding a real or perceived threat that wanders too close to one of the youngsters.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3ofDb11nRxF76LGRl_zKjUKoNFyansg6OZWSFLylfV1QxFHZOVLdpi81k0_0SMgbrXHUMLI2gFVrgOQsfFale_Qg5naG9OnrCwljBm7CM3q-xxZstWINA9kDtQN69zF_crMRbLNQCEXZ/s1600/blue+jay+nest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3ofDb11nRxF76LGRl_zKjUKoNFyansg6OZWSFLylfV1QxFHZOVLdpi81k0_0SMgbrXHUMLI2gFVrgOQsfFale_Qg5naG9OnrCwljBm7CM3q-xxZstWINA9kDtQN69zF_crMRbLNQCEXZ/s320/blue+jay+nest.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue jay nest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sue has been telling me for a week that she thinks there is a blue jay nest somewhere nearby, but it wasn't until a couple of days ago that we discovered how close it actually was. I as sat one morning at this computer, I heard strange sounds emanating from the pine tree outside the window. I snuck out the front door and over to the base of the tree, where I peered up through the branches and spotted one of the adult jays sitting on a stick nest. I don't think I've ever seen a blue jay nest before, so it will be fun to follow this one's progress.<br />
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The hummingbird feeders started to get some action last week and now, weeks after the first wave of male ruby-throateds passed through on their way north, we have representation from both sexes, indicating the breeding season for eastern North America's tiniest bird is about to begin.<br />
<br />
May they all have great success and raise babies that are swift and strong.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-31344929776569983332011-05-17T07:50:00.000-07:002011-05-17T07:50:20.569-07:00The Mid-May RambleOur intention was camping, but Sue's hectic work schedule and a dicey weather forecast in the days leading up to the weekend led us to amend our plans. While I've spent much of the spring chasing wild turkeys around our property in Cleveland County, Sue hadn't been since the first week of April, so that's where we went on Sunday.<br />
<br />
We got there around noon and had a picnic down by the creek. While we ate leftover spaghetti and chocolate truffles, we kept our ears open and ticked off the birds singing in the riparian zone: Acadian flycatcher - check, ovenbird - check, summer tanager - check, yellow-throated vireo - check, black-throated green warbler - check.<br />
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After lunch, we walked back to the old logging road that the timber company built to access the property some 10 years ago and started up the valley. I must admit, after spending so much time and effort trying to kill a tom turkey during the past two months, it was a welcome relief to just putz around and take in all of the other wild things that live there.<br />
<br />
Bugs were the first things we noticed. The butterflies along the road fluttered all around us; beautiful, pale blue spring azures, common buckeyes, silver-spotted skippers, fritillaries of undetermined species and tiger swallowtails.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkrd2l6vchd6uHXCJd60srn2dOy9x2nL2YzzcSNsOeZpaScczEqQUIpGQXOsgw0nUY63zi3Eyzo9Gpt6c7aaIhbT05eO2cOw5UcGw_m5cwg4JjhhyphenhyphenEbhtH1ajmgYVvY5cahMN0BuBnsV1/s1600/dk+lt+tiger+swallowtails+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkrd2l6vchd6uHXCJd60srn2dOy9x2nL2YzzcSNsOeZpaScczEqQUIpGQXOsgw0nUY63zi3Eyzo9Gpt6c7aaIhbT05eO2cOw5UcGw_m5cwg4JjhhyphenhyphenEbhtH1ajmgYVvY5cahMN0BuBnsV1/s400/dk+lt+tiger+swallowtails+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love is in the air. Copulating tiger swallowtails (light and dark morph).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMlgPcUyoL0SwauyPRBQ6iiqwppW43xWOGOoK5q7qRFdsKG7OVlsKMZKRnSgCVvcGzKz7ejSfyqdvwnNsyf72uRgvavEk5x36vwenK-lII1lhW_keG2pPK9FOlnxsHsBFK67IYSgS-KFO/s1600/comma.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMlgPcUyoL0SwauyPRBQ6iiqwppW43xWOGOoK5q7qRFdsKG7OVlsKMZKRnSgCVvcGzKz7ejSfyqdvwnNsyf72uRgvavEk5x36vwenK-lII1lhW_keG2pPK9FOlnxsHsBFK67IYSgS-KFO/s200/comma.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eastern comma</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As a casual fan of lepidoptera, I am particularly fond of the group known as anglewings. In our area, these are typically medium-sized butterflies that tend to inhabit shady, wooded areas, though they often come out into openings to sip salt and mineral deposits from the sand or clay. While Sue was off looking at plants, I managed to get a few pictures of a particularly accommodating eastern comma - named for its rather inconspicuous punctuation on it's underwing.<br />
<br />
Further down the trail, we came across a couple of bizarre caterpillars, looking menacing and poisonous with a thicket of sinister dorsal spines. Although I fancy myself a serviceable identifier of butterflies in their adult forms (thanks in no small part to Jeffery Glassberg's fantastic guide, <a href="http://www.google.com/products/catalog?q=butterflies+through+binoculars+the+east&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=shop&cid=8268176519486283952&sa=X&ei=pnnSTd2wEMuBtgfH4-izCg&ved=0CC8Q8wIwAQ&biw=1344&bih=489#" style="color: blue;">Butterflies Through Binoculars: The East</a>), I know virtually nothing about making sense of their larval stage. I took a few photos and hoped for some guidance from David Wagner's very cool book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Caterpillars-Eastern-North-America-Identification/dp/0691121443" style="color: blue;">Caterpillars of Eastern North America</a>. To date, I've had little success keying out the caterpillars in my life with this book, though I suspect it has a lot to do with the variability in their life stages rather than the inefficiencies of the book. This time, however, I think I can confidently say the creepy-crawlies we found were another anglewing type - the question mark. (No, it's not a joke. Similar to the eastern comma, the adult question mark sports the punctuation of it's namesake on it's underwing.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04X5r0sNJGButmyKa3mcCXLjXHRPitFJDLxbb_LjtyFKiAbq9q0YQXbsrdCyA5eWyOgBSfvPh6MCTnn-UysOxms7fEpEjX5o4zmxaIhQFOt2R8Erqad6TboufvioQZLoOTMz1M1mfJSr2/s1600/question+mark+caterpillar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04X5r0sNJGButmyKa3mcCXLjXHRPitFJDLxbb_LjtyFKiAbq9q0YQXbsrdCyA5eWyOgBSfvPh6MCTnn-UysOxms7fEpEjX5o4zmxaIhQFOt2R8Erqad6TboufvioQZLoOTMz1M1mfJSr2/s400/question+mark+caterpillar.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Question mark caterpillars (???)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4euwXPW4mXrBUsOLHfuptUlQw_io-uTxTVxcm7BHI2wo4JrSEaK8Rzc5ChsiLw67xi2fWwEq4-KrBb7pFMAlS6rLws4BC79VzdVNzeq7uT7dLvNK41OPjW1GRo9sJfdnnZBW2xCo58As/s1600/black+shouldered+spiny+leg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4euwXPW4mXrBUsOLHfuptUlQw_io-uTxTVxcm7BHI2wo4JrSEaK8Rzc5ChsiLw67xi2fWwEq4-KrBb7pFMAlS6rLws4BC79VzdVNzeq7uT7dLvNK41OPjW1GRo9sJfdnnZBW2xCo58As/s320/black+shouldered+spiny+leg.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black-shouldered spiny leg - I think.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There were also a few dragonflies buzzing around. If anything, I like dragonflies even more than I do butterflies. Maybe it's their huge eyes and ability to move their heads independently of their bodies that make dragonflies seem intelligent, for lack of a better word. Maybe it's their impossible powers of flight, or the fact that many species undertake long-distance migrations in the fall. Maybe it's the spectacular diversity that changes with every habitat. Likely it's the fact that dragonflies are hell on mosquitoes and other biting insects that like to suck my blood. For all those reasons, I like the heck out of dragonflies and like my interest in butterflies, I find great knowledge in a layman's book by Sidney Dunkle called (shockingly enough) <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=dragonflies+through+binoculars&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a" style="color: blue;">Dragonflies Through Binoculars</a>.<br />
<br />
As we hiked up away from the creek and through the regenerating forest the logging company had cut around the turn of the century, the bird song reflected the change in habitat. Yellow- breasted chat - check, prairie warbler - check, field sparrow - check, indigo bunting - check, broad-winged hawk - check.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIDo5wZWOaYaAlutInrqTyCRFeDG-e3i2q7qfMeW49SsDwbzm45UiQn0C3wmk9RapgUCOXS22g00GjLhXZQ-zm-KyKexrwfgSjMLwfIDawsNAc27qvbJ2yEJq1c1EDAeUh6dP0XpKxv9u/s1600/bog+clearing+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkIDo5wZWOaYaAlutInrqTyCRFeDG-e3i2q7qfMeW49SsDwbzm45UiQn0C3wmk9RapgUCOXS22g00GjLhXZQ-zm-KyKexrwfgSjMLwfIDawsNAc27qvbJ2yEJq1c1EDAeUh6dP0XpKxv9u/s320/bog+clearing+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mountain wetland hangs on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sue took a detour to measure our success in restoring a tiny wetland area that had been filled in when they built the road and choked out by encroaching upland vegetation. Last fall, we spent a day clearing out sweet gum and tulip poplar saplings in an effort to free up the few cattails, sedges and alders that remain. So far, the wetland species seem to have responded favorably to the increased sunlight and available water, but we must remain vigilant for exotic invasives like Japanese honeysuckle. When we have the time and money, our first habitat management project will be to fully restore the wetland. It's going to take a bulldozer to remove the culvert from under the road and the berms where the loggers deposited their excess dirt, but it will be worth it to see the native plants and animals return.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVvXc-QXyl83R1bAEiKiRtTzsqldUkMPOO3kpMQmPdWi84v5OXk9XVEXNT9HXo5wUbq9BQVAsM-TxS4e69zFrHf9LRbAK30GnLQtsSn2ycwI3Ask1tCp7FMMVZ9DYJGNAk8ljAkzP3XkJ/s1600/big+fern.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBVvXc-QXyl83R1bAEiKiRtTzsqldUkMPOO3kpMQmPdWi84v5OXk9XVEXNT9HXo5wUbq9BQVAsM-TxS4e69zFrHf9LRbAK30GnLQtsSn2ycwI3Ask1tCp7FMMVZ9DYJGNAk8ljAkzP3XkJ/s320/big+fern.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Royal fern?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The spring that feeds the wetland lies on the other side of the road and runs through the aforementioned culvert. There, Sue spied a giant fern that we somehow had never noticed before. Standing more than 5 feet tall, I'm guessing it must be a royal fern - the only one we've found on the property during our five years of rambling.<br />
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Our visit wasn't completely benign. Over the winter, Sue had discovered and identified a large princess tree growing at the edge of a clearing. Despite my protests that the tree would make for a perfect place to hang a deer stand, Sue was adamant the non-native and highly-invasive intruder had to die. We stopped at the truck to gather our instruments of death and then hiked on up to the tree. It was certainly a picture of health - filled with seed pods waiting to become a virtual forest of princess trees. Through her research, Sue chose the manner and timing of execution. May is the best time of year for the "slash and squirt" tree killing technique, so I girdled the tree with a hatchet (sighing heavily as I did it in sight of so many deer trails) and Sue followed with a generous squirt of herbicide to every cut. Now we'll wait and see what happens.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbFuz9Sg6eEb4aDttpeg41-1gBEtK71m-L5SbD7Hm1z1XxzKS-LA1-naIOaXRTo5uuhrRTsyU5zA_1cKRMjID8p2AN63ukEm_iUAgwg2hyio2PmNz72SrftRN8dgb92AbWSrPmfr3AH-2/s1600/princess+tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbFuz9Sg6eEb4aDttpeg41-1gBEtK71m-L5SbD7Hm1z1XxzKS-LA1-naIOaXRTo5uuhrRTsyU5zA_1cKRMjID8p2AN63ukEm_iUAgwg2hyio2PmNz72SrftRN8dgb92AbWSrPmfr3AH-2/s200/princess+tree.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Princess tree - a picture of health.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNy4RCGi0W8_Ddym9r3Ett8xKsbNOT6MfjVE4JYQw4fVDJdmfnXk6EPwY985awYLkZfA3Kw6TDgUbBDBwpWhRLp1wZWptID0ZIrz_WIdKH_BsPpb9XESKC5R6qPl891QSXBghHeIGLIJ9l/s1600/slash+and+burn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNy4RCGi0W8_Ddym9r3Ett8xKsbNOT6MfjVE4JYQw4fVDJdmfnXk6EPwY985awYLkZfA3Kw6TDgUbBDBwpWhRLp1wZWptID0ZIrz_WIdKH_BsPpb9XESKC5R6qPl891QSXBghHeIGLIJ9l/s320/slash+and+burn.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slash and squirt - dead meat.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>On our way back down the hill, we stumbled into a brightly marked box turtle crawling across the trail. Box turtles seem to be well-represented in our little part of the world, but they are in trouble throughout their range. Populations of these long-lived, terrestrial turtles are in decline due to a number of factors, especially habitat destruction and roadway mortality. An adult male, like the one we encountered, can be as old as 40 years to 120 or more - something to think about the next time you see one struggling across a busy highway. For the time being, this one is safe as long as he stays on our side of the valley - and we intend to keep him and all the other wild things on the property that way, for as long as we are able.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwMCzHAR2pHf1wtaH56l4HvGUSdHjo-Yu-mer4cXLMTbJqw__30nvxibBBhhAY36jZpudIa_Yrn-Cru8QtflC8TwixFlshR88HgrX8Iup5bdBn3BUu-gxGSTNuTsfKzAfLcS8CWgN2d6Y/s1600/box+turtle+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwMCzHAR2pHf1wtaH56l4HvGUSdHjo-Yu-mer4cXLMTbJqw__30nvxibBBhhAY36jZpudIa_Yrn-Cru8QtflC8TwixFlshR88HgrX8Iup5bdBn3BUu-gxGSTNuTsfKzAfLcS8CWgN2d6Y/s400/box+turtle+3.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">eastern box turtle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-75439762290471356112011-05-10T07:36:00.000-07:002011-05-10T07:36:30.456-07:00Down To The Swamp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIkBfsH-s2WDZVcFCP9KW1yxZ9b8oagwbG_U21rwSI7ho89WIZMZDPg2DnpOPNDWNWDZy-ksUCCTFr-QwmvJRtY06LbfUgdCWFOiEE1dsejVRm6LR6CAWPEGOLL0qTb8aUYrw77-DF-HW/s400/swamp+garden.JPG" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The wedding was beautiful. Our friends, Mark and Dana got married last weekend in Charleston, S.C. and it couldn't have been more perfect. The outdoor ceremony took place in an open glade amid the majestic live oaks, draped in Spanish moss as the sun set gently over the low country. As the bride and groom said their vows, Mississippi kites and anhingas soared overhead. It was enough to take your breath away.<br />
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Sue and I were so enamored by the setting (<a href="http://www.magnoliaplantation.com/" style="color: blue;">Magnolia Plantation</a>), we decided we would return the next day to celebrate the start of Sue's birthday with our good friends, Jenny and Warren, by walking the grounds at a leisurely stroll and soaking in all of South Carolina's natural goodness.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCt6ygS5QSjm_KTGh4gNLCd69vwQJlTlRx7uLpWpgwtp5wq4kSY7OXzcOnBPlMAzlLJgqiJUUgfGZBTjDrWCVEmyncVX32FpoXaKEy_8QOXuspVGtlPZhjWo2wjJVQuLAxERx53w8ZX0n/s1600/audubon+swamp+garden.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCt6ygS5QSjm_KTGh4gNLCd69vwQJlTlRx7uLpWpgwtp5wq4kSY7OXzcOnBPlMAzlLJgqiJUUgfGZBTjDrWCVEmyncVX32FpoXaKEy_8QOXuspVGtlPZhjWo2wjJVQuLAxERx53w8ZX0n/s320/audubon+swamp+garden.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>After we woke and polished off a spectacular breakfast at the <a href="http://www.sweetwatersc.com/" style="color: blue;">Sweetwater Cafe</a> on James Island (a joint that has earned The Bumbling Bushman's highest rating), the four of us drove back over to the plantation and paid the $8-a-head fee to enter the <a href="http://www.wildlifesouth.com/Locations/SouthCarolina/AudubonSwampGarden.html" style="color: blue;">Audubon Swamp Garden</a> trail and boardwalk. Lest ye be confused the swamp garden is a wildlife sanctuary with Audubon oversight, it is not. It is a revenue-generating attraction maintained by Magnolia Plantation, but the entrance fee seems to keep much of the touristy riff-raff out and buys you a chance to see some pretty amazing wildlife and scenery.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGXjGPmK3WTHRIdovK-0Cklct-ATD3Sl7a_RsNbBzl7rkjCwddthrgR9vPoq2YeE7BxquTfYwaiuw2E87ejLApFpQ_32N-Me7cJUUeMgnHfaExPtmci2_QwkcOcbyOiRxpVWX22Cl1v4s/s1600/rookery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGXjGPmK3WTHRIdovK-0Cklct-ATD3Sl7a_RsNbBzl7rkjCwddthrgR9vPoq2YeE7BxquTfYwaiuw2E87ejLApFpQ_32N-Me7cJUUeMgnHfaExPtmci2_QwkcOcbyOiRxpVWX22Cl1v4s/s320/rookery.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great egrets on the nest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The 1.25-mile trail and boardwalk first led us through the wading bird colony, where great blue herons, little blue herons, anhingas, cattle, snowy and great egrets have built a communal rookery for raising their young. <br />
<br />
The sights and sounds of the rookery are interesting and entertaining enough for the most casual naturalist, but the girl I married happens to have been, at one time, the lead waterbird biologist for the state of North Carolina, and she was in heaven. In her hundreds, if not thousands, of hours censusing and studying heron rookeries, Sue admitted she had never experienced anything quite like what we saw at the swamp garden. With a steady flow of visitors, the birds there are impossibly acclimated to human intrusions during the most vulnerable stage of their life cycle. Everywhere we looked, anhinga chicks begged their parents for food, little blue herons incubated their eggs and cattle egrets gathered nest materials.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nH3O39am9bfenkdS8jhroON620J0yZd6bO3KHQj2dG_1hWx4awA55rxCvcr1zgh-cNpkOBlkArdUW7WTVzjaaO4cnvtD-Mkj6s888oz9MexvEqNe3e2edYtbDyX3JvpczBavAhfPkuNu/s1600/CAEG+flying.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nH3O39am9bfenkdS8jhroON620J0yZd6bO3KHQj2dG_1hWx4awA55rxCvcr1zgh-cNpkOBlkArdUW7WTVzjaaO4cnvtD-Mkj6s888oz9MexvEqNe3e2edYtbDyX3JvpczBavAhfPkuNu/s400/CAEG+flying.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cattle egret</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpTtlBl9sokndz_324OrDIcGpUnqLazTYxy07J8ZH0sz96o0EzbZe39vC2V_btbNBYbCVfcgobgFQoGbxlK_Z4jbLfsPDzCCcyxa2_Hka6Fs67Hj5SijcB9o3nLNnYzPObTzYmvvfFQ6o/s1600/gator+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpTtlBl9sokndz_324OrDIcGpUnqLazTYxy07J8ZH0sz96o0EzbZe39vC2V_btbNBYbCVfcgobgFQoGbxlK_Z4jbLfsPDzCCcyxa2_Hka6Fs67Hj5SijcB9o3nLNnYzPObTzYmvvfFQ6o/s200/gator+1.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Of course, it being a swamp in the South and all, there were reptiles to be seen as well. It took us a little while, but eventually we spotted our first alligator, a young specimen of perhaps 36 inches. Then Warren was lucky enough to see a much, much larger gator, maybe 10 feet, have a half-hearted go at a female wood duck. The gator missed out, but it was plenty obvious none of the swamp's big lizards was going to go hungry anytime soon. The place was a veritable smorgasbord of gator food; with half-a-dozen broods of wood duck ducklings paddling around, an ever-present possibility of heron or egret chicks falling out of their nests and a turtle population that approaches biblical proportions.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwbUwQFnsGY02MTp6Dn7htwvYYwB6md8ozl_VsiDwPxKMWCuE5bxgHbYc3bQpBN3sUjmDkP3tRYavEAzP6FrFTkoBhqy9QTz_wqotJo-5lcP11UFhtICROeZEO_6tY91Rqx5b0ugps_Lo/s1600/baby+turtle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLwbUwQFnsGY02MTp6Dn7htwvYYwB6md8ozl_VsiDwPxKMWCuE5bxgHbYc3bQpBN3sUjmDkP3tRYavEAzP6FrFTkoBhqy9QTz_wqotJo-5lcP11UFhtICROeZEO_6tY91Rqx5b0ugps_Lo/s320/baby+turtle.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gator snack. Jenny calls them "turtle popcorn."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
As we made our way around the swamp garden, the neotropical songbird population was in full song as the breeding season approaches full swing in the South. Prothonotary warblers, northern parulas, summer tanagers, white-eyed vireos, blue-gray gnatcatchers and great-crested flycatchers belted out a background symphony, with amphibian and insect soloists that merely hinted at the unseen riot of life around us.<br />
<br />
We would have stayed all day, but duties back home in the mountains for Sue and I, and the North Carolina coast for Jenny and Warren, beckoned and it was time to hit the road again. On the drive home, Sue and I couldn't help but plot our next trip to the low country. Maybe this fall we can squeeze in a weekend on one of the undeveloped barrier islands South Carolina is so lucky to have - I sure hope so.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ACDC_Gcskh6h86Q1VS3XbP5-uOEmsBIZJSod6jJ4SdDKpA1rGiTTUc_A1OtO1e9jNw_zyJ5NtB_bF6dvPQltIQA6PLvAIRwlsUuWfMHwgw_fo23mte4r_V6uqImxxbn7Aadydo3sn31t/s1600/everyone%2527s+lookin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ACDC_Gcskh6h86Q1VS3XbP5-uOEmsBIZJSod6jJ4SdDKpA1rGiTTUc_A1OtO1e9jNw_zyJ5NtB_bF6dvPQltIQA6PLvAIRwlsUuWfMHwgw_fo23mte4r_V6uqImxxbn7Aadydo3sn31t/s400/everyone%2527s+lookin.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whatcha lookin at guys?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-3632242026728316802011-05-05T08:21:00.000-07:002011-05-05T08:21:02.251-07:00Gear Review: The Original Muck Boot Company, Woody EX Pro<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr6XURdqP86ekeZKtoAN8prq1tnfJt0UaMIYYHdt1-pAvHhqUttGkW7h_VcE8J1dJ2Nd127vK-LCKTEueXWxmLaWx3rU4f6yyNcZEvOCCz8KEb47QdDrnJOGExeCCWIjDWw_WM4F6SP-K1/s1600/Muck+boots+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr6XURdqP86ekeZKtoAN8prq1tnfJt0UaMIYYHdt1-pAvHhqUttGkW7h_VcE8J1dJ2Nd127vK-LCKTEueXWxmLaWx3rU4f6yyNcZEvOCCz8KEb47QdDrnJOGExeCCWIjDWw_WM4F6SP-K1/s320/Muck+boots+1.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a>After my hunting license, my gun and ammunition, the most important piece of gear in my arsenal is footwear. A good pair of boots, be they hiking, snow or knee, is practically essential to my success in the field. I'm not alone in this opinion. Take a look at the next outdoors catalog that arrives in your mailbox. Chances are, that big section in the middle will be devoted to boots, boots and more boots. Imelda Marcos would be impressed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
I started hunting right around the time the scent management craze hit the industry. If you weren't wearing some sort of carbon-infused fiber to "eliminate" your natural and unavoidable stink, you were wasting your time. Tennis shoes were right out.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">After shelling out for a rifle, camo clothing, fanny back and all sorts of "essential" deer hunting equipment, I didn't have the funds for a pair of state-of-the-art hunting boots. I went with what I thought was the next best thing; some uninsulated rubber knee boots off the bargain rack and a pair of thick socks.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">I'm sure some folks can sit in a tree stand for hours on end in such an outfit and never get cold toes, but I quickly found out after one miserable deer season that I cannot.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">The next year, I received a pair of Lacrosse Lite 7.0 Alphas under the Christmas tree and I never looked back. For hunting the flat and temperate Coastal Plain of North Carolina, the neoprene/foam hunting boot was the way to go, except...</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">I'm hard on boots. Had I just stuck to tree stand hunting in my new boots, I'm sure I would have been satisfied with their superior warmth and comfort to the nameless, Spartan rubber jobs I had upgraded from. I couldn't leave well enough alone. I wore them rabbit hunting. I stalked wild turkeys in them. I donned them when I chased wild hogs in the Florida orange groves. In less than 12 months, the Alphas were falling apart.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">Perhaps my expectations were too high for that pair of $80 knee boots, but I was disappointed. I kept wearing the Alphas despite the tears and the worn soles for the better part of 5 years. There always seemed to be something more pressing, sexier, to add to the arsenal than shelling out the big bucks for a better pair of boots.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">My friends, I'm here to tell you that if you are like I was - trudging through life with inferior knee boots - you need to consider making a change.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">Earlier this year, through my affiliation with the <a href="http://www.outdoorbloggernetwork.com/" style="color: blue;">Outdoor Blogger Network</a>, I was selected to receive and review a pair of Woody EX Pro knee boots from <a href="http://www.muckbootcompany.com/Pages/default.aspx" style="color: blue;">The Original Muck Boot Company</a>.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">I take this responsibility seriously. I can't give an accurate review of a pair of hunting boots by simply slipping them on and walking around the block a few times. I decided to wait to do this write-up until I had a real chance to put them through their paces during the toughest, prolonged test I could think of; the spring wild turkey season in the Appalachian foothills.</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"><br />
