Category: Hunting

#huntingisconservation

When Emory announced a podcast episode on the topic of the "hunting is conservation" slogan, and if perhaps a new one is in order, I typed up the following e-mail to him. I thought it might be of interest to a broader audience. You can find the info about Emory's By Land Podcast here: https://byland.co/podcast
Emory,
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Do we need really a slogan or a hashtag?
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As far as slogans go “hunting is conservation” is pretty catchy. It is supposed to drive home the fact that hunter dollars pay for a lot of the wildlife management that is going on, both on this continent and on others. The maligned trophy hunters’ dollars pay for poaching control in Africa, and keeps habitat away from sprawling development by allowing people to make a living off the land that doesn’t involve cutting and planting. Projects in Asian countries, like the markhor projects in Pakistan, have shown that hunter dollars provide more value to local remote communities than the meat of a wild goat in the pot, and the population of markhor is rebounding. The story on our continent here is well-known (to us anyway).
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The question is, does the intended recipient, the non-hunter, know how “hunting is conservation”? Perhaps they align with the notion that conserving something cannot mean killing it. They may not buy into the thought that it is OK to kill some individuals for the long-term survival of the species. They may not instinctively agree with the science that says that population reduction is required to keep things in balance (like with snow geese that are eating themselves out of a summer home).
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It is very unfortunate that in today’s fast-paced society we need slogan. The complexity of hunting, of what drives us, and of our contributions to wildlife management, are hard to fit into 3-5 words. I have a hard time explaining it in 3-5 paragraphs, or even pages, and nobody reads that much anymore.
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Perhaps the problem is that we have two messages to convey, and “hunting is conservation” only tackles one. Many non-hunters are likely interested into personal motives for hunting. Nobody is buying it when I tell them I went out duck hunting to help conservation. I went out duck hunting because I love to be out on the water, love to challenge myself by doing things that are difficult, love to see ducks and geese fly, love it when I make a good shot, love it when I pick up the bird, love the feeling of self-sufficiency when plucking and converting a bird to a meal, love the fact that during all of it I forget about COVID, work, relations, future, and so forth. I’m just there, in the moment, making all the decisions and living by the outcomes of them. “Put that in a slogan, Mr. Marketing Guy”. The non-hunter may think I’m a pervert who just likes to kill innocent birds.
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A defining moment in my past, involved a small bird and a BB gun. My uncle hunted, my cousin too, and I wanted nothing else than to follow in their footsteps. Being way too young to legally hunt I would roam their little forest plot with a BB gun trying to kill birds. Some would call it blood lust, I would rather call it a desire to do something similar to what my role models were doing, even though wanton killing of little birds without any intent of eating them is not a cheerful matter.  Good thing I couldn’t hit anything anyway. Till one day, I managed to clip a little house sparrow’s wing. It came fluttering down out of the tree and crawled away in leaves. I was distraught obviously and started to walk away. Then I realized that I needed to finish what I started, the bird would not survive on one wing. I found the bird and killed it outright with the next shot. I didn’t shoot too many song birds after that. But I think it did show me that I could carry the responsibility of life and death of an animal, in a way that many people cannot or will not. And that divides the masses. How can I explain what I just described to a person who has never felt the last breaths of a dying duck in his hands, or who has never looked into the eye of a deer that seconds ago was still alive, or who has never felt the warm heart inside the chest cavity of a moose (or less poetic – who has never struggled to get a pile of guts that would fill a wheelbarrow out of an elk).
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I don’t know. And to me, there lies the essence of our communication problem.
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I encourage you to also read Why I hunt and BC closes the grizzly hunt - what went wrong? for a broader perspective on my personal motivations and some thoughts on how we as hunters are failing in the public relations department.
F.

Project Duck Boat – Part V (Finale)

The alarm went off at an ungodly hour, and it took a quick shower to get some of the haze out of my head. I don’t know who these people are that jump out of bed straight into their boots, and are ready to go, and I don’t understand how they do that. Regardless of what the day ahead has in store, waking up is a process for me. With joints creaking I took the dogs out for a quick one, and slowly the blood started pumping and the brain geared up.

