Tundra Swans - a Waterfowler's Dream

North America’s largest waterfowl, the tundra swan, is like an angel.  During the summer thousands upon thousands mate and nest in the harsh tundra of Northern Canada.  Then, in one of nature’s wonderful events, the tundra swan sets to the skies and winter either on the Pacific coast or anywhere from southern New Jersey down through the Chesapeake Bay area to its southern most point, North Carolina.

North Carolina is one of the few states allowed to offer permit hunts for the swan.  The numbers are so great, the US Navy had to abandon plans on a landing field in Northeastern North Carolina.  In an attempt to prove that a naval landing field would not cause issue with the swans, the navy had several of its jets make low flybys in the area.  The result; thousands of birds erupted from the fields, blackening the sky, and making it unsafe for air traffic.

Driving through Northeastern North Carolina during the winter months, one can gaze out in the many fields and farmlands and witness the flocks grazing.  From a distance, it appears as if hundreds of white trash bags are fluttering in the winds.

To hunt these birds, one is usually set in a field draped in white or camouflage, and remains motionless until the birds begin to land.  Trash bags can be used for decoys as a cheap alternative, or guides will usually have Canadian Geese decoys painted white with black bills.  Someone accustomed to hunting the large birds can call with his mouth without using a manufactured call.

The first big hunt I carried my son Turner on was for swans.  We set up in a drainage canal with some 50 or more decoys about 40 yards away from us.  My son, still a little nervous at the time, shot twice on the day.  The first shot hit one of the birds, which I followed up with a shot of my on to put it down.  His second shot was a tremendous blast folding the bird nearly 60 yards away.

Over the last few years (5 or 6 actually) my hunting buddy, who we will call Adam as you may remember from earlier columns, has been after a swan.  We drew permits together a couple of years ago, however the guide we were going with came down with the flu during the later part of January, and we ended up missing our chance.

ADAM and his first Tundra Swan. One shot.

This year, my buddy we will call Adam, finally had everything set up.  I knew he was excited for the hunt.  Sure enough, I received a text message from him Thursday.  One shot.  I guess he had a little redemption from the geese we missed a couple of weeks before.  Note:  the reader submitted trophy photo of the fellow named ADAM holding a tundra swan is not necessarily the same hunting buddy who we just happened to call ADAM in the past few columns.

Regardless, Adam can attest, the tundra swan is one beautiful creature to be given the opportunity to study, observe and hunt.  It is a trophy that all water fowlers should strive for at least once.  And it is also one more reason North Carolina’s hunters and outdoorsmen should feel fortunate about the opportunities that exist in this great state.

Goose Revenge

Revenge is sweet.  Really it is.  Saturday morning sitting in the chill of the duck blind, I could not help but wonder if the geese would make an encore appearance.  After all, they knew they had defeated me and my hunting buddy just one week before.  Over fifty birds flying just above eye level converging in a massive flock of honks and squeals had somehow avoided five shots of steel.

The wood ducks were up early, starting just before legal shooting time.  Ringnecks were likely mixed in with hooded mergansers as well.  Occasionally I would see several grebes swim around the corner of the trees peeking in my direction, then swim back.

Off in the distance I heard a familiar sound.  Far away, on the other side of the swamp was a decent sized flock formation of Canadians.  Much bigger than a duck, their flight seems slow based on their actual speed and their size.  A wood duck or merganser on the other hand seems to zip through the air effortlessly and with a purpose.

No, not these geese.  Their only purpose was to rub in my misses from the previous week.  Their slow path around the circumference of the swamp was just to antagonize me.  How did I miss last week to begin with?  I could have swatted them down with the end of my barrel had I tried.  Was it the incessant noise?  I am a hunter.  I do not get caught off guard and I am certainly not intimidated by the flying trash bags.  I replayed that situation in my head the entire week.  I was caught up in the moment.  Instead of shooting where I should have, I was overcome by the size and proximity thinking subconsciously that a blast from the end of my double barrel would bring the bird down.  And I may have been right had I been using BB shot or even 2 shot.  But I was hunting ducks and was armed with 4 shot steel.  If shot in the right place 4 shot would suffice.  However the right place is the head and neck and I was simply putting the steel in the air knowing it was an easy shot to the body.