</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">First, the specs:</div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle"> </div><div class="page-title" id="PageTitle">Woody EX Pro </div></td> </tr>
<tr> <td class="link-title-bold-keycolor"> <div id="ctl00_PlaceHolderMain_pnlByLine"> Stealth Professional Hunting Boot </div></td> </tr>
<tr> <td> <div id="ctl00_PlaceHolderMain_pnlPageContent"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" src="http://www.muckbootcompany.com/women/outdoor-sporting/PublishingImages/WEP-MOBU_300.gif" style="height: 0px; width: 0px;" /><img alt="" height="200" src="http://www.muckbootcompany.com/women/outdoor-sporting/PublishingImages/WEP-MOBU_300.gif" width="200" /></div><br />
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<tr> <td style="text-align: left; vertical-align: top;"> All the standard MUCK BOOTâ„¢ features plus:<br />
<ul><li>Stretch-fit topline binding snugs calf to keep warmth in and cold out </li>
<li>Anti-microbial treatment prevents growth of odor causing bacteria </li>
<li>Inscentible® scent masking for improved concealment when hunting </li>
<li>5mm CR flex-foam bootie with four-way stretch Spandura®, 100% waterproof, lightweight and flexible </li>
<li>Natural rubber upper reinforcement for added durability </li>
<li>MS-1 molded outsole is rugged, aggressive and durable for maximum protection and stability </li>
<li>Additional achilles overlay for added protection </li>
<li>2mm thermal foam underlay added to the instep area for additional warmth </li>
<li>EVA molded midsole with contoured footbed </li>
<li>Reinforced toe </li>
<li>Added toe protection with a wrap-up bumper </li>
<li>Reinforced shinguard </li>
<li>New Mossy Oak Break-Up® Camo </li>
<li>Comfort range of -40ºF to 60ºF </li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;">I gave the Woody EX Pros a warm-up during a 2-day <a href="http://bumblingbushman.blogspot.com/2011/03/hunting-marsh-hawgs-part-1-place-that.html" style="color: blue;">wild hog hunting trip</a> to the South Carolina Low Country back in March. The boots are comfortable, there's no denying that. When I first put them on and walked around a bit, I was concerned by the stiffness of the midsole. For the first day or so, it felt like I was wearing a pair of downhill ski boots, forcing me to walk heel-to-toe. After a half-mile or so, however, the midsole loosened up and the boots became much more flexible. They have as much foot and ankle support as anyone can expect from a knee boot (far better than my old pair of Lacrosse), but riding around the marsh in a skiff and sitting in a tree stand was not the kind of test I was looking for.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Enter turkey season; scouting and hunting. The patch of land I hunted is hilly, and when I say hilly, I mean steep. Extended up and down hiking is the name of the game. Ripping, tearing wild blackberries and briars are everywhere. To be honest, knee boots are not suitable for it. Hiking boots are safer and more practical, but I wanted to see the Woody EX Pro perform and perform they did.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">With just a pair of lightweight tube socks separating me from my boots, the Woody EX Pros were far more comfortable than I thought was possible for a knee boot to be in that type of terrain. Each boot weighs 1230 grams (I weighed them), which is a full 100 grams lighter than the Lacrosse Alphas. Despite the weight difference, the Woody EX Pro seems far sturdier than the rival boot. In fact, they have so far proven to be, dare I say, indestructible.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The rubber uppers protect the cushy foam booty from thorns and sharp sticks. I have no doubt some of the briar tangles I waded through would have torn my Lacrosse Alphas to ribbons. The Woody EX Pros remain unscathed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As I stated earlier, knee boots are not my first choice for hiking up and down steep slopes in the western Carolina springtime. With all the miles I logged in these boots (I'd guess 12 over the course of eight hunting trips) it was not surprising to me that I developed blisters on my heels. There were certainly times when I wished for lighter footwear - the kind only found in high end hiking boots - but overall I was amazed at how comfortable it was to hunt in the Woody EX Pros. After three straight days of hunting hard, you would think my feet would be screaming as I put my boots back on in the pre-dawn darkness, but it wasn't so. I always started the day in complete comfort.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As for warmth and waterproofing, The Original Muck Boot Company does not overreach in its performance claims, though I would have been sorely surprised if it did. Knee boots are supposed to be waterproof and should remain so for as long as the uppers stay intact. It seems after my experience, these are particularly durable, well-built boots that should provide many years of dry-footed service. The temperature during my hunting season ranged between 40 - 80 degrees, hardly a test for the Woody EX Pro claim of comfort from -40 to 60. That assessment will have to wait for winter, though I doubt any boot on this earth would keep my feet warm at -40. I can say that even at 80 degrees, my feet remained dry. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">As for claims of anti-microbial treatment and scent-masking technology, I cannot measure. Regardless, I feel these would be a great boot for tree stand hunters in terms of comfort and durability. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Who should own a pair of these boots? If you still-hunt whitetails and/or wild turkeys in the mid-Atlantic coastal plain, or anywhere with mildly rolling or flat terrain, the Woody EX Pro is a superlative choice. If you walk-in short to medium distances to hunt from a tree stand, this boot is a great choice. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, what about the cost? With an MSRP of nearly $220, the Woody EX Pro is hardly an entry-level knee boot. They are priced nearly three times more than my old Lacrosse boots. They outperform them by that and then some.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The takeaway: When it comes to knee boots, at least in the case of The Original Muck Boot Company's Woody EX Pro, you get what you pay for. If you've got the money, I for one, have absolutely no reservations in giving my wholehearted endorsement to them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happy hunting.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Disclaimer: This review is an honest portrayal of my experience with the product. I received the Woody EX Pro boots from The Original Muck Boot Company free of charge in exchange for the above review. I am in no other way affiliated to, or have received any form of payment from The Original Muck Boot Company. If the boots sucked, I would tell you so.</i> ~ The Bumbling Bushman</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-64151276661240035892011-05-03T07:35:00.000-07:002011-05-03T07:35:46.643-07:00On Flaccid Decoys And Empty Chambers: A Hunting StoryThe calendar says there are five days left in the 2011 wild turkey season in North Carolina, but I'm done and not in the good way.<br />
<br />
All the pre-season scouting trips back in March; all the 4:30 a.m. wake-up calls; all the miles trudged up and down those Appalachian foothills have come to naught. I am turkeyless ... again.<br />
<br />
Remember <a href="http://bumblingbushman.blogspot.com/2011/03/seasons-greetings-or-how-to-kill-turkey.html" style="color: blue;">that post I wrote</a> two months ago? I do. I boasted, "There in the thick pine stand roosts the tom turkey I intend to kill on opening day." I hedged my bets when I also wrote, "I've been at this game long enough to realize the myriad things that can and probably will go wrong ..." I was mistaken on both counts. I did not kill that tom turkey on opening day, or any other day for that matter, and I had no idea of the colorful new ways this season I'd find to screw up a turkey hunt.<br />
<br />
I'll spare you the descriptive minutia of every trip I made into the woods; the dozen or so times I worked gobblers that responded to my calls and, for whatever reason, did not commit. I'll just tell you about these:<br />
<br />
<u>April 13 - Opening Week</u><br />
A close encounter with two toms a couple of days prior had me thinking I could set up above the roost, set out a decoy on an old logging road and patiently wait out the bird that would finally break my 3-year slump. I climbed three quarters of the way up the hill, found a clearing in the thick pines and unrolled my inflatable hen turkey decoy.<br />
<br />
After I made myself comfortable, I put out a series of yelps with my trusty box call and waited. Ten minutes later, I threw out another sequence and one of the toms down the hill responded, starting a game of Marco Polo that went on for the next half hour or so, with me trying to convince him to come up the hill and him trying to convince me to come down. Finally, the gobbler went quiet and I got ready. A responsive tom turkey that suddenly stops gobbling usually means one of two things; either a real hen has come to the party and taken him away, or he's on the move and closing the distance.<br />
<br />
It was the latter. After five minutes or so, the tom gobbled just downhill from me. He was searching for that hen who was playing hard to get. I shouldered my shotgun and pointed it in the opening I thought he'd appear. The gobbler fired off again, a little to the left and facing away. A minute later, he gobbled again, further to the left and further away. Reluctantly, I lowered the gun and picked up my box call. I stroked out some soft, sweet yelps and he cut me off with a thunderous gobble. He was coming in hot.<br />
<br />
A minute later, I spotted him coming over the rise, right where I expected him to. He stopped for a second, picked up his head and saw the decoy for the first time. He was 25 yards away. I could have shot him right there, but I held off as he went into a half-strut and gobbled again at the decoy. This was game and set. He'd seen the decoy and was moving into position to find some room to do some strutting. I followed him with the bead at the end of the barrel as he orbited the decoy. I was going to let him walk right up on it and then I was going to clobber him. <br />
<br />
Little did I know ...<br />
<br />
The old tom circled 90 degrees around the decoy, never stopping or presenting a shot. When he got downhill of my itchy trigger finger, he made an unexpected left turn and kept on going down the slope, never to be seen or heard from again. What the ...?<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-1-YaWnTkTTln7Ti7P7-tMsTS4P-wHkAbl5lvEau82eSnm8UiJSWHez1sDbi3tq9ciF60xAztMO4dg4bv6qIE1D3hDvfn1JEaZnULBIyxeFQR9Iq_kKWznnXL-L25XZ1bWnRneMAsR5F/s1600/flaccid.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-1-YaWnTkTTln7Ti7P7-tMsTS4P-wHkAbl5lvEau82eSnm8UiJSWHez1sDbi3tq9ciF60xAztMO4dg4bv6qIE1D3hDvfn1JEaZnULBIyxeFQR9Iq_kKWznnXL-L25XZ1bWnRneMAsR5F/s320/flaccid.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The headless decoy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I waited a little while, then called a bit, then called a little louder, and then louder still. He was gone alright. <br />
<br />
I looked around my ambush. Something spooked him. Was my white tube sock showing above my boot? Had my roll of orange flagging tape (I never go hunting without it) fallen out of my pocket? Nope. I was clean. I stood up and looked down the hill. Wait a minute, the decoy didn't look right. I walked over to my inflatable turkey sex toy and realized the valve had come open and deflated any chance I had of killing that bird. Foiled by a flaccid decoy.<br />
<br />
<u>April 28 - Week 3, in the company of the Florida Cracker Contingent</u><br />
I was excited to host three of my great hunting buddies from the state of Florida, who, over the last four years, have given up their expertise and access to vast orange groves outside Tampa to me and several of my North Carolina compadres to hunt wild pigs. Shooting hogs isn't terribly exciting for them, but they do love to hunt turkeys and I was thrilled by the opportunity to repay their generosity.<br />
<br />
We split into two teams. Stephen and I started midway up a ridge and heard a distant gobbler above us right before 7 o'clock. We worked that bird for an hour, but I'm not sure it ever even heard me calling to it. Eventually, the tom went quiet and we made a big move to the top of a ridge at the head of the valley.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlMj9A3zoCM_Ri1AR741952GQEZJbCF-CBSBF_-pbONConVYvNS-JXwl51AFkPKpE5lxOwH5Hq-Ka7yOsIMQCL21eYMEfMlgoAFCzZxGcNfe3IVw92YzciusAfS13DPoyQQ0LGUdCKZol/s1600/scratchings.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlMj9A3zoCM_Ri1AR741952GQEZJbCF-CBSBF_-pbONConVYvNS-JXwl51AFkPKpE5lxOwH5Hq-Ka7yOsIMQCL21eYMEfMlgoAFCzZxGcNfe3IVw92YzciusAfS13DPoyQQ0LGUdCKZol/s320/scratchings.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plenty of scratching here. Let's give it a try.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Stephen and I expected to hear something once we got to the top, but it was all quiet. We didn't want to give up after busting our tails in climbing the ridge, so we walked along, looking for a spot to sit and call. There was plenty of turkey scratching up there, so we decided to sit 30 yards apart on either side of the ridge and do a little calling.<br />
<br />
I had my back against a fallen log and a great view of the slope below. The only way a turkey was going to sneak up on me was if it came in from behind or slipped in from above on the opposite side of the ridge. That would be fine because that was where Stephen was sitting. I got to calling every five minutes or so, but to be honest, I was doing as much basking in the Carolina sunshine as I was paying attention to the woods around me. Every once in awhile Stephen would call with his slate. He sounded great. Life was good. Maybe I could just close my eyes a little bit and take a nap.<br />
<br />
I must have moved my head a little bit right before I heard that all too familiar alarm putt of a male turkey at close range. My eyes snapped open and I spotted a jake on full alert, on the ridge above me, just 20 yards away. He'd busted me but he wasn't quite sure what he should do about it. As he started fast-walking across my area of influence, I brought up the shotgun and followed his head. If he stopped, it was going to be all over. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied another bird, closer, standing stock still behind a large pine. He hadn't seen me yet for the tree between us, so I swung over to him and waited. A moment later, the second jake stepped out into the open. It was a 15-yard shot. I admired his feathers, all bronzy and green in the sunshine, his stubby little beard sticking out of the middle of his chest, his vibrant red head, and I squeezed the trigger. The long wait was finally over. Click. The turkey looked at me and started running down the hill after his partner, then they both took off and sailed down the valley.<br />
<br />
I looked at my gun in disbelief, and then the wave of dread washed over me. I worked the pump and opened the chamber - no shells. I slipped my hand into my right pants pocket and felt the three rounds that were supposed to be in my gun. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. I didn't do that did I?<br />
<br />
There are many sins in the woods. Not loading one's gun before the hunt is perhaps the stupidest and most inexcusable and I now count myself among those unfortunate fools who have committed it. <br />
<br />
Yes folks, it's been a long season. I didn't get my turkey, but I certainly made things happen. I am sated and take comfort in the knowledge those birds will be there next spring, a little older, a little wiser, and I can only hope that I will be too.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-20023722499182626362011-04-26T08:21:00.000-07:002011-04-26T08:21:17.441-07:00Fly Fishing The Davidson (No, Seriously, I Really Did)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6g9b-79vrY1SktebLCBYq41I4orcOmKnOjeST2CGbBbHTEptytPhtxN9cgrcYxcIn7TORWYPiRsiLwHQ5aLnuO_bqIohCpQx8P0vgq9urbqyp_sue42t-2iG4CfAqP2b-RpTxzMLJMPZ/s1600/brown.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6g9b-79vrY1SktebLCBYq41I4orcOmKnOjeST2CGbBbHTEptytPhtxN9cgrcYxcIn7TORWYPiRsiLwHQ5aLnuO_bqIohCpQx8P0vgq9urbqyp_sue42t-2iG4CfAqP2b-RpTxzMLJMPZ/s320/brown.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>One would have thought a serious outdoorsman like myself (he writes with tongue planted firmly in cheek) would have been chomping at the bit to take advantage of the fishing opportunities in my new surroundings. When I moved to these Blue Ridge Mountains a little over a year ago, I left the piscatorial bounty of the marshes, sounds and blackwater rivers, not to mention the nearby surf and Gulf Stream waters, of the Coastal Plain for the clear, cold trout streams of western NC.<br />
<br />
Truth be told, I was a little intimidated by the prospect of jumping headlong into the fly fishing scene here. I am little more than a dabbler in the beautiful art of roll casts and nymphing, more comfortable with a spinning rod or a tuna stick really. The thought of laying out the cash for a new fly rod, line, leaders, tippets and tackle was daunting, not to mention I know very little etiquette when it comes to the gentleman's sport.<br />
<br />
When my friend Sean called to invite me on a guided fishing expedition to the famed <a href="http://www.flyfishmagazine.com/html/davidson_river.html" style="color: blue;">Davidson River</a>, I jumped. Here was my chance to fish under the tutelage of a local expert and use gear suited to the task. The trip was a birthday gift to Sean from his wife and allowed me to join in for a nominal fee.<br />
<br />
After a 45-minute drive from Black Mountain, Sean and I met our guide. Starr Nolan. Starr guides for <a href="http://www.brooksideguides.com/" style="color: blue;">Brookside Guides</a> of Asheville and immediately set to work preparing us for the numerous, but heavily pressured fish near the state hatchery stretch in Pisgah National Forest just outside Brevard.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJKS958m9oB5NQEV0vkTKjK9ehwoxTNxry34IM0uPmY4KG-HMV4muGxCdz1JB6RjWdenu3LPoDnQ5vPXA7UO9it0_9AG-_S75eF3UwKZ07IQll8vkN43dpzyUKvSjo0RcywTvr30-GbgR/s1600/whatrwefishinfor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJKS958m9oB5NQEV0vkTKjK9ehwoxTNxry34IM0uPmY4KG-HMV4muGxCdz1JB6RjWdenu3LPoDnQ5vPXA7UO9it0_9AG-_S75eF3UwKZ07IQll8vkN43dpzyUKvSjo0RcywTvr30-GbgR/s400/whatrwefishinfor.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What 'er we fishin' for Starr?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After a quick casting lesson, with special emphasis on the roll casts suited for the Davidson's tight quarters, we headed to the river to find an open pool to fish. Going in, Starr warned us the river would be crowded and the fish would be wary, but there are enough trout to make it worthwhile for everyone, including novices like Sean and me.<br />
<br />
She wasn't kidding. The popularity of the hatchery stretch, on a beautiful Saturday morning in April no less, is a little intimidating. In some pools it looked like shoulder-to-shoulder angling. Add that to the fact we were going to be nymph fishing and I was pretty skeptical of our prospects for success. It didn't help much that a gigantic brown trout was holding in the current at the exact spot we stepped in. When I pointed to the 20-inch-plus monster excitedly, Starr simply acknowledged its presence with a shrug and went in anyway. "Oh boy," I thought, "This is going to be brutal."<br />
<br />
With a little more experience with a buggy whip than Sean, I was instructed to head up to the next run and start fishing on my own while the other two stayed back to fish together. Starr tied a large, garish looking nymph with a red bead in the middle of a length of greenish swizzle stick and said, "Try this first. You never know what this fish will do when they see something completely different." I looked at the crazy fly with a bit more trepidation, but hey, she was the guide and you always do what the guide tells you.<br />
<br />
It took a little while to get used to the drift and finding the fly as it tumbled across the rocky bottom, but I got the hang of it and eventually saw a trout chase it a short distance as it drifted through the run. With a little more work and who knows how many unseen strikes, I saw and missed my first bite.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkAfeCz0x7R8zz76pLYIvVctlIcjhJ5w29BS-gV3UyEER26KWiAdALX1tHQUeHf-ZZ2wUltfjylJUGW7d6LZNJ6jpsovPVN2iZYycuX6LNXb2ZzHTpjj_d3nTLotGrzFabaiKUQKkc2ko/s1600/he%2527s+gone.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkAfeCz0x7R8zz76pLYIvVctlIcjhJ5w29BS-gV3UyEER26KWiAdALX1tHQUeHf-ZZ2wUltfjylJUGW7d6LZNJ6jpsovPVN2iZYycuX6LNXb2ZzHTpjj_d3nTLotGrzFabaiKUQKkc2ko/s320/he%2527s+gone.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dude, that was a biggun'!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Meanwhile, Sean and Starr continued to work out the kinks on their stretch of water and I watched Sean set the hook on a big fish. The fight didn't last long. Sean only just started fighting the brute on the reel when it broke off. "How big?" "18-inch rainbow," they said. Holy crap!<br />
<br />
After several minutes without any action, Starr waded over to me and changed my rig to a tandem nymph and strike indicator. The bit of yarn that served as a bobber (don't tell Starr I called it that) put me back on a steep learning curve as I tried to figure out how to get the drift to match up with the flies tumbling along below. Then it happened. Just as I was about to pick up my cast, I felt a weigh against the line, fish on! I played the little brown against the current and eventually brought it to hand - a beautiful 9-incher hooked in the corner of the mouth. I announced my catch with a prideful "Ahem!" to Sean and Starr downstream and quickly released it, as the area we were fishing is catch-and-release only.<br />
<br />
Buoyed by success and new confidence, I finally started fishing. My senses and body tuned in to the river and its immediate surroundings. There! Is that a caddis fly? Look! Another one. There's a small fish rising every few minutes on the other side of the pool. I bet that sluggish spot behind that boulder would be good.<br />
<br />
I started to feel like I was hunting rather than fishing. This fly fishing thing was pretty alright.<br />
<br />
