First Blood Pressure Results and "Sport" Hunting

This evening I took my blood pressure cup/gizmo with me to the nearby slough.  Now, the question is whether duck hunting, which is sitting in a duck blind, lowers the blood pressure or has no effect whatsoever. 

I took my blood pressure before leaving and it was 142/76 pulse 68.  After sitting in the blind for 30 minutes I took my blood pressure and it was 136/69 pulse 72.  I’m not sure what to make of it but this is only my first day of my not so scientific study of blood pressure and duck hunting.  What is interesting is that once I was back in my office I again took my blood pressure and it was 136/79 and my pulse was 82.  Now, the only thing I can say to explain it is that I was doing some editing--of my own writing! 

This project is turning into an interesting experiment and the more I think about it the more I think I can turn it into a not-so-scientific article.  I will haul the blood pressure monitor out with me every day I go hunting until I take the results back to the VA hospital.  I am really curious to hear what my physical therapist and my primary care physician have to say about the readings.  I’m sure they will both shake their heads in a little bit of disbelief--but then both of them must consider me a bit on the pixilated side of reality.

ABOUT THINK TANK II and “SPORT HUNTING”

I’ve been doing some work on my notes and ideas from the Think Tank II.  I came away from the gathering wishing it had been at least one day longer.  There was a lot of free discussion about the present state of recruitment to the outdoors but I heard something that was, to me, very important for the future of hunting, and it was the simple statement that hunting would be referred to as “hunting” and not “sport hunting” or have any other adjectives affixed to it.  This is something that I totally agree with.  I believe that we must stop the practice of trying to hide hunting under a pile of adjectives.   I make this argument even after a great deal of research has shown me that the basis for “sport hunting” goes back to ancient Greece when the phrase “hunting for sport” actually appears in the writing of Xenophon.   One probably asks why I dislike the use of “sport-hunting” in today’s language when it has been in use for more than two-thousand years?  My answer is simple--times change!  For most of that 2,000+ years hunting was a very blurred activity.  Subsistence hunting and sport hunting existed side-by-side and often within the same activity.  For the past 100+ years, with only a few exceptions, subsistence hunting has fallen out of use as a “needed” activity leaving only what had been euphemistically called sport hunting in its wake. 

There are many, many people who rely on hunting to provide them with chemical free, healthy meat protein, but to call that true subsistence is to dally about with semantic spooks.  This sort of subsistence hunting is a choice by personal philosophy and not a choice based on true need.   I am not belittling modern meat hunting as a means of providing food--I opt for that with deer and other game--it is not, however, a requirement for our survival in today's world.  There are Alaskan and South American peoples who still subsistence hunt because if they didn’t they would starve for protein.   Could it be that the users of “sport hunting” are drawing a comparison against those aboriginal peoples?   

A brief look at the OED and other word research turns up some interesting information, primarily that “sport,” as was applied to hunting, did not necessarily carry positive connotations, even as far back as the 15^th and 16^th centuries.  In the middle of the 19^th century “sport” began to increasingly be associated with athletics and less with what had been popularly known as field sports. 

The entire evolution of sport and sport hunting is more complex than my quick analysis but the point is that as we move deeper into the 21^st century there is even less to be gained by adding “sport” to hunting as a means of modifying hunting.  We hunt.  We don’t harvest.  We don’t box with, play tennis or football with, or any other organized activity, the animals we hunt.  We don’t need to lie to ourselves or to the non-hunter by falling back on euphemisms to soften our language.  We can start by removing one word and simply saying that we hunt, we go hunting, we are hunters.  There is much more to be gained by being honest with ourselves and others than by trying to soothe the taste of words with imitation sugar.    

Is that so hard to do?

Think about it.

glg

Blood Pressure and Bird Hunting

Today has been a long day.  I was up and on the road before dawn but not to go hunting--I had VA eye doctor and physical therapists appointments.  The eye doctor informed me the eyes are slowly getting worse, which is expected, and my therapists, one physical, one occupational (I can’t keep ‘em straight) try their best to deal with me.  Jody is tall, looks like he should be a Marine (like me) and Vicki is petit, blonde, blue-eyed-cute and quite capable of chewing me out for not following instructions.  Anyway, my blood pressure decided to act up and Vicki made me promise to take my blood pressure several times a day and keep a journal with the results, then bring the journal with me when I go back to the VA next week and show the journal to my doctor.  Not a problem.  But here is what I am wondering.  Jody has repeatedly pointed out that I need to “take it easy” on the hunting.  He didn’t say not to hunt, just change things a little.

