The Promise of Tomorrow

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

My Bed

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling. Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention. There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”

When speaking to a young man of 14, one must choose his words wisely. Phrases like “We’ll try to go hunting this weekend” or “Let’s see if we can plan a day to hunt” are generally heard as promises. And promises to a young man, if broken, lead inevitably to shattered hope. Nothing is more heart-wrenching than throwing water on the fire of youthful enthusiasm.

When I told Ben that I would try to work my schedule to accommodate Youth Deer Weekend at camp, his tender heart heard “We’re going deer hunting this weekend!” I knew that my wife and I were obligated to attend a wedding that Saturday afternoon. Sunday was free, but with a late night of wedding partying Saturday night, Sunday would be difficult. So it was planned. Friday afternoon I would get out of work early and we would head up the class IV logging road to camp. The road to camp is a precarious one, designed to “keep out the riff-raff.” Our trucks roll over pumpkin-bashing rocks like a determined turtle.

Arriving at camp, we execute the opening duties like soldiers. Propane turned on, lamps lit, water heater fired up, stove pilots lights on, wood stove primed with birch bark kindling and stacked neatly in a cross hatch pattern with dry rock maple topped off with hot-burning hardack.

We watch the late autumn sun set from the deck. The trees are barren of leaves. The temperature in the mountains drops precipitously as the creek gurgles an aquatic lullaby.

Soon we are back in the one room camp enjoying the warmth of the fire. We run a checklist of necessities for the morning and wipe our guns down one last time, as if honoring our weapons, believing that they will shoot straighter tomorrow morning if given loving attention. I fall asleep in the recliner, feet in front of the stove.

When I awaken, Ben is already in his bunk. I throw another hardack log on the fire and shuffle across the green plywood floor to my bunk with the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I fall quickly into a state of unconscious nirvana.

I sleep better here in this rustic camp than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. Perhaps it’s the mountain air, or the gurgling stream outside the door, maybe it’s the wind whistling over the ridgepole, or the old green door with the crack in the middle. I‘m not sure really what it is about this place that brings such deep serenity to my soul, but suffice it to say that, above all other places I’ve been, it ranks as my sanctum sanctorum. My soul rests peacefully in the old cabin.

When the alarm rings, we both awaken, groaning at the morning that seems to have come too soon. We quickly realize that this morning there is reason to rejoice. We are going deer hunting.

After a hearty breakfast of steel cut oatmeal and slab bacon, french roast coffee and orange juice, we head out into the inky blackness.

The wind has stilled and the leaves are crunchy. We hike down the ravine and cross the trickling creek where a bear has eviscerated a tree trunk to expose tasty termites. Arriving at our chosen stand, we position ourselves at the base of an old beech tree. Our hopes are high.

We wait. A chickadee greets us at sunrise and sings a cheerful melody, leaving us both smiling.

Time passes. Ben fidgets. I tell him to pay attention.

There are a couple of gray squirrels making a racket down the hill to our left. A crow sounds his cacophonous alarm. “Keep your eyes peeled” I tell him. “There’s a reason for all that commotion.”

We can hear leaves rustling in the distance. They are the rhythmic footsteps of a quadruped, unlike the playful leaping of the gray squirrel. If you listen closely it is possible to discern the difference. “Get your gun up, buddy” I tell Ben.

Ben raises his .223 to rest on his right knee and pushes his cheek into the walnut stock. A full-bellied doe saunters up the path acting annoyed and looking back over her shoulder. “Let her walk” I whisper. “Why? Why don’t we just take what we have in front of us?” he replies.  Youthful enthusiasm reigns again but is met by my quick retort, “There’s a reason she’s annoyed. Just be patient”

Moments later a 6 point buck ambles into the clearing, head down. His head suddenly snaps up thrusting his nose into the air currents swirling around us. He is drawing deep breaths. He never takes his eyes off the doe 80 yards in front of him. The buck is pre-occupied with the scent of love. “Get ready Ben!” I say under my breath. The buck is now 50 yards in front of us.

Ben levels his grandfather’s rifle equipped with a 3-9x scope. “You’re gonna’ have to use the sights. He’s too close for the scope” I proffer. “When he steps out from behind that tree make sure that you’re on his vitals and don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you can hit him. Do you think you can take him cleanly?” Ben answers “I can. I promise.”

The rutting buck stops broadside to us, presenting himself for the shot. It is a moment like many in the annals of outdoor traditions. We are frozen in time. A boys’ first intimate encounter with a deer. A buck at that. Hearts pound and our breath is measured by the weight of the moment. This is what the Great Spirit promises us. The deep connection to an animal when we have the right to take a life and know that it is a part of our primal nature. You can get no closer to the soul of a deer than what we are experiencing right now.

Ben squints his left eye and slowly adds pressure to the trigger. The .223 barks and the big whitetail leaps forward and bounds down the hillside.

“Did I hit him?” Ben asks. “Do you think you did?” I ask.

“I don’t see how the heck I could miss something that close” Ben exclaims.

