The Over/ Under Is 20 For The Best Bet In Shotguns

A 20 gauge Mossberg 500 was my first shotgun. I killed a few pheasants with it, quite a few snowshoe hares, and even my first whitetail. I liked the tang safety. But the takedown screw that secured the barrel to the frame was forever loose, and I had to tighten it down every 5 minutes to prevent the next shot from sending both load and barrel down field.

The 20 gauge has wandered in and out of favor with me ever since. When I first read Gene Hill describe it as “bitey,” I was reminded of my ill-advised SKB 20 gauge SxS “goose gun” that shot from both ends. There've been many years when I completed the seasons well enough without a 20 gauge gun in my safe.

Several years ago, though, a Don Zutz article turned my head more than the Swedish Bikini Team. He suggested that the 20 gauge O/U’s trim barrels, slender forearm, and grip conspired to form a right-feeling whole that handled better than the sum of its parts. When I thought about how well I've shot several 20 gauge O/Us on twitchy woodcock, I decided that Don had it right.

The 20 gauge O/U is commonly available “off the rack” weighing around 6 pounds 4 ounces, making it very well suited for upland hunting. At this weight, the gun can be carried “all day” – whatever that means for my challenged coverts – but is still heavy enough to encourage a full swing through my birds. And even if the “Rule of 96” is only loosely invoked, then a gun at this weight is more than comfortable when shooting a 7/8 ounce load.

Here’s how I had it figured in August, 2008:

”As most rough shooters ultimately do, I’ve settled on lighter weight arms, acknowledging that we carry a gun for much greater time periods than we shoot it. Here’s what I’ve saved.

My smallest-framed gun is a 20 gauge O/U, an L. L. Bean “New Englander” from B(atista) Rizzini. Since I don’t shoot registered 4-gun skeet, there’s really no pressing need for me to own a 28 gauge. A 20 can be almost as svelte – too much daintiness as an impediment to good shooting is a good topic for another day – and, when down-loaded with ¾ oz. loads, probably throws patterns just as effective as those from the much-hyped 28. This Rizzini has a rubber recoil pad, a plain fore end (no Schnabel) and a rounded pistol grip. As did Don Zutz, I find that my left hand is on plane with my right in a scaled 20 gauge O/U stocked this way, and strongly believe this adds a comfortable synergy to my shooting. Hunt records do not discourage me in this belief.”

B. Rizzini "New Englander" 20 Gauge O/U

”The New Englander is my gun of choice for woodcock and early season grouse. I rarely swap out the .005” and .010” choke tubes, and own no loads for it other than Remington’s STS20SC in #8 lead.

This particular configuration is about as good as it gets for me. If I ever were to consider an upgrade, without question I’d work with Rich Cole in Maine to have a similar style gun built for me with a custom sized stock wrapped around the universally popular Beretta 686 action.”

Since then, I’ve switched to choke tubes that are nominally .000” and .005”, and if I have not scored as well on woodcock, then I’ve scored better.

When I peeked at Cole's website recently, I was pleased to see that he’ll not only cut a stock to my dimensions, but that he offers a nifty Prince of Wales grip as well.

Cole Custom 20 Gauge O/U

I’m partial to the relaxed radius in the grip and the bold but straight grain in this particular stock. If its hue had a bit more Hershey, and the pad were black, it would be awful damn near my ideal grouse and woodcock gun.

When woodcock season ended recently, I concentrated on hunting pheasants with my 16 gauge RBL. I realized right away that I wasn't swinging the RBL like my New Englander. But it took me a while to figure out why not.

I am not especially tall, but I am slender enough – think Laurel, not Hardy - so that my arms are effectively quite long. Somewhere along the way I fell into shooting with a long left arm, and now that style feels as comfortable as fluffy dry socks in old boots. According to Michael Yardley, I'm not the first to shoot like this. At any rate, I discovered that I was "chicken winging" my left arm on the RBL's splinter forearm; and my swing felt much better after I began grabbing a bit more barrel. When I finally save up enough cash for a Cole Custom, I'll make sure Rich can make me a forearm similar in length to the New Englander's.

A light weight gun that carries and handles "just right," the 20 gauge O/U has earned a permanent spot in my safe.

Turkey Day Duck On The Upper Niagara River

My nephew Patrick took his first woodcock earlier this month. Today, in their seminal tradition of waterfowling the Upper Niagara River on Thanksgiving morning, Pat and his Uncle Dean tried to take his first duck.

It was 48° and calm, with a thin sun peeking on and off through some high clouds. I know this because, even though old Uncle Mike does not enjoy thrashing around in cold water in the dark at an uncivilized hour, I have my own tradition of bringing them an Egg McMuffin and a steamy cup of joe around 8 a.m.

A few birds were flying when I got to their blind, and a few shots had been taken, but missed, earlier. Since the lads were encouraged by the action, they announced that they’d hang in there for another hour or so. This intelligence set me to coughing, and, claiming an ague, I beat feet to the car for a hasty return to my cozy living room.

It was there that I got The Call. Patrick had made a nice shot on a lovely drake mallard with his 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light. It is rumored that Uncle Dean made a right brisk retrieve, too. Nice work, Boys!

Deer Season + 25 Years = Drear Season

Within six months of our 1978 Christmas visit with my new bride's parents, I'd bought my first shotgun and my first beagle (Nancy's Dad took great delight in showing his city-boy son in law what he'd been missing). And - another first - I'd also joined a sportsmen’s club, a field trial outfit for “brace beagles." It wasn't long before the beagle men urged me to join them for deer hunts on our grounds. By 1981, I was eager for snow by Thanksgiving, as I found whitetail hunting a bit, and cottontail hunting a whole lot, sportier over the white stuff.

Lots has changed in 25+ years. Beagles became less attractive when they started jumping more whitetails than bunnies. Hunting birds behind spaniels in October had, I discovered, three things going for it that sitting on a frozen stump in December didn’t. Not that I didn’t have my days deer hunting. The lead photo shows the deer I took in November, 1986. When he stuck his head out between two pine trees, I whacked him right between the eyes with my 12 gauge Remington 1100 from the stump I was sitting on. No kidding.