I got to thinking about a hunt I had earlier this week. . . .

The other day I took Cookie and drove out to our favorite grouse hunting area.  I wasn’t in a hurry and besides, I’m supposed to be trying to recover from the cardiac adventure, so, I walked very slowly and Cookie ran ahead.  When she got birdy I turned toward her and when that bird flushed wild and out of range I just watched it fly away.  “At least I don’t have to clean it,” I said to the wind.  Cookie was disappointed and was quickly off again.  I called her back then returned to the Suburban so we could try for a duck.

At the little slough where Chas and I had shot several ducks I pulled on my waders (I have got to get some new waders) and after unloading my gear, consisting of one bag with shells, coffee, camera, notebook, pen and goodies, and pulling four decoys from my decoy bag, I parked the Suburban and walked back carrying my shotgun and holding Cookie on a leash.  Back at the slough I carefully put my shotgun down, picked up the decoys and started into the muck.  By this time Cookie was having a good time and when I was about fifteen feet into the muck I noticed Cookie had switched on the “bird here!” attitude and was eagerly working scent on the far side of the slough, in the same grass were she’d retrieved two birds a few days earlier. 

Now, one of the things I am fond of saying is that Cookie is smarter than me and danged if she didn’t prove it again.  Twice she stopped working the scent and looked back at me with the “get your gun” expression that means she is going to be flushing a bird.  I figured she was scenting some ducks that had been there earlier so I didn’t get my gun.  I set the first decoy.  Then just as I was about to set the next decoy a mallard drake burst out of the grass.  It landed on the water and Cookie thought she had a cripple then it took off, scolding her as it climbed into the air. 

Cookie gave me “the look.”

Yeah, I stood stupid.  I set the other two decoys, went back to my gun, loaded it and sat down.  Once I was comfortable I poured myself a cup of coffee to chase away the end-of-day chill.  A little later Cookie tensed up and looked over her shoulder.  I followed her gaze in time to see the geese coming over the trees.   The loads I had were too light for the big Canadas so I sat and watched.  I watched them fly over, they were not seeing either Cookie or me, and I watched them land in a field a half mile away. 

Later, when the sun was getting that golden hue that is a signal to mama earth that for this part of the planet the day is over, a few ducks flew past but I forgot my calls.  Besides, I’d been writing notes for my journal and I’d talked myself into thinking that unless it was a fat mallard drake I wasn’t going to shoot.  The ducks were cooperative and avoided coming too close and in short order it was dark and time for me to pack up and return to my office and get some work time in. 

The evening was a good day.  I couldn’t ask for anything more.  Maybe I did overdo it a bit with the grouse walk, the walk to and from the Suburban, and of course wading into the thick, clinging mud that sucks at your feet and forces you to strain to take each step.  But it was worth it even if I did have to take a nitro pill later that night.  The geese were brilliant, the ducks were just enough to get the juices going and Cookie had a great time.  I am thinking about taking Cookie out tomorrow evening, maybe walking a different grouse field and then sitting on a slough.  Who knows?  I might get a mixed bag of a duck and a grouse.  I’m content with a couple of birds.  There’s still some pheasant hunting to do before the weather gets too cold.  Maybe a couple of pheasant to round out my larder would be a good thing, too.  But, then I am back to Jody, Vicki, my primariy care doctor, and everything about taking it easy.  So, I did promise to take the blood pressure readings and keep a good record.  I am wondering, however, if sitting on the edge of a slough, sipping hot coffee and sharing a sandwich with your hunting dog would really “lower” your blood pressure?  I’m going to find out by packing my blood pressure cup in my bag with the Thermos, box of shells, sandwich and duck calls.  I am not sure how my doctor or physical therapist will appreciate the blood pressure journal having duck blind doodles, probably some dried dog slobber, a little spilled coffee and no doubt it’ll pick up that deliciously thick aroma of rotting vegetation that is common to all North Dakota sloughs, and hopefully a drop or two of duck blood, but at least I’ll have a complete record.  Heck, if I get a shot at a duck or two maybe I’ll take it then, too.  It might be interesting to see the results of the blood pressure in a duck blind and prove conclusively that bird hunting is good for the blood pressure as well as the soul.