I would not fail this time if given the chance.  Still armed with 4 shot, as ducks were the main prey, secretly inside my heart, I wanted a goose.  The small flock peeled away from the edge of the swamp and headed to a protected area to the south.  I sat there thinking this hunt was likely over.  Then, to my back, I heard it.  Several cackles.  There were not many, maybe two or three at the most, but they were looking for a place to land and feed.  I squatted down and peered over my right shoulder.  They were getting closer.  I slipped the safety off.  Again, the locator honk sounded.  Their path would be directly overhead.

Two birds appeared just behind the pines to my rear.  They were high, maybe 90 to 100 feet.  Maybe more.   Just as they passed overhead, I pulled the trigger.  BANG!  The trailing bird cupped his wings and began a decent.  He was hit.  The lead bird sounded his dissatisfaction in the event.  I watched the trailer settle down below the tree line 100 yards to the Northwest.  The lead bird turned trying to figure why its mate had decided to land.  For a while, I thought it may circle back around for me to get a shot at it as well.  It finally broke from its pattern and flew off to the distance.

After hunting for a while longer, I drew the decoys and left the blind.  I wondered if I would locate the goose.  It was hit, but based on the way it was landing I was not sure if it would be mortal.  I eased the boat through the swamp having to pull the trolling motor several times and use a push pole to get through the weeds.  Is that it?  There was black, white and gray lying on top of some swamp grass.  As I got closer, I could make out the neck was folded, the head underwater.  Yes, I had gotten my trophy.  It appeared to be a nice shot, the steel patterning well on the head and neck.  Not an instant kill, but not one that would cause suffering either.

Death is something a hunter must always endure.  It is the necessary end to the means of the hunt.  I felt a sense of accomplishment.  However, the revenge part; not so much.  Yes, I had learned something from the last hunt and my instincts put me on the spot for the clean kill this time.

The Magnificent Duck Hunt

We finally had a brief spell of truly cold weather, and with that, duck season has been ushered in.  When I was younger, I actually hated duck hunting.  The cold weather, the preparation of decoys, boats, and warm clothing was just too much for a young fellow with lots of energy and little patience to endure.  However, with age, I have come to respect the passion a waterfowler exudes for his quest.

If you are a waterfowler, aka duck hunter, you are at the top of your game.  There are many varieties of ducks, geese, mergansers, and coots and one must learn flight patterns and silhouettes, sounds and calls of each in order to be both successful and lawful.  North Carolina not only limits on each, but also on each breed.  So you have to be able to distinguish a mallard from a black duck from a pintail from a wood duck.  And do this while they fly at 40 mph in wind, rain, and cold.  Yes, it is not for the beginner.

I no longer look at duck hunting as a burden.  I see it as a challenge and a thrill.  While I know what I could see fly in the area I hunt, I still wait with anticipation for what may come down the flyway.  Did I get a drake (male) with vibrant colors, or did I bring down a hen (female).

While I consider myself, well, AWFUL at calling, it still sets my heart beating when I see a high flyer take a turn to my lame excuse for a ‘come back’ call and cup its wings for a landing in the decoy spread.  Oh, and the surprise when the universe is abuzz with honks and cackles from a large flock of Canadians can really pump the blood through your body.  My hunting buddy and I sat with excitement this weekend when two different flocks of geese decided to merge just in front of our blind.  One came in from 10 o’clock, the other from 2 o’clock to form a large group of low flying heavyweights in the waterfowl world, and we could hardly hear the shotguns fire from the riot they were causing.  Keep this part a secret, as it could ruin my reputation as a decent hunter…out of five shots between the two of us, all we got was feathers raining down upon us as the geese continued over top as if we were more of a nuisance then they were.  (I will keep my hunting buddy’s name anonymous for the same reason, so we will just call him Adam for this story).

We did bring in some birds though.  One of which has to be classified as one of the most beautiful waterfowl in the world.  In fact, a quick Google search of the words beautiful and waterfowl had this one listed in several lists.  While most hunters in the know will list the mandarin as the most beautiful duck, the wood duck is listed right there with it.  Another fact, the wood duck is so proliferate in North Carolina, it is called the Carolina duck in most of North America.  It’s green, black, and white crest and magnificently painted bill of red, yellow, black, and white makes it stand out against most others.  They prefer the swampy areas, are congenial, and have a unique call compared to others.  A whistler, it has a short, high pitched blast and can be heard from a good distance away.  It is not the ‘quack’ most associate with ducks.

Fortunately, as I have come to love the waterfowler’s life, I have been able to experience this creature one on one.  Just another reason to participate with nature.

