Sorry for not writing

I've been busy touring. More info coming soon.

Opening Day!!

Opening Day!!!
It's here! Finally! Can you tell I'm excited for opening day? I'm not so excited about getting up at 5AM but it's for a good cause. :-) So I've got my trusty thermos and new Savage 308. I've made my way through the dark woods to my blind without injury. And now a detailed report of opening day.

Hour 1
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
Can't wait to see my first deer
Hour 2
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
This is great I can sit back and relax, no phone, nobody to bother me
Hour 3
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
Was that a deer? Oh, just a squirrel
Hour 4
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
With all this shooting I'm sure to see a deer soon
Hour 5
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
Oh it's lunch time already. Alright time to go eat.
Hour 6
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
Back from a good lunch, now would be a good time to see that deer
Hour 7
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
This squirrel is starting to annoy me. I've put it in my sights a few times now.
Hour 8
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
I really wish my wife or kids were here to bother me. I'm sooooooo bored
Hour 9
Sitting in blind listening and looking
Lots of shooting in the distance
With all this shooting all around me you would think I would have seen a deer by now! Come on, they ate all the bate for the last couple weeks. The sun is going down soon, come here so I can shoot you! And that stupid squirrel better quit ruffling the leaves!

And that pretty much how my day went. How do hunters sit there all day just looking and listening? It's boring to the point of being painful. I don't like to read but I would have given anything to sit there and read a book while I wait for the deer. The only thing keeping me going is the anticipation of seeing a deer.

Fortunately I didn't take the week in between the weekends off so my pain was cut short. Each day was the same. It turns out that even though I could hear a lot of shooting a lot of it was in the distance and most people hunting around our land had the same result. I'm so disappointed, I didn't even get the chance to miss a deer. Out come the excuses, it wasn't cold enough, all the deer are on the farmers land by the corn during the day, etc.... A lot of people told me the deer weren't active because it was so warm out. Something about them not needing to go far to find food. I guess that could be the case but I'm still disappointed.

The Little Things

It’s kinda early for me to be writing stuff, but it’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and I’m not in the field for a change. The coffee is good, there’s a blue jay screeching outside my window, and the ground is wet from a recent rain… this would be a good morning to be out chasing hogs. But I’m not, and that makes me a little introspective… so maybe that’s what got my keyboard fired up.
Whatever it is, I was reading a travel article and it struck me how much detail the writer captures along the way. It’s like she’s seeing so much more than the big things…noting such minutiae as a playground, Christmas yard decorations, and an indian casino along the way. At the end of the article I found that I really felt like I’d just taken the trip with her, instead of just reading another tourist highlights brochure.
OK, where am I going here, right? Let me get another cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you.
Details. Noticing the little things. I think this can make all the difference in any experience, whether it’s a vacation trip or a hunting trip. I know it makes a difference to me.
I think that a lot of times we get too caught up in the destination and forget to get the most out of the journey. (I know, that’s just about as cliche as anything I’ll ever write, but it suits the moment so bear with me.) I’ve seen so many hunters come out to a spot, spend two or three days in earnest pursuit of whatever game they’re after, and totally miss out on the wonder of the place they’re in.
For example, at Tejon Ranch, one of the most beautiful pieces of ground in California (and there are plenty), I know of hog hunters who arrive, pitch camp, and head out to shoot a hog. Later, when I talk to them about the expansive wildflowers due to a late rain, or the way the wind moves the tall grass in waves like a green ocean, I generally get blank looks. “There were flowers?”

These same folks get their hog early, then pack up and drive away.
There’s not necessarily anything wrong or wicked about this type of hunter. It doesn’t automatically make them lesser or make me better. It’s just different, and it’s a difference I can’t completely comprehend.
It’s the little things that make the hunt for me… things that you notice, if you try, like a juvenile woodpecker hiding in the grass…

Or an antler shed from a trophy buck or bull…

I think about my last trip to Colorado, elk hunting with my brother. It was his first elk hunt, and only my second, and we were both keen to get on the animals. But even so, I recall walking in on the trail in the pre-dawn darkness and both of us commented together on the beauty of the moonlight in the aspens (in manly, masculine terms, of course). I also remember the smells; woodsmoke on a snowy evening, the duff of the forest floor under the dark timber, the Christmas-scent of spruces, the musky scent of an elk bed.
All of these sensations and images combined to make that experience what it was. Sure, we both killed our bulls, but without all of those other things that we saw, felt, smelled and heard, it would have been a fairly empty memory.
I think that’s why I’m always amused by the folks who can’t understand what I get out of hunting when I come home so often empty-handed. “Why do you keep going if you never get anything,” they ask?
It’s because the meat fufills my body, and I can get that at the store. But the experience fulfills my heart and soul, and there’s only one place I can get that kind of sustenance… in the wild.