So tonight I’m looking with dread at the 3+ weeks of deer season arriving tomorrow. Safety suggests that Gordie and I stay out of the grouse woods until the shotgunners have gone home for the season. I’m not picking on the deer hunters; I’m simply acting as a prudent owner who runs his dog on grouse in what will temporarily become “deer country.”

Worse yet, even though grouse remain open through February 28, good or even decent hunting conditions in the "second season" after whitetails close are never guaranteed. The hills of w. NY where I now do most of my grousing are famous as the dumping ground of the infamous Lake (Erie) Effect Snow machine. Those 25+ years have done nothing to make snowshoeing through 4 feet of snow more attractive.

I was doubly fortunate to find a release club where I can run my dog safely on pheasants during and after the general deer season. Because the club fills a gaping hole in Gordie's and my bird hunting season, I’ve come to be a lot less defensive about my membership. Hey, we’d all prefer to be chasing plentiful wild birds in unlimited acres of beautiful country. And God bless any who do! But as my fellow old coot wrote, “It ain’t me, babe.”

Guest Book And Coming Attractions

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Pull! It's The Way To Cook Pullets

We’ve always struggled to get skinned, boneless pheasant breasts to serve up moist and tender. We have finally found a recipe which, while definitely not gourmet, makes pulled pheasant a happy meal for diners of all ages.

List of Ingredients:

2.5 pounds skinned boneless pheasant breasts
1 package McCormick Slow Cookers BBQ Pulled Pork Seasoning**
1/2 cup ketchup
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 cup water
1/3 cup apple cider vinegar

Method:

1. “Brining” the breasts seems to tenderize them a bit. Soak them overnight in water to cover, about 1/4 cup salt, and about a shot glass full of sugar.

2. When you're ready to begin, rinse the brine off the breasts once or twice with your faucet's side spray, and dry them with paper towels.

3. Place the pheasant breasts in a slow cooker.

4. Mix the seasoning, ketchup, brown sugar, vinegar and water until they’re blended. Pour the mixture over the breasts, and cover.

5. Cook 8 hours on low.

6. Remove the breasts from the cooker and let cool a bit. Then shred the breasts using two forks. Return the pheasant to the slow cooker, and mix with the warm sauce before serving (my crew advocates adding an additional 1/2 cup of bottled BBQ sauce). Serve over sandwich rolls and with cole slaw or other traditional BBQ side dishes. We like beer with BBQ, and thought Saranac’s India Pale Ale went well with this meal.

**If the McCormick packaged product is hard to find, mix your own. Something like a teaspoon each of:

Red pepper
Smoked paprika
Garlic powder
Onion powder
Salt

Yankee Spankee Philly Thankee Hideki

Whenever a New York Yankees game is televised, it’s probably playing at Cold Duck HQ. In the post season, erase "probably." Nancy and I are huge Yankee fans.

We were delighted that the Yanks validated their regular season ascendancy with 11 wins in the post season. We’ve watched the Core Four - Jeter, Pettite, Posada, and Rivera - since they won their first title in 1996, and this Fall we rooted hard for them to win one more World Series together.



It'll be interesting, and maybe a bit sad, to see what happens in the off season. But right now we’re going to enjoy #27.

Patrick's First Woodcock

My nephew Patrick D. started walking the field with me long before he was old enough to earn his Hunter Safety Certificate. Pat took to upland hunting like ham takes to eggs. As soon as he was ready, he started learning the game at the skeet field.


When he was old enough, Patrick took his first bird at my release club. Shortly thereafter he went off to college, and had the chance to hunt only over the Thanksgiving holidays with me. We were fortunate to make the most of it.


Last year, Pat started chasing woodcock with Gordie and me. I knew he would like the challenge of this quixotic bird in our tough local coverts. I wasn’t surprised at all when Pat’s initial difficulty hitting the little buggers made the woodcock a challenging Holy Grail for him.

Today, after two seasons and almost a boxful of empties, Pat finally centered an outgoing bird in one of our historically favored micro-coverts. Shortly after Pat had taken the bird with his 12 gauge Benelli UltraLight, Gordie delivered it tenderly to my hand. I passed it to Patrick with a handshake, a verbal “well done,” and a wink.


I suspect that Patrick will enjoy that bird more than several times this evening. Pat might even think he enjoyed his first wild bird more than I did.

These Drumsticks Are No Turkeys

Lots of cool stuff has either been invented or manufactured on the Niagara Frontier. For example, Buffalo Color Corporation was long the dye maker who “put the blue in blue jeans.”

Still, I was surprised to learn that a revolution in the manufacture of drumsticks was spearheaded by Joe Calato, a drummer and woodworker in Niagara Falls, NY, late in the 1950s. To this day, his Regal Tip drumsticks are the choice of some of the best drummers in the world. Read all about Joe and his creations here.

The Season’s First Woodcock Flight

My old covert Behind The Rifle Range was stiff with woodcock this afternoon. Gordie, the RBL 16 and I had lots of shooting and a bit of luck.


Tomorrow, I’ll pan toast a slice of Italian bread in a bit of EVOO and butter, then divide it into 4 pieces. Next I’ll pan fry 4 boneless breast halves in fresh EVOO and butter for 50 seconds a side. They’ll get dusted with fresh ground pepper and garlic salt while they’re warming up. The centers will still be blood rare when I lay the breasts on the toast points and immediately tuck into a fine lunch.

After lunch, I’ll mail the wings to the Fed’s Migratory Bird Wing Collectors in Laurel, MD. Here’s hoping that the data gathered will inform productive management of little Bec so that he’ll long remain a Fall favorite.