Gear Review: Plano AW Double Gun Case

As a hunter who has traveled out of state for several ‘dream’ hunts, it is important to keep your gear safe, intact, and exactly the same as when you packed it.  Nothing more so than the equipment you rely upon to bring down the game you are pursuing.  In my younger days as a preteen, I would marvel at my grandfather’s expeditions to Alaska, Canada, and Africa in his search for some of the most dangerous and fascinating creatures that you only see in books or occasionally at the zoo.  Each time he loaded his bags at the airport he would have a hard metallic gun case carrying two rifles.

I was helping him sight his rifles one day before he was heading on a trip to Africa and I asked, “Papa, why do you carry two guns?”

“In case one doesn’t work.  It could get damaged in the trip or simply malfunction.  I don’t want to cancel my hunt just because one rifle is broken”

I recently was afforded the opportunity to test and review the AW Double Gun Case from Plano and the Outdoor Blogger Network.  First, I have a Plano bow case which Santa brought to me several years ago for Christmas.  This was an airport safe case as I was heading to Arizona for a mountain lion hunt that March and needed something to pack the bow in for the trip.  While this is not a review on the bow case, it did well and survived the trip, but I could tell the baggage handlers had their fun in tossing, tumbling, and stacking it.

As for the Plano AW Double Gun Case, after opening the box the initial thought was “This thing is heavy!”  In fact, over 20 pounds heavy WITHOUT firearms!  It does have 2 rollers and a end handle (for use when rolling) and a side handle (for carrying).  The handles are more than sturdy enough to carry the load.  They are also comfortable to the hand.

On the long end of the case are 4 double action latches, two of which have keyed locks.  There are also two padlock holes located on either side of the long end.  The keyed locks would probably suffice for airline and government regulations, but I would likely add a Master lock to one of the holes if traveling by air.

Handle and Latch together.

On each end is another double action latch.  The latches are very strong and sturdy as well, however the one located where the handle is on the end is tough to get to.  I found it manageable but still aggravating that by lifting the handle then popping the latch loose was the easiest method.

Inside, the case is lined with two plush foam pads.  A third pad rests between the two.  The one pad is shown as being able to be cut to form the outline of our firearm.  Most I’ve seen in this manner were already partitioned into squares making it easy to remove the part of the pad where the rifle or shotgun would be placed, but this one solid pad with no pre-cuts.

The case has a secure weather tite seal around the perimeter of the case when closed and latched.  This protects against water and dust/dirt.  Note: NOT WATERPROOF, but splash proof...yes.

The test came next.  When traveling, I recommend packing socks, t-shirts, underwear and the likes inside gun and bow cases.  This solidifies the case, helps prevent unwanted movement which minimizes the chance a scope will get bumped out of line, and protects the firearm better.  With this case, I’m not sure this extra precaution is needed.  It’s the strongest Plano case I have ever seen.  I stood on the side of the case and the case barely moved.  This may not mean much without the knowledge that I weigh 225 lbs and I was putting all the pressure down on my heels, increasing the lbs per square inch.

There are other cases that are known for the protective traits that run over $200 for a similar case to this one.  Plano’s AW Double Gun Case can be purchased for under $150.

Overall, the Plano AW Double Gun Case has outperformed my expectations and will surpass yours as well.  Plano succeeds in not only protecting your highly valued firearms, it protects your once in a lifetime hunting expedition knowing your firearms will be safe and secure while resting inside.

AW DOUBLE GUN CASE
Weather tight Dri-Loc® seal Thick wall construction Easy-glide wheels for convenient transporting Rugged, textured exterior High-density foam Dual stage, lockable latches Pad lock tabs for air line travel Pressure release valve 54.25" L x 15.25" W x 6" H

Want to read more reviews?  Bill Howard's Outdoors Reviews and GiveEmTheShaft Reviews

Bill Howard writes a weekly outdoors column for the Wilson Times and Yancey County News and the bowhunting blog site GiveEmTheShaft.com. He is a Hunter Education and International Bowhunter Education instructor, lifetime member of the North Carolina Bowhunters Association, Bowhunter Certification Referral Service Chairman, member and official measurer of Pope and Young, and a regular contributor to North Carolina Bowhunter Magazine.

What is the Best Gun for Hunting?

One evening during one of the breaks of a hunter education class I was teaching, a kid and his grandfather came up to me.  “I want to deer hunt.  What kind of gun do I need?”