It was a long dark drive to the lake I had scouted out in the spring, and this being opening day, I feared I’d show up at the sandy staging area on the North side a little late, with other hunters out on the water before me. This sneak approach really only works if you are the only one, or the first one, to paddle along the reeds.

I needn’t have worried, nobody was there. It was still cold, and the last of the fog was rising off the water as I set off. In spring the marsh had been full of sound of ducks and geese. It was a lot quieter now. The 20ga loaded with steel shot #4s rested on my right, and slowly I paddled the meandering water. When a couple of teal came soaring past, I dropped the paddle, grabbed the gun, swung, and missed twice. Not a great start.

A little later I happened upon a pair of teal, that took off as soon as I came around the bend, and I managed to drop one! As the morning progressed I added three more to the tally, before I ran out of suitable water. There had been some gun shots on the south side of the lake but otherwise I had the place to myself. Plenty happy with my modest harvest I drove home.

That night we had a wonderful dinner of pan-seared duck breasts. Ducks make a fantastic meal, if treated right, meaning searing it on high fire and briefly. You want, no must have, the insides still pink, or risk the meat turning dry and livery.

We ate this with ciabatta bread, oven-roasted tomatoes and onion, and a balsamic reduction drizzle (that’s nothing more than balsamic vinegar mixed with brown sugar, allowed to simmer for a bit to make it thicker). It was fantastic!

A week or so later I repeated the routine, hitting up a larger reservoir that has, according to Google Earth, lots of bays and islands on the East side. I’d love to report about my shooting prowess, how I plucked the ducks and geese from the sky with ease, but that would be lying. Two double misses started the morning, but luckily I was up for some redemption and ended the day with a tally of six ducks. The number of shots fired will hopefully fade from memory, as my brain chooses to remember the highlights of the day only.

This is not a way to get big bag limits, and it was never intended that way. But it allows quiet time on the water, taking in the sights (like the two otters I saw on the first outing), relaxing through the morning, and potting the odd bird for dinner. It’s nice too to vacate the water before noonish, as this is generally a day resting area for birds, migrating birds in the latter half of the season, and they need their quiet time too.

And that’s it. Project Duck Boat finished, but in a way it’s just beginning. We have a month or so left of open water, suitable for such a little boat. I have no intention to fight the fall storms and freezing water. I can get hypothermic in other places without the risk of drowning. Next spring, pike will be waiting in the reeds, to eat the fly that I will present to them.

Good times!

 

Project Duck Boat – Part IV

Though the solid fresh green colour of the boat really was appealing, the glare was pretty apparent, and for duck hunting purposes it would likely be better to have some drab colour on there. So I decided to try my hand at putting a gentle camo pattern on.

The Rust-Oleum camo spray cans were surprisingly hard to find. I had to go to three hardware stores to get three colours: brown, tan, and light green.

The process was pretty straightforward. After a quick scrub down with steel wool and rubbing alcohol, the boat was sprayed with  a base layer of varying colours; four areas of solid colour covered the whole thing. Then I used dry cat tail stems and leaves as a stencil of sorts, spraying contrasting colours across the leaves. For sharp edges, the leaves would lay flush with the boat, for a more fuzzy effect I’d hold them up a little higher. In general, I didn’t give it too much thought, and fought my inner perfectionist from overworking the colours. Just flop on the plant material, and with quick squirts from left to right and back, get some paint on.

For example, on the stern of the boat, the pattern was achieved by laying a base coat of brown and green, and then spraying a layer of tan with leaves/cattails held in front of it. The tan went through the openings in the plants, leaving the darker base colours to show through on the boat. It’s a lot easier to do than it is to describe.

The final touch (for now) was to add a cross bar, which would serve as a rest for the gun barrel(s).  I didn’t feel comfortable laying a loaded shotgun down flat on the bottom of the boat, because an accidental discharge (never happens, right?) would have some very wet and potentially life threatening results.

A few final squirts of camo paints, and she was all done. Well, almost; I added a strip of rubber on the right side of the cross bar to be gentler on the gun’s finish.

The boat was ready, and duck season was just around the corner (see part V – Finale).

Project Duck Boat – Part III

The boat was looking pretty functional, but the inside needed some tuning up, fixing cracks and chips in the gel coat, adding some foam to the flotation and putting on the top trim.