The sluggish spot behind the boulder did hold a fish and I struck home when the indicator zigged when it should have zagged. The trout raced back out to the heavy current and I let it go downstream. I followed while Starr moved up into position with her landing net. After a short give and take, she netted the foot-long brown for me and offered sincere congratulations. It wasn't the biggest fish in the river by any stretch ofthe imagination, but I couldn't have been happier. I had come to the Davidson and caught a fish as it was meant to be caught. We snapped a few pictures and let it go.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqkznDG_cIjw2mLGVO1rszzFZWsUTdr3_ysiVSbMaKg7-iAydeNHhM8s3XvI8Q5KR5cuaFJkrHBQcUah2kd4Lbq3jPA-Zq9Cxj5aoEZyM9nFgHPiwhG137KDYUtGlG5FE0ifdcxUJlPDe/s1600/Davidson+brownie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFqkznDG_cIjw2mLGVO1rszzFZWsUTdr3_ysiVSbMaKg7-iAydeNHhM8s3XvI8Q5KR5cuaFJkrHBQcUah2kd4Lbq3jPA-Zq9Cxj5aoEZyM9nFgHPiwhG137KDYUtGlG5FE0ifdcxUJlPDe/s400/Davidson+brownie.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trophy to me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>At this point, you might be getting the impression I am a fly fishing idiot savant. I am not. Think more idiot, less savant. As the morning wore on, Sean and I kept Starr busy untangling our tippets, retrieving our flies from the rhododendrons and ringing her hands over shamelessly missed strikes. She worked her tail off, but had her revenge.<br />
<br />
With just a few minutes remaining in our session and me already given up and lounging on the bank, Starr asked Sean for his rod so that she might show him what a perfect drift looked like. She cast the rig expertly into a riffle Sean had been flogging for the last 10 minutes and, with a flick of the wrist, the rod bent over. "Oh, you're going to kill me," she said in horror as a 15-inch rainbow skyrocketed out of the water. There was some back-and-forth I couldn't hear, but eventually Sean took the rod from Starr as she unclipped her net and made toward the fish. The leader was touched, but the fish made a final surge for freedom and snapped the tippet. Ahhh well, the Davidson rarely gives up its treasures easily.<br />
<br />
On the ride home, Sean and I talked fishing and mountain streams and the beauty of the Blue Ridge. As for fly fishing, I'm off the fence. I'm all in.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvS0FBbFJF4PJ0lA7wTuTDuAoOdf4RNAMuBhcTvH2eZrtxl9HKfd7BfgCz7DZds6LWPu16aD65s3fzmF8KYcLkvwDpJjltmeUojPUTQNhyphenhyphenn9hQA8aU8mmkUKpmxzeSrd6kd5s7tc8y-bLM/s1600/sean+on+Davidson.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvS0FBbFJF4PJ0lA7wTuTDuAoOdf4RNAMuBhcTvH2eZrtxl9HKfd7BfgCz7DZds6LWPu16aD65s3fzmF8KYcLkvwDpJjltmeUojPUTQNhyphenhyphenn9hQA8aU8mmkUKpmxzeSrd6kd5s7tc8y-bLM/s400/sean+on+Davidson.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-36451310918673173502011-04-22T10:00:00.000-07:002011-04-22T10:00:54.185-07:00The Season Of The GrillI know some of you are still languishing in the cold, wet throes of winter's last breath, but here in the Blue Ridge Mountains it's time to transition out of the kitchen and onto the patio. The era of braising, stewing and roasting is over. The dawn of the grilling season is upon us.<br />
<br />
If you eat wild meats like Sue and I do, you already know how tricky it can be to get the most out of them when you're cooking outdoors over an open flame. The meat is so lean, it's quite unforgiving on the grill. One second you've cooked your venison steak to perfection, the next second it's gone too far and turned leathery on you. This isn't the kind of grilling where you can go inside for another beer and leave the flame unattended. You need to have your cooler next to the grill and be there with tongs at the ready. The good news is, wild game cooks very quickly over high heat, so you probably won't need another beer before it's finished.<br />
<br />
I love shish kebabs. As a kid growing up near Boston, I remember the lamb shish kebabs they serve at <a href="http://www.santarpiospizza.com/" style="color: blue;">Santarpio's Pizza</a> of East Boston. They are simple; cubed lamb skewered without distracting and unnecessary vegetables, held over glowing hardwood embers by a sweaty old guy named Gino (I made that name up, but he is sweaty and old). The intense heat puts a smoky, char on the edges, but the meat stays pink and moist in the center. It's wonderfully "lamby" with a satisfying undertone of onion essence, despite the fact there is no onion to be found on the skewer. They are the mark when it comes to shish kebab.<br />
<br />
That mysterious onion flavor has confounded and haunted me until I opened up Soheila Kimberley's "<a href="http://www.clarebooks.co.uk/taste-of-the-middle-east-by-soheila-kimberley-hardback-book-isbn-1859671675-4313-0.html" style="color: blue;">Taste of the Middle East</a>," published in 1996. There, I learned about the Persian method of marinating meat overnight in a simple blend of grated onion and saffron water. Kimberley uses lamb or beef fillet for her "kabab bahrg" whose origin is Iranian. I, of course, substitute a high quality venison roast or loin. Otherwise, I stick to the script, which goes like this...<br />
<br />
<ul><li>1 pound venison roast, cut into strips about 1/2-inch thick and 1-1/2-inches long</li>
<li>2-3 saffron strands</li>
<li>1 large onion, grated</li>
<li>1 Tbsp butter, melted</li>
<li>3 Tbsp sumac to garnish</li>
<li>cooked rice (or couscous) to serve</li>
</ul>Take the meat out of the freezer a day ahead of time and thaw it in the fridge. Grate the onion (I used a box grater the first time, then I wised up and used the attachment on my Cuisinart). Pour a tablespoon of boiling water over the saffron strands and allow them to steep for a few minutes before adding them (with the infused water) to the bowl of grated onion. Add the venison to the bowl and mix it to coat. Cover it loosely with plastic wrap and marinate overnight in the fridge.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8OX4acKg6EevYtMmVPGhYADx9AIVrHsNWoyMxdAu5o0VVTpWmpHFP_Xm5flXxSeirdP4YMa8qLnTp2dd7LR2ZVGzdf6GMX4jcdMKczpILTaG_dtUpSpSSM7kZpgS6StSURlav90OtbOL/s1600/onion+marinade.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8OX4acKg6EevYtMmVPGhYADx9AIVrHsNWoyMxdAu5o0VVTpWmpHFP_Xm5flXxSeirdP4YMa8qLnTp2dd7LR2ZVGzdf6GMX4jcdMKczpILTaG_dtUpSpSSM7kZpgS6StSURlav90OtbOL/s320/onion+marinade.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy onion juice! That's ruined, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>When you're ready to grill, take out the venison and calm yourself. All that onion juice now drowning your beautiful venison roast has not ruined it - trust me. Thread the meat tightly onto your skewers. I know many kebab recipes call for making sure you leave space between the chunks of meat for even cooking, but this venison needs to be packed closely so it won't dry out on the grill. Now is the time to prepare separate, vegetable skewers if you're including them. Kimberley suggests tomato wedges here, but I have yet to make this during tomato season, so I haven't included them... yet.<br />
<br />
Melt your butter and bring it out with a basting brush to paint the kebabs as they cook. Season the venison skewers with salt and pepper. I cook the kebabs over a high flame with the lid down for five or six minutes, then flip them over and finish the grilling for another five or six minutes. I know this sounds like a long time for such thinly sliced venison, but that's why you packed them so tightly on the skewer and baste them with the butter periodically until it's gone. The outside of the meat gets a perfect crust while the inside is pink and juicy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLd9FrPHEaDmeGK9ypnJsJyx4w8PiRKGqB9nmMK6xkLdFR2LCBTYuFTTTJQFkq-SKLHwC1yw93C1V6jSiyvmbATS5uTfc6med9RFHKwnJlkiknAVbEXpX4G1kFCpssLG3AGelXCvr6rKuY/s1600/Persian+kebabs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLd9FrPHEaDmeGK9ypnJsJyx4w8PiRKGqB9nmMK6xkLdFR2LCBTYuFTTTJQFkq-SKLHwC1yw93C1V6jSiyvmbATS5uTfc6med9RFHKwnJlkiknAVbEXpX4G1kFCpssLG3AGelXCvr6rKuY/s400/Persian+kebabs.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mediocre picture of a superb dish.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now, sumac is an obscure spice, but if you happen to have it, use it here to finish the dish. It has a lemony/sweet paprika quality and it's traditional for this preparation. You could substitute some squeezed lemon juice and a sprinkle of paprika with great results as well.<br />
<br />
What you end up with is a shish kebab even Gino would be proud of.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-3870483721668006902011-04-12T07:39:00.000-07:002011-04-12T07:39:49.155-07:00How Not To Hunt A Wild Turkey<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOIouCN_EC_GhX9TDkFdEvMyiZMpbuIPay-077T9VsZ4vqgHlOAZKTKaVxZBUdj6j82ZRnV1pmBcswNkHFn8bQvkW8iuH1LE-HuLbDaIYZD-qBCjqcrf1BhE90zIK3WHpPivP4IYAQsRQd/s1600/blowup+doll.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOIouCN_EC_GhX9TDkFdEvMyiZMpbuIPay-077T9VsZ4vqgHlOAZKTKaVxZBUdj6j82ZRnV1pmBcswNkHFn8bQvkW8iuH1LE-HuLbDaIYZD-qBCjqcrf1BhE90zIK3WHpPivP4IYAQsRQd/s400/blowup+doll.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turkey sex toy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Well, you want the long version or the short one? Wait a minute, this is my blog. You'll get both.<br />
<br />
The North Carolina wild turkey season is just three days old and already I feel as if I've been taken to the wood shed. If I could draw a comparison to a current sports storyline; my season so far resembles the Boston Red Sox - full of promise, short on success.<br />
<br />
In the days leading up to Saturday's season opener, I drove through the pre-dawn darkness three times to my happy hunting grounds. I located at least 11 different gobblers sounding off on or near the property and devised a game plan to put me in the meat.<br />
<br />
On turkey opener eve, my beautiful wife, Sue, a.k.a. "The Turkey Ninja," announced she wished to join me as an observer in the morning. This was welcome news. In my efforts to introduce her to the world of hunting, Sue has proven reluctant. Turkeys seem to be the exception though, at least once a season anyway.<br />
<br />
On the drive out, I hit a rabbit. It was not an auspicious start, as Sue is loathe to harm any creatures trying to cross her path. It may seem like a strange reaction for a woman on her way to presumably watch a wild turkey get shot in the head, but it's really not. The hunters I know consider all lives to be precious. Any animal killed accidentally or through negligence is to be mourned as a wasted life - very different from a life taken intentionally for our sustenance. We continued on the drive in silence for awhile, then I broke it to ask if Sue was still on my team. Her response was noncommittal. I needed to rally.<br />
<br />
We settled in at a spot very close to where I'd heard a gobbler on the roost the week before. As we awaited the sunrise and the gobbling to commence, the surrounding hills came alive with birdsong. The second week in April is prime time to meet the northbound migration as it passes through western North Carolina. From our ambush, we could hear whip-poor-wills, a wood thrush, northern parulas, prairie warbler, black-throated green warbler, yellow-throated warbler, a broad-winged hawk and finally, a wild turkey. But it was not the turkey we had planned to target. He was down slope and distant. I knew we were in the right spot and fought off the urge to chase the gobbler.<br />
<br />
By 7:15, it started to become obvious the turkey I expected to be roosted in front of us wasn't there. The old tom down the hill, however, was still gobbling up a storm so I finally broke out my trusty box call and gave a loud sequence of clucks and yelps. He responded with a resounding gobble and, after some 20 minutes of convincing, started heading our way.<br />
<br />
From his incessant cackling, it was easy to follow the tom's progress as he trekked up the hollow and then turned left into a narrow gully that led to Sue and I. He went quiet for five minutes or so, then the ground shook when he fired off again; very close, but still unseen. He was pacing around just below us and needed to come a few more yards for me to have a shot. I whispered to Sue to cover her ears, as I anticipated a shot to my left and across her body. The turkey gobbled again and again. I could hear his footsteps right below us but there was no way I would risk trying to belly up to the lip of the gully. Turkey hunting is all about patience and I was pretty sure at that point we had game and set and were just waiting on match.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYyJLPt_GM7xG1EtMQpqp-0Fry-4Ru2asP-nhO20T18ltVpy9fALJDt-XCUOsSvDXY82Crxb8RHZ8n14t7eXouYgL330qVLSEtBblUSITZb8bpj84FMh6j8T6yHMTXY5dWy6IGxQ4rq4U/s1600/turkey++ninja+crouch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYyJLPt_GM7xG1EtMQpqp-0Fry-4Ru2asP-nhO20T18ltVpy9fALJDt-XCUOsSvDXY82Crxb8RHZ8n14t7eXouYgL330qVLSEtBblUSITZb8bpj84FMh6j8T6yHMTXY5dWy6IGxQ4rq4U/s320/turkey++ninja+crouch.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do you mean, 'That's it?' I thought you said we were gonna get him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It never happened. The bird kept right on gobbling; answering every yelp and cluck I made with my box call, but it became quite apparent he was moving away from us, back down the gully and out into the larger hollow. We tried moving in behind him to see if we couldn't rekindle that spark we had before, but the turkey kept on moving out in front of us and finally went up and over the ridge at around 9 a.m., never to be heard again.<br />
<br />
I had Sunday to reflect (there is no hunting on Sundays in NC - gasp!) and then went back after them yesterday morning. I was on my own and started in a new spot that had three toms gobbling from their roosts back during my scouting days.<br />
<br />
It didn't take long for the birds to fire up and I made my approach up the hill and across several ridges until I felt I was in a prime spot. When it sounded like the birds were gobbling from the ground, I called to them and they answered enthusiastically. After an hour of talking back-and-forth with the gobblers, it became apparent that two of them were starting to close the distance. Within minutes, I was back in the same position I'd been with Sue the day before - gun at my shoulder, pointed downhill, just waiting for one of those old longbeards to step into view. Instead, the birds stayed on the other side of the slope and kept on walking to me. Now they were parallel and on my right. I shifted to point the gun barrel that way and thought about how great it was going to be to drive home with a turkey that morning. But the birds kept on going and soon they were above and behind me - gobbling to beat the band. The hairs on the back of my neck were at full attention.<br />
<br />
I had to decide on an all-or-nothing maneuver. The gobblers were behind me, in range, but there was nothing I could do about it unless I turned to face uphill. I could also have just stayed frozen in place and hoped for one of them to come back down, but I went for all the marbles and shifted to my butt in a fluid motion that pointed me in the right direction. I was too late. The birds had already crested the rise and they must have watched my little pirouette with smug amusement. In the half-second it took to situate myself, alarm clucks and footsteps running away were the last I heard of those turkeys. I'd been busted.<br />
<br />
I was dejected. It was the closest I'd come to killing a wild turkey in three years and I'd blown it because I hadn't shifted my ass in time to keep up with the birds. It was only a little after 8 a.m., however, and a gobble off in the distance indicated the game was still on. <br />
<br />
To keep an long story only slightly less long, I won't bother to detail the four other times I had gobblers responding to my calls. They all stayed off in the distance and nothing came of it. I will, however, tell you of my final, heart-breaking encounter of the day.<br />
<br />
I was exhausted, having climbed to the top of the mountain and back, and the sun was high enough to have the sweat pouring down my face. I was hungry too. All I'd had to eat since I woke up was a mug of coffee and a lousy pear. On my way back to the truck, I came up short. A hen turkey was standing in the middle of the trail. I threw the gun up, just in case it turned out to be a jake (a 1-year-old male turkey - legal fodder) and watched her as she fled up the slope. It was 11 o'clock. I thought to myself, "I wonder if she just left a gobbler." I hit the call and a thunderous gobble erupted to my left. It sounded like he was just across the creek, so I slipped into the woods, forded the creek and put my back up against a pile of rocks. I yelped again and he answered. He was very close. I put the box call down and got ready. I waited and waited and waited. I should have waited some more.<br />
<br />
I grew impatient after 10 minutes and slid my hand towards the call to try to give him some soft yelps and get him to gobble again. As my hand inched away from my body, I saw the feathered velociraptor slipping through the rhododendrons, just 20 yards away. Our eyes met at the same instant. He had me pegged the instant I moved my fool hand. For several long seconds we were frozen like that, then he turned to run away and I brought the gun up to my cheek and pointed it at his retreating head. It wasn't an ethical shot and I checked myself from taking it. Instead, I watched the big tom cross the trail I'd just come off and head up the slope to safety. I was busted again.<br />
<br />
I nearly cried. I know damn well not to make a stupid move like that when a gobbler is close at hand. I don't know why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to hear him gobble again. Maybe I'm just an idiot. Maybe I'll never kill another turkey for as long as I live. I had to take today off from hunting to let my mind settle and body recuperate. Tomorrow I'm going back in. Some people are gluttons for punishment. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLkt-QB9nj4qwWP66hPZ1IdTjmQMh5RlX4uo5qwhXCDxLrCJIEsk9RPNfgUUSEL3TKuwXHd4e7y6SJoIqjsdZ8dkYUGK3cJxn5OUADMDF4avde1TVSkK0-_kWDJd6aIefzqNSKREliCGH/s1600/gobble+gobble.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLkt-QB9nj4qwWP66hPZ1IdTjmQMh5RlX4uo5qwhXCDxLrCJIEsk9RPNfgUUSEL3TKuwXHd4e7y6SJoIqjsdZ8dkYUGK3cJxn5OUADMDF4avde1TVSkK0-_kWDJd6aIefzqNSKREliCGH/s400/gobble+gobble.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was waiting for me back at the truck after Day 2.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i>Editor's note: If you want to see some real turkey hunting, check out this video link sent in by Bumbling Bushman pro staffers, Brian and Nate. With Nate on the camera, Brian shot his first archery gobbler on opening day in eastern North Carolina. Obviously, a turkey dies in the video, so consider yourselves forwarned. Enjoy! </i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://1.gvt0.com/vi/AEw_hRzioIk/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AEw_hRzioIk&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AEw_hRzioIk&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-82625341061509393532011-04-07T10:36:00.000-07:002011-04-07T10:36:41.293-07:00Day Dreaming: The Next Big Adventure DestinationIt's been a long year. Heck, it's been a long 18 months. Eighteen months ago, Sue packed up her things, took the dogs and moved from our home near the North Carolina coast to live with my parents so she could start a new job in Asheville. I stayed back to try to sell the house and keep my day job while looking for work opportunities in the western part of the state.<br />
<br />
Those six months before the house sold weren't terribly fun. I was lonely. The housing market sucked. The job market sucked even more. Meanwhile, Sue was living out of her suitcases in a guest bedroom with her in-laws (who are awesome by the way) trying not to lose sight of the life we had envisioned for ourselves.<br />
<br />
Finally, we got a legitimate offer on the house, two weeks after I had resigned from my job, pulled up stakes and moved in with Sue and my parents. I just couldn't take it anymore. Sue and I needed to be together for this next leap of faith.<br />
<br />
It didn't get much better for awhile. I took a job teaching prep school marine biology outside Atlanta for two months. When I came "home" on weekends, we spent the daylight hours searching for a house to call our own. We had a contract on one that we loved and it fell through - more despair. We found another that we love and now we live here in Black Mountain, N.C.<br />
<br />
But this tumultuous period isn't over yet. I'm still looking for permanent work and Sue is still getting comfortable in her career while coordinating a move that will bring her parents closer to us. There hasn't been a lot of "us" time and that's got us longing for a much-needed vacation when things settle down.<br />
<br />
As a member of the <a href="http://www.outdoorbloggernetwork.com/" style="color: blue;">Outdoor Blogger Network</a> I get weekly writing prompts with topic suggestions that might help me and my fellow bloggers come up with some fresh content for our readers. Earlier this week, the proposed topic was to write a post about my dream outdoors destination. Perfect. It happens to be something I've been thinking about quite a bit these days, for those reasons I just explained. So here goes ...<br />
<div style="color: orange;"><b><br />
</b></div><b style="color: orange;">The Bumbling Bushman's Dream Destination; Domestic</b><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDNXSy7ezn3t8b7Fie5HZO6EnapyRB8njNKQjArDTOrW8mL1eqV2mgA2RoddfqZmBjRppRweRt2Atwv-6-7uNyTXnAOxaKiCMC1KGPm6VbSVIK61gpLUh82TVY9HE7gowWzMA1CT2YUIc/s1600/sandhills-whitman-rd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimDNXSy7ezn3t8b7Fie5HZO6EnapyRB8njNKQjArDTOrW8mL1eqV2mgA2RoddfqZmBjRppRweRt2Atwv-6-7uNyTXnAOxaKiCMC1KGPm6VbSVIK61gpLUh82TVY9HE7gowWzMA1CT2YUIc/s400/sandhills-whitman-rd.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sandhills region of Nebraska. (Photo by Cory Ritterbusch)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
When I was a transient field biologist during those half-dozen years after college, I spent a field season working with a guy named Stephen; a proud and native Nebraskan who practically insisted that I and some of our coworkers go with him on those odd weekends when he returned to his home in the Sandhills.<br />
<br />
To say I had never given Nebraska much thought before that spring and summer would be an understatement. Nebraska? Why the hell would anyone want to go there? To be honest, the only reason I went along for the ride from our field station in central Missouri to Stephen's parents' place was for the promise of some home cooking. I was not prepared - no matter how glowingly Stephen had spoken of it - for the absolute raw beauty of Nebraska.<br />
<br />
It helped that Stephen was a consummate guide, who knew his audience and showed us prairie pot holes on the sides of the road, where teal, shovelers, pintails, wigeon and even Wilson's phalaropes bobbed and weaved through their courtship displays. He showed us sharp-tailed grouse, pheasants and wild turkeys. There were pronghorn antelope and mule deer. When he took us to a Nature Conservancy property on the banks of the Niobrara River, we watched in awe as a herd of free-ranging bison encircled the truck.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnqebVolJbOYCRml3LoSNVXwX5-C9L82iICdLC38quVDNntPHTpAEMSOhgwd9nSLwUvOiSp6TRkv0ummigWwFK_4WynDa8pskxgKCsL0FSvyCaIUuYQL0-rdg6CQPX12oDl5htw9owl3AV/s1600/niobrararivervalentine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnqebVolJbOYCRml3LoSNVXwX5-C9L82iICdLC38quVDNntPHTpAEMSOhgwd9nSLwUvOiSp6TRkv0ummigWwFK_4WynDa8pskxgKCsL0FSvyCaIUuYQL0-rdg6CQPX12oDl5htw9owl3AV/s320/niobrararivervalentine.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Niobrara River - a mile wide and an inch deep (Photo by Larry Mayer).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>From our campsite one evening, we watched a line of storms roll across the grasslands. While most of us were thinking about battening down the hatches and preparing for the deluge, Stephen jumped up and ordered us into the truck. He drove like a madman; up out of the river valley to the top of the escarpment, where we watched the lightning flash across the sky. It was magical (and I don't throw that word around lightly).<br />
<br />
From the river, we met the bulk of the sandhill crane migration as it passed on its way north. Tens of thousands of cranes, joined by tens of thousands of ducks and geese - it was more biomass than our minds could process. There was winged life virtually everywhere you looked.<br />
<br />