Think about it. 

Nonresident Issues

I am not a big one for writing and posting from odd places that I find myself hanging my hat for a day or two, but this is coming from the VA hospital in Omaha, Nebraska. I actually completed my appointments a couple of hours ago but the hospital has free WiFi for patients so I thought I’d take advantage of that and post something that has been on my mind for a couple of days.

North Dakota restricts nonresidents from waterfowl hunting for the first two weeks of the season. The logic is to provide residents an opportunity to enjoy the state’s abundance of waterfowl before the state is inundated with nonresidents. I disagree with this policy. I do not believe that any state should have the power of restricting the legal access of hunters to any migratory game that routinely crosses state borders, whether it is annually or otherwise. I do not have any problems with nonresidents being required to pay extra for their hunting license, but in the same breath I do believe that some states charge nonresidents excessive fees.

Do excessive license and other fees imposed on nonresidents violate the spirit of the J-D and P-R Fund programs? Also, is it possible that these fees and restrictions on nonresidents actually develop such resentment among nonresidents that in their frustration when the fishing or hunting is poor after they pay the extra fees, usually in addition to the money they spend on other services and products within the state, they find themselves breaking the law or other actions that are detrimental to the outdoor sports? Over the past 30+ years too many times I have witnessed poor behavior by hunters (and anglers) in public places (restaurants, airports, etc.) and I’ve heard them complain (as justification for their actions) that they believe they have been gouged or screwed by the state’s nonresident fees and restrictions. Their poor behavior, whether it is just being part of a public spectacle, or actually breaking the law, always hurts the public image of both anglers and hunters.

Is the problem with the state as well as the individual and is it equally shared between them? Or, as some argue, it is the sportsman/woman’s responsibility to accept these fees and restrictions without public complaint/reaction?

What think?

glg

The Farm Connection

Yikes! I’ve been so wrapped up in working on the remodeling of our house I’ve ignored the rest of the world in favor of hammer, nails and wood. My project was to finish the built-in shelves between the dining room and living room--I did. Now I can begin working on the cabinets/counter that will be between the dining room and kitchen. Lots of work but something I enjoy. I like the feel of wood being transformed into something lasting and naturally beautiful with its own colors and designs. When I am working on wood I can block out the world and let my mind go through all the garbage that has been forced into it and toss out the junk--which is a surprising amount.

In addition to building the cabinets and shelves and general remodeling, I am collecting wood from Michelle’s family farm. I’ll be incorporating that wood into the dining room set for Michelle. When it is all finished it will be something that I hope will be passed down to future generations on her side, who will be told that it was made by “Papa-G.” Recently the project took on a little more importance because Michelle’s parents had to sell the farm. A brother (M’s uncle) who passed away a couple of years ago didn’t have a will so his interest in the farm passed to his wife, who also passed away without a will. They didn’t have any children so their interest in the farm (there is also a sister who owned the final third) passed to a niece or some such obscure relative who had no connection to M’s family, who saw dollar signs and not the intrinsic value of the farm. Fortunately, the buyer is someone who does appreciate the value of the farm and when I called to ask about gathering wood for my winter office heat, and cutting wood for the furniture for Michelle (and for her sister) he told me it wouldn’t be a problem and to continue as I have.

The value of something like a farm is an interesting and extraordinarily complex thing. I believe it takes someone who has at least a little experience with the pleasure of having a farm to understand that value. My family had a farm in Oklahoma (the farm has an interesting history--for another time) and while I never lived on it (some of my siblings did) I do have many memories of “going to the farm” in the spring and summer. First for planting a garden, then maintaining it and finally harvesting it. It was enough for me that when my parents sold the farm I somehow felt a sudden disconnection that exists to this very day. On my last trip “home” (Blackwell, Oklahoma) I drove to Lamont and then out to the site of the farm. I was secretly hoping to see some trace reminder of what had been “the farm.” There was nothing. Not a tree nor a bush and when I walked where I was reasonably sure the farmhouse had been I couldn’t even find a splinter of wood. Every inch of ground was cleared, plowed and part of what had once been the fields where my father had grown up and later farmed. Now it is all one field and the memories that should haunt it have all but drifted away.