We walk quickly to the sight of the tracks where the buck dug in his powerful haunches before launching into his first bounding leap. “Any blood?” Ben asks. “I don’t see any do you?...look here’s a piece of hair!” Looks like there’s a small piece of hide attached to it….but no blood.” I say. “Looks like you might have grazed him.”

“I don’t get it! How could I miss something that close?” Ben says. His right eye is watery.

“It’s Okay Buddy. Sometimes our purpose is to just be there. Sometimes we bring home an animal and other times, we bring home a memory. You’ve just been blessed by a beautiful animal whose time is yet to come.…. That’s how it works. Did I ever tell you about my first buck? A 10 pointer that walked within 30’ of me?” I ask. “No. What happened?” Ben asks.  “I emptied my 30-30 on him and he walked away. It’s one of my favorite memories of my childhood hunts” “Buck fever?” asks Ben. “Yep” I reply. “We all get one pass, and today was his.”

We walk silently back to camp. When we arrive on the deck, Ben breaks the silence, “Can we come back tomorrow?” I inhale deeply and say “I guess so.” Ben jumps at the chance. “Promise?”

8 Point Dilemma

The morning began at 4:00am. The Big Ben alarm clock went off, shattering the rhythm of snoring men and restless dreams. Within minutes the percolator was bubbling with the dark, pungent aroma of French roast coffee. Gradually the smell of cob-smoked bacon took over the one room camp. Wood smoke blended with the leftover fragrance of Hoppe’s #9. A cold North wind blew through the crack in the old green door. An oil lamp was lit in the corner casting a golden glow over the gingham checked tablecloth and arcing in a great semi-circle on the ceiling. Grunts and groans were heard throughout the room as grown men pulled on their thermals and woolen socks. For some it meant bending over in bodies that had been worn thin by pursuing the American dream; others paid for their dream by late hours in the office and long road trips spending precious time away from loved ones. But now, it was being paid back. Five men huddled in a rustic camp in the deep north woods of Vermont, left alone to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Five men who are bonded by a love of the outdoors and the hope that one of us will take a nice buck.

The Old Green Door

The weather-beaten front door is pushed open but doesn’t seem to want to budge. Something is on the other side and it is heavy. Another shove and the door creaks open a couple of inches. A swirl of wind whips icy flakes of snow onto the floor. “Did it snow last night?” I ask. One of the other men, my father-in-law, Brian Hoyt, leans over the kitchen table and looks out the window. “Sweet Jeezus, did it snow! It’s gotta’ be two feet deep!” My heart jumps with joy. “The deer will be in the pines ridin’ this one out boys!”

I’ve always wanted to relive a hunt with my father when I was 15 years old when we drove all night through a blinding snowstorm to reach the deer camp where he’d gotten us invited and we got snowed in for days. I had the man I most admired all to myself. And now, here I am, surrounded by my best friends, Chris Thayer of Charlotte, Steve “Ozzie” Osborne of Williston, my father-in-law, Brian of Charlotte and my 80 year old father, Arthur Spencer.

 I walk over to the radio and turn on the weather channel. The crackling of the NOAA weatherman’s voice sounds as if he too was caught in a blizzard.



Eggs are sizzling in a cast iron pan and the warmth of the wood stove is over-powered only by the warmth of the camaraderie. I am overcome with serenity and joy.

Over breakfast we pull out the maps of the mountains around us and plan our day.

We have our own names for them. “Camp Milk Bottle”, “The Saddle”, Poop Hill”, “The Flats” and “The Pines.” We spent the summer planting small food plots that should now be mature and supplying the deer with attractive sustenance. Chris will head down the ravine, across the bear trail to his ladder stand, Ozzie will take the long hike up to Camp Milk Bottle, Brian will walk out to the cliffs above Poop Hill, my father, will guard the camp from bears and will be vaguely responsible for preparing lunch. Me, well, I think I’ll head down into The Pines and sit against the rock cliff  right off a well worn trail leading to the stream flowing through the center of The Pines.

Yes, it will be tough going this morning, plowing through 2 feet of new snow, but it will be quiet. The kind of quiet where all you can hear is your blood pumping past your ears. The kind of quiet that sharpens your senses and makes all things possible.

5am Breakfast

By 5:00 breakfast is over, the dishes have been placed in the sink to soak, and we are all pulling on our Johnson woolens and checking our radios. It would be impolite to share our radio names for each other in such a fine literary work as this so you’ll have to chuckle and know that they are nothing you would say in front of your Mama. 

We head out the door. Rifles in hand, backpacks loaded with keep-warm goodies. “See you back here at noon boys.  If one a’ you guys drops one, be sure to call us on the radio. Good luck!” I say and plow my way out into the deep snow. A white world of wonder envelops me and in minutes the camp has faded from my view, obscured by the falling snow. I am in the Green Mountains. And for all I know, this may as well be heaven.