Trigger Finger Calls The Shots

Gordie and I took our season’s first woodcock on October 16. It was a gray day that followed a rainy night, so I carried the Benelli M2 autoloader that’s easy to field strip and clean. Gordie flushed the bird from the bowels of thick cover 10 yards in front of me, and I took the right to left chance with the second shell just before the ‘cock would have disappeared over a tall dogwood clump. Gordie needed a bit of time to sort out the retrieve, but he finally delivered the woodcock tenderly to hand.

While hunting today, I thought about shooting that bird. Two things happened seemingly “on their own.” I bet many seasoned hunters regularly experience the same things.

First, the safety on the M2 is mounted on the aft right side of the trigger guard. My other two guns, an O/U and a SxS, have tang-mounted thumb safeties. I never ever think about them. I just take the gun from the car, release Gordie, and if a bird offers a shot, the safety just releases itself. Somehow, the thumb and the forefinger know which is the proper safety releaser, and they get it right, without a conscious decision, every time.

Second, I never make a conscious decision to pull the trigger right now. The barrels pass the bird, and somehow the gun goes bang. I’d add “at the right time,” except that suggests decision, and the point I’m making is that there seem to be no decisions after I make the only one that’s important: is the shot safe? After that, the shooting process proceeds wonderfully on autopilot.

Too bad that flawless work around the trigger isn’t quite the same thing as flawless shooting. The Red Gods, and Fiocchi, grin.

Grilled Boneless Pheasant Breast with Spinach and Swiss Cheese

Living close to a population center, I can't find even meager numbers of wild birds less than 90 miles away. So I have no problem letting Gordie have fun flushing a few pheasants at my local release club. Since he usually hunts about 8 hours after they've been released, Gordie doesn’t know he isn't hunting wild birds. Who am I to rain on his parade?

Over a long season, we take a pheasant or two. Since they are not so tender as the supermarket birds we’re accustomed to, I'm continually searching for satisfying ways to prepare them. This year I’m trying brining. The brine apparently breaks down protein in the breasts, tenderizing the meat.

Here’s a soup-to-nuts recipe for Grilled Boneless Pheasant Breast with Spinach and Swiss Cheese. We've already enjoyed it twice.

• Get yourself a pheasant or two. If you're no longer on the sunny side of 60, you’ll recognize the extra enjoyment that’s had in recruiting newer hunters to do the shooting.



• Prepare the brine early. You’ll need:

2 cups dry white wine
2 cups water
1 shot glass Kosher salt
¾ shot glass sugar
healthy pinch of thyme
2 cloves of garlic (or so) squished through your Zyliss

Put 4 to 6 boneless breast halves, from 2 or 3 birds – with the “pheasant finger” removed – in the brine about 6 hours before you’re ready to grill. Keep the brined breasts cool in the ‘fridge. I haven’t experimented with brining for longer, but I will try 24 hours next time.

If the breasts are not of uniform thickness, consider pounding them mildly before brining to remove too thick spots and to tenderize the meat.

• Prior to grilling the breasts, put a bag of fresh spinach into a covered pan with a quarter inch of water boiling inside. Heat the spinach just enough to reduce it to a nice mound. Divvy up the mound so that there is an equal portion for each half breast.

Now that I’m retired, I’ve switched back to grilling over lump charcoal. Twenty minutes after starting my fire, I usually have a white-hot coals in the Weber Performer. With the charcoal at the grill's edges for “indirect cooking,” I lay the breasts down the middle for 4 minutes. The thermometer usually reads about 375.

At the half-way turn, I lay spinach on each piece for the first two minutes. I lay Swiss cheese on top of the spinach for the last 2 minutes. The grilling process has now taken 8 minutes, yielding tender breasts and spinach under happily bubbling Swiss.

Write the old Duck back if you try this recipe and like it; and if you can suggest improvements to the recipe, so much the better. Bon appetit!

Pinned Down By Shaky Deals With Strangers

Bill D., my erstwhile on-line friend, is an affable curmudgeon who holds forth at The Black & Tan Bombshell. We had long wanted to move past the “on-line only” part of our friendship, and were finally able to meet at his camp in the central Adirondacks this past weekend.

But a funny thing happened on the way to that forum. I bunked at a popular motel in Tug Hill the night before my visit with Bill. Parking the car prior to check in, I noticed an SUV wearing NWTF and RGS decals. When a fellow wearing badly frayed pants shambled from the office, I sensed some serious yarn swapping coming on. But he disappeared when I went inside to do my paperwork.

Carrying my bag to Room 53 minutes later, I noticed the same guy opening his door at Room 57. I approached him with a smile and with my right hand out, and we were soon chattering like old friends. It turns out he lives not 25 crow miles from me. For the last three decades, he, too, has brought dog and gun in answer to the Adirondacks' autumnal call.

After we had exchanged bios, he told me that his dog and he’d had a great day flushing birds. Shooting many of them dead did not figure centrally in his story. And before long, maybe taken up in the enthusiasm of the moment, he even mentioned some of the spots he’d hunted. I recorded these in my deLorme later in the privacy of my room, lest I embarrass him by revealing his excessive generosity.

Three pins were already added to my deLorme, and I hadn’t even unpacked.

The next morning dawned cloudy and chill. But as I entered Bill’s driveway at 11:15, the clouds had burned off, and a bright sun sparkled in the crisply blue sky. Bill and I finally met face to face, and marked our meeting with a firm handshake; but I got a warm hug from his lovely and effusive wife Terry. Over tea, we got to know each other better while their two setters napped comfortably underfoot. I knew Bill had A Keeper in Terry, by the way, because she instantly recognized the authenticity in my tattered “bird pants.”

After tea, with his sweet Gordon bitch Holly, we headed out to hunt a spot I’d scouted a summer ago. I should have considered that the place, desolate as it may be in Summer, might become a veritable parking lot for Leaf Peepers in the Fall. We didn’t even get out of Bill’s rig. Instead, we headed back home, bought lunch for three, shared it at camp – the main house and outbuilding are really way too nice to call the property a "camp" – then ran Holly for an hour out Bill’s back door.