Here in North Dakota Michelle’s family farm was not “my” family farm and yet I had developed a connection to it. For the past ten years I have cut a winter’s supply of firewood out of the farmstead’s dead trees. I’ve hunted ducks and deer on the farm and driven across the harvested fields to hunt other sloughs and dove in the trees. I’m sure the new owner will let me hunt deer in the trees and waterfowl on the slough and dove in the trees, but the connection is forever severed. I’ll cut the wood that I’ll make into furniture and eventually that project will be finished and I’ll be through searching for straight logs to cut into lumber. The only wood I’ll then be cutting will be firewood and finally that too will end. I don’t know if my deer and duck hunting will end before the firewood, or after, but they will end. I have to believe the new owner’s children will develop a connection that will lead to future generations of deer and ducks and hunters.

Think about it.

The Adventure Begins--

First, my apology for promising a post and then disappearing. I just had some things to attend to and now that they are done—the story, edited for posting. glg

The Adventure Begins---

The outdoors is, or should always be, an adventure. There should be an element of surprise on every trip. When our hunting or fishing trips go exactly as planned then in time the outdoors becomes the mundane and we find ourselves turning away from nature. I don’t worry about my trips becoming mundane. If I can’t find some way to keep it exciting then nature has a way of lending a helping hand. Here’s what happened two weeks ago.

My brother-in-law, Ken, has been teaching his nine year-old son, Alex, the basics of shooting a shotgun and introducing him to hunting, so I decided that it would be a good thing for me to step in and offer to teach Alex some of the finer points of duck hunting. Now Ken has some hunting experience but he’s never set a spread of decoys, used a call, or enjoyed the frustrating thrill of stalking mallards on a prairie slough (pot hole). So, I offered to introduce Ken and Alex to duck hunting. The first surprise that morning was me—I was up on time and picked them up on time. After stowing their gear I explained to Alex that the big bag was duck decoys. When everyone was settled, we headed for my wife’s family farm (they lease out the tillable land) and the farmstead’s four sloughs: the north slough, the south slough, the corner slough, and the roadside slough.

The north slough is my favorite for setting a spread of decoys. The south side of the slough is the treeline boundary of the long abandoned farmstead. Although the farmstead’s buildings are in general decay from their abandonment, the presence of the house, granaries, one-time chicken coop and of course the large, traditional barn all influence the flights of ducks nearing the slough. To the north and west of the slough are tilled fields, and on the east are a few more trees that curve into the treeline. Put together, the slough sits in a perfect tree-formed funnel and with a small spread of decoys along the southwest banks the birds turn, cup their wings, and drop in—a picturesque setting and within easy range. At least that is when everything is going right. Nothing went right.

The reason for setting decoys on the north slough is it is perfectly positioned to intercept and decoy birds being flushed off sloughs in the surrounding countryside. Within a three mile radius of the farmstead there are a dozen sloughs that hold anywhere from a handful to a hundred ducks each day of the season—when the birds are leaving Canada and northern North Dakota lakes. On any weekend of the waterfowl season hunters like to cruise the back roads and flush birds from the sloughs, shooting at ducks as they flush. The ducks, depending on wind, flush either north or south (rarely east or west) and either direction sends them to our area and the north slough is one the ducks look over, giving me the chance to decoy them.

But, that only works if there are ducks on the other sloughs, and I always get a good idea of ducks in the area by looking over the sloughs we pass on the drive out. On that morning we didn’t see any ducks. Not good. I was determined, however, so I drove to the slough, passing the roadside slough—no ducks, and a half-mile from the south slough—no ducks. Humm, this wasn’t looking very promising. A youngster sitting in the cattails and watching decoys bob in the water could get very bored, very quickly. Usually, when I approach the north slough to set my decoys I can hear ducks on the water. This morning there was complete silence. Curious, I drove to the top of a small rise where I could look down on the slough. It was empty. I decided to see if we could flush some ducks from the corner slough. It would often hold a few birds when sloughs closer to the roads were empty.

Once near the corner slough I told Ken an Alex to sneak to the northeast corner and hide near the cattails while I crept to the south end of the slough where I would send Cookie into the water to flush the birds. It should have worked and probably would have if there had been any birds on the slough. After Cookie had splashed from one side of the slough to the other, without a flushing a single bird, I called her back and started for Ken and Alex.