I trudge down the drifted streambed that serves as a road once we’re past the flats. It takes me 45 minutes to make the trail that leads into the pines. It is nothing more than a canopied tunnel with pines that shoulder-press the heavy snow above their heads. I can sense the mighty struggle to hold the weight above the ground. Occasionally, I hear a loud snap and shudder at the sound of an old hemlock losing its branch. Other than that, it is pure, unadulterated silence. The kind that some city folk cannot stand because it echoes the loneliness in their souls. For those of us who live day to day with this connection to the earth, it is peace. I cross the gurgling brook being careful to place my rubber boots in the water and not on the slippery rocks that look like large white mushrooms poking out of the rushing water.

As I step onto the other side of the creek, I cut a set of tracks headed down into the heavy pine thicket. It’s been a few hours since this one passed. The snow is too deep to read whether it’s a buck or doe but the tracks are widespread and pointed outward, indicating that it might be a deep-chested brute. I slip quietly up the hill and push into the rock cliff overlooking the run that leads in to the pines. I sidle up to a young maple and shake the trunk to let the snow fall off the branches, which forms a neat fortress around the base of the trunk. I tuck myself behind the wall of snow and place my thermal seat against the tree. My backpack is placed in the drift beside me.

I can feel the sweat trickling down the channel of my back. This is going to cause problems later when my core temperature drops. Right now, it’s 28 degrees, but the wind is now coming out of the North and temperatures will dip this afternoon. I settle in and start hunting with my ears. It’s no use. It’s too quiet. I will have to constantly scan the trail below. I suppose it’s somewhat natural, but at times like these, my mind starts playing fantasies of monster bucks stepping out into a shooting lane and offering me some outrageously simple shot. It’s times like these that I find I can get lost in the dream and lose my focus. Like right now.

My left eye catches movement on the hillside behind me. I turn my head slowly, my neck gaiter grabbing my 3 day beard and tugging it. All I can see are horns. Dang it! He just walked through an opening between a short stubby pine and a sapling. And I missed the shot. I shoulder my Remington 30.06 and peer through my 3-9x scope. It’s fogged. I flip the lens covers up and re-shoulder my gun. I count the points. 2, 4, 6, 8. A nice wide symmetrical rack, not a basket rack like many of the bucks we’ve seen for years. I quickly see that I have a choice to make. He is standing behind an old 10’ long pine tree that has lost its needles and is lying on its side. The center of the trunk covers his vitals. His head and antlers stand tall over the top of the tree.

It’s a moral decision that many have told me “I’d have taken the shot” but I cannot. The vitals aren’t exposed. It’s only 50 yards and I have my index finger on the trigger and my middle finger hovering over the safety. It’s now or never.  The thought comes to me that he may wander further down the trail, behind the big boulder and emerge on the other side, following the trail, and give me a perfect shot broadside at about 75 yards if I let him walk. My heart is pounding and I can feel it in my ears and forehead. I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale quietly.

I wait. Did I make the wrong choice? 5 minutes pass. No buck emerges from behind the boulder. 10 minutes. Still no buck. What would I tell the guys? Should I say anything? I wrestle with my conscience.

To this day, when I tell the story, some don’t believe me, others do. But I ask everyone, “What would you have done?” It’s become a way of measuring a man’s conscience.

That nice 8 pointer is probably still wandering around those woods and one day we may meet again and things will have a different outcome. For now, my band of brothers at “Camp A” likes to needle me and pat me on the back, and say “You sure you really saw him or was that just one of your daydreams?”
 

Father Shooting Breakfast from the Deck



Second Opener

The south wind blows and the ridge pole of the rustic one room camp creaks above our heads. We are on the shores of mid-Lake Champlain. With the window slightly cracked we can hear the waves lapping against the rocky shoreline. Beyond the polished stones lies the bay, the outline of the islands with the Adirondacks looming in the dark background. Inside the cabin, a Vermont Castings Vigilant woodstove burns the last of the spirits of the beech that had fallen outside the west window last winter. Blue-green and orange flames tongue the remaining log, digesting its pulp in a flurry of whistling air. I am sitting in the old Kennedy rocking chair sipping my lapsang souchong  tea that reminds me of a childhood spent longing for moments like these. We are winding down after a dinner of roast duck, acorn squash and late-picked green beans from the garden. An empty bottle of hearty merlot stands on the table in the center of the dining area, a testament to a stroke of culinary genius. We revel in the silence of the crackling fire and the wind whistling around the old green door with a crack winnowing down the center. Tomorrow is the Opening Day of the second half of Duck Season on the lake.

 The dishes are done and I am showered and ready for the rack. In the corner of the room is my bunk, made of crude 2x4’s and plywood, with a mattress and an old Hudson’s Bay six pelt blanket, doubled over and neatly tucked into the slats beside the weathered hemlock paneling. The small oil lamp glows yellow in the corner over the dining room table, casting an arc of warm light on the ceiling. “I’m gonna’ hit the sack. Three AM comes early ya’ know” I declare.  Within minutes I am in the astral channel of unconsciousness and bliss.