The push fit trim fit perfectly, and will provide protection from and for the fiberglass edge.

The polyurethane foam from a can was nasty, sticky, and probably unhealthy stuff to work with. It stuck to tools, to hands (gloves!), the floor, my clothes, and some of it even to the old foam in the boat. I could not make this look fancy, so I settled for functional.

After patching the inside bottom, it was time for the final coats of paint and varnish. The transformation was spectacular, if i may say so myself.

I decided to not rebuild the oar locks. In fact I built one, from hardwood , but didn’t put it on. The boat is more like a square-stern kayak, and the oar locks would be sitting quite close to the rower, making for an awkwardly short stroke. I would paddle it like a canoe at first and make further decisions later.

I had some trepidation if I would actually be able to transport it in the truck, but that worked out OK.

The maiden voyage took place on a beautiful spring morning. I went looking for snow goose, found none, but did manage to sneak up on dozens of waterfowl, within easy shotgun range. The concept of using this boat to cruise the edges of lakes might actually work!

After this first trip,  I decided to add a hole to the outboard mounting plate, so I could rig up an anchor of sorts, which would be helpful for fishing trips.

With spring season over, it was time to put on the final tweaks (see Part IV).

 

Project Duck Boat – Part II

After a thorough clean and a a proper sanding job, two things had become clear. Firstly the outside of the hull was not in as bad a condition as I had thought, and secondly, there were a lot or divots, scratches and imperfections to fill up. I decided on a skim coat of epoxy for most of the underside.

Since I was using slow-setting epoxy, the same kind I used when building the longbow (see Building a Longbow – Part II ), I needed a source of heat the keep the epoxy well above room temperature while outside the snow was blowing and it was freezing hard. I went through a number of heaters. My electric ceiling heater overheated and started spewing smoke, and a heating fan motor just stopped. The plug of an electric radiator became so hot that it could only be used a few hours at a time. The construction lights proved the most reliable but they only covered smaller areas. (lights below are pointing upwards to reduce the glare for the photo)

It took about a week to get the skim coats done, and a first layer of primer put on.

The next step was very satisfying: putting on a coat of paint! Not wanting to spend hundreds of dollars on a true marine paint meant for vessels that are in the water for long periods of time (like in a harbour), I picked paint that was meant for surfaces exposed to water, but not necessarily submerged all the time. The outside of the boat looks like the million bucks I didn’t spend, once done.

I used the same green to touch up some mallard decoys.

The inside of the boat still needed a fair bit of work (see Part III)

Project Duck Boat – Part I

She came to me on a cold November evening, and was unceremoniously dumped onto my garage floor. When Lee had said she might need a bit of work, he hadn’t been kidding. Anything wood was crumbling, anything metal had rusted, the fiberglass would need some touching up, trim had partially come off and was swaying gently in the cold Western breeze. But on the bottom lay a gentle layer of mud and grass, faintly smelling of the marsh. A few duck feathers clung to the hull, stuck to a patch of dried-up blood. It was clear: this was my new duck boat.

Where I live, it’s rather hard to give a boat, or anything really, a good hose-down between mid-October and some time in April. First of all, the water will be disconnected to prevent freezing of the pipes, and unless you want to turn the cull-de-sac into a hockey rink, water is best not used outside. But a series of buckets with hot water and soap turned to mud as I tried to clean my new prize inside and out. The kitchen drains did not clog, so I must have diluted the grime sufficiently.

The boat was stripped of anything that would come off: the oar locks, protective strip along the top and the piece of rotten wood on the transom. Before me now lay a blank slate. One in need of some serious sanding, a coat of epoxy and a few layers of paint. But first the most pressing issue needed to be addressed, the rotten outboard motor mount.

I have no immediate intention to use a motor, but it would be nice to have that option some day. Unfortunately the wood of the mountain plate was very wet and very decaying. All the softwood layers of the multiplex had turned to mush, in I spent a few days prying away at it to get that out as much as I could. Then I set the boat upside down and ran a heater under the transom for a long time, until, much later than I had thought, the inside appeared to be dry. In the mean time I started work on the hull (see Part II).