After you’ve done this hunting business for several decades, you more or less know right away whether you’re going to get along well with a new friend who's carrying a gun. Bill and I each fielded a SxS that day, and we each carried it broken open and unloaded into the covert. By and by we even popped two shells into the guns, still not bothering to close them. We hadn’t gone 200 yards and I knew that we’d learned the same lessons well.

While we were admiring each other’s probity and good manners, Holly found a bird, maybe crowded it just a bit, and watched it fly off up the hill. Of course we were too late to do any shooting. Bill and I will get along just fine at bird camp, but we better have plenty of sausages and steaks in the freezer.

We all had to scoot an hour later to our respective destinations. I was delighted to pin this camp in my deLorme because I’ve found two special, like-minded friends there. Thanks, both of you!

The next morning, I scouted several spots I’d heard about back on Day One. There’s a lot of land thereabouts, so I did considerable driving while looking for a covert that might suit my eye. As elsewhere in NY, the non-farm land there was entirely given to mature forest, habitat that's not an incubator for grouse. As I slowly drove down a sleepy gravel road, I came upon a small clearing with two small but tidy buildings. A man in well worn pants stood talking on his cell phone while his wife was crouched over a log fire and a camp stove. Seeing me, he gave a come hither wave. So I parked the car at the deserted roadside and walked slowly into their yard. Don M., still a total stranger, flashed a smile and stuck out his right hand. As I walked up for a third howdy ‘n shake, I saw his English Setter sizing up her visitor, with the idea of a belly rub clearly in the back of her mind.

When Don asked me what I was looking for, I couldn't suppress a laugh. Having seen his setter and his tattered pants, I didn’t think he’d be forthcoming with too much help. But he was welcoming, informative and generous to a fault. We left each other with contact information; but he also put a pin (with ample documentation) in my deLorme, and suggested that I not be a stranger. Wow! If I had dawdled a bit more, I have no doubt he would have invited me to share breakfast and sent me home with a peck of fresh-picked squash in the trunk.

A dyspeptic complement to my morning coffee, the daily Bad News documents what a complicated world we live in. The easy fellowship of upland hunters is, by way of contrast, refreshingly simple. Let's hope that some well worn pants, bright-eyed dogs, and a forthright hand shake will still be sufficient for opening our grandkids' doors to new friends, new adventures.

The Folds of Honor Foundation

(This post first appeared on August 11, 2008. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

I enjoy playing golf when bird seasons are closed. I’d rather crush a real golf ball than a fake pigeon.

Golfers will have an opportunity over Labor Day Weekend 2008 to enjoy our games and at the same time give something back to U. S. servicemen, women and their families who have paid the price on the sharp end while we were sweating out our 3 foot putts at home. If this comparison gives pause, good.

But Major Dan Rooney and his Folds of Honor Foundation don’t want golfers to beat themselves up for enjoying their game. Dan would simply like Labor Day golfers to donate a dollar, and hopefully several more, to families whose serviceperson is returning badly injured from the conflicts in the Near East, or not returning at all.

Dan’s insight and action plan are as simply beautiful as a drive 250 yards smack down the middle. Interested golfers – heck, interested citizens – should check the Patriot Golf Day website here.

August 13, 2009

This year's dates bracket the Labor Day Weekend. Shove a few extra bucks in your wallet before you head out for some holiday play. Change your bets for just one day, and have everyone in your group ante up A Buck For A Bogey.

September 6, 2009

I occasionally bitch about the media's fawning coverage of Tiger Woods. The bitching is well merited; but, just to be clear, it's directed at the media, not (usually) at Tiger.

I'm very happy, nevertheless, to publicize a less public side of Tiger Woods. Evidently his father, former Green Beret Earl Woods, taught him about lots more than golf. Brace yourself and read David Feherty's piece in this month's Golf magazine.

The Triumph Of An English Cocker Gone Wild

Gordie has always been an exceptionally accommodating dog. He loves to flush live birds within range, loves to hunt for the dead ones, and gyrates his tail in uncontrollable joy when he's bringing them back to me. He alternatively loves snoozling with his head on my lap during a televised Yankee game.


But, lately, I noticed a dark change in this sweet hearted dog. Puzzled, I sought help. My lovely and talented niece Rebecca D. and her friend Jimmy H. were asked to study the eternal question, "What happens when Cockers go bad?" Here’s their shocking exposé:



Vroom vroom. It looks like it’s going to be a long season.

One Question Concerning The Glorious Twelfth Has Left Me Riddled

I first hunted ruffed grouse in 1979 on my in-laws’ gone-back farm in NY’s Adirondack region. On that hunt and every one since, birds in the bag were strictly coincidental; but thorn-raked “brush pants,” tattered game vests with pockets full of duff, and sore feet have always been companion parts of the mix. A hoary bromide has it that a successful grouse hunter seldom wears out his gun, but necessarily wears out many pairs of boots.

And then there are the trees. Spruce, popple, cedar, birch: their varieties are legion. They don't so much occupy grouse country as define it. To make matters worse, every grouse knows each tree by its first name. If my wife could whip up a good meal from all the branches and twigs I’ve shot, we could’ve opened a profitable restaurant.

Finally, a hunter doesn’t wobble off into the grouse woods to be attacked by the terrain and mocked by the birds unless he's following a trusty grouse dog who can roll its eyes at all the missed shots and, whenever possible, roll its shoulders into something dead, rotting and stinky.

I can hardly wait for October!

So I was as surprised as a snared stoat when I learned about Great Britain’s “Glorious Twelfth”, and the season of driven grouse shooting that it ushers in. It offers, as the saying goes, a study in contrasts. On August 12, bunches of wealthy “guns” – sportsmen – dress in short pants and, right out in the open, scattergun at red grouse from “butts.” Not on their butts, necessarily, but in little earthen fortifications. Maybe their grouse are fearsome? Anyways, near as I can tell, the shooters don’t have to take even a single step; in fact, because there’s some risk that an excitable gun standing in one butt might blast a fellow sportsman standing in another one nearby, I suspect that walking around is strictly limited.