The old Big Ben alarm clock rings loudly, interrupting my dreams of mallards flying perilously close to my blind. It is rude, but effective. There is no drifting back to sleep after the ear-shattering ring of Big Ben. I roll over, groaning, as my feet hit the cold plywood floor. I shuffle quickly over to the woodstove and throw another log on the searing embers. It quickly catches and within minutes the cast iron stove is radiating new warmth to the cabin.

Breakfast is underway and the smell of cob-smoked bacon permeates the room. Steel cut oatmeal is bubbling away on the back burner of the old gas stove. French roast coffee is popping in the tin percolator. We fill our bellies with the best breakfast of the year and pull on our camo gear.

We’re going light this year. The water is at an all-time low and the swamps won’t allow for full-size boats. So we opt for the canoe. The walk is a short one – maybe 100 yards. The south wind has switched around to the north and the sky has cleared into a starlit pre-dawn.

In the shadow of a waning crescent moon we pull the antique cedar planked Mansfield canoe up into the weeds of the swamp. The wild rice stalks rise seven feet above us as we step into the primordial ooze.  The vapors of decaying vegetation assault our noses with their putrid fragrance. Only a duck hunter can love these smells. We set out the hand carved cork deceivers in the middle of the channel that is choked with smartweed and sago. The decoys bob gently in the breeze, spinning from side to side as if they were real birds searching for seeds. We trudge back to the canoe and drape the tall sedge grasses over the gunwhales. Then we retreat into the pucker brush and saplings of the shoreline 20 yards away. Behind us, to the east the sky begins to brighten in dark purple and greens and the moon shadows fade over the slough in front of us.

Whistling wings can be heard constantly. Finally a loud “qwaaaack!”breaks the silence of the dawn and the south end of the swamp erupts in a flurry of beating wings. The swamp comes alive and we are surrounded by the sounds of air being flushed over the powerful pinions of duck wings.

Greenwing teal buzz the decoy spread. Big winged mallards vocalize their intent with raspy guttural calls. The whining “wooo-eeek” of wood ducks whistles throughout the riparian haven. I check my watch. 6:48 am. Two more minutes until legal shooting.

Birds are dive-bombing into the decoy spread and swimming around trying to determine why all these other ducks are not talking to them. Seconds later, they realize that they have been duped by the handsome cork imposters and depart with a loud squeal of disdain. The last two minutes feel like an hour. Finally a distant shot from far to the south alerts us that it is time.

We stand up behind our wall of grass and look down both sides of the channel. I whisper excitedly, “Incoming triple at 2:00” as three birds approach the spread. I give one raspy grunt on my drake whistle and the early migrators suddenly lock their wings and drop their feet, swinging from side to side as if they were small fighter jets looking for a landing on an aircraft carrier. At the same time we whisper to one another “mallards.” The two drakes and a hen begin to backpeddle, beating their strong wings in a forward motion and slowing them down directly over the center of the decoy spread. As their feet reach out to touch the water’s surface, I call the shot.

We rise in unison and our guns bark out their deep percussive tone. Two large drake mallards lay belly up in the water. Simultaneously, we notice that on the legs of both birds there are affixed two shiny aluminum bracelets. These are trophy birds. Ones that have been caught and banded by biologists. Ones that will have a history of where they were born, where they have migrated and where they have come to meet their final destiny.

We retrieve them with alacrity and once back in the blind, we admire the extraordinary iridescent sheen on their green heads, the perfectly symmetrical herringbone pattern of their flanks and their magnificent auburn breast peppered with white stars. The wing speculum is as if an artist had painted the perfect shade of deep blue on a bar and then outlined it in white. These are spirit birds. We drink in their beauty and praise their grace. These birds will be served to our families on the coldest, darkest nights of the winter, where we will regale our guests with the story of how they came to our prayers. As we revel in their beauty, we become aware that more birds are looking over the spread.

This time it’s a swarm of greenwing teal, late on their migration. Before either of us can speak, our guns are shouldered and we are swinging quickly through the flock from left to right. Our shotguns speak and 3 birds are down at the edge of the channel. I volunteer to take the short walk over to retrieve the birds and offer to you the lookout over the set-up. As I bend over to pick up the first of the teal, a handsome full plumage drake, I hear your gun bark yet again. Then your shout “Heads up!” I look skyward and helicoptering down from the heavens is a drake wood duck. It lands with a thud at my feet. “Holy Cow! Next time just tell me to hold out my hand so I don’t have to bend over again, OK?” I laughingly shout back.

I now have 4 birds in my hand and my Benelli is cradled in my right arm as I begin to cut my way back through the sedges.

Suddenly, one foot drops into a morass of mud. Water splashes up into my face. I drop the ducks and slowly tip forward swinging my gun in front of me so that the barrel is crossways to my quickly declining torso. I land on the gun, which distributes the weight of my considerable frame and keeps me from sinking deeper. I have found the only beaver hole in the entire north end of the marsh and managed to plunge into it up to my waist. I issue an appropriately placed expletive, as you hold your stomach and fold over, laughing at my predicament. I want to pound you but begin to laugh instead. Soon we are both guffawing and gasping for our next breath. I extricate myself from the blessed hole and pull myself to my feet, groaning, struggling and laughing at the same time.