Enter modern chemicals, which according to the label turn mushy, punky wood into rock-hard material. Not sure if it did, but I poured it on thick. Next I used hardwood and bamboo strips and an epoxy to fill up the voids. It still being the middle of winter, all use of epoxy required lamps or heaters to provide a temperature that allowed it to set.

Once that was done, I rebuilt the outside by using aluminum strip, filling the surface with more epoxy.  Time to continue working on the hull!

(Continued in Part II)

More moose hunting (Part 2)

Sunrise found me slipping through the willows and alders on the East side of the valley, staying out of sight, while glassing the opposite slopes. This was the last day of the trip. I was putting everything on red and decided to concentrate all efforts on one little area where we had seen a lot of moose, and the scene of our first close encounter (see “Your mother mated a donkey!”). Once I had climbed high enough, it didn’t take long to spot three moose in the aspens above the bottom meadow. It took a while longer to confirm that one was a bull; a small one, but a small bull tastes better than no bull.

The prevailing winds were doing their usual: swirl, switch, stop, and then gust, change direction, and then do it all over again. An approach from the bottom seemed ill-advised, so with a climb, a ridge walk and a short descent, I was across from the moose, about 200 yards away. The bull was small indeed, maybe on his second set of antlers, one of which he broke off, leaving a stub. With the above assessment about the taste of bulls in mind, I tried some cow calling. No reaction. Against better judgement I did some half-hearted raking, which made the little guy take off. So much for that plan.

But wait, there were still three moose in that cover. Must have missed one from afar. A medium-sized bull appeared, maybe 40″ in spread. Surely this one would be in for some sparring. More cow calling, more grunting and raking, trying to create a scene worthy of investigation. I don’t think he even blinked. I skirted the edges of various thickets to see if there was a way I could get closer. One hundred and eighty yards to their cover was about the best I could find.

That lone pine tree was not big enough to block the view of both the cow and bull moose that were bedded in the aspens behind, so I abandoned the idea of crawling closer along this route.

After picking up my pack that I had dropped on the first approach, ingestion of some food and water, and more fruitless calling sessions, and with this being the last day, I decided the situation required some courage on my part. The moose had bedded down, facing downhill (no approach), with the unpredictable wind mostly in their backs. The only way to get near was to cross the 180 yards of open hillside.

Two-step, glass, two-step, glass, move when the wind covers the noise, with their noses and ears out of the equation I only need to fool their eyes. When I started the stalk I couldn’t see any of the moose. About halfway through I spotted the cow. So I moved uphill, as I had seen the bull bed above her. About 50 yards from cover I spotted two moose: the bull another 50 yards into cover, and the calf in front of him but much closer to the edge.

After a lifetime of weighing options, I figured closer was the only way, keeping the trunks of two six-inch aspen trees between me and the bull’s eyes. I could see antlers sticking out left and right, but I could not see his eyes. Half an hour later I was 20 yards from cover, when the calf got up to feed. The stage was set, I couldn’t move now, so I settled in and hoped the bull would get up too at some point and feed the edges. A small chance, but a chance anyway.

Twenty yards from the cover where the bull was moving back and forth without presenting a shot.

Fast forward 90 minutes.  The calf had been within 30 yards but fed back into cover. The bull had been at 50 yards at best, but had now turned around and was feeding away. Six hours into this endeavour, I figured one more all-in gamble couldn’t hurt. I flattened out behind 6″ tall grass, and grunted. The bull stopped. Another grunt. He turned. This was going well! One more.

The bull was not buying it. He turned and walked away. A cow call then. He started trotting uphill! The cowardly bastard (or just a very smart bastard) was having nothing of it; he left his cow and her off-spring to face whatever was making those noises.

A little defeated but full of excitement of having spent so much time so close I hiked out, and drove back to camp to pack up. One more evening stalk around another ridge didn’t produce any moose, but a whitetail doe and her fawn dropped by to say hello as I was still hunting through the trees underneath the crest. They could just not figure out what I was. Wearing a plaid shirt for camo works.

The next day another snow storm pounded the hills. Prospects of finding a bull within longbow range are diminishing, as the rut winds down, but hopefully I can squeeze in a few more days before rifle season starts.