There are some larger sloughs north of the farm and these sloughs are usually productive because these are the sloughs where I rely on hunters to flush the birds and send them south, toward my decoys. We climbed into the suburban and bounced across the field and climbed back on the road and turned north.

This time we got a little action, but it was quicker than expected. Nearing the cattails surrounding the slough, Alex nearly stepped on a whitetail doe and her fawn. Both deer exploded into the air just a few feet in front of him, nearly knocking him over as they burst from cover and sprinted for the safety of a soybean field—their tails waving as they ran. When we’d recovered we decided the deer would have flushed anything on the water and we returned to the Suburban. As we drove away four adult mallards, flew past us and cupped their wings to sit on what I call a mid-field slough, one that is surrounded by tilled fields. We decided to follow them and try to flush them (within range) from the slough.

We climbed into the Suburban and drove toward the mid-field slough. The field had been recently harvested and pinto beans, missed by the harvester, covered the ground. It was perfect pickings for the ducks, which love the beans. Plus, the slough was a quarter mile from the road. I parked below the crest of a small rise and the three of us, plus Cookie on her leash, crept toward the slough. As we neared the slough the high cattails hid us from the ducks, which we could hear on the water. I told Ken that I would take Cookie around the slough and send her in from the far side, flushing the ducks over the two of them.

I hadn’t covered ten feet when Cookie caught a scent and started lunging into the thick cattails. Holding her back was a struggle and I knew the commotion would flush the ducks. I turned and told Ken to get Alex ready. Whatever she had scented, she was determined to get, but I had no idea what was in the cattails. I thumbed up the setting on the control for her shock collar. At least if I had to call her back from a deer, the collar was set. Once I turned her loose I expected her to pop back out of the cattails with a crippled duck or goose that had been lost by a hunter. Not a season has gone by when she has not found at least one bird lost by a hunter.

That’s not what happened. When I freed Cookie she plowed into the cattails—a 70+ pound German wirehair on a mission. Her tail was furiously wagging, then she started barking, the bark of “I am gonna kill you, dude!”

“Holy Crap!” I thought. What is she after? Cougar? They’ve been reported in this area. Bear? They too have been reported. Wild pigs are rumored to be moving toward us. There are also moose, even the occasional elk. Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose. Her barking was furious and filled with low, guttural, killing growls and in return something was spitting, howling, snorting, and then spitting some more. The cattails were waving like hurricane winds were whipping them. All I could see was her tail and I grabbed it to pull her out. She lunged back in and the uproar increased. The air smelled of musty cattail dust and the roots mingled with the rotting stalks of last year’s cattails; the tiny puffs of cattail cotton from the pods being whipped by the melee, were everywhere.

I glanced at Alex and Ken. Ken was asking me what was going on and Alex, on his first duck hunt, was watching and hearing something that was loud, mean, and scary as hell. His eyes were open like liberty dollars and he was clutching his H&R Single-shot as if it was all that stood between him and the devil’s own cattail demon! I turned back to Cookie and again grabbed her tail, it was all I could see, and I tried to pull her back. That didn’t work. Whatever she was fighting was holding its own against her. A few of the cattails were pushed down by the snarling, snapping, rolling dog and unknown creature, and then I saw the flash of teeth. It wasn’t a cougar, bear, or pig. Guessing, from the size and number of teeth, I thought she might have cornered a bobcat, which was double trouble because they cannot be hunted in my area. If she had cornered a large, feral cat, the cat would already be dead, she’s killed several. Regardless of what she was locked with, in mortal combat, I had to get her out before she was seriously injured. I reached into the swirling cattails, caught her collar and I yanked her back, only to have her lunge back into the cattails and resume her attack. I’ve seen a lot of dog fights but nothing like this. Cookie was snarling and spitting and clouds of steam like dragon fire burst from her mouth and nostrils whenever her snarling head broke free of the cattails, and the clouds of steam-breath surrounded her head like smoke. She went back in the cattails and I reached in again, grabbed her collar and pulled, this time with the force to choke off her barking and as I pulled her up for the first time I could see her adversary—a fully mature raccoon.