When I arrive back at the blind, you are pointing at my face, near my chin, where I have detected a strange feeling, akin to one of those small suction cups used on children’s arrows when they are learning to shoot a bow. I set the birds down, lean my gun against my bag and reach for my chin, where I feel a strange, slimy, wriggling entity clinging for its life to my jowls. I pinch it and pull. With a popping sound I pull a leech off of my face and let loose another well deserved expletive. Again, you are laughing like a hyena, so I toss the creature at you. More expletives. Then more laughter. These are the shenanigans that bond duck hunters. We are re-living our youth in the eternal marsh of our dreams.

It takes several minutes to recover our senses and gradually let loose of the grinning idiocy of our unabashed childishness. We are young again, when suddenly we are jerked back into our intention by the low grunting of more mallards. This time a black duck is following a pack of greenheads and susies. They flare hard at the two fools laughing in the blind and clamor for altitude. I swing up and over the black duck as he rises and miss with my first shot. I quickly add more lead and drop him on the follow up shot. You have, once again, showed restraint, and chosen to pass on a hen. We high-five one another and, and once again, I am off retrieving at your command “Back!” “It’s non-stop comedy out here today!” I reply.

While I am picking up the black, you begin calling furiously. I crunch up into a ball in the weeds and turn my head over my shoulder to watch as you level your gun on two decoying mallards. Both birds drop just shy of the head of the spread, perfect clean kill shots. You shout to me “As long as you’re out there, would you mind?” and give me an “over” hand signal. If you weren’t my friend, I’d be sure to direct you right into that beaver hole on the way out. I retrieve your ducks and climb wearily back into the blind. “I am beat!” I proclaim. “Let’s head back for some lunch and we can finish the bag later this afternoon.”

You agree and we pack up the tools of our trade in the backwards order that we will set them out later. I offer to carry the decoy bag back across the boggy surface to shore, being careful of the placement of my feet. A subtle side step goes unnoticed. I hear the splash behind me and grin. “Watch out for that hole” I say calmly, turning around and offering a hand up. A final expletive is ushered from my friend’s lips. Such is the life of duck hunters, ever the pranksters, ever the child who refuses to grow up, ever the bon vivant.

Check out our Youtube channel!

http://www.youtube.com/user/sacredhunterorg?feature=mhee.

Co-exist with our brother, the wolf?

Powerful, unbiased reporting.

Wolf pack wisdom

Rituals

It’s one minute before the alarm goes off and I awaken suddenly. The LED light glows 3:59am. If I move quickly I can short-circuit the radio and leave my wife’s side without her awakening. Success! I roll out of bed and feel the cool Northwest breeze through my window, the curtain gently blowing in the breeze. The temperature has dropped 20 degrees during the night. It must be just above freezing. Thoughts of early migrating greenheads are quickly painted on the back of my brain. The pine floor boards creak as I sneak down the steps to the warmth of the Vermont Castings Vigilant woodstove, still emanating heat from last night’s fire. I smell the French roast coffee and shuffle toward the life-affirming liquid. I fill my quart thermos and set up a new pot for the Missus to go off when she wakes two hours later. My little black lab, Boo, thumps his tail against the bottom step and wiggles his haunches inquisitively wanting to know if we’re going out to play. I tell him “not today, little man. We’ll play fetch-it-up when I get back. Today is Remi’s turn.” My heart aches for him.

I slide into my shadow grass wader jacket and grab my favorite camo baseball hat and headlamp and open the door into the night air. I hear a small but tell-tale crunch of hoar frost under my boots as I walk to the truck. The boat was loaded the night before and is already attached to the hitch as it sits sheltered in the garage. Some people believe that garages are for cars, but here in Vermont, we know better. Garages are for decoys and boats. The truck fires quickly and I turn the driving lights on. I look in the rear view mirror and smile at the amber colored guide lights on the 3’ high trailer guides. Something about the yellow tinted lights on the top of the posts give me comfort. It’s an affirmation that the trailer is still attached to the truck (which if you’ve ever experienced the opposite scenario is a nightmare). I pull out of the garage with mere inches to spare on either side of the trailer.

We all have little rituals that bring us happiness. On clear starlit nights I tune my AM radio to 1170 and listen for one of the strongest signals in the country, WWVA from Weirton, West Virginia. My father used to listen to that station when I was much younger on all night drives to his birthplace in Grampian, PA, where he would take us deer hunting. I recapture some of the youthful exuberance for the hunt when I hear the crackling of real country music over the airwaves. Listening mostly to static, I drive to the access to meet my friend and duck hunting partner, John. I can trust that John will have stopped for the all important donuts that will sit in his boat on his special “left handed donut rack” affixed to the side of the cockpit of his Barnegat-style sneakboat. Good partners are hard to find. Ones that you can depend on to almost read your mind and anticipate what needs to be done in any situation. Ones that respect rituals as a form of adding depth and texture to the tapestry of experience. Ones who never forget the donuts.