FD

More moose hunting (Part 1)

After our close encounter with the rutting moose, which honestly, had I possessed a little more experience, skill, confidence, and/or killer instinct would have resulted in a dead moose, meat on the table, and set of antlers too big to conveniently put on anywhere in my house, Kyle and I were eager to get going again. A record snowfall and work obligations kept us away till Thursday night. I managed to arrive with plenty light, finding the campground covered with wet, melting snow, the kind that gums up your tires (especially if you opted to put on the ones with less-aggressive tread, so you have a more cushioned drive on the roads). I paid for that desire for comfort instantly, as the truck slid off the gravel pad, into a foot of snow. Subsequent over-zealous application of the gas pedal, and city-driving skills got me out of the predicament, but not without ever so lightly clipping the little post that holds the camping permit, resulting in a busted tail light and bumper corner. I may have screamed and slammed some doors a little. There were no witnesses to that behaviour.

The first morning we glassed hard but could not find a bull moose. Early afternoon we tried a new property, a little further to the North, and a little higher. Reportedly teeming with moose. Perhaps it does; we never found out. After battling waist-deep snow for an hour, and not even having reached the ridge behind which said moose would be teeming, we decided that we really wanted no part of having to haul hundreds of pounds of meat that far.

Back at the Plan A area, we decided to explore the next valley over, and found it equally empty, until, closer to dark, one of my wailing cow moose calls was instantly answered by a grunt! Another wail, and we could see and hear a bull come down the other side of the valley, wasting no time doing so. Excited we got ready for an encounter, but instead of coming right into our trap, the bull appeared to hang up in the willows at the bottom. Emboldened by our success with using the rake-and-shake technique last week, we hit the surrounding bushes hard with the elk shoulder blade, and ended it all with resounding grunt. That did the trick! We could hear the bull smash bush as he approached the two-track mud slide  behind which we had set up (some would call it a trail, but that would be too much honour to bestow upon what melting snow, cow hoofs and tractor tires had made of it).

We raked some more ourselves, and after demolishing the foliage of one more willow bush, the bull emerged, looking for love and a fight. Unfortunately, as bulls do, he started to get down wind of us, and I tried to bring him around with one more wail. He froze in his tracks, 35-40 yard away, with his on-side leg stretched backwards, and slightly quartering to us. I had fingers on the string but could see a double-lung shot only if I managed to place the arrow ever so tightly behind the shoulder. A little left and I might miss the off-side lung, a little right and the arrow would have to deal with the shoulder. Since my set-up is probably on the lighter end of the spectrum for hunting moose, I declined the shot. The moose continued on his way, and never presented another opportunity.

In this video I am to the right of Kyle making the angle a little different. In retrospect, I stick with my decision to not shoot, but I think I should have either called at him later, with the intent to stop him and shoot, or, have Kyle create a ruckus with the shoulder blade, while I snuck off to my right trying to get an open shooting lane there. In which case the bull would probably have turned broadside on the road, with me not in position. What do you think? How could we have played this differently?

The next morning we went back to the same spot, and called for a bit, but no moose answered. Once we hiked over a ridge into another valley and started glassing, it didn’t take long before we saw a cow moose climb out of the bottom, followed by a fairly agitated bull. He shadowed her, cut her off, pressured her, leading to the odd distressed wail by the cow. They moved up and over rather quickly, and the one or two cow calls I produced got duly ignored.

A little later, a smaller bull appeared and seemed to be following the same invisible trail. With a nothing ventured nothing gained attitude I started sending the neediest cow calls across the valley that I could conjure up. The bull was probably half a mile away, but once the sounds reached him he stopped and turned. A few more calls and he hesitantly started moving down hill. Two more, and he was running! Not counting on this success, we had to run too, to reach some cover, once the bull’s line of sight was blocked by a stand of poplars. We set up with arrow nocked, shoulder blade at the ready, and hopes high.

The bull never revealed himself. We don’t know what happened, or where he went. In the afternoon we spotted one other hunter below us and a small bull that we tried to intercept, but his long legs propelled him much faster and with seemingly a lot less effort than our stubby legs could bring us to the edge of cover from where we’d hoped to call him in.