I was a fisherman then, an avid birder and a lover of the outdoors, but I was no hunter. Now, as I consider Nebraska through my relatively new predator's eyes, I have to wipe away the tears of lost opportunity. Yes folks, if I could choose one destination to stretch my legs as a hunter, it is Nebraska. Stalking whitetails, mule deer and pronghorn antelope; trekking across a sea of grass for sharp-tailed grouse and ring-necked pheasants; jumping out of marsh blinds to draw a bead upon ducks and geese of every description, calling in the Merriams race of the wild turkey (the most beautiful one to my eyes) - it sounds even more like heaven to me.<br />
<br />
I know there are other western states that offer all of those game animals and more, but I am no mountain man. Having lived and worked in several Rocky Mountain states in earlier days, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I am not the right person to soak in all of the beauty and majesty that comes with them. Those Rockies are awesome, too awesome for my Yankee eyes. I found that, after awhile, I became desensitized to the scenery surrounding me. It's everywhere. You can't get away from it. I found no comfort in them. But I did in those endless hills of Nebraska and I hope to again someday.<br />
<div style="color: orange;"><b><br />
</b></div><b style="color: orange;">The Bumbling Bushman Dream Destination; Abroad</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4f1kVNJkScFbVCKsTfuMYaY_lrGSaFcpVh0VYtx7hHIjQF5AOg8uQ6s_i_1Sd5czVcDDhS28NLyy5xPHUi9cLq-zqkCnWaAiggKvbQvy21RugutSfq2B4luWCA8NIml-b_4B93n3N6jr/s1600/sea-of-cortez-whales-560x420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4f1kVNJkScFbVCKsTfuMYaY_lrGSaFcpVh0VYtx7hHIjQF5AOg8uQ6s_i_1Sd5czVcDDhS28NLyy5xPHUi9cLq-zqkCnWaAiggKvbQvy21RugutSfq2B4luWCA8NIml-b_4B93n3N6jr/s400/sea-of-cortez-whales-560x420.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orcas in the Sea of Cortez (Photo by ???)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Perhaps it was that one time I read Steinbeck's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Log_from_the_Sea_of_Cortez" style="color: blue;">book</a>, or the <a href="http://discovermagazine.com/2004/sep/sea-of-cortez0921" style="color: blue;">revisitation</a> by Discover Magazine decades later. Maybe it's the occasional Nat Geo article and photo spread or the once-in-awhile nature programs that highlight it. All I know is, for a long time now, I have wanted to travel to Baja California and the Sea of Cortez.<br />
<br />
Please don't correct me if I'm wrong. Maybe the crystalline waters aren't teeming with whales and dolphins, tunas and marlin, sea lions and manta rays like they do in my head. Maybe the magazine articles about catching Pacific sailfish from kayaks are stretching the truth. Perhaps the land is not so wild or wonderful, where the desert meets the sea, as I'm wanting to believe. It could be commercialized, "discovered," ruined. I hope not. Someday I will see it for myself and I'll let you know.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYcE7c78ZfqOn_Pn459offNY4jEiYwrD-U70QUdhcLoOEwl2uycUG2MNh9c4zpWMkfN5nmHCF55UFE4dong8YIlX_mSrDunaViBtvKTbRRT4MEvpWdAb19YTsnzFyxC18Tr5ljc-s0VcG/s1600/915147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiYcE7c78ZfqOn_Pn459offNY4jEiYwrD-U70QUdhcLoOEwl2uycUG2MNh9c4zpWMkfN5nmHCF55UFE4dong8YIlX_mSrDunaViBtvKTbRRT4MEvpWdAb19YTsnzFyxC18Tr5ljc-s0VcG/s400/915147.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by johnng650 (whoever you are)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-48480634123953512552011-04-05T09:04:00.000-07:002011-04-05T09:04:22.697-07:00Reaping What I SowWhen we moved last summer, it was too late to start a proper vegetable garden. Instead, Sue and I focused on a few potted herbs for the kitchen and establishing a landscape of native vegetation on our small, high country lot in the town of Black Mountain. Most of my time in the yard involved pulling up, weeding, herbiciding and otherwise eradicating the host of non-native invasive plants that were (and in some spots, still are) choking out the natural plant diversity. I still have a long ways to go. There's vinca or "periwinkle" that needs killing, oriental bittersweet that needs poisoning, multiflora rose that needs yanking, Japanese honeysuckle that needs stomping and a firebush that is trying to mount a comeback after I spent one back-breaking afternoon last August digging, chopping, hacking and hauling the mother-bush away.<br />
<br />
That said, it has been decided that we will, once again, attempt a vegetable garden this year. I admit I was somewhat reluctant to put too much effort into the endeavor. Sue and I have grown, or more accurately, tried to grow, our own vegetables since before we were married - never achieving the level of success I would equate to justification for our labors and expenses. It would seem to me that we have never planted a garden in optimal conditions, be they soil, sun or water, nor have we ever been able to maintain the level of enthusiasm required to bring a garden through the rigors of weed season and summer swelter.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjlBc6ubus1vh7Sp2y7ykmsZxAc2ZA4FVJqpgD1p28uKg3P34PHDunhpHgcd0hwR_K3BeDKkFqUcCUykEdQYo6EppZ0xMzUjzxNFc4niPNXJixYgH5gATGAeWRNms8dPyffxI62wK9w47/s1600/Jakes+Farm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjlBc6ubus1vh7Sp2y7ykmsZxAc2ZA4FVJqpgD1p28uKg3P34PHDunhpHgcd0hwR_K3BeDKkFqUcCUykEdQYo6EppZ0xMzUjzxNFc4niPNXJixYgH5gATGAeWRNms8dPyffxI62wK9w47/s320/Jakes+Farm.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why grow my own when my neighbors will sell it to me?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now that we live in a land where independent, local farmers grow a bounty of organic and conventionally raised crops available to us from May through October, I must say my desire to half-ass another kitchen garden is on the wane. <br />
<br />
Irregardless of my trepidation entering this project, we set about building our first raised bed gardens about a month ago. I hit up the local big box home improvement center for 48-some board feet of 2x12 untreated lumber, along with various and sundry hardware to make it all stick together. Since I am largely incompetent when it comes to construction of any type, I called my father out to the house for some expert assistance.<br />
<br />
Dad is something of an idiot savant when it comes to such things. Measurements and workarounds that would take me hours of pondering and unacceptable losses from the stock pile to the kindling pile, come to him in a free-wheeling, do-it-in-your-head sort of way that has always been magical to me. In other words; I had the right man for the job.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRDZ-SSK-Zo8_EqDDDdyOmGa5WUSz1NS6Pm8tIA36B0Anjsk_YpEXojslnq5uZtIrmPmBFkUNAJha34tgPrAyIekbYo6Jo5NXGCTrfjREq9O90CPfyYZAAb7T0265KRMs2LsFaSYIKFJ0/s1600/Dad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJRDZ-SSK-Zo8_EqDDDdyOmGa5WUSz1NS6Pm8tIA36B0Anjsk_YpEXojslnq5uZtIrmPmBFkUNAJha34tgPrAyIekbYo6Jo5NXGCTrfjREq9O90CPfyYZAAb7T0265KRMs2LsFaSYIKFJ0/s400/Dad.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Picasso" at work.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In no time, Dad and I had two 4X8 boxes assembled and ready for deployment. Sue took the lead of this next phase of the project, weighing the pros and cons of sunlight versus culling tulip poplar saplings and pokeweed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhMrMel51aael4fLbnGJLvE2LrYeiLfdgUfwacpu1EHJNUGVlj5CHQax40G6OkuNMIfe1gIgMmWPTsDWk6qn8RlYNpWSknMBP87Cp_vKJQefCTzv6uSz79iUm08SHJtsq7dgR4I8mQZuQ/s1600/finished.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJhMrMel51aael4fLbnGJLvE2LrYeiLfdgUfwacpu1EHJNUGVlj5CHQax40G6OkuNMIfe1gIgMmWPTsDWk6qn8RlYNpWSknMBP87Cp_vKJQefCTzv6uSz79iUm08SHJtsq7dgR4I8mQZuQ/s400/finished.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I dunno Sue. We might have to pull up that dandelion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62p5Omu4-a6pPWh4SL9hjX9r0U2dqkfaUSIsMkTwUD7M0ihE0_NvYrtFpIIPxQzDL_rWS2qINNnfWcN9PVjt1YfcwMx-COZNSdbrLBbDHQzP367WpZNuAlyQIh4w7qRM7OeHI1y9ZG38k/s1600/gardener.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62p5Omu4-a6pPWh4SL9hjX9r0U2dqkfaUSIsMkTwUD7M0ihE0_NvYrtFpIIPxQzDL_rWS2qINNnfWcN9PVjt1YfcwMx-COZNSdbrLBbDHQzP367WpZNuAlyQIh4w7qRM7OeHI1y9ZG38k/s320/gardener.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Decider" puts her back to it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In a fit of inspiration, Sue and I set to "double digging" the base layer of our raised beds before adding our soil. This involved turning over the hard, red clay that now constitutes our planting medium in the backyard, thanks to the nice contractor who hauled off all of our topsoil when he cleared the building site. Whether or not it was worth the extra effort, I supposed we'll find out later. A couple of trips to the mulch yard had us flush with a yard of "Amy's Garden Blend" (whatever that is) and someone else's topsoil (thank you, you poor, unsuspecting saps).<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, I found my second wind for this gardening thing. I think it had a lot to do with admiring everyone else's hard work. In the past three weeks, I've tried to do my part by sowing radishes, arugula, lettuce, carrots and sugar snap peas into the rich, fertile soil. Sue went and bought and old trellis for the peas to climb and I've been keeping a journal of our effort and expenses.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirW7r_0viyGhKiUnLEGXvWCfG6Pc-Z3fmEX2j83SfwmYZUhM6Ho8tIyPwnEIIUnwIHMXsFtx1QQuP6kTPt9Kc5vRyWYEy6PfceC5NAq3oxa9ETL-ezGWpXt6Z_1MFaKSyuv0TvvO6OTuR5/s1600/sprouting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirW7r_0viyGhKiUnLEGXvWCfG6Pc-Z3fmEX2j83SfwmYZUhM6Ho8tIyPwnEIIUnwIHMXsFtx1QQuP6kTPt9Kc5vRyWYEy6PfceC5NAq3oxa9ETL-ezGWpXt6Z_1MFaKSyuv0TvvO6OTuR5/s400/sprouting.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How does my garden grow? Quite nicely so far, thank you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>That's not to say we haven't encountered some setbacks already. I am learning on a routine basis that I was perhaps a bit over-ambitious in my planting schedule. The calendar says spring, but we still have nights in Appalachia that dip below freezing and endanger my little seedlings with death by frost. (Heck, it was snowing here as I started typing this post.) I have a large tarp folded at the ready for overnight protection when needed. Our tiny vegetables aren't big enough yet to attract the attention of the neighborhood rabbits, but I recently discovered the "outside" cats consider Amy's Garden Blend the medium of choice for taking a crap. The prospect of free range cat scat has tempted Sadie and Piper to enter the garden, in spite of the repercussions. We have experienced some radish and arugula casualties as a result of these ill-advised intrusions.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I look out on our growing crops every day and take pride in their early vigor. There's supposed to be a frost again tonight and I'll dutifully cover them up to keep them safe. For whatever reasons, I feel more engaged in the process this time around. Maybe, just maybe, this year will be different. Then again, I've been fooled before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrXbNEDPx6EYgGTe6mqi1qQWbLXU-LK-HkhHBJ7NORSvRj4gI4VMhbNd6BX6aKK9eySiQpvYR2lAqtpUGhAb4TQn33DwHOu4vsQfWvPBMy9JwK-hRG_ruuH45KpYS5nkPcjngZrTnPosH/s1600/arugula.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrXbNEDPx6EYgGTe6mqi1qQWbLXU-LK-HkhHBJ7NORSvRj4gI4VMhbNd6BX6aKK9eySiQpvYR2lAqtpUGhAb4TQn33DwHOu4vsQfWvPBMy9JwK-hRG_ruuH45KpYS5nkPcjngZrTnPosH/s400/arugula.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full of promise.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-13277311593340786792011-03-31T08:20:00.000-07:002011-03-31T08:20:25.587-07:00Hunting Marsh Hawgs (Part 2): Spotting and StalkingDawn breaking over the Low Country marsh is every bit as beautiful as the sunset and we were more than happy to putter around the lodge at Squirrel Creek Island Hunt Club and enjoy the view before heading out on our second day of hunting.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJYfTJO_OwCWcDlu9SPUNwxcTzaTPgR98Ka-HtaCDCt8qWAY4M1TRyTTSDUOh_aNZkRpMS0VoH5zwXZ_R3N5JdZnK_Yve0yhIN_26ozR5t9tLViuspjVZD0lplJQxDeU_cDmbTQ8N4BEE/s1600/Degans+on+boardwalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJYfTJO_OwCWcDlu9SPUNwxcTzaTPgR98Ka-HtaCDCt8qWAY4M1TRyTTSDUOh_aNZkRpMS0VoH5zwXZ_R3N5JdZnK_Yve0yhIN_26ozR5t9tLViuspjVZD0lplJQxDeU_cDmbTQ8N4BEE/s320/Degans+on+boardwalk.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brothers Degan, ready for a new adventure.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Mark had taken his hog the afternoon prior, so Brian and his bow were up next and that meant spotting and stalking. <br />
<br />
As we loaded our gear into the boat, David laid out his plan for the day. Our first stop would be to check out a dry hammock on the Intracoastal Waterway where he had a corn feeder set. We would ease up to the bait site and then slowly work our way across the island to see if we couldn't rustle up some action.<br />
<br />
After a short boat ride, we disembarked and made our way up to the feeder. The only signs of activity there seemed to be squirrel related, so we continued on our slow push through the thick oak and holly upland. We must have been close to a bald eagle nest, as an adult flushed from a giant cypress snag when we crept underneath. Instead of flying off to a more peaceful perch, the eagle flew low circles over our heads, calling agitatedly all the while as if to purposely ruin our chances of sneaking up on a wild pig.<br />
<br />
Whether it was the eagle's fault or not, we didn't come across anything during our stalk and David made the decision to initiate Phase 2 of his master plan. Back in the boat, we headed over to the spot Mark had killed his pig the day before. Along the way, we stopped at a couple of lookout posts and scanned for pigs foraging out in the marsh, but to no avail. With the tide nearing its lowest ebb, we needed to get to the "Tall Stand" quickly or risk being stranded in the canal. Too late. Well short of our goal, we bottomed out. A quick conference was convened and it was decided Mark would trek across the marsh on foot to take up his position in the stand while Brian, David and I would attempt to push the boat through the high spots and eventually make our way to the base of his tree.<br />
<br />
Chest waders were donned and we started the grueling slog through the muck and mire - pushing, pulling, hacking and kicking the boat forward, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98Gn4kBaNvfqfT-nWCE6u-i-F-v_kJTC1pMHX7y3lOv92ktX3j2w2ykgmWBFCrjlSxUTdeVdFkSILc6ABlSvs_6ZTRWkQboT8NFKnx7pMNi47DqAsxw-oGf07K-ng4ieeA0huuvns8bNY/s1600/the+drag.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98Gn4kBaNvfqfT-nWCE6u-i-F-v_kJTC1pMHX7y3lOv92ktX3j2w2ykgmWBFCrjlSxUTdeVdFkSILc6ABlSvs_6ZTRWkQboT8NFKnx7pMNi47DqAsxw-oGf07K-ng4ieeA0huuvns8bNY/s400/the+drag.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keep pushing boys. I'll stay up here and take pictures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm not gonna lie to you. There were times I thought we were done for, but persistence, blood, sweat and tears pulled us through and we finally made it across to deeper water. A couple of times we heard pigs moving through the thick sawgrass on either side of the ditch, but from our low vantage it was impossible to see more than a few feet into the marsh. When we reached Mark, perched comfortably in his lofty chair, the report was disappointing. He hadn't seen anything. A new wind direction made lolly-gagging around the site of yesterday's success a waste of time. We needed to keep moving.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBeWk5wbLzjwK5td6x8CcCFmsbB6qIG9G0J8WWBc_dE5mP8dUgEGY61JGkJIbAzvj6SUfd2yUeRW_GP-x5gX9gnMSPVam2vyUpfPSLCX4w26C2egw5EDv-fGq07AJpYINWVZBsDj9F_v-/s1600/Jamie+does+too.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBeWk5wbLzjwK5td6x8CcCFmsbB6qIG9G0J8WWBc_dE5mP8dUgEGY61JGkJIbAzvj6SUfd2yUeRW_GP-x5gX9gnMSPVam2vyUpfPSLCX4w26C2egw5EDv-fGq07AJpYINWVZBsDj9F_v-/s320/Jamie+does+too.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pigs eat em. Why can't we?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As often happens in times like these, our group of hunters started to lose focus. I can only imagine David's ire as he watched the Brothers Degan and I slip into a period of frat boy buffoonery. Marsh roots were pulled for examination and tested for culinary qualities. A stick fight broke out in the bow of the boat and at some point, a fiddler crab was dropped down Brian's chest waders with satisfying results.<br />
<br />
Things settled down a bit as we approached the next lookout post and a steady breeze across the marsh masked our clumsy hike to the base of the stand. David climbed the rungs to scan for hogs, but came back down after a few minutes with nothing to show for it. He insisted we were in a good spot, however, and recommended we post a lookout back up in the tree and sit tight until something showed itself. I elected myself for the job of hog spotter and climbed up to the top of the ladder. I had just settled in when a dark shape out in the marsh caught my attention. It was a decent-sized pig, 400 yards away. Before I could put my binoculars down, a second, smaller pig joined it and Brian's opportunity had finally appeared. While the rest of the guys prepared to head into the marsh, I stayed put to watch the pigs and direct the hunters' approach. The wind was perfect. The only things standing in the way of Brian's success were the poor eyesight of the wild pig and its compromised hearing ability thanks to the rustling sawgrass. Oh, and of course Death Options A and B; sink holes and man-eating alligators.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPSD3aVOYaIJ6CTQ1pMZXv9ATIAt5nDmCcg9rOoVgmeSRTsXajoqQFLDUKsJp9L0EKTT10VfwOa3GAgpOU1wRSPj6SZrmtcy2gqtYmw6Ae6RpcDz_IP2m2BIUZxkiknBwD6gqqZ0AXtUsq/s1600/setting+out+on+stalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPSD3aVOYaIJ6CTQ1pMZXv9ATIAt5nDmCcg9rOoVgmeSRTsXajoqQFLDUKsJp9L0EKTT10VfwOa3GAgpOU1wRSPj6SZrmtcy2gqtYmw6Ae6RpcDz_IP2m2BIUZxkiknBwD6gqqZ0AXtUsq/s400/setting+out+on+stalk.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stalk begins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Slowly but surely, the trio made their way across the marsh to the two pigs, which continued to root around content and unaware. From its pig-level vantage, the party looked back to me a couple of times for redirection. After 20 minutes or so the culmination of their effort seemed imminent.<br />
<br />
A tall field of sawgrass stood between Brian and David and the pigs as they made their final approach. From my perch nearly four football fields away, I could still see the smaller, reddish hog, but I'd lost sight of its larger companion. It seemed to me the boys were about to stumble right into the red pig and my mind was screaming a warning, "Look right! Look right! Oh for the love of God, look to your right!" But on they trudged and the pig kept feeding, unaware. Suddenly, I saw Brian draw his bowstring back to his cheek, but he wasn't aiming at the pig I could see. A flicker of motion signaled the release of the arrow and the bigger hog suddenly appeared in an opening to the left of Brian and Dave. I watched it stop, stand for a moment and stagger a bit before it trotted out of sight into heavy cover. As it disappeared into the grass, I could see the fletching of Brian's arrow sticking out of its flank. We had a hit.<br />
<br />
The boys regrouped at the spot where Brian had shot his arrow and I thought I could see a fist-bump exchanged between the two brothers and a wide grin creeping across Brian's face. They waited a good 15 minutes and then started moving along the path the stricken hog had taken. I wanted to get down and join in the search, but I reasoned it would be better to stay put and provide bullet back-up if the pig reappeared. As the trackers entered the thick grass, I scanned the openings out ahead of them.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long after that, I heard something heavy sloshing through the mud and heading in my direction. It came from the same general area from where I'd last seen Brain's pig and I shouldered my rifle and peered into the grass below. The back of a hog appeared, cruising in from my left. I clicked off the safety as the pig stopped in an opening some 20 yards from the base of my tree. This was not Brian's pig. This was something on a much grander scale. A giant silver and black spotted boar, weighing 200 pounds if he weighed an ounce, with alabaster tusks sticking way out past his gums, was standing broadside to me as he decided which way to go. This was no clean-up shot. This was a trophy boar of the finest class, in the prime of his life. But it was not my business to be shooting such a pig while the rest of the party blood-trailed another. Besides, I wasn't meant to be a shooter during this trip anyway. The boar moved slowly as it seemed to pick up our scent trail at the base of the tree and then he picked up his pace and disappeared into the endless sea of grass and the inner realm of my brain, where he will live for a very, very long time.<br />
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As I shook off the encounter, I noticed Mark waving me out of my perch to come join the rest of the gang out in the marsh. It took me a solid 10 minutes to reach them, where I found Brian, Mark and David standing over a very dead sow of 75 pounds. After years of trying, Brian had finally taken his first archery pig.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIajpnZeC3iCdiBSwrKHNJoBqCW1q-MjTAQ3V39tU3LKDL5aJov7pIieAGIiqI6kGlLFUstX66TYMuItaAEM0DOQkdgvMaGbYqjfO_d8nuvXW8CBN6FZlhHPMPn7W1Nt_lbW_ig3wUnCE/s1600/archery+hog+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTIajpnZeC3iCdiBSwrKHNJoBqCW1q-MjTAQ3V39tU3LKDL5aJov7pIieAGIiqI6kGlLFUstX66TYMuItaAEM0DOQkdgvMaGbYqjfO_d8nuvXW8CBN6FZlhHPMPn7W1Nt_lbW_ig3wUnCE/s320/archery+hog+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great success!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Another long drag out of the marsh and we were headed back to Squirrel Creek Island, heavily laden with wild pork and stories to tell by the campfire for years to come. The tide was rising and the trip back was easy. Back at the cabin, Brian and Mark got to work breaking down the hog while David and I gathered up our gear and loaded the boat for the ride back to the ramp and civilization. Too soon, we were packing up the vehicles and saying our goodbyes. Mark and Brian had a bachelor weekend to attend down in Savannah and I had a long drive northwest to drop off the iced down pigs at Mark's place and then on to Black Mountain and home.<br />
<br />
Home again - perhaps in body, but not in spirit, at least, not for awhile.<br />
<br />
<i>Editor's note: I have put up a video (thanks to Brian's editing) of our trip at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Bumbling-Bushman/151144908272209?ref=ts" style="color: blue;">The Bumbling Bushman Facebook page</a>. Intrepid hunters with a sense of adventure are strongly encouraged to book a trip with David Thomas, who can be reached at <span style="color: blue;">803-456-3387</span>.</i>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-53761730569176617112011-03-29T09:02:00.000-07:002011-03-29T09:02:13.177-07:00Hunting Marsh Hawgs (Part 1): The Place That Time Forgot<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzMW7jgqXBefjFWbP-GVho2k-aFDuQZupjYKqXJSkrlIAy1rSbWNwlEmlXkkYqXmmJQsBvnBoObmPW4bEXhK04Q1b4XiK7veukMaAy0QKULY1ZD6LVRqU_exkjxP_sFv6vQm63MJyEpG2/s1600/Mark+scanning.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzMW7jgqXBefjFWbP-GVho2k-aFDuQZupjYKqXJSkrlIAy1rSbWNwlEmlXkkYqXmmJQsBvnBoObmPW4bEXhK04Q1b4XiK7veukMaAy0QKULY1ZD6LVRqU_exkjxP_sFv6vQm63MJyEpG2/s320/Mark+scanning.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark at the (semi-) ready, searching for wild pigs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There is a place, a vast and wild place, where you can experience the South Carolina Low Country in all of its beautiful, historic and natural glory. It was once a land of cypress swamps and brackish marshes, crisscrossed by an ancient river, the Black, with all of its tidal creeks and narrow highlands of longleaf pine savannas. It is a place where ambitious white settlers grew rich on the backs of black slaves, who cleared the swamps (by hand), ditched the marshlands (by hand) and planted rice (by hand); <a href="http://www.carolinagoldricefoundation.org/recipes/classic_rice/classic_rice.html" style="color: blue;">Carolina Gold</a>.<br />