Arriving at the access, John is already prepping his boat for the launch. His yellow lab, Remi, waddles toward me and wags his entire rear end as if to say “Hello, old friend! What a grand day today. Glad to see you’ll be joining us.” The wind is bowing the tops of the trees in the access area and John comments “Looks like we might have a few new birds come down on this stream.” “I hope so” I reply. Everything proceeds like a Swiss clock. Bow lines are attached, trailer lights are unplugged, transom plugs are double checked, decoys are loaded on the bow of the two boats and blind bags and provisions are stored in the cockpits. The waters around the launch are calm as the bay empties out to the South and the tree line shelters us from the blow.

Once on the water, the wind makes its presence known, as ripples quickly turn to whitecaps blowing frosty fingers off the stern. Staying just ahead of the troughs we angle toward the nearest silhouette of a land mass to the Southeast. Spotlights cut through the night. The old Honda four stroke whines in a mellifluous melody as she propels us toward the far shore. John’s boat is running alongside mine in an even tempo, bucking the front of the waves with the bow smacking down on the backside of the troughs.

 Turning East at the mouth of the small confluence of streams we navigate past the singular mooring that stays in the channel year round. We head up the center of the channel. The water is low this year. It’s about 1’ lower than normal and the wild rice towers over the mudded shoreline of the creek. We bear left at the first fork and head through the first pool, flushing a flock of Canadas roosted on the protected oxbow. Loud “her-onks” surround us and dark wings beat powerful pinions just a few feet over our heads. I feel badly that we have disturbed them from their utopian slumber. At the next bend we cut our motors and begin to push-pole our way around the final bend to “our” pool. It’s not really “ours”, but we have installed our aqua-tecture in that location every year for the last eight years. It is a conglomeration of salvaged lumber and cedar posts, surrounded by cut cattails, with a bench, dog ramp, platform and shell rack.

Thirty yards out into the dark pool we set our spread of deceivers, blacks to the left and mallards to the right, woodies in front of the blind and greenwings off in their own little slack water. It’s all thought out beforehand. Decoy placement is paramount to our belief that birds will funnel to their own if given the chance. The standard “crescent moon” shape is employed to pull the low-strafing marauders toward the blind where the quiver magnets add motion in front of the blind. The spinning wings – if they are used at all – are set at the outskirts of the spread and are actually used to flare the birds toward us. These rituals are built on years of shared experiences and every piece of the puzzle has a reason for its being placed where it is serving a higher purpose.

We stash the camo’ed boats behind the blind and climb up the ladder into our hide. Covers are placed over the top to create shooting ports. Remi is sent to “his place” and takes a stand on the platform, head whirling from side to side as birds are passing in the dark in a parade of wings. There is still twenty minutes before legal. We sit down on the big bench made of a 2” slab of maple with bark still on the sides and pour ourselves another cup of coffee with maple syrup to sweeten it – the New England way. Slowly the last few minutes tick away and we are finishing our leisurely cup of joe. At 6:30 we stand for the last two minutes before legal shooting and as I stand up, I am smacked in the side of the face with something that takes my baseball cap right off of my head. “What the Heck!?” A squadron of low-flying teal has passed directly over the blind one of them tipping his rudder a bit too low and his port wing buffeted me in the cheek. “Holy cow! Did you see that John?! That little jet pilot just put the smack down on me!” John replies “This is war! Let’s see if we can shoot our way out of this mess!”

The next soiree’ of jet fighters comes in low and from the right, sweeping over our spread at Mach 2. Without time to speak, we both raise our guns and quickly swing through the flock leading our birds by several feet. The guns bark simultaneously and two birds fall in the blocks, one belly up and kicking wildly, the other stone dead. Remi leaps off of the ramp and hits the water at a full gallop. He marks both birds and retrieves them with a methodical style representative of his wisdom gained through the last eight years of hunting. Both birds are delivered to hand and he is offered a sugar coated warm cider donut as a reward. Remi looks at the offering, quickly consumes it and goes back to his stand as if to say “thanks, but this is my job.”

As we congratulate each other on a good shot, John smiles at the dog work. It is a known fact that when birds see humans congratulating each other that they are not paying attention to their surroundings and they know that they can safely, slowly fly overhead and let out a belly-rolling “QWAAAAK!” and be in no danger. And so it goes with this chapter. John and I are snapped back into the present by the derision leveled on our egos from the big greenhead. We reach for our guns and laugh, realizing that the wily old greenhead has bested us again.

We settle in to non-stop duck-seeking mode. Our eyes scan the horizons in a full panorama of possibilities. After five minutes of this intense focus on making birds appear, John breaks the silence with a gradually growing grin. I ask “What?” He looks down at the two greenwings on the bench. One is banded. He speaks with his best sarcastic tone “Well, I’ll be! My bird’s got a band.” I know I’m being baited. As I’m trying to think of a smart reply, I see movement behind his head.