Furthermore, each “gun” typically totes two shotguns. Well, the gunner doesn’t really tote them at all. He has a helper – the “loader” – who reloads one double barrel while the sportsman is engaged in emptying the other. That sounds a lot more comfy than bushwhacking through a December cedar swamp with snow sifting down your neck and Jack Frost nipping away hard at your nose and digital extremities. But it sure ain’t what my friends call partridge huntin’.

This “driven bird” thing just isn’t something I’d care to try. But, hey, some say poTAYto and some say poTAHto, eh? And, while it's not something I'm accustomed to, I have to admit that shooting at birds whizzing by at 70 or 80 miles an hour has got to be quite a challenge. I’ve got one question, though. With all those loaders just reloading away as fast as they can, and with all those fellows blazing away at the grouse being driven by, isn’t that just awful damn hard on the vehicles they're driving?

Elijah Craig 12 Year Old Bourbon

Nephew Patrick and I sampled several bourbons the other night. Pat, who was introduced in Cold Duck last July, just graduated from RPI, and as a small present I sponsored this genesis of his graduate education. It was over Brunswick stew, honeyed sweet potato fries, corn bread and pulled pork that we dithered into Elijah Craig 12 Year Old Bourbon.

I’m no match for talented tipplers who type terrific tracts on wines and spirits. Check out this review for a good description of Elijah’s ambrosia.

I’m sticking this bottle into our permanent links section, and naming it the Official Whisky of the Cold Duck Woodcock Camp.

Seal A Meal Passes The Fatty Acid Test

(This post first appeared on February 12, 2009. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

Santa brought me The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Written in 2006, it's a thought provoking book about where our food comes from. No sooner had I finished it than the February, 2009 issue of Best Life arrived. Its “The One That Got Away” focuses on omega-3 fatty acids, high on the list of Good Stuff championed in Dilemma.

Not wanting to be left off the omega-3 bandwagon, I went rummaging around my hard drive for a draft I started in 2006. Here's what it looked like:

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I remember my Dad saying "fish is brain food" every time we had seafood when I was a kid. He enjoyed telling me about his barefoot 13 mile treks to school through winter's snow and summer's heat even more. If I recall correctly, it was uphill each way, too. Over the years, those little fish-as-brain-food nuggets migrated to my memory's back burner along with Dad's marathon walks.

At the barber shop recently for my annual hair cut, I absently grabbed a magazine on my way to the chair. Before I could swap The Economist for something more user friendly, I was already swaddled in that bed sheet thingie, so I settled in and soldiered on. While browsing for a really short article not written in Greek, I found this:

"The latest piece of research is into omega-3 fatty acids. Their effects on adults are well established (they can, for example, reduce the feeling of anger in some people who cannot control their tempers). But it now seems that an inadequate intake of them by a pregnant woman puts her child at greater risk of being stupid, clumsy and friendless.... The researchers showed that the children of mothers who ate food with little omega-3 content had a lower IQ than their peers, found normal social relations harder to deal with, and lacked fine-tuned physical co-ordination."

Fried chicken trumped poached salmon on Mom's dinner table every time. No wonder 8th grade was so tough on my first time around.

In 1970, Danish researchers discovered that the Eskimos have a great coronary health record. The scientists wondered how this could be, since the weather way up North isn't suited to growing all those fruits and vegetables we know we're supposed to eat but hate anyway. "Vegetables are what real food eats," the bumper sticker snickers. I gather the scientists were startled as snared stoats when they put two and two together and concluded that all the whale, seal and salmon the Eskimos eat is precisely what keeps their tickers healthy. Cold-water seafood of all stripes is a great source of essential omega-3 fatty acids.

Duplicating that diet could be a problem for some of us. Just the other day, my wife went looking for some fresh blubber at the local supermarket. For some reason, they thought she was joking. Naturally she then asked for salmon sperm sacs. These are real winners, omega-3 wise, and have long been considered a delicacy by native peoples. She was told quite frostily that, since sperm sacs aren't yet "an acquired taste" here in NY, the supermarket didn't stock them, either.

Even if some food retailers might be reluctant to carry these flavorful treats, there's plenty of great substitutes for them. Salmon, halibut, tuna and mackerel are almost as good as blubber or sperm sacs for supplying heart-healthy omega-3s. Eat 'em twice a week and help the old ticker.

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Issues surrounding food, nutrition, and health are increasingly prominent in today's news. Writers like Michael Pollan have certainly popularized the "question of what we should have for dinner." In Dilemma, he lists four major sources of Americans’ food, from “industrial agriculture” and its CAFOs at one end to hunting and foraging at the other. Mr. Pollan puts “industrial organic” and local self sufficient farms somewhere in between. Readers who have shown the energy to find Cold Duck will certainly have the wit to form their own impressions of Dilemma, so the book review ends right here.

I’m more interested that The Economist's position on omega-3s is widely expanded in Dilemma and the Best Life article. The benefits claimed for a healthy dose of these fatty acids in the diet jump from producing smarter kids and less angry adults to the diminution of “so-called diseases of civilization: asthma and arthritis, depression and Alzheimer’s, heart disease and cancer, as well as… diabetes and obesity.” And Best Life is not shy about its claims, either, telling us to “Lose the skepticism. This isn’t the next oat bran.”

Omega-3s are produced in plants’ leaves while related acids, omega-6s, are produced in their seeds. Humans' joints and organs don't know a seed from a leaf, of course. But they understand that omega-3s are anti-inflammatories while omega-6s are just the opposite. And apparently our 21st century bodies are plenty inflamed. The ratio of omega-6: omega-3 in ancient hunter-gathers’ diets approximated 1:1. Western man, it is claimed, highly overweights omega-6s in his diet, sometimes by as much as 20:1. To lower this ratio back toward 1:1, either omega-6 consumption must be reduced, or omega-3 consumption increased.