Doggies and raccoons have a long had a mutual hatred of each other but now I faced a new problem—rabies. Cookie is up to date on her vaccinations but the possibility of a rabid raccoon could not be ignored. The raccoon was not making a retreat but was standing its ground, only its snarling face, white teeth exposed, could be seen through the cattails. Ten years of hunting the sloughs flashed across my brain. I had never seen a raccoon in a slough, although lots of sign around the edges. I’ve also seen beaver, a couple of foxes and several coyotes stalking ducks, and once I watched a coyote emerge from the cattails surrounding the corner slough with a mud hen in its mouth, but I had never encountered a raccoon. I had to err on the side of safety—and kill the raccoon. If Cookie’s fierce attack had injured it, the raccoon would suffer needlessly. If the unexpected encounter of a raccoon in the cattails surrounding a slough meant the animal was sick—it had to be destroyed. I got the leash on Cookie and then pushed her out of the way. The raccoon still wasn’t retreating and five or ten seconds had passed while I struggled with Cookie. Holding my shotgun in one hand and trying to aim it, while holding Cookie clear, I fired a load of No. 4 steel at about five feet. I thought the load would blow a hole through the raccoon and end the struggle. I missed, or the steel shot was useless, or the raccoon was pumped with so much adrenalin the pellets had no effect. I fired the second barrel and the raccoon snarled and edged toward me.

Ken had sent Alex to the Suburban, and he was now kneeling beside me. The smell of the cattail dust and the cattail cotton both still hung in the air; and both the raccoon and Cookie were still snarling, eager to resume the savage death battle.

“Here,” I said, “reload the damn gun and kill the raccoon.”

Ken took the shotgun and I handed him two more shells. I struggled to get Cookie completely clear. Ken maneuvered until he could see the raccoon in the cattails, then it turned to face him, hissing menacingly through barred teeth. Ken fired one barrel and the raccoon seemed to roll to its side, but Ken could see it was only injured and not dead. Finally, through a narrow opening in the thick cattails, Ken could see the raccoon’s full head. Ken’s second shot finally killed “the beast.” With Cookie pulled away and calming down, Ken made sure the raccoon was dead and then he dragged it to the edge of the cattails. I explained to him that I planned to make some calls and if I had to retrieve its head for a rabies test I could easily find it. Ken and I walked slowly back the Suburban and once there I checked Cookie for injuries, she had only one small puncture wound on her cheek. I washed it out while Ken and I discussed the day’s events, we decided to fold up our tents and call it a day.

Once the guns were put away, Cookie given water and a treat, I climbed into the driver’s seat and started across the field; just as I pulled onto the dirt and gravel road Alex, commenting on the morning events said, “That was exciting. Is duck hunting always this exciting?” Then he wanted to know when we could go again.

That evening, long after a call to the sheriff to see if there had been any problems with rabid raccoons (no) and the call to the vet (treat the puncture like any other, keep it clean and put on antibiotic), with my notebooks open and a cup of coffee in front of me, I reviewed the day. Nothing had gone as planned and Alex wasn’t any closer to learning how to set decoys or successfully creep up on a slough of ducks; but Alex had summed up the morning with one word, “exciting” and he’d asked when we could go again.

I think he’s got a good start on a long hunting career.