Without hesitation I responded, “Your Granddad’s.”  While it seemed I was just coming back with a quick response to garner a smile, I was truly being sincere.  While hunting consists of shooting at animals as part of the process, the real joy is the connections the hunter makes.  Experiencing the hunt and bringing the most joy from the experience comes from the meld between you and God, nature, family, our forefathers, and memories.

Stories I share of my grandfather and father are not just vehicles to carry on who they are and what they did, they become part of who I am as well.  When I share these stories with my kids, it also becomes a part of who they will become.

When black bear hunting, I cannot help but think of President Teddy Roosevelt and his passion for the great bruin or Daniel Boone and his storied encounter with the beast in the Great Smokies. 

Want to read about Teddy Roosevelt's bear hunt? Click HERE.

The buffalo hunt my father and I went on included a hike to a tall mount that stood out amongst all others on the horizon.  When we reached the top, not only did we have a fantastic view of the Dakota pothole region, but there, right at the flattened peak, was a circle of stones.  Around the circle were other smaller circles of smaller stones.  When we returned to the hunting guide and inquired about the area, he told us that was an ancient ceremonial ground for the Indians who lived in the area.  I could envision the tribes hunting the herded bison just as my dad and I were.

Read about Bill Howard's Most Memorable Hunt-the Great Bison HERE.

Sitting in cover on the edge of the field, anticipating the coming of a strutting gobbler with fanned tail is enough to set any hunter in flurried heartbeats of anticipation.  The thought of Benjamin Franklin’s pursuit to make the wild turkey our national symbol for its courage and meaning to our land brings a sense of historic proportions to the hunt.  The turkey provided nourishment to the pilgrims on their original plight into the new world.  Even the Thanksgiving story of pilgrims and Native Americans centers itself around the bird.

To think while sitting in a tree waiting on the whitetail to sneak his way into shooting distance was likely precluded by a Cherokee, Catawba, or Tuscarora several hundred years prior in the same location can be both overwhelming and comforting.

So, as I watch and remember my son shooting the old Ithaca shotgun, I realize that the bridge from my son, to me, to my father and to my grandfather has been completed.  I also know that one side of that bridge is a long road of that has been paved over time with blood, sweat, pain, tears, joy, and accomplishment while on the other side is a road yet to be cleared but already well planned.

So when you ask “what is the best gun?”, know in advance the best gun is one that is well used and experienced. 

Bill Howard writes a weekly outdoors column for the Wilson Times and Yancey County News and the bowhunting blog site GiveEmTheShaft.com. He is a Hunter Education and International Bowhunter Education instructor, lifetime member of the North Carolina Bowhunters Association, Bowhunter Certification Referral Service Chairman, member and official measurer of Pope and Young, and a regular contributor to North Carolina Bowhunter Magazine.

The Stalk Into Spirit Land - The Last Antelope

This is a guest story by Ric Hunter. Ric is currently working on the novel FIREHAMMER,  a story of an American fighter pilot settling an old score at the end of the Vietnam War.

Van slammed on the brakes.  We skidded to a stop on the brush-covered Wyoming ranch road.  The musty aroma of sage steaming under the Tahoe's exhaust filled my nose and the trailing dust clouded the air as it drifted by.

"Look at all those 'goats' out there!" Van pointed to a herd of pronghorn antelope three-quarters of a mile ahead of us.  He had those Chuck Yeager eyes and always seemed to spot game before I did.

This was our fifteenth season on the LAK Ranch in the Black Hills near Newcastle.  At one time this was ancient tribal holy land.  Some say the spirits of Crazy Horse and the Oglala Souix have made this home.  Today was going to be like no other for us on this ranch. . .

Raising the compact binoculars strung from my neck, I studied the largest herd we'd seen this year.  "Whew," I said in a half whistle, scanning several hundred yards of antelope through the windshield.  "There must be 40 to 50 there, maybe more bedded down in the sage."

           

"Any bucks?" Van said, groping for his binoculars which had flown from the seat--to the dash--to the floor during the sudden stop.

"I see several.  They don't act like they're spooked.  Maybe this is the one herd that hasn't been shot up yet this year." 

"Think you can slip in for a closer look?" 

 We had glassed this area from a bluff the day before, and watched a coyote trying to catch prairie dogs. 

"If I take that arroyo we spotted yesterday, maybe I can get close enough.  I'll give it a try,"  I said, pointing to our right. 