That’s why those Danish scientists’ findings are so important. Cold-water fish contain higher levels of omega-3s than land animals. Eating such fish is part of the answer. But meat, eggs and milk from pastured animals (grass eaters) contains higher levels of omega-3s than the same products taken from animals that are fed grain (seed eaters). Although it's contrary to contemporary “common knowledge,” grass-fed beef may be better for humans than grain-fed farmed salmon. It’s not so much what you eat, then, but what you eat eats. That bumper sticker actually has it partially right.

The “what you eat eats” part is slick and catchy. I like it. But, among the several questions I’d like to ask Pollan and the others over a few beers, here’s a starter. If acid rain is drenching our grasses here in upstate NY, and “you are what you eat eats,” then what am I to think of eating local grass-fed beef? I hope there’s no problem at all, but I lack the scientific background to reach an intelligent conclusion myself. I’ll have to keep my eyes open.

In the end, Dilemma and Best Life offer essentially the same conclusion as The Economist. Eat more seafood, especially shellfish and smaller fatty fish such as herring, mackerel, anchovies, and sardines. God bless my Dad: he was right all along.

For fans of hunting-gathering good food from wild places close to home, Cold Duck recommends The Wild Harvest Table. It’s written by some cagey friends in central NY who can talk the talk because they walk the walk. I'm pleased to include Table as a permanent resident in our links.

April 25, 2009

Articles that catch my eye seem to sneak in "Michael Pollan" or "high-fructose corn syrup" or "locavore" a lot these days. What's up with that?

This piece in the April/ May "Garden & Gun" addresses the lure of Coca Cola sweetened the old fashioned way with cane sugar.

Since my subscription kicked in last year, I find myself checking the mailbox about two weeks early for "Garden & Gun." I'm going to pop it into our permanent links section.

August 2, 2009

This dairy farm can supply much of Chicago's demand for fresh milk. I wonder whether Pollan would consider the farm Heaven or Hell. Watch and form your own opinion.

My New RBL Has Arrived

Just one day after the 8-month anniversary of its order, my 16 gauge RBL arrived. Two boxes of low-gun skeet have since gone through the gun. This afternoon I’ve given it a good scrubbin’ from its packing grease, lightly oiled its metal parts and waxed its wooden ones, and have it lying on the gun bench downstairs. In this entry, I’ll record my first impressions starting with those most favorable, and provide several photos.

• When I opened the packaging, I found that the gun was exactly as I ordered it. It had 29” barrels with fixed chokes, nicely marked on the barrel flats as Skeet and Imp Cyl. The gun sported a single selective trigger, and the butt was finished to a thin, hard rubber plate.

Anyone wondering why this comment appears at the top of the list hasn't sufficiently endured the vagaries involved in ordering (semi) bespoke guns in the four-figure price range. Specially when dealing with guns made abroad, it’s a very, very happy day when the gun arrives as ordered.

• The next thing to worry about with a brand new SxS is barrel regulation. In the case of my order, the reliability of the single trigger was also guilty until proven innocent.

While 50 rounds constitute an admittedly small sample, they positively crushed any concerns I had. The relatively open chokes I ordered for this woodcock and grouse gun were perfect at skeet range distances, and several of the clays disappeared in satisfying puffs of smoke. And the gun went bang every time, whether right barrel first, or left barrel, or when fired at doubles.

Summing up, the gun arrived looking like it should and shooting like I hoped.

• I really like the look of the standard RBL rib. I am also happy with the “standard” wood on my gun. Since beauty is in the eye et c. et c., I’ll just post some photos here and let the wood speak for itself.




• When I weighed the RBL on the ancient mechanical scales that my country vet father in law gave me, it came in at 6 lbs. 8+ oz. Ten or so years ago, I may have thought this to be a tad heavy for a grouse-woods 16 gauge. Having owned and shot a lovely Arrieta 16 gauge that weighed an ounce or two over 6 lbs., I am no longer so much of a Rule of 96 purist. If I am going to find fault with actually shooting an upland gun, its 6 1/2 lb. weight is not where I'm going to start. Probably won't get there, either...

• As I understood at the time of my order, many features of the RBL are not subject to customized order. It is a $3,000 gun, after all, not a $30,000 gun. With that said, I found the wrist a tad bulky and of a shape “rounder” than what I’m accustomed to. But the checkering is sharp, and the gun feels secure in my right hand.

• Through the first 50 shells of its life, the gun has ejected the right barrel’s empties every time. The same cannot be said of the left barrel. This will not spoil the hunting that I do. What with all the missed shots that punctuate my bird shooting, the balky 2d-barrel ejector might just fix itself by grouse season's end.

• At several stations, the fore end seemed just a tad loose. I will monitor this, too. I'll probably have CSMC fine tune both conditions, and give the gun a proper cleaning as well, after the shooting stops on February 28.

I’ll probably shoulder the gun a few times tonight, swinging it on an imaginary right to left grouse in my basement. Then I’ll wipe the gun down well and lock it in the safe. A pre-season trial run will start in September when Gordie, the RBL and I can work out the kinks chasing some released pheasants. “Early” grouse season starts in northern NY on September 20. “Southern Tier” birds open on October 1, while woodcock open statewide on October 6. If we’re all lucky, I’ll report on how we three are doing then.

I Can't Wait To Write That My New RBL Has Arrived

(This post first appeared on March 2, 2009. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

But it's only March 2, so of course it hasn't, and so I can't.

Still, winter's snow is slowly retreating, the sun's warmth increases every day, and so hope springs eternal. It was only last week that my friend Bill sent an excited email. He'd phoned the manufacturer to discuss an option on the 16 gauge RBL he'd ordered PIF last November. He was among the first in line when the new run of guns was offered. In the course of the discussion, he was told that his gun was already "in the shop," and would be ready in two weeks. He was filled with a sunny but cautious optimism, so I didn't tease him by asking "ready for what." According to CSMC’s website, April was the earliest month in which “the full swing of deliveries” might begin. So Bill's story was as surprising as it is welcome.