Coming through the trees is a lone drake woodie. Before I can speak a word I shoulder my gun, lead the handsomely crowned drake from right to left over the spread and drop him as if I’d done this shot every day for the last year. The beautifully plumed bird drops into the decoys and goes belly up. I immediately notice the silver band on his leg and reply to John, “Well there’s no question who shot that one.” I grin from ear to ear. “You’re up” I calmly retort. John chuckles “well done Carleton!”

 A strong breeze whips over the golden arches of swamp maples and blows a fresh cover of wafting leaves into the pool. At the far end of the swamp, a gun is fired and a flock of big birds lifts from the tree line. They are bee-lining their way down the distant stream and then, in a group decision, execute a sharp right hand turn into our channel. They are low and fleeing from the danger. Right at us. Dead on incoming. We hunch down behind the front wall of our fortress of cattails. Without speaking, we both rise at the same moment. Our guns trace the rising mallards. John shoots twice as do I. Three birds drop into the high grass behind us and one, a drake, helicopters hopelessly toward us. Before I can speak, I gently nudge John toward the far side of the blind. He is busy marking his birds and turns to me and looks at me like I’m being rude, when suddenly the mallard drops to the floor right where he had been standing. “Sorry about that. I hope you understand why I pushed you aside.” I pick up the bird and place it on the bench. John is busy giving hand signals to Remi to his furthest bird. Remi takes the directions as if he was being given GPS coordinates and locates the downed mallard at the exact spot that his boss told him to seek it out. He retrieves the drake to hand, delivering it stylishly and with a proud half grin on his canine mug.

 

Over the next hour, we manage to squeak out a limit apiece of blacks, mallards and teal, and one stunning late-migrating drake bluewing taken on a straight up shot, similar to the one we practice on at the club known as the “springing teal.” He had been peeping in the tall grass behind the blind all morning but never got up when we shot, apparently too busy feeding to recognize that the loud guns of autumn were just past his immediate scope of vision. John shot him at a moment when I was trying to “look some ducks in” from the bay’s narrow mouth at the end of the swamp.

 For those of you who are not aware of the “looking in some ducks” technique you may want to experiment with it. It’s really quite simple. I stole it from my favorite author, Gordon McQuarrie, who explains that it is the art of staring a hole on the horizon until birds occupy that space and then luring them in through sheer will power. At least that’s the ritual we use when all else fails.

We pick up the decoys, noticing the slight stinging sensation of cold water on our ungloved hands. It’s something like mild sado-masochism that emphasizes the disparity between the comforts of a civilized lifestyle and the ruggedness of the true outdoors.

We bag the decoys by species, saving a special “early season bag” for the woodies and teal. Mallards in their own bag and blacks in the custom floating bag. Spinners in their allotted spot under the gunwhales of the boats and loaded bags on the bow, strapped down with bungee cords scavenged from roadsides around the county. I’ve been known to slam on my brakes without any warning and skid into the shoulder of any road to pick up an errant bungee cord sprung loose from some unwitting traveler.

Riding across the bay, side by side in our sneakboats, the sun glinting off of the rippling water and throwing sparkling white spray out from beneath the hulls, I feel a deep sense of belonging to this fraternity of watermen. My deepest inner Paleolithic energy is engaged. I am the earth, the water, the sky. I am the hunter I was meant to be. I light a pipe, sheltering the fire from my lighter by turning my back from the breeze stinging my face. It’s a ritual, much like many of the things I prize in life.

Bradley Carleton is the founder of and Executive Director of www.sacredhunter.org , a non-profit organization devoted to exploring the spiritual connection of man to nature through hunting, fishing and foraging. Sacred Hunter is also the fund-raising arm of Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org, www.traditionsoutdoormetnoring.org, which teaches at-risk youth respect and empathy through bi-monthly hunting and fishing expeditions.

Opening Day Dreams

I had just fallen asleep and was dreaming of cupped Canadas on their final approach when the alarm turned on to the country radio station. The red LCD readout was blinking 4:00am. It had been a long, fitful night of sleep, tossing and turning. My mind had been racing about the potential problems that we might encounter the following morning. Would we be beat to the field? Would the wind come in from the wrong direction? Would the flock that had been feeding n the hayfield the evening before choose the next field over tomorrow? Were my reeds clean? Did I wax the reed channel after my last practice session in the truck? And now it was time to wake up. The aroma of French roast coffee from downstairs wafted into the room. Fromm beneath the comforter I could feel the cool night air gently blowing in through the North window of the bedroom, The curtains waved in the breeze. I was suddenly invigorated when I could smell the lake on the wind. The fragrance of summer’s weeds dying back and the pungent aroma of leaves decaying brought me inspiration. My feet touched the wooden floor and I was no longer groggy.