My latest expedition

It was probably the coldest morning I have ever witnessed in many years when there wasn’t snow on the ground. I had watched the weather forecast on our little black and white television perched high on top the bookcase my father had built on one wall of the living room. Where I grew up in the country, we were fortunate to have a television as we were frightfully poor but unfortunate in that only on good weather days could we view one station.

The forecast delivered the night before by George Oulette on the local WMTW-TV 8, whose antennas roosted on top of Mt. Arkansas, called for temps to fall into the single numbers. I knew when I opened my eyes around 4:00 a.m. it was cold. My eyes instantly watered as I lay in my bed not wanting to get up.

Dad was rustling out in the kitchen, probably cooking up some bacon and eggs. I was waiting for the smell to further stir me to life but dreading how my body was going to feel hitting a frigid bare wood floor next to my bed.

Once I dressed and got into the kitchen, Dad was busy with the bacon and sipping on some coffee. I hated the taste of coffee but pleasured in the aromas. How could something so aromatic taste so repulsive? Acquired taste they say?

The inside of our small uninsulated house was cold. I glanced at a small thermometer that was part of a trophy my father had won in his younger days as a ski jumper. He was one of the best in America in his prime. The thermometer read 58 degrees. We were poor. We had a small tin wood stove in one corner of the living room and a oil-fired floor furnace in the middle of the house. At $.35 a gallon for kerosene we would have to put on an extra sweater or jacket. Firewood was limited and it would be needed for the long winter ahead. After all, it was only November 21. It’s not supposed to be this cold.

I used the heel of my hand to melt the frost and ice from the corner of the window pane so I could read the outdoor thermometer. I asked Dad if the dreaded thing was broken. “Nope! It’s 3 degrees!”

I was 16 and had been hunting since I was around 8. My Dad let me carry a .22 single shot Remington rifle the fall after I had turned 10. That was the law. Back then, .22 caliber guns could still be used for deer hunting. It’s too bad they aren’t required for hunting today. Things would be different. I learned that if I couldn’t place a killing shot, I was not to pull the trigger. I didn’t. I never shot a deer with that .22, not from a lack of trying, by I watched my father once when I was 8 take down a monster buck with one shot. I was stumbling along behind him, making tons of noise I imagine, when I was interrupted by the crack of the rifle. The results amazed me. Still do today.

Even though at 16 I had taken 5 deer prior, I don’t think I had a real passion to hunt. I did it because I had to. It was needed. Without the meat, we would go hungry. It was just a part of life. As I got older and things became such that I wouldn’t starve without deer meat, I looked at hunting differently. I wanted to hunt and I still enjoyed the meals.

I was up at 4 a.m. because I had to be and there was no complaining. My Dad was intolerant of complaining and any muttering of such resulted in a menacing glare from his deep set blue eyes.

We finished breakfast, gathered our gear and headed outside. The rude air greeted my warm face and it stung sharply. Instantly my nose began to run and my eyes water. They were trying to tell me I was a fool, that I should retreat to the warmth, such as it was, of my house. I knew I couldn’t do that.

Everything was stark white. The lawn was crisp with crystals of frost thicker than I’d ever seen before. I couldn’t resist the curiosity so I stepped into the frozen grass. It was like coarse steel wool. At first I thought the grass would snap like a pretzel but it proved stronger than that. It crunched loudly in the morning air.

Dad was a man of few words. He let his expressions and body language speak for him. I couldn’t speak this foreign language but I understood it when it was spoken. He pointed toward the woods to the north side of the house and in that direction I walked. When we reached the edge of the woods he stopped and spoke.