<br />
The rice fields are long gone, replaced through decades of neglect by sawgrass and of industry by impoundments, but the stately coastal plantations of antebellum remain as a reminder of days gone by, when this part of the South was a rich land of opportunity without peer.<br />
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That is not to say the marshlands between the Black River and the Intracoastal Waterway are now poor. In terms of wildlife, they are indeed bountiful. The place virtually bulges at the seams with life; alligators, turtles, catfish, gar, mullet, fiddler crabs, migrating waterfowl, herons, ospreys, bald eagles, anhingas, swallow-tailed kites and pigs, wild pigs, which is the reason I drove the 6-and-1/2 hours to get there last week.<br />
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It so happened the Brothers Degan needed a place to celebrate the start of Mark's bachelor weekend. Mark will soon be married and Brian wanted to take his little brother hog hunting before they met with a gang of ruffians in Savannah, Ga. to consummate the end of Mark's single life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZQuBGGSsYY7KZn-zwt8hogUtWDsIFpsr6ksBVKFDPtKf9E5CY7xKvHz1WvgCO4HqsQXrKW5sxlZS_afInjzenmmxKsJNg6t0bq60b6UnNS0HzX-lWwPUl3rlsOzk0n00XFC09dC6Z4hdE/s1600/Help+us+MFer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZQuBGGSsYY7KZn-zwt8hogUtWDsIFpsr6ksBVKFDPtKf9E5CY7xKvHz1WvgCO4HqsQXrKW5sxlZS_afInjzenmmxKsJNg6t0bq60b6UnNS0HzX-lWwPUl3rlsOzk0n00XFC09dC6Z4hdE/s200/Help+us+MFer.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our fearless guide, David Thomas.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It also so happened that I have friend with unique access and opportunity to offer would-be hog hunters in that particular part of the world. David Thomas is a native son of coastal South Carolina, a commercial fisherman, a bona fide redneck (in the very best sense) and an enthusiastic hunting guide with the seasonal rites to one of the planet's little slices of heaven - the Squirrel Creek Island Hunt Club.<br />
<br />
I left Black Mountain at 3:30 a.m. to pick up Mark at his home outside Charlotte. From there, we drove toward the rising sun and the <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_234258700">Samworth Wildlife Management Are</a><a href="https://www.dnr.sc.gov/mlands/managedland?p_id=63" style="color: blue;">a</a> boat ramp, to rendezvous with Brian and David. During our 20-minute boat ride to privately-owned Squirrel Creek Island and the 700-some acres of marshland it commands, David explained the variety of ways we could perish during our day-and-a-half adventure. We each had an option of A) death by sinkhole, B) death by man-eating alligator, C) death by disorientation and subsequent exposure or, most likely D) death by heart attack caused by shooting and dragging a massive wild boar across the middle of the marsh whilst trying to avoid options A through C. He promised, however, to do his best to keep us from such fates and we quickly pushed the dangers from our minds when he pulled the boat up to the landing at Squirrel Creek Island.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9XiGL9jn5sWS0rAAK6iupP3dXaTfezveeG9jSul4OMNyKWKcb55FciLEq7Jd9654i8-3M8au8sFfiMWWhSoyezaihg_gNHqe5zd_BhWuLrJz0sSjONOxQFGttdk1Sc1H7iz-26iST0tS/s1600/cabin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_9XiGL9jn5sWS0rAAK6iupP3dXaTfezveeG9jSul4OMNyKWKcb55FciLEq7Jd9654i8-3M8au8sFfiMWWhSoyezaihg_gNHqe5zd_BhWuLrJz0sSjONOxQFGttdk1Sc1H7iz-26iST0tS/s400/cabin.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squirrel Creek Island Hunt Club</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The cabin (more like a lodge) is a testament to redneck ingenuity and hard work (in the very best sense). David was among the select few willing to take up the seemingly impossible task of ferrying building materials and construction of what, in my mind will always be the Taj Mahal of hunter-gatherer testosterone. It is a hunting lodge of unsurpassed maleness, with the all trappings and bric-a-brac of days afield gone by, a huge kitchen, eight beds, reliable plumbing, semi-reliable electricity, improbably reliable satellite TV and a porch perfectly situated to watch the always reliable sun setting over the marsh.<br />
<br />
It was around noon as we quickly unloaded our gear and put David's plan into action. Brian and Mark took up their weapons (Mark with his scoped slug gun and Brian with his bow) and headed over to the end of the island where David has a tall two-seater ladder stand overlooking the marsh. In the meantime, the island's two corn feeders were filled up and David an I returned to the boat to go back and grab the rest of our stuff at the ramp. (I did tell you this was a 1-and-1/2 day hunt, right?)<br />
<br />
Upon our return, some 90 minutes later, Mark and Brian reported they had seen nine wild pigs, all of them small, too small to bother with, but astonishing nonetheless considering the time of day and the minimal effort we'd put in so far. David considered leaving the Brothers Degan up there to wait out a bigger hog, but eventually chose to rally our party and take to the waterways in search of a spot-and-stalk opportunity.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTvln3vdTE_0pux4V27HiR6j2JLsnn5DEJjkNUOtcczJi2fEUJBzlfV_TqErEZBMusKtx7QFa52DADKgZ8hWo7pu6kGCt-GMS0P8KdKJijCSO3JBDx0jTNrjr-8Ds80ZEEFbSLLEnJ2AD/s1600/ancient+rice+fields.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTvln3vdTE_0pux4V27HiR6j2JLsnn5DEJjkNUOtcczJi2fEUJBzlfV_TqErEZBMusKtx7QFa52DADKgZ8hWo7pu6kGCt-GMS0P8KdKJijCSO3JBDx0jTNrjr-8Ds80ZEEFbSLLEnJ2AD/s320/ancient+rice+fields.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>As we putted through the ditches and levies that once served to access and maintain the now defunct rice fields, it was astonishing to think about the human labor that went into the transformation from swampland to agriculture in this endless tidewater.<br />
<br />
David and his compatriots have continued in that spirit by turning the area into a hog hunter's dream. Throughout the marsh, they have erected ladder stands against tall, isolated cypress trees - the offspring of those mighty forests that once dominated - and created a means to locate and hunt the wild pigs that would otherwise be invisible as they forage in the sea of sawgrass and other marsh vegetation. On our way to one of these lookout posts, I spied a familiar shape swimming across the narrow canal in front of the boat. "Hog!" I announced excitedly in what was probably more than a stage whisper. I immediately received a stinging slap to the back of my head, but when I turned around to challenge the perpetrator, I dropped my ire amid the disapproving gaze of three sets of eyes. With the sizeable hog now alerted to our presence (don't ask me why they don't seem to be bothered by the sound of an outboard motor) we had no choice but to leave it alone and continue on in the hope of another chance.<br />
<br />
We reached the stand, set against a lone, sentinel cypress in the middle of the marsh and David climbed up to glass the area. After a few minutes, he dismounted without any sightings to report, but he insisted it was a good spot and urged Mark to climb back up to stand watch with my rifle while the rest of us continued on to other lookouts.<br />
<br />
We hadn't left Mark for more than 30 minutes when Brian's cell phone buzzed. It was Mark. "There are two pigs out in front of me - a red one and a marbled one. What do you want me to do?" "How far?" "75 yards." "How big?" "The marbled one looks pretty nice." "Then I want you to shoot that hog if you get a chance at it." "Will do captain."<br />
<br />
David, Brian and I were almost to the base of another ladder stand so we kept on to it and climbed the rungs, all the while expecting to hear Mark's shot. From our vantage a quarter of a mile away, we could see Mark with the rifle shouldered, looking through the scope. We could also see four more hogs, about 400 yards out in front of us. KA-POOW. The pigs disappeared into the grass. The phone rang again. "Did you get him?" "Yep, he's down."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8dvTlqmx1mB531wSJ9-p5m-Hl7_yckL3OVyjy4xuKC0otnjmyM-YhaDvJc0fidsz29xjfXa6hetx64lDWq8QyJzdOIEh2BOYcdIX9fz4FRfGqbE6PCtDpQgiizAVxxISzhuN2Uxm2BO_H/s1600/tall+stand.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8dvTlqmx1mB531wSJ9-p5m-Hl7_yckL3OVyjy4xuKC0otnjmyM-YhaDvJc0fidsz29xjfXa6hetx64lDWq8QyJzdOIEh2BOYcdIX9fz4FRfGqbE6PCtDpQgiizAVxxISzhuN2Uxm2BO_H/s320/tall+stand.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark directs the recovery of his hog.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Elated, we boarded the skiff and drove over to pick up Mark and his pig. His shot was perfect - a bullet between the ears at 75 yards and only a short distance to drag the 65-pound sow back to the canal where she could be loaded into the boat.<br />
<br />
Despite the relatively short distance between the fallen hog and the boat, I finally understood David's earlier warning that nothing is easy out there in the marsh. As the two of us made our way to the pig, under the guidance of Mark, who remained in the stand, we took turns falling up to our crotches in the soft mud. Even as we crossed the areas of "solid" ground, the earth moved with every step. By the time we got the pig back to the boat, I was looking for an emergency asprin tablet and fearing I was about to succumb to Death Option D.<br />
<br />
With a hog in the boat and everyone still alive, David suggested we head back to the island to get up into the stands overlooking the corn feeders, which were set to go off in a couple of hours.<br />
<br />
Back on dry ground, the Brothers Degan headed off to one end of the island while I went to the stand they'd started out in at midday. The plan was to stay in radio contact and if I spotted a pig that looked like it could be stalked and the wind stayed right, I would call Brian over to give it a go with his archery tackle. After awhile, David came up and joined me on the watch. Minutes before the feeder was scheduled to go off, a healthy black sow with five shoats in tow crossed the marsh out in front of us. Their direction made it seem they would end up at Mark and Brian's location, so I called to alert them they were about to have company. Mark responded in a whisper. "We've already got five little ones feeding right in front of us."<br />
<br />
At the news the Brothers Degan were covered up in hogs, David and I relaxed, sat back and watched the sun starting to set. Our careless conversation was interrupted only minutes later when the sow and her piglets decided to visit our side of the island instead. She came in on the high ground behind us and was about to tuck in to the freshly scattered corn when an errant breeze blew our scent over the set and she came up short. She was a nice one, 80 pounds maybe, and the shoats were pushing 20, but once she caught a whiff of human stink the jig was up and the gang disappeared back into the marsh.<br />
<br />
Brian and Mark never saw a shooter pig as the dusk turned into darkness, but they had plenty of fun watching the group of little ones over the course of two hours, eating and tussling until it was too dark to see. We met back at the cabin for food and revelry which probably went on a little too far into the night, but what the hell - Mark had his hog, Duke was playing Arizona on the TV and the Squirrel Creek Island Hunt Club was rocking out in the middle of nowhere. Life was good and tomorrow was another day.<br />
<br />
Come back soon for Hunting Marsh Hawgs: Day 2.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPEJLMpqpLkPa-dtjHcVR6PrbhpTyFH5KsSoCj-UC82fD1_9HzP3hWoLsJz12Bb14v8eRJT07XKGaAB_quSVIzevHcjzP_FVwa-hMiwJigjsq00ICtVmFRiV2YpojWOV4dhXWnSAzcM5SB/s1600/hog+fever.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPEJLMpqpLkPa-dtjHcVR6PrbhpTyFH5KsSoCj-UC82fD1_9HzP3hWoLsJz12Bb14v8eRJT07XKGaAB_quSVIzevHcjzP_FVwa-hMiwJigjsq00ICtVmFRiV2YpojWOV4dhXWnSAzcM5SB/s400/hog+fever.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hog fever!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<i>Editor's note: Intrepid hunters looking for an adventure in the South Carolina Lowlands are strongly encouraged to give David Thomas a call and book a trip. He can be reached at <span style="color: blue;">803-456-3387</span>.</i>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-53091349127239915752011-03-22T07:30:00.000-07:002011-03-22T07:30:26.308-07:00Season's Greetings (or) How To Kill A Turkey<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnMNLY3HqHijm4EokKOSE-fDjYQpWnU4CkGYQ3x_ArRX7FdJFkDhPGVwZYqOoTPVRKmmUftALlS_B2T97oPa6MqhMFRqQK2-Jp4WplMAHT41bygEW3j4Z1WHsU680sDkSJ9mTprAfGTKo/s1600/Jason+on+ridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSnMNLY3HqHijm4EokKOSE-fDjYQpWnU4CkGYQ3x_ArRX7FdJFkDhPGVwZYqOoTPVRKmmUftALlS_B2T97oPa6MqhMFRqQK2-Jp4WplMAHT41bygEW3j4Z1WHsU680sDkSJ9mTprAfGTKo/s400/Jason+on+ridge.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason upon hearing the first gobble of the scouting season.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There are lots of ways to witness the coming of Spring. Some folks pick dandelion greens and toss them in salads. Others go birdwatching in search of neotropical migrants on their way back to the northern breeding grounds. Some struggle into neoprene waders and try to catch the first trout of the year. I go looking for wild turkeys.<br />
<br />
With the North Carolina wild turkey opener just two and a half weeks away, it was high time I got into the woods to do some scouting. The real turkey hunters have been at it since February, but with an hour-long drive to my hunting spot, I waited until after the clocks moved ahead so I could wake up at a civilized hour and still be at my listening posts before dawn.<br />
<br />
What am I doing there? I'm listening to the turkeys as they prepare to start their day and trying to pattern where they are and where they like to go during their morning rounds. Wild turkeys roost in trees at night to avoid predators. As morning approaches, the male turkeys often vocalize from their perches to rally the troops and let the hens know where they can find a boyfriend if they're in the mood. By listening to the toms gobble in the morning, a hunter can figure out where the birds are and how to be in position to intercept them once they fly down from the trees to start the day.<br />
<br />
For the first scouting trip of the season, I invited my neighbor, Jason, who has expressed some interest in learning how to hunt. With hot coffee mugs in hand, we left Black Mountain at 5:30 a.m. and drove over the Eastern Continental Divide, then ESE, all the way to the northwest corner of Cleveland County. The pre-dawn air was mild and the moon was almost full and we drove most of the way with the windows down, talking about turkeys, strategy and why it is I love to hunt.<br />
<br />
We parked the truck at the bottom of a ridge and hiked up past the spot where Sue and I will one day build our house. We reached the top with about 20 minutes to spare before dawn - a little tardy for my taste, but good enough for scouting. As we waited in the pale illumination, a rustling down the hill made me consider telling Jason about the valley's resident black bear. With time, the rustling drew close enough to discern individual footsteps and we stared wide-eyed into the heavy brush below us, trying to catch a glimpse of the mystery creature. Whether the deer finally saw us or caught a whiff of our scent, it panicked and took off up the valley, blowing while we chuckled with nervous relief.<br />
<br />
A few minutes after that, the first songbirds started to call; a northern cardinal, then a towhee, then a crow and then, far up on the next ridge over, the crack and thunder we'd been listening for. The gobbler was a good ways off, certainly on the next property over and maybe beyond that, but his intermittent calls sparked responses from his rivals from up and down the valley.<br />
<br />
We figured there were at least three, maybe four different toms gobbling on the ridge. If we had been hunting, I would have chosen to sit right where we were and try to call them down the hill to us. It was a good start, but none of the birds were as close as I would like them to have been, since we won't be able to chase any of them across the property line.<br />
<br />
Then it happened; a gobble just down the slope to our right, so loud I practically jumped. There in the thick pine stand roosts the tom turkey I intend to kill on opening day. He only sounded off a couple of times before going silent. I figure he must have quit talking when he flew down, but I have a pretty good idea of which way he must have gone, since he didn't walk past Jason and I up on the hilltop. Setting up on this bird will be a challenge I think. The trail up the ridge passes near the edge of the pines and I don't want him to see me creeping by in the twilight as I try to set up above him. The best spot might just be the small area we cleared out during a work day on the property with a gang of friends a couple of years ago. We call it "Homesite A" because we thought for a long time that it would be where we'd build our home. At the moment, Homesite A has been bumped by Homesite B in terms of desirability for a dwelling, but it's close to the pine stand and might make a perfect spot to ambush the turkey of my desire.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckDmoeXsi3zK_gM8AUtotjxluYnlTX1Zi1Hsu7k4gVlHiBLcZDPT_OFNAcG42GRNhZMWcn417bcPyi1hg7Uq4VZ4uNBZkXQaRHgGUW6pi8heIBPcAxVYTX6ZwBILjOiRUoI0PeB7Zo-zq/s1600/redbud.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckDmoeXsi3zK_gM8AUtotjxluYnlTX1Zi1Hsu7k4gVlHiBLcZDPT_OFNAcG42GRNhZMWcn417bcPyi1hg7Uq4VZ4uNBZkXQaRHgGUW6pi8heIBPcAxVYTX6ZwBILjOiRUoI0PeB7Zo-zq/s320/redbud.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>As the sun finally peeked over the hills to the east, Jason and I listened on as the gobblers on the ridge above us continued to sound off. One bird seemed particularly enthusiastic and it wasn't long before we figured out he was heading down the hill in our general direction. I wanted to stay and find out where he was going, but then it became all too clear that this tom turkey was going to eventually end up in our laps if we didn't pick up and head down to the truck. We left just in time I think, as his thunderous gobble followed us down the hill until he finally stopped, I imagine right where we'd been standing with our hands in our pockets only minutes before.<br />
<br />
The fact I now know where at least four - probably five - male turkeys like to hang out at night is no guarantee of success. Any bravado you may detect in my writing is merely that. I've been at this game long enough to realize the myriad things that can and probably will go wrong when I try to take down one of the wariest game animals on the continent. During the next two weeks, I'll be practicing with my calls and making a few more scouting trips to help tip the odds in my favor, but even so, this endeavor is a little like UNC Asheville taking on Pitt in the NCAA tournament - and I'm the Bulldogs.<br />
<br />
To you non-turkey hunters, I both envy and pity you. I envy your civilized sleeping hours, your ambivalence toward mandatory tick checks, your blissful ignorance of the rage that comes with getting outsmarted by a bird with a brain the size of an acorn. I pity that you will never know what it's like to see the leaves shake and hear the drumming of wingbone on breast just over your left shoulder as he struts in full fan and there's nothing you can do but wait and hope your heart doesn't explode.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-73900976225117275562011-03-17T11:11:00.000-07:002011-03-17T11:11:40.577-07:00Making A Mess (Of Sausage Goodness)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT0msmGaQaF6OvHM3FVpAVVmCfAlMhBrcUZ9cQdugOiNPCKAVuD8ymR9_BsoPjVaSp2-Q4ymMgevKqgZLLAZ-CFGvKtoxCT3q-02k7vSqFiv6tZMnz1wDE9FSBKu53UPJKKLeq0vjglEw/s1600/On+em.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT0msmGaQaF6OvHM3FVpAVVmCfAlMhBrcUZ9cQdugOiNPCKAVuD8ymR9_BsoPjVaSp2-Q4ymMgevKqgZLLAZ-CFGvKtoxCT3q-02k7vSqFiv6tZMnz1wDE9FSBKu53UPJKKLeq0vjglEw/s320/On+em.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sausage on the hoof.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, how exactly does one get from a large animal on the hoof to a freezer filled with a dizzying array of roasts, loins, rib racks, stocks, ground meat and sausage? The easy way is to field dress (remove the innards) your deer, elk, hog, antelope, etc. etc. and bring it to the local wild game processor. Once it's at the butcher's shop, your harvest will hang in a meat locker (typically frozen), dismembered into manageable cuts (often with a meat saw) and packaged and labeled for your home freezer (sometimes accurately, sometimes adequately).<br />
<br />
Learning to butcher my own meat was part of my learning process as a hunter. My first hunting mentor, Dave, sometimes butchered his own and sometimes dropped it off with the processor, but he felt it was important enough for me to learn some rudimentary skills with my first deer kill. From him, I learned how to skin an animal, find and remove the tenderloins (arguably the most precious cut from any large mammal), neatly fillet out the backstraps (otherwise known as the loins), harvest the neck roast and break down the rest of the carcass into quarters (two hams and two shoulders). From there, I learned on my own how to separate and remove the various "roasts" from these large joints. Roasts are actually individual muscles that allow the intricate functions of motion.<br />
<br />
After doing it myself a handful of times, I decided to take it easy when I lucked into a true trophy buck during a hunting trip in South Carolina. All I wanted to do with that deer was stare at its beautiful antlers (eventually on their way to the taxidermist). I really didn't feel like messing around with the butchering process. So I dropped the carcass off and picked it back up again a few days later. The packages of venison were neat and the ink stamps identifying each cut looked more professional than my magic marker labeling system, but the meat was... off. It became clear to me that in order to get the most from my deer, both yield and quality, I was going to have to do it myself from top to bottom. Since that realization, I've never looked back.<br />
<br />
Now, before you think this post is going to continue down a boring path about sharp knives and blunt dissection, let me assuage your fear. No, dear readers, the only thing I want to write about today is making sausage. Sausage, sausage, glorious sausage. Apologies to Internet foodies who've seen sausage-making posts on just about every home cooking blog in existence, but I don't care. Making sausage is about the most fun a person can have in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
For a primer on grinding "loose" sausage (sausage that is not cased), you could read an earlier post I did on <a href="http://bumblingbushman.blogspot.com/2010/11/simple-sausage-science.html" style="color: blue;">making breakfast sausage</a>. In fact, if you've never made sausage before, I highly recommend you start there (or any number of other food blogs, <a href="http://simplyrecipes.com/recipes/how_to_make_homemade_sausage/" style="color: blue;">Hank Shaw's</a> immediately comes to mind) to learn the basics. Today, however, I made sweet Italian link sausages out of <a href="http://bumblingbushman.blogspot.com/2011/01/florida-hog-hunt-part-i-long-road-to.html" style="color: blue;">a feral hog I shot down in Florida</a>, back in January.<br />
<br />
This is Sue's favorite homemade, fresh sausage recipe and it comes from the most-excellent book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Charcuterie-Craft-Salting-Smoking-Curing/dp/0393058298"><span style="color: blue;">"Charcuterie"</span></a> by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn. I give you a list of ingredients and amounts, with the caveat that my version uses more domestic, farm raised pork fatback (almost 2 pounds instead of 1) because wild pork is leaner that the domestic pork the authors no doubt intend most people will have access to and I added more toasted fennel seeds to the spice mix because I like the hell out of them.<br />