For all who've ordered RBLs, I hope that Spring delivery is really in the cards. Having gone through the waiting period for a bespoke gun once or twice before, I've learned how tough it is to hang in there. Each day beyond your "due date" feels like a week. I've developed some strategies, at best only mildly effective, to insulate myself from delivery anxiety. For example, it's a good idea to keep on hand a close substitute for the gun being ordered. Nothing makes the wait harder than knowing you won't have the right gun when a favored game bird opens in the Fall.

Profile Of My New 16 Gauge RBL. Isn't She A Beauty?

Close Up Of My New 16 Gauge RBL's Action And Stock

Distractions help soothe the obsessive soul, too. So I’m going to refresh this entry periodically with shared accounts of my and others' hand wringing while we wait for our RBLs. Giggling at our company of misery just might be fun while we sit and sweat it out.

May 22, 2009

Today marks the exact 6 month anniversary of my PIF order for a CSMC 16 gauge RBL. True to my promise, I haven’t phoned or written them at all to see whether my gun is completed. True to their promise, they will contact me when it’s ready.

So we’re in a standoff. Apropos CSMC and me, as Randy Travis sings, “Since my phone still ain’t ringing, I assume it still ain’t you.”

It’s encouraging to read that two of the boys at the usual bulletin boards – the boards' names sound like Uphill Journey and Shouting Spotlight – have already received their guns, and that they’re delighted with them. I’m expecting to be delighted, too, whenever my RBL arrives. In fact, I’ll be content to wait until August 22, my PIF’s 9 month anniversary, before I post about it again (I may begin to get a bit antsy after that). But, just hypothetically supposing that getting my RBL finished with a high degree of quality, the gun of my dreams, and getting my RBL “tomorrow” are mutually exclusive, I’ll take waiting for the quality item every time.

Finally, our modest operation here at Cold Duck suggests that there is a keen interest across the internet in both RBL guns and CSMC in general. We use a hidden “hit” counter at CD that delivers extensive information about all the hits we get every month. Without question, our blog entries containing references to either “CSMC” or “RBL” get the most hits.

If we wanted to engage in the same sort of cheap tricks used at some web sites, we could increase out hit count dramatically by saturating each post with “CSMC” and “RBL” references. Although we are big fans of both CSMC and the RBL 16, we have not “monetized” Cold Duck, so there is no reason for us to stick “CSMC” and “RBL16” into every nook and cranny of Cold Duck. We’ll let CSMC sell its RBL 16s at its own website.

July 20, 2009

Just a few days short of my order's 8 month anniversary, CSMC contacted me late last week to inform that my 16 gauge RBL was ready to ship and to request appropriate FFL information. If Danny faxed them his FFL form after breakfast today, then my gun should arrive here on Wednesday or Thursday. CSMC made a point of taking my email address so that they could send a link to track the gun as it moves here through the UPS system. Very nice.

This addendum wraps up this post's happily brief life. Expect a new post with pictures after I have put a box of #8s through the gun at the skeet club down the street.

See No Bad, Hear No Badly

The vast but vastly underpaid editorial staff here at Cold Duck collectively cringes whenever it notices “badly” badly become “bad”’s substitute. And vice versa.

A pair of YouTube clips can help clear up the confusion. Watch this clip of a dog yapping at a skunk.

There are two things to learn from this clip. First, if you let your dog yap at a skunk so you can film him instead of getting your yappy dog out of harm’s way, then the inevitable conclusion is, as the kids say, on you. And on your yappy little dog. Second, and more to our point, the post-skunk yappy dog smells bad.

Now watch this clip of a beagle pup chasing a rabbit.

This fine looking pup looks like she’s from good stock. And since her owner has taken the trouble to find – let alone keep – a starting pen, I suspect that the pup will be a fine rabbit hound some day. But today, the pup loses the trail too often. To our point, sometimes this pup smells badly.

Get it? Then let’s consider this entry’s title. During deer season, or in the winter months when we’re snowed out of grouse country, Gordie and I chase a released pheasant or two at my shooting club. Although the club does not offer hunts for wild birds, it does offer us a chance at something second-best when third-best is the sofa and Oprah Winfrey. In these cases, I am happy to chase released birds, as I see no(thing) bad in it.

Suppose that on one of our deer-season hunts at the club, I see Gordie ecstatically rolling some substance deep into the fur behind his shoulder blades. Hint: when I get there, there will undoubtedly be some white tissue paper lying near what Gordie is rolling in. When he continues to joyously cover himself with this awful offal even as I run at him screaming “No! No!,” Gordie is then guilty of hearing “no” badly.

Studious Cold Duck regulars will want to complete this exercise to determine whether they’ve mastered the lesson. Suppose you’re hunting grouse with your brother in law on Tug Hill in January. It is raw and cold, of course. Your brother in law is suddenly offered an easy right-to-left shot at a grouse in an astonishingly open covert. However, although he swings at the bird, it fails to fall from the sky. In fact, no shot is heard. When you ask him what happened, he claims that his fingers were so cold that he could only feel the safety __________. Hours later, driving home in the car, you both grouse that that was the only grouse all day. You, of course, rub in his inadequacy in creative and cruel ways. You’re enjoying making him feel __________.

Shame on you!

Where Did The Other Dollar Go?

(This post first appeared on June 13, 2009. Today's update provides a solution to the proposed problem.)

I don’t remember when I first heard this riddle, but I recognized it right away as a sweetie. I’m offering a Quack of the Cold Duck itself as a prize for the first solution. If there isn’t a prize winner in a few days, I’ll fill in the blanks. Here’s the riddle:

Three buddies walk into a bar and order a pitcher of beer. After downing a glass or two, they decide to order a large pizza loaded with the works. The waitress takes their order and tells them that the pizza costs $30. They each toss a $10 bill on the table, and after pocketing the cash, the waitress heads for the kitchen.

Meanwhile, one of the boys uses the men’s room, and on the way back to his table runs into the waitress. She apologizes, telling him that she had the price wrong. Since the pizza only costs $25, she hands the fellow 5 singles back. Thanking her for being honest, he gives her $2, then pockets $1, and gives $1 to each of his two buddies back at the table.