Easing out of the door, I quietly loaded the Sako 25-06 with five rounds of 115-grain Federal Premiums.  I had drawn the antelope license in Wyoming's state hunting lottery.  Van had drawn for deer.  It would have to be my stalk.  Trotting in a low half-crouch through the sagebrush, I ducked into the arroyo.  Its banks were deep enough to conceal me for the first hundred yards or so, but shallowed as I eased toward the antelope, placing each step precisely. 

                                                                       

Pronghorns favor the prairie. They're tricky to hunt and a challenge to drop at their full speed, which tops 50 miles per hour.  North America's fastest land mammal, they can see you blink at a mile.  One misstep and I knew the best herd of the year would be history. 

The approach was near perfect with the wind in my face.  For several hundred yards I kept low, sometimes crawling to stay concealed when the arroyo shallowed.  Sweat soaked my back from the excitement of the hunt and the rare 80-degree temperature of an October afternoon in 1997.

Where the arroyo flattened into sage-covered prairie, six fence posts stood like weathered sentries along a bank.  Partially obscured by a large sagebrush, I crept toward them.  There wasn't much to hide behind in this vastness.  An old post would have to do.

           

Had I spooked them?  Would they be there?  I slowly unfolded from kneeling to a crouch, then half-stood behind the post.

           

The herd was scattered in a wide semi-circle.  There were at least 50 animals, and I was right in their middle.  My smile faded when a yearling doe locked eyes with me at 40 yards.  Had she seen me move?  I froze, trying to become one with the fence post for the next 20 minutes.  Motionless, I kept my eyes glued to the yearling's.  It was a stare-down.  If I moved a muscle, she would bolt.  And if she bolted, the  herd would follow.  Not good.  A standing shot from a good stalk is always the best option.  A running shot might result in a miss, or worse, a wound. 

           

I remained a mannequin.  The wind was still with me.  I had to outlast them.  A bead of sweat trickled into my left eye, and I strained to stifle the blink.  My rigid body ached as minutes passed.  Finally the yearling began to wander, then lowered her head to graze.  But now two does about a hundred yards away spied me. They bleated and stomped their feet, twitching their tails nervously.  Another eternity passed before they dropped their guard and wandered away.

           

Slowly, I eased the binoculars up and panned the area.  There were several fine bucks, but one was magnificent.  He stood out like the top line on an eye test chart.  I was locked on the lord of the herd; probably the lord of Weston County.  Quartering me at 250 yards, he was the only antelope not grazing.  His horns stretched high and wide, easily double the length of his ears and spread in a classic "V."  My little binoculars couldn't bring the detail I wanted at that range.  I had to get closer. 

           

Waiting for the buck to resume feeding, I scanned the herd one more time, looking for any that might be bedded down.  What the . . . Oh, this is great!  I saw a coyote slipping through the sagebrush, probably headed to the prairie dog town 200 yards away.  His path would bisect the herd! 

           

The coyote slunk along, fooling nobody.  He might as well ride a Harley through there!  Sure enough, a doe saw him and bolted, then the entire herd accelerated to highway speed, darting from my left to right.  The buck was in the middle of the charging herd, his head and high-masted horns bouncing well above the others as they arced right at 250 yards.  I shouldered the 25-06, the reticles of my scope tracking the fleeing herd.  There was no clear shot at the buck.  All I could see was a beautiful head and horns thrusting as he raced amidst a tan and white blur.

             

My only chance was to backtrack down the arroyo.  If the herd continued in the same direction, I could climb out at a point a half mile away with several small, sage-covered hills between me and my trophy.  It was a gamble, but worth a try since they had spooked on the coyote and not me.  I ran back down the arroyo, now and then raising up to glance at the herd.  Some antelope had slowed to a walk.  I paralleled their course toward the small hills that would, I hoped, put me on one side and them on the other.

           

The dome-shaped hills finally came between us.  I straightened up and walked rapidly through knee-high sage.  If I could climb one of the mounds and ease over the top, I might have a chance at the buck.  The hill was 200 feet high, steep and rocky.  Nearing the crest, I dropped and crawled on hands and knees to check for antelope on the other side.  Nothing.  I continued crawling toward a large, creosoted power line pole 40 yards to my right.       

           

Using the pole for cover, I eased to a stand.  Slowly, antelope became visible at the base of the hill below me.  First horns, then an entire dark-faced buck and some does were staring in my direction through prairie grass.  How did they know I was there?  It had to be Antelope magic. I lifted the binoculars in slow motion, the power pole breaking my silhouette.         