His plan, simple and direct, was to hunt toward the river. He wanted that buck that had been roaming the area the last couple years. We split up.

Once I left the crunchy grass, I was startled by the overpowering sounds we made by stepping into the leaves at the forest floor. Much of the area we were going to hunt was oaks. Oak leaves are big and with this cold and frost, they did break when you stepped on them. The air was so quiet and the forest deafeningly still, every step was louder than the crack of a high powered rifle. How could we hunt in this?

The .22 Remington single shot stood in the corner of the living room wall. I had gotten a 12-gauge single shot shotgun from my uncle. He was scared of it. Not because it kicked but because it fell apart on him one time. It was a relic. It was made by Montgomery Ward and had been used hard and by the looks of it, abused as well.

The front stock was loose, so my Dad used some friction tape and wrapped it around the stock and barrel a couple time to hold it in place. The butt end of the gun had a big crack in it and was already being held together with more tape. There was no front bead for a site and the rear groove was worn considerably but I felt more comfortable with it than the .22.

In my pocket I carried my ammo. It was an assortment of shells we had collected over time. I’m not sure how old any of it was. I knew one slug I was carrying was relatively new because it had a plastic casing. All the others were paper. I had a total of 6 shells. One was a slug. Three were buckshot - one 0-buck and two 00-buck and two bird shot, number 6 I think. I had the 0-buck in the gun.

I crunched along slowly. Whenever I stopped, I could hear my father taking a couple of steps and stopping. I tried to mirror his movements only because I didn’t want him to hear me.

The cold was bitter. It made me angry. I couldn’t find comfort. I had to move so slowly to limit the noise, it kept me from getting more blood circulating to warm my body. My hands were numb and my fingertips burning. The bottoms of my feet ached through the gum rubber boots we had burned another patch onto the night before.

I took comfort in rationalizing that if I was so noisy walking in the woods, surely a deer would be too. Was I wrong! Somethings go unexplained and this morning was no exception. I had stopped as part of my stalking routine and to listen for Dad. I could still hear him but it was clear he was moving further away from me. I glanced down at the leaves checking for any signs. When I looked back up, standing only 30 yards from me was the buck my Dad was looking for. Where in the world did he come from? I hadn’t heard a sound.

I cocked the hammer as I slowly brought the shotgun to my shoulder. He stood looking at me. I guess he was just as surprised as me. The explosion from the shot gun awakened the world. My ears rang loudly. For a moment I could hear flakes of frost falling from the tree branches landing in the leaves around me. I rudely had disturbed the silence of the moment.

Once the shock of the moment began to wane, I realized the buck had run off. Listening for crunching, I heard nothing. I went to the spot where the deer had stood and found his tracks in the heavy frosted leaves but there was no blood. Instantly I recalled what my father had told me when he handed me the buckshot to use. “I have used these before. They work pretty good but I have found that when you hit a deer it won’t bleed much, if any.”

There was hope. Just because I could find no blood didn’t mean I didn’t hit it. I waited for several minutes assuming Dad would be along. He didn’t show, so I followed the track. In places it was easy to see where he had run. The leaves were turned over. When he ran into black growth, it was nearly impossible to follow.

I tracked him for about a half hour and still found no blood trail at all. Now I began to question everything, arguing with myself, fighting back and forth. My confidence was dwindling.

I continued tracking as best I could. Eventually the buck slowed to a walk. It become more difficult to follow. My Dad now arrived and we worked together tracking. After what seemed like hours, I finally found a speck of blood about the size of the eraser on a pencil. These drops showed up about every 20 feet or so.

We were about to call it quits until after dinner. My Dad suggested that I stay on the trail and he would make one circle around and up ahead to see if he could cut him off. Within minutes I heard my Dad yell. I walked up to him and there lay my prize.