On Sunday we hunted another property, saw lots of moose sign, and found a cow and two calves bedded under some aspens. Once they noticed us, they looked at us for the longest time before moving off down into the timber. Unfortunately we found no  bull moose there. Kyle had to return to work in the morning, so he left after the evening’s hunt, allowing me all the living space in the tent, which I utilized by putting up a chair close to the heater, and reading Adam Shoalts’ latest book “Beyond the Trees” on his travels in Arctic Canada.

Read on: More moose hunting (Part 2)

“Your mother mated a donkey!”

After 12 years of accumulating priority points, I finally drew a bull moose tag in an area South of here, consisting of a mixture of private ranches, grazing leases and crown land. Here is the account of our first attempt outsmarting a moose.

 

Back from a short moose hunt. Kyle (whose trailer we were using) fell rather ill with a cold/flu, and he’d have more fun on his couch while his wife brought him cold beverages and cough syrup, than lying in his sleeping bag, wondering if I was finding any big bulls.

The first night, with Kyle still semi-spiffy, we saw a few moose, nothing particularly big (I’m not opposed to shooting a small one), and didn’t really have time to make a play on any of them. This is ranching country in the foothills. Rolling hills covered with mostly aspen and some evergreens, with willows in the bottoms, where oftentimes there is a trickle of water, augmented by beaver, or turned to mud by cattle. Elk, moose, mule deer and whitetail, coyotes, some bears, cougars inhabit these hills. You can spot animals a long way off at times,and light may not permit an approach that same day.

In the morning, we bumped a sizeable bull right before first light. Rookie mistake, and the bull acted like we were rookies too, only reluctantly leaving his favourite browsing bush. But the cow he was keeping company left, therefore so did he. I checked my watch: 9 min before legal. Would have been a hell of a trick shot with so little light.

We made two attempts to call in bulls with love songs. It didn’t work. After a quick dash to the trailer for coffee and lunch, we were back in business, this time headed towards a sizeable clump of willows across from a decent mixed aspen/pine grove, separated by a secluded little meadow, all situated above a little creek. A little piece of moose heaven.

A decent rain shower has doused us on the way in, and we were standing there dripping, wondering about where to set up to watch proceedings, when suddenly we heard a bull grunt, and not too far off either. With hoods over the ears, we had trouble locating the direction at first. Then I saw an antler flash above the willows, heard more grunts, and the breaking of branches. He came in with attitude and was not 100 yards away.

Caught with our pants down, even though all layers of pants were firmly belted up, we scrambled. I pulled the cover off the arrows, removed gloves, dug for my tab, grabbed an arrow; Kyle pulled the elk shoulder blade from the back of my pack. While I threw the first insults at the bull (“Your mother mated a donkey!”), Kyle started demolishing an innocent willow shrub.

The bull needed little encouragement. More ruckus emerged from the willows, grunting, thrashing, breaking. We needed more visibility, he’d be in our lap in ten seconds! As we moved, the noise moved too it seems, and I told the bull some more of my thoughts (“Your girlfriend would rather have sex with a skunk!”). We broke through to the meadow, peeked ahead, and there he was.

This was like the Jim Shockey hunting show, only much faster. We didn’t have time to retreat or move as he already had his eyes fixed on us and came in swaying his head, ready to dole out some painful lessons to whomever said those things about his mama and his fiancée. Within seconds he was level with our position. Thirty yards, perfect distance, still slightly quartering towards, I moved to start the draw.

As if stuck by lightning, the bull stopped, looked me in the eye, and whirled. No chance for a shot. How the hell? After a few quick strides the bull slowed down, and retreated in the the aspens across the meadow, 80 yards out. We tried a mixtures of calls, but he would no longer respond. Ever so slowly he withdrew until we no longer saw him. Later that night we saw him again, now in the company of two cows, followed by a young bull, which he regularly drove away.

Fast forward to then next morning. Kyle being a little feverish, I went out alone, and quickly spotted a decent bull at the bottom, feeding on a willow. He was unapproachable, but perhaps he would respond to calls. At first, once I had reached the edge of cover, I thought he had vanished, but not much later the moaning of a moose cow drew my attention to a scene of sexual harassment, in a clearing between to bright-yellow aspen groves.