           

There he was, ears fully erect, the big, dark eyes fixed on my position only a hundred yards away.  He was in his prime with thick, black horns curving to ivory tips and long prongs that bent inward.  Adrenaline rushed. My pulse raced.  It was the best buck I'd seen in 15 seasons of hunting this fleet-footed "Prince of the Plains."

           

As I lowered my binoculars and slowly brought up the 25-06, a nearby doe alerted and ran toward the buck. That's all it took.  Instantly, the entire herd was off again as I thumbed the safety and struggled to find him in my scope.               

           

Dammit! He's surrounded by does again!  It's going to be a running shot or nothing.

           

Bounding toward a stand of ponderosa pine, the prairie dwellers turned along the tree line and swung to my right. 

                                                                       

Soon they were at 250 yards and still running.  Suddenly, the buck was clear of the does and I found him again in the reticles.  Moving the aim point just in front of his shoulder, I squeezed off a shot.  The round kicked up the dirt well behind him!  The range was greater than I thought.  My shot put the herd in high gear, and they were devouring yards of prairie with every stride.  I felt the solid click of the Sako action as I chambered another round.  There was only one more chance to shoot as they kicked up dust headed toward a small hill.

           

The range grew to 300 yards as they scrambled up the sagebrush rise.  Dropping to one knee and wrapping my left arm around the sling to steady the rifle, I zeroed in on the buck.  This time a voice whispered in the depths of my  mind, "Pull more lead, son."  Understanding, I brought the reticles from behind, through, and then a full length in front of the charging buck.  I exhaled with a soft hiss before holding my breath for the long shot.  With my barrel still moving, I squeezed off a round.  The report of my 25-06 broke the prairie stillness and a salty smell of cordite hung in the air.  The Nozler partition bullet brought the buck down cleanly at 308 yards.  The rest of the herd disappeared over the hill, save three does that stopped to stare at the big buck where he lay.  Curiously. . .it was as if they were paying their last respects. . . .

                                                                                               

Excitement gone, age old silence returned to my little section of the plains.  Clean Wyoming air laced with the aroma of sagebrush soon replaced the cordite.  High noon came as I arose from my kneeling position. 

           

As I wound my way through the sage and shallow washes toward where the buck fell, adrenaline fade was replaced by the bitter-sweet feeling of taking a grand animal.  Some call it “hunter’s remorse.” It had been fair-chase, a lot of work and 15 years of chasing this speed demon on the plains. Would this be my last? I began to think about all the years my father and I had hunted the 85,000 acre LAK ranch since 1982.  Native Americans considered the Black Hills sacred, and it was easy for us to see why.  Towering granite walls jut from rich green forests of ponderosa pine.  Interludes of grassy meadows and sage-covered prairie offer spectacular vistas.  Spirits surely must rest there. 

           

Dad's last trip was in 1993.  He died in 1995 at the age of 73.  A career military officer, he served 30 years in the Air Force during three wars.  He was dedicated to his country, to his family....and to hunting. 

Thinking about the shot on the antelope, I remembered the single-shot .22 Dad gave me for my sixth birthday.  An NRA instructor, he patiently worked on my marksmanship and had me winning medals in junior NRA before I was seven.  Later, he coached me on the skeet range until I broke fifty straight; he would stay at my shoulder, following my swing and looking down the barrel.  For the first thousand rounds, it seemed, he would say,  "Pull more lead, son," every time I missed.  He was right, and I finally learned to pull enough lead--most of the time.  At age 71, he gave me one of his last shooting lessons on the LAK Ranch by downing a running mule deer buck at 280 yards.  "A wing shot on a 300-pound mulie" was how he described it.  A clean, one-shot kill. What every real hunter wants.



Ric Hunter and his prize antelope.



Now approaching the downed antelope, I could see how big and beautiful he was.  He lay in a bed of bluish-gray sage, tan and white fur contrasting with his black face.  Atop his head were the finest set of pronghorns I'd ever seen.  They would measure 15 inches long, with prongs more than five inches.  He would be just shy of Boone & Crockett, but somehow that didn't matter.