Downstairs I turned on the weather radio to listen to the NOAA forecast update. The lake level was at one of its historical lows and the long hot summer had held little precipitation for the wheat, barley or oat fields. Farmers were just getting around to their second cut. Wind was going tobe out of the Northwest at around 5-10 knots. The birds in my dreams just a few hours ago would be coming off the roost to the South and over the woodline from the Southeast of the field.

I had scouted the field the evening before and secured permission by calling the new owner at his South Florida home. He had told me to check with the guy who “normally hunted it” and I did. He was out of town, which, according to the owner, “if he wasn’t planning on hunting it…it’s all yours!”

By 4:30 the thermos had been filled and the donuts packed in the field bag along with 2 boxes of 12 gauge 3 ½” BB’s, the custom goose call from Dead Creek Calls, my handsome leather duckstrap, headlamp, choke tube box, face mask, and camo skin gloves. The layout blinds had been grassed the night before with winter wheat colored raffia attached to their stubble straps. The fullbody decoys with the flocked heads and the motion decoys and flags we already strapped into the bag of the truck. The boys would be here any minute. My black lab, Boo, whined, knowing that something wonderful was afoot. I let him out into the clear night to air out. He held his head high to and we both took a deep breath of the night air with its glorious fragrances. The cicadas were still singing in the willow tree on the North side of the house. Lights flashed over the hill and the first truck pulled into the driveway.

It was my old benevolent buddy who tolerated all my idiosyncracies and was ALWAYS on time, John Lesher. “Morning” we both muttered. “Looks like the wind is setting up right” he said. “Yep, as long as it doesn’t pick up to much and carry them to that next field” I replied. Another vehicle came from the North end of the driveway and spun in. It was my other faithful, but frequently late comrade, Chris Thayer. He was on time today. We reconnoitered there in the driveway and agreed that it all looked good. “Follow my truck, John, and make sure nothing blows out of it, OK?” “Affirmative” was the reply.

Next stop. Pick up our youngest and most enthusiastic shooter for the day, Sterling Pelsue, of Vergennes. We met him at the Mobil Short Stop and quickly stowed gear into my big white truck I call “Snow Goose”. Then off to the field.

Arriving at the hay field, we turned in through the small tractor opening and drove through the crunchy fresh cut hay to the mound in the center. Setting out the decoys with me, my crew has to accept that I am a bit of a control freak. I run the show like a general with obsessive compulsive disorder. Everything must be just so. Sometimes my troops chide me about it, but if it fails I am the first to admit I was mistaken. On this first day, no one challenged me. I walked up and down the center of the field trying to locate where most of the goose poop was concentrated, then after locating the “X”, I said, out loud “This is where the blinds will go.” We set the spread out in the dark, pacing up and down the mound, our headlamps casting strange funnels of light in the pre-dawn darkness. Two pods of 20 fullbodies shaped like cigars stretching out at 30 degree angles from the blinds, creating a landing zone in front of the blinds facing South. “God, I hope this works” I said to anyone who might still be listening. It was now 5:30.

“Alright boys, let’s go back to bed! Get in those blinds and cover up!” Minutes seemed like hours. I closed my eyes and dreamed of the majestic gray and black bombers dropping in to the spread. Feet down, cupped and committed. My heart raced with hopes for a good shoot. I always feel obligated to the guys I hunt with because they put so much faith in my ability to put them in the right spot at the right time. I took a deep breath and prayed for some sign that we were doing the right thing in the right place. I had just about fallen asleep in the comfort of the blind when it began.

A lone honk was heard in the distance from the South. No one said a word. Our hopes were obvious.

The sun had crept up over the mountain and hung lazily in the early morning clouds. A series of  her-onks came from behind us. It was two birds, “the scouts” checking for the field. They swung over slowly at about 45 yards up. “Let ‘em go” I commanded. “We don’t want to shoot the scouts. Let ‘em go back and tell the others that the coast is clear.” They flew back over the tree line and announced their news to the flock in the bay.

Five minutes passed. Nothing. Then I turned to my right to scrutinize the tree line. In between the tall maples and ash I saw the flash of black wings. I strained to see more clearly. Then, like the flock of flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz, there they were. Topping the trees by mere feet a wave of 50 birds were quietly pumping their way toward us.

“Get down!” I said forcefully “Flag ‘em Thayer”…Chris gave them 3 flaps with the flag. A long her-onk came back to him from the lead bird. “Let’s not talk to them unless they start talking”. They circled once to the North behind us and then set up, black feet began dropping and the large majestic Canadas began chattering. “Hit ‘em with the feeding murmur” I said. The team broke out in low-pitched grunts, growls and groans as if the flock on the ground was feeling territorial about their feeding spot. That did it. The birds turned, locked their mighty pinions and craned their necks looking for a place to set down. They were aiming right for the “X”.

As they began to backpeddle, I hesitated for a moment, lost in reverence. John asked “are you gonna’ call the shot?” “Yes…. Take ‘Em!” I shouted, just as the first bird touched down. Everyone cut loose at once and the valley echoed powerfully with the reverberating sounds of autumn.

Chris, Sterling & John - Opener