Once the bull figured out that his lady was not going to give it up any time soon, everybody went back to feeding. With an attitude of “death or glory” I hurried back down valley, crossed the treeless bottom out of sight, hopped the creek amidst the willows, and cruised up the opposite slope until I was just about level with, but still 400 yards from the moose. A slow approach brought me 30 feet from the edge of the last trees, with the moose suspected to be feeding right around the corner.

“Right around” could be anything from a long longbow shot, to not-in-this-lifetime number of yards. So the plan was to challenge the bull from here, lure him past the last trees, which would give me a 15-35 yard shot. All doable.

“I have seen street dogs in the slumps of India that had fewer fleas than you!” I yelled at the bull, following by some semi-impressive whacks of the elk shoulder blade. He must have taken that personally because he screamed something back that I didn’t quite catch, and he took it out on an unsuspecting bush near him. “Barbara Streisand’s nose looks better than that of your lady!” More grunting and raking. He grunted, I grunted, I raked, he raked. Grunt, rake, grunt, rake, together we created quite the spectacle.

But it didn’t last. The wind had been iffy all morning, and I think a swirl must have reached his nose, or his girlfriend felt insulted and was leaving or he just got fed up with it. Clearly he didn’t feel the need to come investigate. I tried closing in while grunting, but it was over.

The snow started falling, mostly wet, and the weekend forecast was for many inches of the white stuff. On the way out I picked up an impressive shed. Finding Kyle looking even worse upon my return, we decided to retreat. I will be back in the fight this Wednesday.

Read on: More moose hunting (Part 1)

Opening Day Blues

In a rare contribution from Kyle Steed we can read about his opening day, chasing big (and small... any size really) mule deer bucks in Southern Alberta. I'm surprised he did not smash his bow into a fence post.

Seven years ago when I started drawing for mule deer I had no intentions of bow hunting, much less with a recurve. I’ve held this tag 3 times before and shot decent bucks and the zone has potential for some big deer, but to get a deer with my bow has become somewhat of an obsession lately and size doesn’t seem to matter now. Opening day was coming soon and Frans was going to be busy scouting for his moose tag, so I got a hold of my buddy Derick Heggie and he was more then happy to come along. He’s recently started in archery hunting as well with a compound and was bringing his bow along too, in case we happened across any does; you can buy a general archery doe tag in this zone.

The day started early at 6:00 and it took about 45 minutes to get to our hunting area. Arriving at first light we started hiking in and the first coulee was only a few hundred yards from the truck. Right away we spotted a nice 4 point buck still in velvet feeding away from us up the opposite side. We made a plan and I started to head over for a stalk. Things went well and the wind cooperated and I got to within about 25 yards. I could see the deer’s rack just below me and I crouched down in the tall grass.

Then wind shifted slightly and suddenly I could see the deer’s horns turn towards me. I sat still and after what seemed like eternity he slowly lowered his head, and I thought he started to feed. I raised up to try and get a better look but couldn’t see him. Suddenly a quick snort to my right and he was gone. He’d circled around and winded me. Oh well I thouhgt, plenty of day left. We continued hiking and uncharacteristic of this area the wind was now blowing out of the north, but the deer started to bed like usual as if the predominate west wind was blowing, making for some great stalking opportunities.

We spot a deer moving slowly near the bottom of a draw and we quickly hustle over to try and intercept. Somehow in the 30 seconds he completely disappears but Derick quickly finds two bucks bedded right below the top edge of a coulee. So I stalk again. With the wind blowing out of the north I can come right down on this deer. I walk in probably faster then I should have but it’s working. I follow Dericks hand signals and get lined up on the right hill. Slowly I start crawling closer to the edge. Right as I get there I see his horns, I range it and he’s 11 yards away! I can hardly believe it! I’ve never been able to stalk a deer this close before. I sit and wait. Problem is most 4 year olds have a longer attention span then I do and I can’t just sit here and wait for him.  [Edit FD: this is no lie] So I signal to Derrick to move over. Hoping that the deer will see him and stand up to look at him and give me a shot. Derick starts to move and after about 2 minutes the deer decides that’s close enough. He gets up and at the same I start to get up and draw. Just as I do my arrow falls off my rest and subsequently off my string! I can’t believe it, the deer suddenly sees me and whirls away before I can even gather my arrow. A perfect opportunity and I just made a rookie mistake.