Hunting on private property

These days finding public lands to hunt is getting harder than ever but with the right persistence and attitude anyone wanting to go hunting can find some place to hunt. Alot of times all you need is to know one good farmer or rancher that is willing to take a chance that his livestock,fences and property will be protected by you and your in for the long haul of a lifetime. There's alot of public property out there that the government owns that one can hunt but for my preference I choose to hunt property owned by farmers who know what hunting is all about. Don't just go out a couple of weeks before hunting season and expect to find that one great far to hunt or expect that the farmer will even allow you to hunt his farm on such short notice cause most of the time the farmer has already got someone hunting his property or may not even know you. The best thing to do is start early in the year looking for a farm then when you spot the one you would like to hunt go up talk to the owner, explain who you are,where you live, who your parents are, and what your intentions are as far as hunting his farm, protecting his livestock, helping around the farm in anyway possible such as mending fences,helping vaccinate his livestock, hauling hay,cleaning out barn stables or clearing fence rows around the farm for the privilege to hunt the following season. Many of the farmers today have seen what alot of the unethical hunters of our society do to farm property either by first hand experience or by word of mouth and that's the biggest reason it's so hard to find a good farm to hunt these days. With so many farms across this land of ours we need to help our neighbor farmers out as much as we can to help them keep the farmland their fighting so desperately to hold on too. Alittle work never hurt anyone and who knows the farmland you work on may produce a state record or maybe even a world record buck. The main thing to remember is that everyone needs help at sometime in their life and especially as we all grow older. Even if the farmer doesn't allow you to hunt at least offer to give him your help from time to time and maybe one day he'll finally come to see that your not a bad person like every other hunter he's heard about and decide to let you hunt his farm. If not then at least you've made one more friend in your little town of many for future references and believe me word will get out of your hard labor on his farm. Public land is a valuable thing and sometimes can be hard to come by when it comes to hunting the property but there's plenty of farms and ranches out there that can be hunted if you use the right approach with the land owner and keep a code of ethics about yourself when on one of these farms or ranches. I just got 800 acres to hunt through a friend of mine but I still want to talk to the land owner before doing any scouting or hunting on the property mainly to let the owner know who I am, what I look like, what dates I can hunt, and if I can help out around his farm in anyway. This farm has produced some really nice bucks and hopefully with a little pre-season scouting I'll be able to take one for myself as well.

New Gator Hunting Season in ARKANSAS

Hillbillies and gators are just two images I don’t see going together. Apparently, though, the hillbillies are firing up the truck and loading the guns because they may be going gator hunting. That’s right, it seems my very own Arkansas is considering having their first alligator season in history.

Now, I hope none of my readers here in Arkansas take offense as I’m just joking around about the hillbilly part. It was too good to resist. If it makes anyone feel any better, I openly call myself a Redneck all the time.


Seriously, though, I can see a gator season in at least the southern portion of Arkansas, considering it’s right above Louisiana. It only makes sense that there would be gators in that area, but it is surprising to me that there would be enough to actually open a season for them. I guess forty tags issued for a season held over two weekends doesn’t necessarily imply a lot of gators though.

I’ve hunted in Arkansas quite a bit, from coon hunting to deer hunting and even bear hunting, but was never far enough south to have to worry about gators. The possibility of a gator season sets up an interesting diversity of game animals to hunt in the state, though. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of where you can hunt gators and black bear in a state that is so close to the heartland of the United States.

It’ll be interesting to see if it actually comes to be.

The inner city youth

I highly recommend this article to everyone, including non-hunters and anti-hunters. This article, if not the solution to youth violence and disturbed minds at least provides some of the answers why our youth is so messed up in the inner cities.

Hunting Is Good Medicine
(This is a PDF file)

About Dr. Randall Eaton
Dr. Randall Eaton is an internationally known authority in animal behavior and wildlife conservation. PBS TV's NOVA interviewed him about how hunting has preserved and recovered endangered species. The speech he gave at Game Coin on the importance of hunting to conservation in North America was carried by CBS TV National News. His speech in Toronto on why hunting is good medicine for bad kids received national and international media coverage including CBC and BBC. He has been interviewed in Sports Illustrated, Saturday Review, NY Times, Washington Post and LATimes. The recipient of two national book awards, he recently completed From Boys to Men of Heart: Hunting as Rite of Passage. He produced "The Sacred Hunt," all-time, top-selling documentary about hunting and winner of 11 awards. Dr. Eaton has held faculty positions in zoology, psychology, wildlife and humanities at several major universities. He was "Distinguished Conservationist Lecturer" at North Carolina State University and "Distinguished Visiting Scholar" at University of Alberta. He lectures widely on university campuses and to conservation groups in North America and Europe.