Davy Crockett was all the rage when I was a youngster. I’d put on my genuine Davy Crockett coonskin cap and load my toy gun to help Davy shoot the bad guys whenever I’d watch the hit Walt Disney Show. My parents didn’t worry any about their little sniper. They knew that “let’s pretend” is just a phase that kids go through.
Nowadays I shoot real guns that are recent constructions of old designs perfected late in the 1800s. And the coonskin cap’s been replaced with traditional cotton duck and wool duds occasionally enhanced with modern fabrics like nylon and Gore-Tex. But while I often feel linked afield to generations of hunters who’ve gone before, I don’t ever pretend I’m Davy Crockett any more. It’s really clear to me that I’m a hunter, not a fighting man. When the critters start shooting back, I’ll definitely be rethinking my participation.
That’s why I’m not a fan of recent advertising campaigns touting certain hunting products. Pictured in these campaigns are strapping young men badly in need of a shave who appear to be frighteningly earnest about shooting ducks. My buddies and I head out to forests and fields just to enjoy being there with our dogs, and, if we’re lucky, to bring home a bird or two for the weekend’s meal. An old fashioned hunt might plumb tucker our aging asses out, but it’s never confused with a grim and deadly slog. And we certainly don’t pretend we’re SEALs.
In fact, suggesting that hunters are like “special forces” diminishes both groups. The sooner these advertising campaigns are discontinued, the better. I’d rather that advertisers seek to connect a technologically enhanced present with a past that’s rich in tradition.
It’s hard for me to believe there isn’t a 16 gauge scattergun in my safe. I’ve owned five since 1997, 3 SxSs, an O/U and a pump, and somehow I’ve traded them all away. Three trades off-loaded problematic guns; I’d be delighted if I could put either of the other two back in my safe tonight. Too bad life doesn’t work that way.
I find the 16 gauge to be the most aesthetically appealing of the SxSs. In 28 gauge, the SxS’s barrels can look a little like Olive Oyl’s arms, specially if those barrels are 28” or longer.
Worse for me is the bug-eyed look at the fences of the 12 gauge SxS.
In 16 gauge, the SxS looks just right.
As a “rough shooter,” I often carry my gun in one hand while fending off brush or pine boughs with the other. I’ve found the squared-off base of the standard sidelock action occasionally to be the slightest bit uncomfortable in a one-hand carry. When I found a round bar action 16 made in the style of best British guns, I was hooked. So the new apple of my eye is the AyA #2 Round Action.
Ain’t she sweet? Michael Yardley gave her a nice revue. I really want my 16 to weigh 6 pounds 4 ounces (actually, I’d like all my upland shotguns to weigh 6-4). I’ll not be too dogmatically specific in my demand, though, so I’ll settle for that dream weight plus/ minus 2 ounces. With that in mind, I’m thinking of buying a used gun whose weight will not be promised but actually confirmed with a simple scale. I can also fire a used gun to verify its barrels’ regulation.
I’d use such a gun almost exclusively for open field work over flushing spaniels. It’d be fed a steady diet of 1 oz. quality lead #6 loads, whether for pigeons used in training, or for hunting pheasants. Fixed chokes of ¼ and ½ would be good, as would a modern recoil pad in a subdued hue. When I find such a marvel, I may not wait long to pull the trigger.
Canadian songstress Terri Clark begs to differ. Enjoy the music while I present an opposing opinion.
I’ve been blessed with abundant opportunities to hunt woodcock the last 17 years. My first gun dog, Bean the American Water Spaniel, was pure poison on the “little russet fellers,” usually giving me a flash point just before he busted in on one deep in the redbush. But of all the retrieves Beanie made back then, and of those Gordie’s made since 2005, I can’t remember any of my hunting companions or I ever describing a particular woodcock as “a real hog.” The woodcock, it seems, are all the same size.
So were the cottontails and snowshoe hares I cut my hunting teeth on in the ‘80s. And although I’ve never hunted wild quail, the ones I see in photos look to be pretty much the same size, too. Quail hunters’ success, I take it, is usually quantified by numbers in both coveys and bags, not by the size of any particular Quailzilla.
Some big game hunters and fishermen approach their game from a different angle. For them, bigger is definitely good, and biggest is lots better. There are all sorts of scoring systems - Boone and Crockett, Pope and Young, IGFA - which quantify the size of a particular trophy. This leads to a friendly competition of sorts to take an animal higher on the all-time record list. Think about it. Who has ever seen a cable TV fishing show when its “star” fish wasn’t also its biggest?