So each buddy spent $9 counting the 3 $1 refunds. And the tip was $2. That makes $27 plus $2, or $29.

Where did the other dollar go?

June 18, 2009

Like a magician’s trick, this problem is all about misdirection. The charm of this misdirection is that the $1 difference is so small that solvers don't smell the rat in the problem itself, but rather doubt their own addition.

Each boy in fact spent $9. Each boy laid out $10, and each got a $1 refund. As a group, they spent $25 for the pizza and $2 for the tip. $9 times 3 = $27 = $25 + $2. There is no “missing” dollar.

The problem as phrased sets up a spurious equation.
By adding the tip to the $27 total cost, the problem adds the tip twice.

If this explanation doesn’t work for you, let’s try another one that avoids the original mental landmines entirely. Suppose you take a cab ride to the airport. The cabbie tells you that the fare is $25. You hand him 3 $10 bills, and ask for 3 singles as change; he can keep the $2 as a tip. No tricks here. This is the identical payment scheme found in the original problem, except that 3 people each get $1 returned in the original, while one person gets $3 returned here.

The misdirection in this problem is so powerful that my solution has been greeted more than once with a response like, “Well, your answer makes sense. But you still didn’t answer the original question.”

I guess I’ll just have to get smarter.

While waiting around for that to happen – I hope you’re all comfortably seated – let’s take a break and see how another mathematician struggles to correct his pals’ faulty long division.

Bob Is A Golfer

I am not A Golfer. I love to play the game. I prefer to carry my sticks around the course, and I don't cheat. I even practice. But I am a golfer, not A Golfer.

I can explain the distinction with an example. Two of my buddies and I headed to a nearby muni today. As we were warming up on the first tee, the starter waved a fourth player into our group. Howdy ‘n shake revealed that Bob was a 70ish retiree who played there often.

Bob had a lovely swing… in practice. He released his right side well, and rotated around a tall left leg. Other than having stiffness issues common to us all on the Back Nine of Life, Bob took a pretty nice swipe at the ball… in practice. But when it came to actually smacking the ball, Bob had one of the most pitiful reverse pivots I’ve ever seen. His weight shifted with a wobble onto his right foot, and the left one often left the ground. Please understand that I am not criticizing Bob or his technique, as he was a hail fellow well met; I’m simply describing the business end of his long game.

On the seventh tee, Bob “cracked” a drive about 100 yards at a 30 degree angle to the right. At least this tee ball was airborne. It was headed for either a dunking in a wet ditch or the out of bounds stakes protecting the adjacent suburban back yards. Bob seemed doomed to lose one stroke unless he lost two. But his ball somehow found the only tree in the vicinity, pin balled noisily in its branches, and then miraculously pitched safely into the light rough just off the fairway. With disaster averted, we all gave Bob a grin and started walking toward his ball. When he got there, he ruefully examined ball and lie. After cursing the golfing gods and his rotten luck, he then muttered sourly that he'd be lying in the damn fairway if that dumb ball had just kicked another 6 feet left.

A Golfer sees only the half empty part of a half full glass.

Gulf Golf

Back when I was a kid, our whole family enjoyed gathering in front of the TV to watch the Bob Hope Christmas Special. Whether wearing a Hawaiian shirt in Southeast Asia or a rabbit-fur lined Mad Bomber hat in Alaska, Bob usually clutched a golf club while good naturedly needling the base commander. This was always met with lusty hoots and cheers from the sea of enlisted men assembled before "the stage".

For sure, times have changed. Back then, we watched the show on a black and white TV whose picture was fine tuned with "rabbit ears." And Bob was there to entertain "our boys" with delicious male eye candy like Ann Margret and Joey Heatherton.

Even though Bob is gone, it's reassuring to discover that others have taken up his mantle. I've read that actor/ musician Gary Sinise is the new Bob Hope. Hollywood A-listers who go to bat for our service people are as special as they are rare.

Another guy who's glad to entertain the troops through the USO is former PGA golfer David Feherty. Cold Duck featured some of his work in February. The cut-to-the-bone stuff he wrote about his visit to the Gulf appeared first here and then there.

I'm also delighted to shine a light on a troop-support program funded by local golfers. "Bunkers in Baghdad" will remain in our permanent links section.

Some seek to demonize golfers and hunters these days. Cold Duck is always happy to give them the lie.

Know What “Reintarnation” Means?

(This post first appeared on February 6, 2009. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

The Washington Post hosted two annual wordsmithing contests in the years bookending Y2K. In the “Style Invitational,” readers were invited to pick a word of their choice from the dictionary. The challenge was to alter it by adding, subtracting or changing precisely one letter, and then to supply a clever new definition of their own invention. As an example, someone was a winner with

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

I’ve thought about entering the contest, but I'm not even sure the Post hosts it any more. So I've decided to start a blog entry with two new terms of my own, and add to it whenever my Muse sings. The entry will be open to Cold Duck readers, too. Feel free to add your own definitions as Comments. Better yet, send them in an email and, in lieu of a substantial cash prize, I’ll put your definition in the body of the entry and give you full credit. Just be prepared to live with your hard earned notoriety.

February 6, 2009

Endolphins: Powerful hormones that produce euphoria in whale watching ecotourists.

Maribund: Someone dying at sea.

April 7, 2009

Ruffled grouse: A partridge that’s just survived a Bang-Bang-Damn! moment on Opening Day.

Triungulation: GPS navigation technique for lost deer hunters.

Molsin: DUI.

Guns And Hunting Must Be Banned Now!

Cold Duck has always stood four square behind our honored hunting tradition. But today I must reject that stand. It is possible to go too far in pursuit of one’s passion. I think the account linked below clearly demonstrates that some hunters have crossed the line. When innocent school children at play are traumatized, I say that enough's enough. In the name of decency, I call for an end to it!

Read the shocking story of Royal abuse and decide for yourself.