A One Hour Hunt

I finally managed to get away with Cookie and go duck hunting. That is what living in North Dakota can do for you; Cookie and I were in the Suburban, out of town and at our first slough in just under three minutes. (I timed it.) With my binoculars I looked over the slough and sure enough there were several mallards on the slough.
Now, hunting ducks that are sitting on a slough is not like other pond jumping hunts, and that’s because you really can’t get as close as you’d like—too much mud! If you’ve got several hunters you designate one or two to be the jumpers and the others will space themselves around the slough so at lest someone gets a shot. Notions of taking off into the wind and all that other nice stuff will quickly evaporate when the ducks are jumped. Usually it is just Cookie and me on the hunt so it is up to her to send the ducks to me.
I scooted into a depression where I was fairly hidden and then I turned Cookie loose, ordering her to “spook the ducks.” Okay, it’s not a sophisticated command but it seems to separate the notion of finding a cripple or lost duck from what I want her to do. She darted to the slough, then turned and ran around the slough without going into the water, a maneuver that she seems to recognize as one that sends the ducks into the open. I am not sure what prompts her to turn from running along the edge of the water to plunging in but suddenly she’ll turn and splash into the water after the ducks. As soon as they take to the air she turns, as though she is herding the flying birds and most of the time the birds turn and fly near me, giving me a shot. Not that I always hit something and the other day I managed to miss with both barrels. To punish me Cookie came out of the water, walked up to me and shook, spraying stinky, slimy, muddy water over me. I earned it; both shots were doable and I muffed them.
The next slough was across a field and when I looked at the muddy field I decided to let Cookie try and flush the birds without me nearby and she did, but the birds were too high by the time they came over my hiding spot.
Just for grins I decided to walk a nearby grassy field where I flush the occasional grouse. We were approaching the end of the hunting light and I was following Cookie when I looked up and she was running across the ridge of the rise in the ground, silhouetted by the setting sun. In those few seconds she was a perfect picture of nature, surrounded by hundreds of shades of gold. There was sky, and the water of the slough, the bare fingers of a tree on she slough’s shore and the grass of the gentle ground and moving across it all was my dog—Cookie—and everything was bathed in the dust freckled golden Alpenglow . Those seconds were what I had left my office to find. Perhaps a mallard hanging from my belt would have somehow reshaped the image in my mind—perhaps not. I was satisfied. I loaded Cookie in the back of the Suburban and drove home—satisfied with the short hunt.

Ouch!

Just about the time I thought I would have something good to write about bird hunting, I don’t. I woke up this morning and I was prepared to hit the sloughs and then the pain hit me, in my shooting shoulder. Man! It hurt! Like the preverbal dumb ass, yesterday I tried to climb a ladder carrying a bundle of shingles for my office/garage roof. It is bad enough that I’ve got to put these shingles on (You should see me, I scoot around on my butt because my sense of balance is so bad I keep losing my balance and try to fall over!), trying to get them up there is an exercise in stupid! When the second round of pain pills finally took hold I drove to the lumber yard and asked if they would bring a fork lift for me—when the weather clears.
The weather was my whole point in going today. It was dreary, foggy and wet, the kind of weather when I really like to sneak up on the sloughs. I’ll give Cookie a signal and she will gladly bound into the water and flush the ducks so I can get off a couple of shots. If I knock one down she seems to know where it lands and quickly returns with it. We have great fun but it only works on these gray days with scudding clouds, wet grass and muddy roads. I don’t know if the ducks feel that only an idiot (like me) would dare go out or they are just hunkered down against the weather but we can usually creep up to the very edge of the slough. But today was out. I guess sometimes I just have trouble reconciling my health issues with reality. Sort of sucks, you know. I’m going to try again in the morning, which means it is now midnight North Dakota time, the dogs are smart enough to be in bed and that’s where I’m going. This time I’ll drag my carcass out of bed and go hunting when the alarm goes off. I know Cookie is starting to wonder if I’ve turned into a pansy over the weather.
Best, glg

Mud, Snow, Mud and Fog

Today was a perfect day to go duck hunting except for the mud. I was going to go but I talked with another hunter who said the roads were too mucky for trying to get to any of the better sloughs so I put that idea on the shelf. I've go to make a trip to Fargo tomorrow and if I get home in time I am going to give it a shot in the evening. The desire to get out and hunt is building and building and Cookie is driving me crazy with her antics. She wants to get out of the kennel and into the fields.
I'll let you know how the day goes.
glg

CNN and Doggie Thinking

It’s Monday and we’re into our second day of serious rains. I did manage to get out on Saturday and got in a little shooting but Sunday was rained out, as was my plan for a Monday morning duck hunt. Oh well. I did finish some paperwork.
Tomorrow morning should be just about perfect for some slough hunting for mallards. I’ve got two sloughs that are within a few minutes and I can hunt them and be back to start writing by mid-morning. I think Cookie will be pleased. She has been pestering me to get out and hunt more. When she wants me to go hunting she’ll put her chin on me leg and whine, then when I ask her what she wants and I stand up she runs to the back of my office where my hunting jacket is hanging and she tries to grab it. Sometimes I think she is much smarter than I will ever be able to understand. I wonder what the world would be like if those of us who have a hunting dog in our family listened more to our dogs and less to CNN. glg