<br />
You will need...<br />
<br />
4 pounds boneless pork shoulder (I used odds and ends from my hog), diced into 1-inch pieces<br />
1 pound pork fatback, diced into 1-inch pieces<br />
3 Tbsp kosher salt<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_7bJ7-UvcWlhLwmVVgaGtQjeeHNUgJMAiic-dGD3ZWDaUx1iXDUaK8pXAOHhEOG0T077scCDk1cW892PjFJDPKuRuRTdA2YyIfVmvumZPhlSdxclRtlWzIAjruPsz5qt4l3pv3qQr0Td/s1600/spice+mix.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_7bJ7-UvcWlhLwmVVgaGtQjeeHNUgJMAiic-dGD3ZWDaUx1iXDUaK8pXAOHhEOG0T077scCDk1cW892PjFJDPKuRuRTdA2YyIfVmvumZPhlSdxclRtlWzIAjruPsz5qt4l3pv3qQr0Td/s200/spice+mix.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spice mix</td></tr>
</tbody></table>2 Tbsp granulated sugar<br />
2 tsp minced fresh garlic<br />
2 Tbsp toasted fennel seeds<br />
2 tsp coarsely ground black pepper<br />
2 Tbsp sweet Spanish paprika<br />
3/4 cup ice water<br />
1/4 cup chilled red wine vinegar<br />
and, 10 feet of natural hog casings (cleaned and soaked small intestines)<br />
<br />
The quick (and hardly adequate) rundown is; you add the spice mixture to the diced meat and fat, allow it to sit for awhile to let the flavors penetrate (I left mine in the fridge overnight), run it through your meat grinder (what do you mean you don't have meat grinder?) work the water and vinegar in until the mixture is fully blended and sticky to the touch, pack the sausage filling into your sausage stuffer (what do you mean you don't have a sausage stuffer?) apply the hog casing over the nozzle (check out this cool product from <a href="http://www.sausagemaker.com/" style="color: blue;">The Sausage Maker</a>; <a href="http://www.tsmproducts.com/demo/Pretubed_Casings/Pretubed_Casings_Demo.html" style="color: blue;">the pre-tubed, pre-washed natural casing</a>) and crank out your totally awesome sweet Italian links.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTwQa1zxPsL_yHCPewL5eXE2TLdgeXa_2kastMzLkNVE5g2u8nZZfB8sTP-5MDuCvHbpkVMvWGlO3siTn2I2n3qGyYnw-B1BgaYKCFCkVC9KUpmgDA86n-ztOhIXwKiRiLzVAMKdVsx_K/s1600/pretty+sausage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTwQa1zxPsL_yHCPewL5eXE2TLdgeXa_2kastMzLkNVE5g2u8nZZfB8sTP-5MDuCvHbpkVMvWGlO3siTn2I2n3qGyYnw-B1BgaYKCFCkVC9KUpmgDA86n-ztOhIXwKiRiLzVAMKdVsx_K/s320/pretty+sausage.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like so.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Trouble is, in addition to the very best, hands down, most flavorful, most satisfying, most gratifying sausage you'll ever eat, you're also left with a kitchen area that looks like someone has detonated a hand grenade.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNDPiDhD8aaAnQ_-pBw5EMLw1t1fLsvi5yy4JFUtw4iTzqmRZmGTs0PaAaqPvhmZFyvsYjkpD-evhgTJMF85VZzKBZ0IIlK4toSyYvPv4Nnx42AJ9ZLVBsogkDJqIeTw2Nu98JsnsFxBn/s1600/clean+up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNDPiDhD8aaAnQ_-pBw5EMLw1t1fLsvi5yy4JFUtw4iTzqmRZmGTs0PaAaqPvhmZFyvsYjkpD-evhgTJMF85VZzKBZ0IIlK4toSyYvPv4Nnx42AJ9ZLVBsogkDJqIeTw2Nu98JsnsFxBn/s320/clean+up.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boom!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I wish I could go on waxing poetically on forcing minced meat into pig guts, but Sue gets home from work in four hours and if I want to sleep in this house tonight, I have some clean up to do. Bon appetit!Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-21176665621408786342011-03-10T10:23:00.000-08:002011-03-10T10:23:03.957-08:00Spider Knows Peep FrogsIf it were up to me, we probably wouldn't volunteer for anything. Luckily, Sue feels a civic duty to sign us up for tree-hugger/citizen science things like the annual <a href="http://www.pwrc.usgs.gov/BBS/" style="color: blue;">Breeding Bird Survey</a>, the <a href="http://birds.audubon.org/christmas-bird-count" style="color: blue;">Christmas Bird Count</a> and the <a href="http://www.birds.cornell.edu/allaboutbirds/conservation/involved/migration" style="color: blue;">North American Migration Count</a>. That's all fine and dandy, I mean, who doesn't like counting stuff in the name of science and conservation? Well, <i>this</i> guy for one. Having the responsibility of collecting data that may or may not lead to the salvation of life on earth sounds great in theory, but more often than not, it comes with the price of missing an important football game on television or telling your buddies you can't go fishing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbKmcshf5QFEkvpclXYw3jziyfdMw4Ck1ewo64l3g_lynmoGcwb1iIMaiNJ4fOGDZ8E7AU2ixBgKRGU4H8chvMIeR58UAxTtjxA8dPKCsnDkTLHODHUFpPvAXQe540ObybcRHE64f652G/s1600/frog+call.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNbKmcshf5QFEkvpclXYw3jziyfdMw4Ck1ewo64l3g_lynmoGcwb1iIMaiNJ4fOGDZ8E7AU2ixBgKRGU4H8chvMIeR58UAxTtjxA8dPKCsnDkTLHODHUFpPvAXQe540ObybcRHE64f652G/s320/frog+call.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Luckily, as I said, Sue has her priorities in better alignment than I do, so it was no surprise last week when she announced we were going to have to run our <a href="http://www.bio.davidson.edu/people/midorcas/ncparc/casp/casp.htm" style="color: blue;">North Carolina Calling Amphibian Survey Program</a> route soon or we'd miss the March 10 deadline for the first sampling window of 2011. That's right people; three times a year, you can give up your weeknight slate of cable programing to volunteer to count frogs in the middle of the night in strange and mysterious locales, in conjunction with the all-important <a href="http://www.pwrc.usgs.gov/naamp/" style="color: blue;">North American Amphibian Monitoring Program</a>.<br />
<br />
Never heard of it? Can't fathom why counting frogs in their breeding sites is important work? The fact is, because of their fragility and susceptibility to minuscule changes in their habitat, amphibians make for perfect "canary in a coal mine" candidates when it comes to determining the overall health of the environment. Because frogs and toads use species-specific vocalizations to attract mates during the breeding season, they are especially useful as environmental bell-weathers. Anyone with half a mind to can learn to identify frogs and toads by their calls and thereby become officially qualified to count species and their relative abundance in an area (see the above link to NCCASP). In our frog surveying team of two, Sue is the primary frog counter and data collector while I head up the transportation and moral support aspects of the mission. In other words, just tell me where to stop the truck and listen to me whine while you stand out in the pitch blackness trying to do good for the world. (Sigh) life with the Bumbling Bushman is no picnic.<br />
<br />
Tuesday was the night we ran our new survey route in the area of Old Fort, NC. Driving those seven miles from the house to the start of the route was our first challenge. Apparently, a couple of local boys decided to steal a pick-up truck and go for a joy ride on the back roads between Black Mountain and Ridgecrest. Their trip ended abruptly when they crashed into a telephone pole and set power-lines down across NC 40. The ensuing traffic jam was epic as travelers were detoured off the main highway and through woefully inadequate Highway 70 for miles. (Read the short news bit <a href="http://www.citizen-times.com/article/20110308/NEWS01/110308033/I-40-reopens-after-crash" style="color: blue;">here</a>.) If not for a future forecast that resembled Armageddon (Wednesday) and a nighttime meeting tonight (Thursday) for Sue, we would have bagged it right then and there in the red glow of those ten thousand brake lights and gone home to watch "Glee." <br />
<br />
Luckily, we were able to break free of the traffic just outside of town and breeze down the mountain while wondering in wide-eyed terror if the miles of stop-and-go heading in the other direction would be cleared up by the time we wanted to go back.<br />
<br />
Our first census point was rather depressing. Three-inches of rain earlier in the week had the creeks and rivers running just under flood stage. No frog in its right mind was going to try to breed in the swift current. Any egg-laying would be for naught and besides, you couldn't even hear yourself think as the torrent of water tumbled downhill. I leaned against the hood of the truck in full-on "I told you this frog call survey thing was stupid" mode while Sue kept her back to me and counted exactly nothing for the required 5-minute census point. As I glanced at the stopwatch for the umpteenth time, I caught motion in the corner of my eye and re-focused on a small/medium mammal creeping up on us in the darkness. "Sue! Shine your light 10 feet in front of me," I panicked, with visions of rabid foxes and raccoons dancing in my head. Ready to stomp whatever menace appeared in the spotlight into oblivion, I breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out the nocturnal prowler was just a free-ranging tomcat, looking for a scratch behind the ears. When the frog-eating, songbird-mauling, small mammal-destroying SOB didn't get any love from either of us, the bastard decided to piss on my driver's side tire - twice. Awesome; and only nine more stops to go.<br />
<br />
By stop No. 3, we still hadn't heard a frog and Sue was starting to lose some enthusiasm. "I'm cold."<br />
<br />
By stop No. 4, we still hadn't heard a frog and Sue was getting bored. "I'm bored."<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDJqxpSlHMm4sxDAp2K49-ztqxtZ2wHUU2GQPVR-q23KgzywPl1amtptlPpptZyAa2ZuBJ2IfEa7lv2KnIb-Rwp7WlYat77WYh9K27cOpr-2ukEc-bj78s16d0htyIPLXdkjcNarSJwwt/s1600/data+sheet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDJqxpSlHMm4sxDAp2K49-ztqxtZ2wHUU2GQPVR-q23KgzywPl1amtptlPpptZyAa2ZuBJ2IfEa7lv2KnIb-Rwp7WlYat77WYh9K27cOpr-2ukEc-bj78s16d0htyIPLXdkjcNarSJwwt/s320/data+sheet.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's not looking good folks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Stops 5-8 were more of the same; more lonely country roadsides, more pitch blackness, more rushing water, more frogless data points. In the world of science, no frogs is just as relevant as some frogs and even millions of frogs. In the world of reality, this was turning into a bust. <br />
<br />
And then we came to stop No. 9 - unlike all the rest because it put us on the edge of a beaver swamp, not a creek or a river. The air was finally quiet, and there, off in the distance, a familiar chirp. "I hear peepers!" she exclaimed. There weren't many, maybe a half-dozen or so, but those little buggers -about the size of your thumbnail - made it all worthwhile. As we stood there listening, a truck pulled out from behind what we'd thought was an abandoned warehouse that we'd parked in front of. Instinctively, I told Sue to turn her headlamp off. No sense wearing a light between your eyes when faced with a potential itchy trigger finger. "Evenin'" I hailed as the truck pulled up beside us and the driver rolled down the window. "Just out here listenin' the the frogs." Which is exactly how I would have left things rather than going into details with an unknown entity with unknown motives. "Frogs?" he said. "What the hell are you doin' that for?" Like I said, generally I like to keep it simple in these cases. My response <i>would</i> have been something like, "Awww hell. We signed up for some cockamammy state-run program to count these damn frogs. And well, to tell you the truth, we're just shit house crazy." But Sue, bless her heart, takes these encounters as a chance to educate the public on topics of census protocol and wildlife conservation. "Actually, we're conducting a calling amphibian survey route. It's sponsored by the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission and the North American Amphibian Monitoring Program. We're doing 5-minute point counts along a set route and those spring peepers are the first frogs we've heard all night and..." "Peep frogs?" he said. "Your counting peep frogs? Who the hell pays you for that?"<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0BOdfWTM5Q71H3RBG59cG1XeSsodJ5JT9cz7UHvE1x8tSam4t1EFuaq1xb16JTN3ncsolpvmCUZLsrwv8mYaUXGSuqG8h2P3jWJMWaqs_562CX_XgZ4G-9H6imVSyepaBDB5WBkhb7O2/s1600/large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0BOdfWTM5Q71H3RBG59cG1XeSsodJ5JT9cz7UHvE1x8tSam4t1EFuaq1xb16JTN3ncsolpvmCUZLsrwv8mYaUXGSuqG8h2P3jWJMWaqs_562CX_XgZ4G-9H6imVSyepaBDB5WBkhb7O2/s320/large.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring peeper, a.k.a. the "peep frog." (Photo by Phil Myers)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Turns out his name was Mike and his family owns much of the swamp and the land surrounding it. In an attempt to bridge the amphibious divide between us, Mike told us the damn peep frogs had been "hollerin' like hell" for the past few nights and the story of how he and his daughter would gig giant bullfrogs out of the swamp and eat their legs. "Ummm, wow. That sounds great Mike, we've got to keep on though. One more survey stop." (For the record, fresh bullfrog legs are one of the most delicious things to ever pass my lips.) Mike may have been drunk - he certainly smelled like beer - and once he got over his incredulity at our story, he couldn't have been nicer.<br />
<br />
And then there was stop No. 10, where we didn't hear any frogs, but we met another local - Eddie, but you can call him Spider. Turns out, Spider and his wife owned some land on the other side of the swamp and we were more than welcome to go on down there any time and count whatever we liked. As a matter of fact, why didn't we follow him right now and he'd show us the trail through the woods that would take us to a dike that runs right through the middle of a beaver pond.<br />
<br />
Sue looked at me with a raised eyebrow, but I figured, at 9 o'clock at night, on a back country road in the middle of Appalachia, and a little hike with a fella named Spider, what could possibly go wrong? Besides, I wanted to have a look in there and see if ol' Spider might be the sort to let a guy go and try to shoot some wood ducks or mallards when the season rolled around. Of course, Spider couldn't have been any nicer - nicer than Mike even - and we checked out the swamp (very nice in the dark) and left him with an open invitation to return and his cell number in case we'd be so kind as to let him know when we'd be back. <br />
<br />
The traffic going back up the mountain was clear by the time we passed through and I'm reminded that it doesn't take very much to turn a bad day into a good one - a couple of frogs and the kindness of strangers seems more than enough.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-53197780045205048752011-03-08T07:36:00.000-08:002011-03-08T07:36:29.514-08:00Sammy The Bushy-tailed IED (or Karma's A Bitch)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVVM01hYCEc-Pd4ccVnLJGWYkS9WiJOch8NMZhwfDysj19ZI3En8lLaFdm3jNU0uPXb1Iki3MAKDONOTL227NfETvGXpKQNd9Hg2KORURIR7NXCYgcXl_oDVEBk4g_XVWyd5cPGuMnLoe/s1600/crime+scene.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOVVM01hYCEc-Pd4ccVnLJGWYkS9WiJOch8NMZhwfDysj19ZI3En8lLaFdm3jNU0uPXb1Iki3MAKDONOTL227NfETvGXpKQNd9Hg2KORURIR7NXCYgcXl_oDVEBk4g_XVWyd5cPGuMnLoe/s320/crime+scene.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene of the crime.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I had just passed the 2-mile mark on my jog around the neighborhood yesterday afternoon. That put the toughest part of my workout behind me - the last mile is mostly downhill - so I was relaxed and looking forward to coasting home.<br />
<br />
It was a little raw and chilly, but the sky was mostly clear. There was no threat of rain or thunderstorms. These environmental observations are important considering what happened next. A short buzz, a brilliant flash of light and a thunderous explosion directly above my head.<br />
<br />
Instinctively, I lurched away from the fireball, covered my head with my arms and kept on running, though more for the purpose of safety than good health (then again, in this case, it's all pretty much the same interest isn't it?). "Sheeeeyt!" I think I yelled.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbF1Tm72rB02mtmTujJz8oLV098WbDjA5VWammIwWYmsD_n6oweiLVzip0Xc5_0MlI0EnQu1kzEzy6YBByXjksa9XnrUP0Or9kTVI-mQr1dS6nsAHjAIFWFfupMjR-Cye3sVKNmK8hDk2/s1600/vic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbF1Tm72rB02mtmTujJz8oLV098WbDjA5VWammIwWYmsD_n6oweiLVzip0Xc5_0MlI0EnQu1kzEzy6YBByXjksa9XnrUP0Or9kTVI-mQr1dS6nsAHjAIFWFfupMjR-Cye3sVKNmK8hDk2/s200/vic.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Still running, I turned to look back at the site, saw the powerline transformer still aglow with flame and a smoking, gray, furry object fall to the base of the pole. Satisfied the world was not coming to an immediate end but pumped up with adrenaline, I didn't miss a single stride as I entered the final leg of my run by turning right at the tee box for Black Mountain Golf Course's 6th hole. Four high school-aged boys were there preparing to tee off, with a very serious looking woman who I took to be their coach. All of them were staring at me, wide-eyed and still obviously shaken up by their recent, near-death experience, as I approached. "Are you alright?" the woman asked. "Yeah, I'm fine." "What happened?" asked one of the kids shakily. "Squirrel."<br />
<br />
There was a time and a place I would have felt sorry for the little bugger, but not here and now. The squirrels around the house have made bird feeding season a challenge this winter, and their blatant disregard for common decency has caused me to routinely consider breaking the town ordinance that prohibits the discharge of firearms. At first, they just helped themselves to the sunflower seeds in the birdfeeders, which was fine with Sue and I - just the cost of doing business. Then the greedy little buggers decided they could guzzle seeds at a much higher rate by knocking the platform feeder off the post we had mounted on the porch, watching it crash some 15 feet below and reaping the bounty spilled out on the ground.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovkOhuYlrwqFnFCfGsjeeh4DpenshAvaQFkq1qcHOnYZgpAVtV_5HTvi3ZtON3TDGvVXF6YvF1GkbG1U5-TXdZ0u-VfTIvgwQaxnXo51cUkBBN1RWtEZTHVlvdV2F21kQl34noKL2oiN9/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovkOhuYlrwqFnFCfGsjeeh4DpenshAvaQFkq1qcHOnYZgpAVtV_5HTvi3ZtON3TDGvVXF6YvF1GkbG1U5-TXdZ0u-VfTIvgwQaxnXo51cUkBBN1RWtEZTHVlvdV2F21kQl34noKL2oiN9/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey BB, suck it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It still would have been fine if they did it once a week. It would have been tolerable if it happened once a day. It irks me to the point of pulling my hair out at once every two hours or so. And, like rearing a child, there comes a point when threats no longer carry any weight. At first I could bang on the window to scatter the hairy little thieves. Then I had to open the sliding glass door and step out onto the porch to show them I really meant it. Now, the bastards keep on eating unless I raise my fist and step within 5 feet. I don't mind telling you, 5 feet to a habituated squirrel is a little close for this outdoorsman. What happens if one of them decides to jump on my face and teach me a lesson in bullying? But at this point, I can't show them I'm afraid or all will be lost.<br />
<br />
The birdfeeder and squandered seed is one thing, but the squirrels have gone after my crocus bulbs to supplement their sunflower-rich diets. Back in October, I lovingly planted 70 bulbs in places around the house where I anticipated enjoying the first colors of spring. Nearly half of them are gone now, with just a telltale hole left behind for me to solve the case. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjfk2RIxngbGQTzS0Rnd0NCqMtJE8h6_gWH9c3eNH0FO8qSaV0xRds0m3iGj84gXcX-ISp7B6qr_gbLQ6R42tHlUT4zVTnLM55xwDQxwau27XzkmBiv-dcU4JuVl0gxdfTvEabIQGMMrvt/s1600/sleepypeepy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjfk2RIxngbGQTzS0Rnd0NCqMtJE8h6_gWH9c3eNH0FO8qSaV0xRds0m3iGj84gXcX-ISp7B6qr_gbLQ6R42tHlUT4zVTnLM55xwDQxwau27XzkmBiv-dcU4JuVl0gxdfTvEabIQGMMrvt/s320/sleepypeepy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piper - former squirrel killer turned pacifist.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>What about the dogs, you say? At 12 years old, with creaky joints and a single-minded devotion to her supper dish, Sadie the coonhound could not care less about squirrels or their disrespectful disposition toward her master. The only way Sadie would defend this house from the gray-haired hordes would be if they decided to make a try for her breakfast - then it would be a massacre. Piper, though still relatively young and spry, has also abandoned me in my time of need. Once she could be counted on for a good squirrel killin' if the situation demanded it. Now she just lays in the sunshine on the porch while sunflower seed hulls drift down and cover her plump posterior. I am very much alone in this fight. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv037R_dEWMNNHTsgJMlsWuEjoIyjkDXzDS9qH6QabHyo1cBBe5zSktaJtsWJWe4SPnKMxp9sGWUTHzfDs-1oABUed67iFAyfwBMzWhQIiz2UlKdtyDa6h68gKk1Z6bLkZa_m8DX430_Fq/s1600/sadie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv037R_dEWMNNHTsgJMlsWuEjoIyjkDXzDS9qH6QabHyo1cBBe5zSktaJtsWJWe4SPnKMxp9sGWUTHzfDs-1oABUed67iFAyfwBMzWhQIiz2UlKdtyDa6h68gKk1Z6bLkZa_m8DX430_Fq/s320/sadie.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadie - the only squirrels I'm after are the ones in my toy box.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So excuse me if I didn't shed a tear for the innocent little squirrel that scampered playfully into a place where it shouldn't have. Forgive me if I don't eulogize the cute, twitchy imp that came to an abrupt end when 50,000 volts blew its little toenails off. Sue me if I dance an Irish jig at the thought of one ex-tree rat pillaging my flower beds and bullying my songbirds. For I am at war.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-50068924141114750632011-03-03T07:13:00.000-08:002011-03-03T07:13:32.049-08:00Thunder Chickens Dancing In My Head<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhHuWrq52ppzejmgh3IZxd1TQDnHzMd3ejax3cAKkJsbP6be4-vFv-sE11bhSFoYQZXg6nXHt3SqVH_F7CTe4gBuZVeiaYhZhJolA3enIbLiXRR6SxlfYNbVKIfD_0TL0zPy7MnZPvkMa/s1600/09+Gobbler.jpg+%25283%2529+%2528Large%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhHuWrq52ppzejmgh3IZxd1TQDnHzMd3ejax3cAKkJsbP6be4-vFv-sE11bhSFoYQZXg6nXHt3SqVH_F7CTe4gBuZVeiaYhZhJolA3enIbLiXRR6SxlfYNbVKIfD_0TL0zPy7MnZPvkMa/s400/09+Gobbler.jpg+%25283%2529+%2528Large%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NC longbeard! One week before opening day, 2009. (Photo by Mark Degan)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As the light breaks on yet another hunting season, let's get something straight; I hunt turkeys, but I am no turkey hunter. Over the course of my 10-year turkey hunting career, that has ranged across the Carolinas both North and South, I have been guilty of just about every mistake a person can make when it comes to harvesting a spring gobbler. In my defense, the wild turkey is considered among the toughest quarry to kill on the continent. I've heard and read that a mature tom turkey can see you blink at 100 yards and hear your heart beating at 50. It's been said that if turkeys could smell a hunter like a deer can, no one would ever kill one and I believe that is true.<br />
<br />
Let's take a look at a short list of my most recent infractions in the turkey woods that resulted in blown opportunities, fleeing gobblers and rough language:<br />
<br />