It seems to me that many kinds of critters all weigh about the same in their individual local habitats - think running salmon, or black bears, or schooled yellow perch. Taking an “outlier” - a real hog - ought not be confused with taking an average size animal from a different ZIP code. When I caught red salmon after salmon in 1984 up in Alaska, each fish was bigger than any trout I’d ever caught in NY. But those sockeyes were virtually identical. The brown I caught on northern NY’s Chateaugay River with a #14 Adams was the biggest trout I ever caught in NY, a real trophy, but it weighed 6 pounds less than every one of those sockeyes.
I’m happiest when I can pursue a couple of birds or fish on an almost daily basis in season. That means I spend a lot of time in home waters and fields. There’s a high probability that today’s bag - well, I don’t bag trout any more - will look pretty much like any other day’s, but this doesn’t bother me at all. As Edwin Armstrong probably said, I’ll take frequency over amplitude every time.
Terri Clark is welcome to size up men any way she pleases. But when her contentions are applied to upland hunters, they fall disappointingly flat.
When I met Nancy at the Skylon Marathon in 1977, she was already an accomplished, record-setting road racer. She continued to work hard after we married in 1978, and in spite of my help, she got even better. Lots better.
We've got a shoe box full of clippings and notes from most all her races. I'm going to use Cold Duck as a vehicle for revisiting some of them with family and friends. Entries will be added in reverse chronological order. I've invited Willie to set the proper mood.
November 4, 1979
Event: Avon Series
Location: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Distance: 12.42 MI
Time: 1:15:52
Place: 4
The Skinny: From the Buffalo Evening News:
“Nancy Mieszczak of Buffalo’s Checkers Athletic Club finished fourth in a 20-kilometer race here Sunday and won a trip to the Avon National Championships in Pasadena, Calif. next spring.”
In a pre-race article the Ottawa Sunday Post wrote:
“Among the Americans traveling to Ottawa is Nancy Mieszczak of Buffalo…. She is the Road Runners Club of America 1978 20K Champion.”
The winner of the race was Karen Doppes of Cincinnati. Karen, Julie Isphording and Nancy would become friends over the years of the Avon circuit.
It’s a small world. Two years ago, I met Bill Cosgrove whose Springer was competing at a local field event. Bill is quite a star - deservedly so - in the spaniel world. We got to jawing about this and that. While making small talk, I may have mentioned Julie as another name I recalled from Cincinnati. He knew her well: she used to run around with his wife Karen… Small world, indeed.
June 24, 1979
Event: Bonne Bell Location: Buffalo, New York Distance: 6.21 MI Time: 37:56 Place: 2
The Skinny: This was one of the slowest 10Ks of Nancy’s career. My notes are sketchy, but I suspect race day must have been hot, or the course perhaps a bit long. In any event, she was the first local finisher, and second only to that pesky Jacqueline Gareau woman. Nancy recalls that Tom Donnelly paced her on his bicycle.
In the pre prize money era, the Bonne Bell bell was a tasteful and sought after prize, and it still remains in the trophy case. We’ve always liked this photo taken at the awards ceremony.
May 13, 1979
Event: The Ottawa Marathon Location: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada Distance: 26.2 MI Time: 2:55:58 Place: 3
The Skinny: Nancy and I enjoyed racing in Ottawa. We’d drive north several days ahead of the race and visit with Doc and Mom Dragoo. Then we’d overnight in Ottawa the night before the race and scoot back home when it was over.
Nancy set a PR at this race even though she developed a bad set of blisters en route. She was third to Jacqueline Gareau who ran 2:47:58.
This was the first of several races having a Husband - Wife Division where I gravy trained my talented wife’s performance with a modest one of my own. We still have the beer mugs proclaiming us Labatt’s Husband - Wife Champions of Canada.
September 24, 1978
Event: Maple Leaf Half Marathon Location: Manchester, VT Distance: 13.1 MI Time: 1:20:00 Place: 2
The Skinny: Nancy had not been racing quite a year when I met her in October, 1977. She had done very well in that time, including victories - as a rookie! - in two marathons. In one of these races, she absolutely destroyed a particular fellow who was desperately trying to keep pace with her.
We know this because Guy Thomas told her so, on the phone, when he invited her to run his inaugural Mapleleaf Half Marathon in Manchester, VT. He was a great sport, and in no time we became friends with Guy and his wife Vivien.
For some reason, I neglected to keep a journal record for this race. Nancy didn’t take a lot of seconds in those days, so I suspect whoever beat her was quite good. It may well have been Patti Lyons, a superstar in road racing in 1978. In any case, Guy’s promotional efforts and the fast 1978 times helped the race to grow in stature over the years.