I was so mad I fell over backwards and just laid there thinking that was my chance and I blew it. I eventually pull myself together and hike over to meet with Derick. He tries to be supportive saying things like if you shot a real bow instead of a recurve that probably would’ve been a dead deer. It’s hard not to agree with him. We eat a quick snack and take a break to evaluate where to go next as it’s getting close to mid day and heating up quick. We continue hiking south towards the top of the ridge and spot another couple bucks feeding on a side hill. We’re really exposed and there is no good way to get at them. We wait till they turn away and make a quick dash to get over unseen. It doesn’t work of course and they decide to leave. Derick once again somehow spots another deer bedded just below a ridge line and this is a big deer! I’m pretty excited and start making my way over. On the way I pinch the ends of my nock and make sure it clicks in tight on my string. The wind is perfect and I’m able to get right in on this deer again. This time I decide I’m gonna wait it out. Five minutes later I’m looking around for a rock to throw and think to myself, why not. I throw the rock and stand up and draw immediately. The deer stands at the same time and gives me a great quartering shot. I release my grip on the string and let the arrow fly.

A few things happen. My arrow doesn’t even go close to the intended target and my left hand is hurting. I look and my string has come almost completely off my limbs and pinned my hand to the riser. I pull my string of the limbs and can’t believe what’s happened. Last year at this same time Frans and I were bowhunting mulies in another area and my limbs had warped and did the same thing that just happened now, but I had sent them back and the bowyer had fixed them. And I had shot this limbs all spring and summer with no issues so I figured it probably somehow hit my bino harness and that’s what caused it to come off.

Of course I wasn’t anticipating any problems so I didn’t bring my stringer with me. So we hiked out and headed home. Once at home I strung the bow up and went outside to shoot. I would draw back then slowly let the tension off and watched the top of my limb. The string wasn’t coming down where it was supposed to and I was sure it was twisted. Only one way to tell so I drew back and let an arrow fly. String stayed on. Hmm ok maybe we’re good. I shoot 5 more and nothing. Great let’s go, string probably just hit my binos and that’s what caused it. We head back out and right away have another great stalk under 20 yards but no shot. Getting close to the end of the day and we’ve hiked just over 15km at this point so we decide to start making our way back. As we’re walking suddenly a badger pokes its head up less then 5 yards in front of us. I’d love to get a badger with my bow so I take a shot. Arrow misses and string is off again!! Crap I forgot to take my bino harness off and it happened again.

We start hiking again and now we spot a great buck a few hundred yards away feeding up the side of a hill. We quickly hike over to the adjacent hill and make a plan for an ambush. This time I drop my pack and bino harness and start heading over. I find myself quickly at the edge of the coulee in some sage brush no taller then about a foot and a half and that’s as far as I can go. So I sit and this time I really am going to wait. I’m waiting and starting to get worried because the wind is nearly blowing at my back and I’m worried I’ll get winded. But then a few minutes later I can hear him feeding just below me. I’m not sure how far so I wait for a signal from Derick. After a few minutes he gives me the signal to get up. I stand up slowly and see he’s facing away from me about 15 yards away! I’m standing at the ready waiting for him to turn. Slowly he turns and is still unaware that I’m there. I draw, and go through my shot sequence in my mind. I pick my spot and release. The arrow flies way off and there’s the all to familiar pain in my left hand again. The deer bounds off and this time I’m so mad I throw my bow on the ground. It wasn’t my bino harness, my limbs are twisted again. Derick comes over and we gather everything up and start the long walk back.

It is disappointing that there was an issue with the equipment but all we can talk about was how amazing that day was. We’ve never had so many stalks work out so perfectly. It gives us hope for the next time. When I got home that night I emailed my bowyer and he’s in the process of making new limbs. I have a spare set of 45# limbs I’ll use in the meantime. While I think that I could’ve killed any of those deer easily with the compound, I still have no desire to switch. I’ll master this trad bow game soon enough and can’t wait to have my hands on my first deer.

KS