My first turkey hunting partner, Dave, and I make our inaugural attempt at his hunt club property in Jones County, NC. In the lead-up to opening day (2002 I think) Dave has self-taught himself to proficiency with a diaphragm call, while I have convinced myself the squeaky squawks emanating from my shiny new box call sound exactly like a hen turkey. As dawn approaches, half a dozen gobblers are sounding off from their roost trees all around us. We call back to them like anxious school boys so that by the time the birds fly down to start their day, not one of them thinks we're anything but a couple of idiots - which we are. Over the course of the next four hours we 1) try to close in on a gobbler we think is several hundred yards away, only to walk right into him as we come around a blind corner in the service road, 2) miraculously get four gobblers to commit across an open field until they halt just out of shotgun range. I work the box call one too many times and they spot my index finger move at 50 yards - game over, 3) spot a tom turkey in full strut at the other end of an open field and decide to belly crawl 30 yards with no cover, place a decoy in the dirt and crawl back into the treeline to bring him in. By the time we settle our backs against the tree trunk, the turkey is nowhere to be seen - imagine that.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBid9V9d-aFPJGZWqjVfX4aODkAR2SZHxuP_pfbAmCOTOIEm2Xtuo2Dbr07onp0oiL1Il35t6LNoHIDRb9hUQbkQvOueCdzISkWak-n_3h9pS4Ad-cVBpPMOuVzxWV27thFI8_hCzoERLA/s1600/turkeyhunter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBid9V9d-aFPJGZWqjVfX4aODkAR2SZHxuP_pfbAmCOTOIEm2Xtuo2Dbr07onp0oiL1Il35t6LNoHIDRb9hUQbkQvOueCdzISkWak-n_3h9pS4Ad-cVBpPMOuVzxWV27thFI8_hCzoERLA/s320/turkeyhunter.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hopefully Sue "The Turkey Ninja" will join me again this year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The next year, Dave and I are back again. We are supposed to sit in a ground blind on the edge of a field and wait for the gobblers to come out and strut. The blind is pad-locked and Dave has forgotten the key, so we try to conceal ourselves up against the side walls as daylight starts cracking all around us. In the pine stand behind us, the first turkey starts to gobble. he is answered by two others, then another, then another. We can't stand the pressure and convince ourselves to pull up the decoys, grab the gear and race back into the woods to be closer to the birds when the fly down from their roosts. We set up so tight to the turkeys, we can hear them flapping and hitting the ground. One by one, all five gobblers head out in directions opposite to us. We sit for awhile, call a little too much and then decide to pick everything up again and go after the only bird we can still hear in the distance. Predictably, our pursuit comes to naught. On our way back through the woods, we come around a bend in the trail where we had been an hour before. There stands a magnificent male turkey, puffed up, in full fan, glowing in the sunlight. He is displaying to the hen that had been calling so incessantly from this spot just 60 minutes ago. Our eyes lock. The turkey runs away.<br />
<br />
2008 - Warren and I are hunting mountain birds in western NC. We haven't heard a gobble all morning, so we've gone mobile. We go slow along the path and I call a little every 50 yards or so to see if I can get a turkey to respond. We cover ground in this fashion for an hour or so. As we crest a short, but steep hill on our way up the mountain, we come face-to-face with the biggest gobbler either of us has ever seen at 20 yards. Had we been hidden and in position, he would have come straight to us. Instead we are busted. We drop to the ground (because maybe he didn't see us?) and listen to the bird, known forever more as "Gobzilla," run down the slope to somewhere across the state line.<br />
<br />
I am on my own, sitting under a huge white oak in the middle of a creek bottom in Onslow County, 2009. I know I'm in a good spot because I could hear a turkey gobbling away from this creek bottom the day before. This morning I have moved to the place I think will be perfect to kill him from. I've learned a lot about turkeys since those early years. I am in position early and I don't even think about using my call. Dawn breaks and I still have yet to hear my bird. It's 7 a.m. when I finally break my silence. I throw out a beautiful sequence (I've learned a little about calling too over the past few years) and put the box call down. I nearly crap myself when the branches above me explode in a chaotic buzz saw of flapping wings and alarm clucks. My gobbler flies out of the creek bottom to parts unknown, never to be seen again as I kick myself for setting up directly underneath him. Later that same morning, I hear a distant gobble. Figuring I have plenty of room to close in, I race toward the sound, gradually slowing until I stop and give a soft yelp to relocate the tom. It's 9 a.m. and he's still in his roost tree, which is news to me when he too blows out of there like a missile. He watched me coming the whole way from his perch. I am a fool.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbmqGRpA2dh7Ij3iH6AlZI291QevK0QDDA90d96DB0hPAzM20GtN-iZNEX1AF_Z6iOMzhC6ffrgB_C-84nEAO3An7kHUumhS6GV2tP1rsZ15ibOPu8JtHbJmzxWTt7rm73fQB_ikjlUtE/s1600/turkeytrack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbmqGRpA2dh7Ij3iH6AlZI291QevK0QDDA90d96DB0hPAzM20GtN-iZNEX1AF_Z6iOMzhC6ffrgB_C-84nEAO3An7kHUumhS6GV2tP1rsZ15ibOPu8JtHbJmzxWTt7rm73fQB_ikjlUtE/s320/turkeytrack.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Friends, the list goes on, but after awhile such stories of failure grow tiresome and defeating. Better to think positive thoughts of the season set to begin in just over a month. During the next five weeks, I plan to pull out my calls and practice at least 15 minutes a day in full "battle rattle" so I can be confident (or at least cognizant) of my abilities going into opening day. How the neighbors will react to me, camouflaged from head-to-toe, sitting against a tree in the backyard, making noises like a chicken with emphysema, remains to be seen. I will make at least half-a-dozen pre-dawn trips to our property in Cleveland County to stand in the darkness, listening for tom turkeys as they gobble from the roost. It's the best way to pattern the birds and come up with a game plan that has some chance of success. Heck, there might even be success, though I'm pretty sure there'll be some failure. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-33900173215774634462011-03-01T08:46:00.000-08:002011-03-01T08:46:33.313-08:00Bogue Banks Birding<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFrwxJWjctB2gdpMrIKcFTmhGDN0DAN1dPVfHXp2h8PC45GLHFJXT00UlMKP3PQQoF4P68emC89jW999Rx6hWQCK_ZuUe892YETBH7lZdOii55XJ4atfAexwx5dCaI9-_qBJgsTirGyYgs/s1600/willets+use.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFrwxJWjctB2gdpMrIKcFTmhGDN0DAN1dPVfHXp2h8PC45GLHFJXT00UlMKP3PQQoF4P68emC89jW999Rx6hWQCK_ZuUe892YETBH7lZdOii55XJ4atfAexwx5dCaI9-_qBJgsTirGyYgs/s320/willets+use.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A trio of willets on the beach at Salter Path.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I don't suppose I could have chosen a worse day to go birding on the North Carolina coast than last Friday. The local NOAA office had issued a small craft advisory, thanks to strong SW winds that were gusting to 35 knots, and rain bands whipped across the 21-mile barrier island that is Bogue Banks.<br />
<br />
It couldn't be helped though. I'd squandered my two previous days back in my old stomping grounds pursuing other activities and nursing a persistent hangover that often accompanies extended visits with old friends.<br />
<br />
In fact, catching up with old friends was the main reason why I'd followed my wife, Sue, back to the particular stretch of Carolina coastline that had been the center of our universe for the previous 12 years. Sue had a work-related conference to attend and I got to tag along.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So Friday was the day for bird watching and I tried to make the most of it. From my starting point at the recently-purchased Morehead City home of our friends, Nate and Salinda, I made my first stop at Calico Creek. Playing the tides is critical to finding birds in the creek. During periods of high water, the birds are, for the most part, elsewhere. At low tide, shorebirds, waterfowl and wading birds move in to take advantage of the exposed mud flats and oyster bars.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyj_S4IEBGuO7sCW_U_PE3fMHvR4DjvLdYtUIuMLJj4SqCXemjBbzu1HXxT9zBrqDrsr7ePCfT-m5_lxVoXnWjbqMBaFeAuxNZgo4DfcQAolFl4vyIicyLPO9KcDyNE6ZAE7a-V5kkr4wC/s1600/Calico+Creek.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyj_S4IEBGuO7sCW_U_PE3fMHvR4DjvLdYtUIuMLJj4SqCXemjBbzu1HXxT9zBrqDrsr7ePCfT-m5_lxVoXnWjbqMBaFeAuxNZgo4DfcQAolFl4vyIicyLPO9KcDyNE6ZAE7a-V5kkr4wC/s400/Calico+Creek.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calico Creek at low tide.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Late February isn't exactly prime time for anything at the mid-Atlantic coast. Throw in marginal atmospheric conditions and I was happy to scrape out a few mallards, hooded mergansers, double-crested cormorants and brown pelicans as I walked along the creekside boardwalk and scanned the marsh. Let it be known that during migration, Calico Creek is an excellent birding locale in the middle of Morehead City. Late July through mid-September makes for excellent shorebird watching. Later, as autumn progresses, waterfowl descend upon the creek as a weigh station on their journey south. In the spring and summer, waders and rails of many varieties take advantage of schools of finger mullet, mud minnows and shrimp that call the creek home. In February though ... not so much. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-JJktwOOJ3VP5dnZbY__ckiXI9ZwfR93VYDV-Aoo-WXpJXwQ_SB16pXTvmVsj7HS9ZMf3PGNmHKpggu6PvG6s-VySDjTheEPEP9kSiNAT5bHujLpWMNfsdiZEDp1HKxv6WtQn3nmgL3W/s1600/sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-JJktwOOJ3VP5dnZbY__ckiXI9ZwfR93VYDV-Aoo-WXpJXwQ_SB16pXTvmVsj7HS9ZMf3PGNmHKpggu6PvG6s-VySDjTheEPEP9kSiNAT5bHujLpWMNfsdiZEDp1HKxv6WtQn3nmgL3W/s200/sign.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><br />
From there, I drove across the causeway that spans Bogue Sound and landed on the barrier island where the land meets the sea. My first stop on Bogue Banks was <a href="http://www.ncparks.gov/Visit/parks/foma/main.php" style="color: blue;">Fort Macon State Park</a> - the site of a carefully restored pre-Civil War fort that guards the all-important mouth of Beaufort Inlet. The militarily strategic location of the fort - on a hill looking out over the ocean, the inlet and the sound - makes it a great place for birds and birders as well. The whipping wind made it tough to locate any landbirds on this day, however. I tried spishing and squeaking around the thick bayberry thickets that cover the middle of the park and was only able to coax a few yellow-rumped warblers, mockingbirds and cardinals into view. That is a poor showing for Fort Macon even in the dead of winter, but considering the weather, I can only assume most of the birds were holed up in an attempt to get out of the wind and rain. I briefly considered walking out to the beach and glassing seaward, but the howling wind and crashing surf made me think better of it. There were more sheltered vantage points down the beach and that was where I headed next.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwR3uAgn3_BleoXVbh784bEmO_7CvYGsJxAKdfa2KMnp8qAGJemKFqDV6eQcOJieueZEEGwdVC1DGcLuNTpUfgcBt5UpOuA-jL092LH1muGDnjmxJYHU2wdXEld9f1lMoE4NmkD6BICvg/s1600/Fort+Macon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwR3uAgn3_BleoXVbh784bEmO_7CvYGsJxAKdfa2KMnp8qAGJemKFqDV6eQcOJieueZEEGwdVC1DGcLuNTpUfgcBt5UpOuA-jL092LH1muGDnjmxJYHU2wdXEld9f1lMoE4NmkD6BICvg/s400/Fort+Macon.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fort Macon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IudsRAn3RueZamUf5hdHrZP_jF9JiTMAijjPYi1aWuZBOWhi9sJWbninErxbmA-mesj_wJfW-6pLbTTb9yzz8ncc9IsVVuxxv0WEjnRJkunkMDp4FI8h1VP48ZkOMwcZAUdsb1_mnJq3/s1600/dunescape.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IudsRAn3RueZamUf5hdHrZP_jF9JiTMAijjPYi1aWuZBOWhi9sJWbninErxbmA-mesj_wJfW-6pLbTTb9yzz8ncc9IsVVuxxv0WEjnRJkunkMDp4FI8h1VP48ZkOMwcZAUdsb1_mnJq3/s400/dunescape.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So, how badly do you want to study gulls?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3wi3rKRUIvi9qRyyloAoqtIWiQms28zj66FrBU-vcPILtL8RT0H9ibkK8QUl_B9_D8Or-pqd91FyN_94RC9HarQm0fFw1XljYrx7lU20YqLN1MmKw1BUsL0qbNXUMhVklFq3NchtHd-W/s1600/boardwalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3wi3rKRUIvi9qRyyloAoqtIWiQms28zj66FrBU-vcPILtL8RT0H9ibkK8QUl_B9_D8Or-pqd91FyN_94RC9HarQm0fFw1XljYrx7lU20YqLN1MmKw1BUsL0qbNXUMhVklFq3NchtHd-W/s200/boardwalk.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Before hitting the beach, I wanted to see if I could find any landbirds at all during the maelstrom. To do it, I knew I'd have to get into the thickest maritme forest I could find and that happens to be on the Theodore Roosevelt Nature Trail at the <a href="http://www.ncaquariums.com/pine-knoll-shores" style="color: blue;">North Carolina Aquarium at Pine Knoll Shores</a>. The parking lot at the aquarium was hopping, but the trail was predictably mine and mine alone. Walking through maritime forest has always held a bit of magic for me. In it's untouched state, the forest is a cozy fairytale of live oaks, holly trees and red cedars with understory plants like poison ivy, red bay and green briar - all rooted in a thin layer of peat that rolls across ancient sand dunes. Unfortunately, most of the maritime forest in North Carolina has been destroyed in the interest of rampant coastal development. Bogue Banks has several remnant tracts worth visiting, including Hoop Hole Creek Trail in Atlantic Beach and Emerald Isle Woods in Emerald Isle. The stretch I birded in Pine Knoll Shores was as beautiful as I remembered it, but again, predictably devoid of bird life. The exception was the mixed feeding flock I finally stumbled upon near the end of the trail that included Carolina chickadees, tufted titmice, more yellow-rumps, a couple of brown-headed nuthatches, a downy woodpecker and a palm warbler (the passerine-of-the-day).<br />
<br />
Out on the sound was a different story. From the high overlook at the end of the trail, I could see a flock of Bonapartes gulls and Foresters terns swirling and diving several hundred yards away. Underneath them, a mixed raft of double-crested cormorants and red-breasted mergansers paddled around. Undoubtedly, these birds had found a school of some type of forage fish and were getting their fill while the getting was good.<br />
<br />
With the clock ticking down to my planned pick-up of Sue from her conference, I finally decided to suck it up and hit the beach on the opposite side of the island. The wind and rain were as advertised and after a short, exposed stint, I retreated to the car and scanned the raging ocean through the windshield. Over the course of 15 minutes, I got my fill of northern gannets and ring-billed gulls - both soon to migrate north to their respective breeding grounds. Things got a little more interesting with the fly-by of two drake black scoters and then the bird-of-the-day finally appeared - a razorbill. Razorbills and their tribe, collectively known as alcids, are the Northern Hemisphere's flighted equivalent to penguins. Though they are regular winter visitors to the mid-Atlantic, especially during periods when cold northern water pushes southward, it's always a treat to see them. Seeing mine from the warm, dry confines of the car was a far cry from most of my previous sightings, which have more often than not come from the pitching deck of a boat with freezing sea spray and a roiling stomach as a backdrop.<br />
<br />
Yes, late February birding can be a frustrating exercise between seasons of abundance, but there's always something to see. And when you've been away for awhile, you'll take whatever time you can get with your friends - both human and feathered alike.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjSBoUzRNNG9ltxB_nLKKHp6sgNviqmoFCHJ_Icz3-G1ZaBXKaCSfYeW_EU_YOjhE-EGpM53omb6N01BwIfBqjqef9F45B9Q3afOVHZB7XbGSrO5ZpmLuBNVRnU6XSKGnbfBrt4lAEeQR/s1600/RBGU+use.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjSBoUzRNNG9ltxB_nLKKHp6sgNviqmoFCHJ_Icz3-G1ZaBXKaCSfYeW_EU_YOjhE-EGpM53omb6N01BwIfBqjqef9F45B9Q3afOVHZB7XbGSrO5ZpmLuBNVRnU6XSKGnbfBrt4lAEeQR/s400/RBGU+use.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ring-billed gull</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-4747167457000217212011-02-22T06:59:00.000-08:002011-02-22T06:59:34.536-08:00Catch and Release Me From Your Sense Of Morality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEs-Gi2uSr-amSnCJEbaMO9hZbroQ6qOue8fOcPmxnqB9D8k8RkraD1PCbRD8SwiF-q_cvuh8k39cCA7ZIrUliPCJyCOUQH9NuXLBNl_SxT32XrY9UfhwbtEAq7_QbBOB7-KbvDTDnN2g/s1600/steelhead1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEs-Gi2uSr-amSnCJEbaMO9hZbroQ6qOue8fOcPmxnqB9D8k8RkraD1PCbRD8SwiF-q_cvuh8k39cCA7ZIrUliPCJyCOUQH9NuXLBNl_SxT32XrY9UfhwbtEAq7_QbBOB7-KbvDTDnN2g/s320/steelhead1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i>"If the fisherman loves the fish, why does he catch them in his net?" ~ paraphrased</i><br />
<br />
When I was a kid growing up in suburban Boston, I was a fisherman of single-minded addiction. There wasn't a brook, river, pond or lake within bicycling distance that I didn't visit on a regular basis. More often than not, my return trip home was complicated by a balance-busting pendulum of slimy, spiny fish destined for the pan.<br />
<br />
In those days before cable television, I had no sense of the argument for catching a legal-sized fish and voluntarily releasing it. It just wasn't something I considered. Fish were for eating. Then the New England Sports Network found its way into the idiot box in our living room and I started watching the likes of Roland Martin, Jimmy Houston and Bill Dance catch giant largemouth bass by the boatload and LET THEM GO! At first, my 12-year-old brain just couldn't process what it was seeing. I thought they were all fools. I mean, who would go through all that trouble to drive down to Lake Okeechobee, catch a 7-pound bass, let it go and be satisfied to return to the dock empty handed?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNoW6hoVqD36OXAxlccgXMoM8rrJ7fcoRPB21SEGLtwaediufWoAc_8z9TpF0YVmg_mDf3DJVeFoN__Gj60QJqVEITcSCZQfgU-37MvleTciajIg307WrsCR0B_swzRGLreVJZjzVhbAea/s1600/Fish+on+III.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNoW6hoVqD36OXAxlccgXMoM8rrJ7fcoRPB21SEGLtwaediufWoAc_8z9TpF0YVmg_mDf3DJVeFoN__Gj60QJqVEITcSCZQfgU-37MvleTciajIg307WrsCR0B_swzRGLreVJZjzVhbAea/s320/Fish+on+III.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring 2010. I let it go.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Of course, being the impressionable young sportsman that I was, I eventually started letting my fish go too. According to my TV heroes, it was all about conserving the resource for the future. I wasn't the only one letting my fry pan go empty in the name of those fishermen to come. An entire generation of American anglers has grown up with a catch-and-release mantra ringing in its ears.<br />
<br />
The tao of catch-and-release angling is stronger than ever. It's a simple sacrifice anyone can make to help them feel like they're practicing good conservation and protecting the resource. Over the years, however, I find myself starting to come full circle. I don't go fishing nearly as often as I used to or I'd like to. When I do, it's often with an unapologetic attitude of filling the cooler up. Of course, I follow all state and local regulations - keeping only fish of legal size and never taking more than my allotted limit (or fewer if my blood lust is satisfied early). I suppose this path I have chosen, to feed myself and my wife with as much natural and wild food as possible, has a lot to do with my current fishing philosophy. I have also been swayed by more than a few voices who argue the act of tricking a fish to bite something it believes to be food, wrestling it from its habitat and damaging its overall health by sapping its energy reserves and improperly handling it, only to release it so that you can do it again may be a bit, ummm... misguided. The polar opposite of catch-and-release would be the <a href="http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/2013506/posts" style="color: blue;">Swiss and German fisheries management philosophy</a> that all fish brought to the net <i>must</i> be kept and utilized by the angler. Let it be known, I disagree with these mandates wholeheartedly, but I think it's interesting to see the other side of the coin.<br />
<br />
I am slightly amused by those who believe practicing catch-and-release alone is an adequate strategy for preserving fish populations. I was recently directed to check out the group <a href="http://www.greenfishmovement.com/Scripts/default.asp" style="color: blue;">Greenfish</a>, which seems to suggest this is the case. The web site makes some mention of "other conservation measures," but the overriding mission is to convince recreational anglers catch-and-release is the answer to all evils. (It should be noted that Greenfish is an apparel company that is out to make money. The boast that it donates a whopping 1% of profits to non-profit groups that tout the shared catch-and-release philosophy to the masses is rather unimpressive to me).<br />
<br />
Food for thought should include the growing evidence that fish released by good-intentioned anglers suffer mortality rates due to their brief human encounters. A very short list might include these results for <a href="http://www.arkansasstripers.com/catch_and_release_kills_stripers.htm" style="color: blue;">striped bass</a>, <a href="http://www.flyflinger.com/wpblog/?p=360" style="color: blue;">trout</a> and <a href="http://vbsf-hookedup.net/healthygrin/?page_id=280" style="color: blue;">marlin</a>. Note that the authors of these articles (and others, should you choose to investigate further) are often using the data to argue for or against catch-and-release fishing. In almost every study and species, the mortality rates are related to water conditions, how the fish were handled and what type of tackle they were caught with.<br />
<br />
The point I'm trying to make is; while there is no doubt practicing catch-and-release is a tool for the conservation of many gamefish species, it is but a screwdriver in the box. Far more important are efforts to protect and preserve valuable fish habitat from development and pollution and maintain high water quality throughout the environment. If letting a trophy bass go back into the pond so it can spawn and produce future generations makes you feel good, keep doing it. If your passion for fishing goes beyond providing the raw materials for trout almondine, pursue it. Understand though (are you listening Greenfish?) there is a lot more to fisheries management and conservation than releasing your catch to fight again another day. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRQWSE5STQ0i0TcbFiRP5qxmh0O7JliVTnjm74oRBqkqXJNJtk37OzwNbQmXBpcRcOxNzzGpdy3mT2rs8hT1i5SBw4wddHsyHExMhL6rd3Hyawj-a8PFU9qqAdnc946FelxjZyBhbVIGG/s1600/Day2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRQWSE5STQ0i0TcbFiRP5qxmh0O7JliVTnjm74oRBqkqXJNJtk37OzwNbQmXBpcRcOxNzzGpdy3mT2rs8hT1i5SBw4wddHsyHExMhL6rd3Hyawj-a8PFU9qqAdnc946FelxjZyBhbVIGG/s400/Day2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For some fishermen, catching a mess is a worthy goal, and that's A-OK with me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-52071919506631687002011-02-17T10:46:00.000-08:002011-02-17T10:46:39.865-08:00If They Could Talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1l6UCRr63U05Jygl4GBv4bj1JjwfIw5zxkh4SuElMmYoXNLsV6a24J42PIu9bq8GTpkjU67oID8iCadqPbCH-x76-T7M71wgE_i9fOLdQ-07rvf7-U84nCuNMIJAX2AQuhRC2v7uM0zif/s1600/streamer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1l6UCRr63U05Jygl4GBv4bj1JjwfIw5zxkh4SuElMmYoXNLsV6a24J42PIu9bq8GTpkjU67oID8iCadqPbCH-x76-T7M71wgE_i9fOLdQ-07rvf7-U84nCuNMIJAX2AQuhRC2v7uM0zif/s200/streamer.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>I'm not much for collections, though that hasn't always been the case. As a kid I collected comic books and baseball cards, but for all the wrong reasons. I read the comics and I looked at the cards. I liked organizing them and archiving them, but I didn't love them. The cards and comics represented my first investments - stuff I hoped one day would make me rich. That will never happen of course. My entrepreneurial instinct has never been very keen. I haven't sold any of them and I don't intend to. It would hardly be worth it. They sit in boxes and 3-ring binders in the closet (much to Sue's chagrin) waiting for when the time is right to be handed over to my nephews. Maybe they will be able to find the honest joy in them that I never did. (And there's always the chance Barry Bonds will be exonerated, embraced as the greatest baseball player that ever lived and his rookie card will skyrocket to be worth tens of thousands of dollars, right?)<br />