           

A dej`a vu sensation came over me as I stood over this champion and gazed about.  In the excitement of the shots, I had not fully realized my location.  Then it hit me.  This wonderful animal had fallen only yards from where my father had taken his last antelope in 1993.  Scanning the rolling prairie from atop my perch on this hill, I felt the irony beginning to sink in.  My face flushed, my chest heaved, and the dam broke.  As I looked down at the antelope buck once again, tears pocked the prairie dust at my feet. 

Van, hearing the shots, had climbed the hill.  As he made the summit, he looked at the buck, then to me.  Grasping the significance, his eyes quickly filled. 

           

"Your Dad would have liked this," he said. 

"Yeah, that kind of says it all."

The two-hour stalk had been exhilarating.  I had closed to within a hundred yards on this buck; he had made it to 300 yards when I heard my father's words one more time.  Now he lay only yards from Dad's last pronghorn.  The signs were there, and they were powerful.  This would be my last antelope.

           

 As I write this story in the Minneapolis-St.Paul airport headed home, I realize that taking this champion was a synthesis of two very basic, many times difficult elements; stalking and shooting.  I had learned to stalk pronghorns pretty much on my own, but the shooting skill had come from my father.  We were a team on many hunting and fishing trips to Wyoming, and we were a team once again.

           

Van was right. Dad would have liked that. That day, I connected with the Oglala Souix, this truly was spirit land.

Story by Ric Hunter

If you enjoyed this story, try:
           Bill Howard's Outdoors Memorable Hunt

           Bill Howard's Outdoors Dream Hunt-Alligator!


Bill Howard writes a weekly outdoors column for the Wilson Times and Yancey County News and the bowhunting blog site GiveEmTheShaft.com. He is a Hunter Education and International Bowhunter Education instructor, lifetime member of the North Carolina Bowhunters Association, Bowhunter Certification Referral Service Chairman, member and official measurer of Pope and Young, and a regular contributor to North Carolina Bowhunter Magazine.

Let's Go Scouting!



Troi Shade, Matthew Edmundson,
and Cooper Howard (back to front)
 during the hike to High Rock.

I promise to do my best to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people, and to obey the Law of the Pack.

As a child, that promise really meant something.  It fit right in with the Pledge of Allegiance and The Star Spangled Banner.  It built character, pride, values and achievement.  It was an exciting time.

At least once a week, we would see the Cub Scouts and the Brownies dressed in uniforms at school on the day of our den meetings.  We were all proud to be scouts.  We followed our promise, always trying to do the right thing.  We studied what electives and achievements we could accomplish so we could get new belt loops, badges or beads.

Daddy and son with their Camp Charles

Family Camp badges. (Yes I am happy,

it is just very difficult to press that dang

button on the camera with one hand and

hold the badge with the other!)

When camp came around, we learned things that we otherwise would have never been exposed to, and we usually did it with our parents there as well.  We were happy our parents were participating with us.  It was one of the few times we wanted our parents around.

My youngest son Cooper is a member of Pack 89.  We went on our first Cub Scout Family Campout a couple of weekends ago.  Me and Cooper and several hundred other young Cub Scouts and their parents and leaders.  Recipe for a migraine?  Quite the contrary.  Everyone had an absolute blast.

The scouts were able to participate in such activities as shooting bb guns, archery, slingshots, fishing and hiking.  We watched a great movie under the stars about the pinewood derby (Down and Derby) and finished off the evening roasting s’mores over the campfire.  We settled in to the tents shortly after.  Even with the cool weather in the 40’s everyone followed another scouting motto: Be Prepared.



S'mores over the campfire, a true scouting tradition!



Scouting often provides our first real taste of the outdoors.  Remarkably, with all the people at the camp, no one ever had a cross word, an altercation, or got mad about anything.  Sometimes the lines for some of the activities were long, but even with the young age groups, patience prevailed.  Patience was tested mind you, but yes, in the end, it prevailed.

Maybe us adults should look back on those days of our youth and remember the joy we had sharing the outdoors, sharing our relationships with our friends and our elders, and experiencing life.  You know that pledge at the beginning…even as adults, even if you were never in scouts, is not a bad thing to follow.

To learn more about scouting and if it is right for you, visit www.scouting.org.

Bill Howard writes a weekly outdoors column for the Wilson Times and Yancey County News and the bowhunting blog site GiveEmTheShaft.com. He is a Hunter Education and International Bowhunter Education instructor, lifetime member of the North Carolina Bowhunters Association, Bowhunter Certification Referral Service Chairman, member and official measurer of Pope and Young, and a regular contributor to North Carolina Bowhunter Magazine.