<br />
If ever there were a pastime that produces artifacts begging to be collected, it is that of the sportsman. Antique fishing lures, ancient duck decoys, bamboo fly rods, old guns - it's all there. I know a few passionate people who collect such things and I am always grateful to see their latest finds. It gives them a connection to the hunters and fishermen of distant generations who shared our affliction. I understand the magnetic pull they exert, but I have little desire to acquire such things and decorate my house with them.<br />
<br />
In spite of this, I do own a few relics of days afield gone by and they are among my most cherished possessions - perhaps not for their historical importance, but for the stories behind them.<br />
<br />
When I was in middle school, we took a family vacation to Arizona one winter. Mom had a childhood friend who lived in Phoenix, who we stayed with a few days before hitting the road in a rental car and heading north toward the Grand Canyon. Like most of our outings, we didn't really have an itinerary to stick to - just follow the road and see where it took us. <br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, we stopped at a motel off the highway. I can't remember where it was, but if you can picture a long, isolated stretch of asphalt cutting through the darkness of the desert at night and a glowing neon "vacancy" sign, you'll know the place.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1j3S-MiPMC6H2PLPejbITnMZykxRX5FKuyDifEZWwV1TQx0wjpqa9TBtpbvHwkUgM-igKwfwlctKmii5np-gdVw59W04psSUwpMAQvJMTDQftpkgypiTIlvKeCJJMJSGS7qheV9grHeA/s1600/scaup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ1j3S-MiPMC6H2PLPejbITnMZykxRX5FKuyDifEZWwV1TQx0wjpqa9TBtpbvHwkUgM-igKwfwlctKmii5np-gdVw59W04psSUwpMAQvJMTDQftpkgypiTIlvKeCJJMJSGS7qheV9grHeA/s320/scaup.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The man in the lobby who checked us in was an elderly fellow with a sparse gray beard and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was strong and leathery, like an old cowboy should look I thought. Curiously, he stood behind a glass display case filled with duck decoys and they were for sale. If you can imagine a stranger place to find and buy an antique duck block than that rundown flop house in the middle of the Arizona desert...<br />
<br />
Regardless how they got there, I was enthralled. They might have been the first duck decoys I'd ever laid eyes on. There were all manner of types and styles - an eclectic collection of hand-carved and factory dekes. The old man had them priced at $40 apiece; didn't matter if it was a red-breasted merganser signed by its maker or a paper mache Canada goose, mass-produced for Sears and Roebuck. After we moved all of the luggage into the room, I wandered back over to the lobby. It was pretty obvious to everyone involved that I was going to make a play for one of those birds. After watching me examining his collection for several minutes, the old man asked me which decoy I liked best. There was a slick looking northern pintail drake that was almost perfect. Whoever had carved it knew a thing or two about ducks and the paint job was so good, the bird almost looked real. And there was an old, beat-up hen scaup that caught my eye for whatever reason. Her body was chip-carved, the paint was faded and her bill was broken. My dad walked in to check on me. "Hey Dad, if you were going to pick between this one and this one, which would you chose?" Dad probably gave the old man a look before he stooped over and looked in the case. "I like that pintail," he said. "That bird's got class." I considered his opinion, but my mind was already made up. "I like that scaup. It's got some stories to tell." The old man said he'd sell us the scaup for half-price and Dad forked over the $20 while I took the duck. "I think you made the right choice," said the old man with a wink as he handed me the decoy.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocIqq0Uv3Yz3euSiG6CWgSWTOsiEmnMVo20GRHUgKKaXgO2H4aH05S8Lb4UHDVXNgnhi9w9923esNn6i-gMVAT4BtTzQahUcun_i2dfdGdvYOG_jYStzrP044LtQAYKYXxGUzr0oo5IO5/s1600/scaup+head.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocIqq0Uv3Yz3euSiG6CWgSWTOsiEmnMVo20GRHUgKKaXgO2H4aH05S8Lb4UHDVXNgnhi9w9923esNn6i-gMVAT4BtTzQahUcun_i2dfdGdvYOG_jYStzrP044LtQAYKYXxGUzr0oo5IO5/s320/scaup+head.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I've had her going on 25 years now and that hen scaup still holds a place of honor in our house. I once took the duck to a renowned decoy carver on the Carolina coast to see if he could tell me anything about its history. Without any identifying stamps or signatures, all he could venture was that it is a factory-made block of relatively little value. To me, her monetary value is inconsequential to the friendship that was forged that day and the tale of how she came to be in my living room~<br />
<br />
My grandfather on my father's side was a fisherman. Though I cannot recall any time he and I went, my father says Grandpa dabbled in all variety of angling pursuits. One year it would be surf casting, the next it would be jigging for mackerel. His constant favorite, however, was bass and he liked nothing better than to troll balsa wood plugs from a 2-man canoe around the edges of a lake.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4rma2k97BNmjP-HeONX8luldx8YLzcHN_PYI038RtC6o6stWpnBgFq8QUa-OQJ631KEMLvwRwfSEnPlBkY43f_IkXuA_JZmdDSgwyrwQyUsIX49UO6-KrTTN7GUdxhWQtJgT5Glw6vMy/s1600/fly+box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4rma2k97BNmjP-HeONX8luldx8YLzcHN_PYI038RtC6o6stWpnBgFq8QUa-OQJ631KEMLvwRwfSEnPlBkY43f_IkXuA_JZmdDSgwyrwQyUsIX49UO6-KrTTN7GUdxhWQtJgT5Glw6vMy/s320/fly+box.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Long before he died, more than 10 years ago, Grandpa started handing down his fishing equipment to me. I have old Shakespeare bait-casting reels and an ancient tacklebox filled with giant spinners that must have been meant to catch muskies or pike. Most of the stuff is up in the attic, but I do keep a checkbook-sized streamer case from Grandpa's days chasing salmon in northern Maine.<br />
<br />
The flies are bedraggled at best, but as of 25 years ago, they still caught fish. I remember using the impossibly long bamboo fly rod Grandpa gave me (its location now a mystery to me) and teaching myself how to cast on an open stretch of the Charles River, just south of Boston. With his instruction echoing in my head, I cobbled together a serviceable blend of rotted fly line, sun-brittle monofilament leader and one of those threadbare salmon streamers you see above. I rode my bike down to the river nearly every day after school and flogged the water with sledgehammer presentations. I will never forget the day I felt a strike as I stripped the great streamer across the current. The fish was strong, as I remember, and I had visions of a giant brown trout coming to the net. After what seemed like an "Old Man and the Sea"-like effort, I managed to beach the 14-inch sucker, which I'd foul-hooked just above the tail.<br />
<br />
Shortly after that great struggle, I reasoned the flies and tackle should probably be packed away for safe-keeping and posterity. The L.L. Bean leatherbound book of streamers, however, will always sit on my bookshelf, reminding me of nothing in particular, but important to my connection with the past nonetheless~<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwxTvFK_75uvmWNLIMDYZjHD9KTv51PLfQykzPcxqxstBusvr8RX7ME4kcX8y4cJaiEmRSGQRajioQLbGHDeVABmzbdLuNLmekRKzOF299Txl7hm6JV4Q7Vku-hS_X2xtKVxq9QmDbUj3/s1600/shotty+vert.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwxTvFK_75uvmWNLIMDYZjHD9KTv51PLfQykzPcxqxstBusvr8RX7ME4kcX8y4cJaiEmRSGQRajioQLbGHDeVABmzbdLuNLmekRKzOF299Txl7hm6JV4Q7Vku-hS_X2xtKVxq9QmDbUj3/s320/shotty+vert.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I own few guns; a rifle and a 20-gauge slug gun for deer hunting and a 12-gauge shotgun for everything else. They are utilitarian - tools for the job, nothing more. Given half the chance to trade any of them for something more effective, I would do so without remorse. When Sue's father, Hank, decided to give me his old shotgun two Christmases ago, I was happy to have it for the simple fact of adding another tool to my arsenal. And then I took it out of the cloth sock it was wrapped in.<br />
<br />
The gun is a double-barrel L.C. Smith Field Grade in 16-gauge. It is light, it swings beautifully and it flies to my shoulder when I mount it. I am in love.<br />
<br />
From my research, the model was produced by L.C. Smith between 1945 and 1950. There were more than 53,000 made during that period and they are considered to be fine guns of considerable value. When I took the shotgun to a local gunsmith to have the rust and pitting rubbed out and the barrels re-blued, he acted like one of the celebrity appraisers on "Antiques Roadshow" when they are presented with something particularly special. "This gun has value," he emphasized as he handed it back to me. "Thank you for bringing it in and letting me work on it."<br />
<br />
In it's current, restored condition, the gun must be as beautiful as the day it was when my father-in-law received it as a teenager. The only thing about it that isn't "factory" is the finish on the receiver, which Hank apparently took a blow-torch to to make it look cool (or whatever the 1940s equivalent to cool was). I have no intention of packing the gun in oil and sticking it in the closet for safe-keeping like a pack of baseball cards or a stack of comic books. Fine old shotguns are not meant to be retired, they are meant to be shot and I mean to do just that in the years to come. This particular piece of history is going to keep on living for as long as I am its caretaker~<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_49ruXi-t6m89lxZfIlWjCtnNcTOhhyphenhyphen1DYwZ0s_MmvnjdHpsjiERxGqCxx-y3Sdg7r5qrMsrgRcZTd9NehxS8sxVRV7ijgEQboN1x0Mj5vlBjWmzlkrC6283qcUYhX7qsGzkgDNCAw_r/s1600/shotty.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_49ruXi-t6m89lxZfIlWjCtnNcTOhhyphenhyphen1DYwZ0s_MmvnjdHpsjiERxGqCxx-y3Sdg7r5qrMsrgRcZTd9NehxS8sxVRV7ijgEQboN1x0Mj5vlBjWmzlkrC6283qcUYhX7qsGzkgDNCAw_r/s400/shotty.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-2478684224251026912011-02-15T08:00:00.000-08:002011-02-15T08:00:16.105-08:00Return To Normalcy? A Little Bird Told Me<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cCSU3Xvj0sAVSVC-do3aItpr68o7j1X7I-Wk3T5tUNPeTbrIfWcj52iysIqtaFwgy6iNnjhgT_oAl4iYcaqHZ_LX_uX5EygTXAUZKFisV0iwh5GHjfuZwZHgixaNjiZzlqJu8fmE3i-d/s1600/TUTI.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7cCSU3Xvj0sAVSVC-do3aItpr68o7j1X7I-Wk3T5tUNPeTbrIfWcj52iysIqtaFwgy6iNnjhgT_oAl4iYcaqHZ_LX_uX5EygTXAUZKFisV0iwh5GHjfuZwZHgixaNjiZzlqJu8fmE3i-d/s320/TUTI.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tufted titmouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Dare I say the words? Dare I? <br />
<br />
After two-and-a-half months of cold, snowy, miserable weather, the sudden onset of daytime temps in the 50s and 60s and overnight lows in the 20s and 30s has this cooped up bushman thinking spring.<br />
<br />
Lest you think I'm jinxing things by speaking out of turn (it's only mid-February for God's sake), I'm not the only one. The signs are flitting back and forth around my backyard.<br />
<br />
First and foremost, many of our resident bird species are taking the change in the weather as a cue to start stretching their vocal chords in preparation for the courting season. Song sparrows, northern cardinals, eastern towhees and Carolina wrens are filling the warming air with their songs. Some of them sound a little rusty after their long hiatus, but so did Pavarotti when he decided to stop lip-syncing.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvqBqbCsut84GveCvv08LMVNx8_m9yKvCidh1ryC1zzDtbXT_ExnsTJOurg1hTcdiGjmwmA31jD77W0-03hfw1l-a9F8IqQgZOVjVhccPmIeS4EbQZmC_2ZDMWbEa5dw-wUgdqKZ0eK7G/s1600/RBWO.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvqBqbCsut84GveCvv08LMVNx8_m9yKvCidh1ryC1zzDtbXT_ExnsTJOurg1hTcdiGjmwmA31jD77W0-03hfw1l-a9F8IqQgZOVjVhccPmIeS4EbQZmC_2ZDMWbEa5dw-wUgdqKZ0eK7G/s200/RBWO.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red-bellied woodpecker</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Despite a lifetime of birdwatching, I am ambivalent/leaning toward chaffed in regards to one member of the growing choir. During the weekend, I heard the telltale drumming of a woodpecker on the make. Normally, this would not trouble me, but the incessant ratta-tat-tat seemed disturbingly close - like, on-the-side-of-the-house close. There are two reasons for a woodpecker to start pecking at your siding; it's either found a spot with particularly good acoustics that help broadcast its romantic intent far and wide, or it's found wood-eating insects burrowed in there and it's getting a meal. Neither of these potentialities does much to ease the human mind. With an anxious heart, I slipped outside and patrolled the grounds, looking especially up under the eaves where I feared my feathered friend would be snacking on an infestation of termites or carpenter ants, thereby putting the spotlight on a much larger problem. Thankfully, our little Rat Scabies turned out to be a lovesick red-bellied woodpecker who happens to have chosen to use the side of the owl box I put up last fall as the bullhorn to find his Juliet. I don't envy the eastern screech owl that, at least for a time, was roosting in there. I imagine it must be something like living inside a snare drum.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfZMGGQQFaYxktVCa5aGPICg-BmFOvzdA7KbrkRCZomXG43X0hGf_jtHAAlcu8WC0fzxa5dgfxqA3_A_tX33oNwf2b15jKwpA3XYnLAenaqwYUOQfdFyDE7h2zfMtnu9gKDkPWBvg0dRon/s1600/use+these+siskins.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfZMGGQQFaYxktVCa5aGPICg-BmFOvzdA7KbrkRCZomXG43X0hGf_jtHAAlcu8WC0fzxa5dgfxqA3_A_tX33oNwf2b15jKwpA3XYnLAenaqwYUOQfdFyDE7h2zfMtnu9gKDkPWBvg0dRon/s320/use+these+siskins.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pine siskins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Curiously, Sue and I are seeing the return of a few birds that haven't been around in such numbers since before the deepest, darkest winter descended. This is especially true of the pine siskins, two of which arrived February 11 to fill up on black sunflower seeds and thistle. A way back in October, we hosted a few siskins for about a week. Pine siskins are small members of the finch family that breed in high elevation, boreal forests and are seen only occasionally during the winter as they come off the frigid mountain tops in search of food. In some years when the seed crop is particularly poor, siskins and and other northern finchy types irrupt southward in massive flocks, much to the delight of backyard birdwatchers. I hypothesized at the early arrival of our siskins (along with several purple finches) that this might be such a year, but after staying a week or two, we never saw either species again - until now. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtfTNueYv7TfYW4rK56ZZp2A7zKaGqcUNDzwsJmrW_mJt0nkRNeSJrEzHK5Q8QTz18id40s5n_sKAQFlOJ9ynp6EJkrbNT3utVjv_VL4K45gVKXfMt1vZx-Nk4xvB45cT3VBtcLqBXfLA/s1600/DEJU.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtfTNueYv7TfYW4rK56ZZp2A7zKaGqcUNDzwsJmrW_mJt0nkRNeSJrEzHK5Q8QTz18id40s5n_sKAQFlOJ9ynp6EJkrbNT3utVjv_VL4K45gVKXfMt1vZx-Nk4xvB45cT3VBtcLqBXfLA/s200/DEJU.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dark-eyed junco</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcagW6C9nAIX6u0XJY75bB2Fg8kb-gvWq8jMCHglW2LZlHX9Mudm8eiQ6gVAAoE-uq2EOVvhvVm1KUFg29ax9Mjig1tMiOR-Lx3vyoqZuMH5jp9Sr73OVJOLzFF8OzEjq5vAGNnQwDYlF/s1600/WTSP.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcagW6C9nAIX6u0XJY75bB2Fg8kb-gvWq8jMCHglW2LZlHX9Mudm8eiQ6gVAAoE-uq2EOVvhvVm1KUFg29ax9Mjig1tMiOR-Lx3vyoqZuMH5jp9Sr73OVJOLzFF8OzEjq5vAGNnQwDYlF/s200/WTSP.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White-throated sparrow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Their arrival a couple of days ago seems to coincide with an influx of white-throated sparrows and dark-eyed juncos, both of which have been present throughout the winter, but now there seem to be a lot more of them scurfing around the yard where we scatter white millet for their benefit. If I had to guess the reason, I'd say the sudden abundance of siskins, juncos and white-throated sparrows indicate these traveling gypsies have sensed a shift in the season and are filtering their way back north in preparation for spring migration. <br />
<br />
Regardless of the reason, we certainly welcome them back. I do, however, reserve the right to withhold services and kick their sorry asses back to wherever they came from if it all turns out to be a big tease and winter isn't done with us yet.<br />
<br />
C'mon spring, we're waiting on you.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-725881462622019638.post-66344910444124514402011-02-10T16:43:00.000-08:002011-02-10T16:43:35.140-08:00Something Wicked This Way Comes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8lRjY5hTK4SrSmiIyimscfd1wAWAOk_gJLgPPlWSs2hlmUhLF2g465EpsZBZTB_iQojKK0sJ6WT0zVR-QP4A9eidH6T3BajrIgs5gPJLA9PAQqXZS50T0FnUp8ggAUAebAdG2L7FUVHb/s1600/5429328995_b9580d268b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8lRjY5hTK4SrSmiIyimscfd1wAWAOk_gJLgPPlWSs2hlmUhLF2g465EpsZBZTB_iQojKK0sJ6WT0zVR-QP4A9eidH6T3BajrIgs5gPJLA9PAQqXZS50T0FnUp8ggAUAebAdG2L7FUVHb/s320/5429328995_b9580d268b_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tri-colored bat w/ white-nose syndrome fungus (NCWRC photo)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unless you're tuned in to the environmental news beat, the startling fact that eastern North America's cave bat populations are facing immediate collapse may have slipped under your radar.<br />
<br />
For many, the story of white-nose syndrome's emergence and its affect on hibernating bats didn't begin until popular periodicals like "<a href="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/02/100216-bats-white-nose-fungus-tennessee/" style="color: blue;">National Geographic</a>" and "<a href="http://www.sciencemag.org/content/323/5911/227.abstract" style="color: blue;">Science</a>" magazines ran articles announcing its discovery and potentially catastrophic consequences.<br />
<br />
In truth, WNS was first discovered back in February, 2006 outside Albany, N.Y. A caver there photographed hibernating bats with a mysterious white fungus growing around their muzzles. He also observed several dead bats. The following winter, as bats began returning to their ancestral wintering sites in natural caves and retired mines, the insidious fungus was documented in other locations and the body count rose into the hundreds. Since then, WNS has spread throughout the New England states, south to Tennessee and west to Indiana. More than 1 million bats have perished in five years. Mortality rates in some hibernacula (a big word for caves and mines where bats spend the winter) have been 90 to 100 percent.<br />
<br />
Last week, biologists from the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission found the state's first WNS cases in a retired mine in Avery County. It was not a surprise, but nevertheless, a dark shadow has descended upon us here in the Old North State.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vMykvT_wlV2gtbEgxR_cWDWsNgHeefHf5CWlE3EA0LdaxTiCmEDiW9LjNYZ7UAaPQ7JrUuH74yHdps-2lTBvA4urTcMErppHo5Lm9RumP-WDItztBfjG5vUL2T0Np8OKOlJSVxal80gX/s1600/5430047508_ed3ec98b31_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vMykvT_wlV2gtbEgxR_cWDWsNgHeefHf5CWlE3EA0LdaxTiCmEDiW9LjNYZ7UAaPQ7JrUuH74yHdps-2lTBvA4urTcMErppHo5Lm9RumP-WDItztBfjG5vUL2T0Np8OKOlJSVxal80gX/s400/5430047508_ed3ec98b31_b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marking the spread of white-nose syndrome in North America. (Pennsylvania Game Commission)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The evidence strongly suggests WNS is spread from bat to bat, but many are concerned that human cave visitors may inadvertently spread the highly-contagious disease across large geographic distances.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84htdv4tiWoqmfbEXymMVLUC07u5-NcHOyf89B3s2OLGi6um1SdUf78lpNzhohIaZsKYskfiRrOsRK9LNTGPO81IEfG7mJzG-TTYgf0l4zjX69WHRCAcDOZ1Fili8KtkaVp-ZzQ7qcbv3/s1600/5429942652_1a6f5d0586_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84htdv4tiWoqmfbEXymMVLUC07u5-NcHOyf89B3s2OLGi6um1SdUf78lpNzhohIaZsKYskfiRrOsRK9LNTGPO81IEfG7mJzG-TTYgf0l4zjX69WHRCAcDOZ1Fili8KtkaVp-ZzQ7qcbv3/s320/5429942652_1a6f5d0586_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A USFWS biologist prepares to enter a bat hibernacula in western NC. (USFWS photo)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Infected bats typically display non-typical behavior that includes high levels of activity during a period in their life cycle when they should be hibernating, or more accurately, in a state of torpor. For whatever reason, bats with WNS fidget and fly around to the point that energy stores which were supposed to get them through the winter are exhausted and they subsequently die of starvation, exposure, dehydration and/or the damage the fungus does to their thin wing membranes.<br />
<br />
The why here and why now are still open to speculation. Since the fungus suspected of causing WNS - an unusual type that prefers cold, high-humidity environment, specifically bat caves - has been preliminarily identified, the same species has also been found in western Europe, where it seems to have a zero-mortality rate on the bats there. The fungus could have been introduced from Europe inadvertently. Another possibility is the fungus could have been here all along but only recently mutated into the deadly pathogen it is today.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RmBd7COAA0O7YODATG-sr0nFWt8rBNCrlgzcvaygRj4LvnZH6qmeaQ9lxJEiu_USf_EG4ZWPG82-2lKD_OKWqQDgBrq2wA2I6-uTr2BeUUhp4TtE_f5ZDiIlOIF8iE8Aipn7WibLzSuF/s1600/5429934790_24eb588597_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RmBd7COAA0O7YODATG-sr0nFWt8rBNCrlgzcvaygRj4LvnZH6qmeaQ9lxJEiu_USf_EG4ZWPG82-2lKD_OKWqQDgBrq2wA2I6-uTr2BeUUhp4TtE_f5ZDiIlOIF8iE8Aipn7WibLzSuF/s200/5429934790_24eb588597_b.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tri-colored bat in Avery County w/ WNS. (NCWRC photo)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Scientists still haven't come up with a way to stop the spread of WNS or treat bats that have become infected. Efforts to protect uninfected caves and retired mines have been ineffective. Killing the fungal spores inside the caves is a possibility, though not in the minds of many biologists because cave ecosystems are notoriously delicate. The effects anti-fungal agents might have could be worse than the disease itself. <br />
<br />
WNS has already caused serious declines in six types of cave bats. Several species already threatened or endangered are susceptible and other populations, once considered to be healthy, could, in the next few years, potentially fall close to the edge of regional extinction (or worse).<br />
<br />
What's all this got to do with you and me? Aside from the very real possibility that this disease could spark a major extinction event in North America bat species already at risk, there are tangible consequences to a world without bats. The bats that are affected are insectivores of the highest order. Some studies suggest bats eat as many as 1,000 mosquitoes an hour. If you enjoy the outdoors (and I suspect you do), fewer bats mean more insect pests - both those that bite and those that destroy crops. The question is, when you're sitting on your porch on a beautiful evening this summer, will you notice you're using more mosquito repellent? As you tend your backyard gardens, will you be tempted to break out the insecticide that you haven't thought of using since you went "organic" so many years ago? Will you look into the night sky and wonder, "What happened to all the bats we used to see?" Or will you notice anything at all?<br />
<br />
For more information, click <a href="http://www.fws.gov/whitenosesyndrome/" style="color: blue;">here</a> for U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's compilation of research and recommendations. To support bat research and conservation, check out <a href="http://www.batcon.org/" style="color: blue;">Bat Conservation International</a>.Jamie Cameronhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07411528916240029910noreply@blogger.com2