Nancy and I were there again a year later when Patti set a world record with a 1:14:03 time. You can see Patti hoisting the cutting board that was a cool prize in those just-before-prize-money days. Nancy has one, too; we’ll use it to chop some cheese the next time you’re visiting.
The Skinny: Revco was a fore runner of stores like Walgreen. Its chain was wide spread and healthy back in 1978, so its signature race attracted strong men’s and women’s fields for both the 10 KM and marathon events. Revco disappeared after its stores were bought and renamed by CVS in 1997.
Nancy beat second-placer Kitty Consolo by 43 seconds, finished 68th overall, and continued to garner regional and national attention.
I had a good race, too. I finished in 32:33, at the time a personal best that was good for 23rd place and bragging rights as first western NY finisher.
This race pre-dated the prize money era in road racing. One of the attractions of the event was the offer of Revco merchandise in addition to traditional “statue trophies.” I don’t remember what Nancy won; but my age-group award was included in Webster’s definition of irony: a hair-drying iron.
April 17, 1978
Event: The Boston Marathon Location: Boston, MA Distance: 26.2 MI Time: 2:55:00 Place: 20
The Skinny: In the week before the race Nancy and I flew to San Diego for a National Council of Teachers of Mathematics conference. Although working math teachers and genuinely interested in the Conference’s programs - specially hands-on events using those new personal computer thingees - we were also delighted to absorb some sun and get in some easy training before flying into Boston for the Marathon.
A woman for whom I’d worked earlier in the 70s was nice enough to host my fiance and me for dinner at her club in La Jolla. I recall gentle conversation and a great view of the ocean. The evening was a special engagement present to a couple of starry eyed kids. Thanks, Mrs. Kellogg.
In Boston, we crashed with my school days pal Peter O. We slept either on floor-laid mattresses, or futons, or something; I don’t exactly recall. Except that if we slept on them tonight, we’d be dead by morning.
Anyways, we got up, went out for breakfast, and - incredible for us - finally committed around 9 a.m to actually starting the race.
Nancy’s 20th place was therefore darn good. If Cold Duck lives long enough, I’ll be able to blog an even better finish.
March 19, 1978
Event: AAU National 30 KM Championship Location: Albany, NY Distance: 30 KM Time: 1:58:23 Place: 1
The Skinny: Nancy and I were engaged at the time of the 30 KM Nationals in Albany. We bunked with Richard J. and his lovely wife Kathy. Cold Duck regulars will recognize him as Cousin Richard of Speculator fame.
A day after the race, I kissed Nancy goodbye and while she headed back to Waterford, I drove home to Buffalo. In addition to teaching math there during the day, I was also teaching applied trigonometry to machinist apprentices at night. I had a tradition - enabled by an administration that looked on with benignly blind eyes - of taking the class out for an adult beverage after I’d rated the last student’s terminal exam.
After buying the first round and reporting that everyone had earned a passing grade, I discovered that the men were still thirsty - and generous. An hour and too many beers later, all tongues were loose, if a bit thick, and conversation flowed freely. Proud of my bride-to-be's recent win, I blurted out that I was engaged to the national trucking champion, except that I did not say "trucking."
After the slightest of pauses, the guys all gave me a look - visualize the Last Supper - and asked in one voice, "You're marrying the national trucking champion?" And a spontaneous cheer broke out.
This story is now known word for word by the whole extended family, down to our nieces and nephews’ college friends. There’s usually a call for the story, somewhere after the second bottle of wine, at all the major family feasts.
My mentor Alois “Louie” R. introduced me to stream fishing for trout in 1961. He was quite an outdoorsman: he had a “camp” in the Southern Tier, rifles and shotguns, a beagle named “Pepper” that was poison on rabbits, deer heads on the wall, and an old bamboo fly rod with an automatic fly reel that he used to drift salted minnows downstream. His son was grown and chasing other things by 1961, so Louie picked me up as a sort of “project kid.” I thought he was 10 feet tall.
One day around 1980, I was drifting salted minnows down stream with absolutely no luck when, after maybe 500 yards of work, I bumped into a father-son team fishing dries upstream. The father was maybe 65, the son 40ish. I asked if I might follow behind them to watch how this here fly fishing stuff was done. They said sure, come on along, and with that they continued fishing up through the stretch I’d just spent an hour wading through.
I was dumbfounded. They immediately began catching fish - nice fish for that stream - in water I had just muddled through. They were fishing one rod, alternating with each fish caught and released, and they must have caught 8 or so in the next hour. It may have been a good or average evening for them, but it was transformational for me. Clearly this fly fishy stuff worked.
Within a week, I caught a trout on a fly for the first time. It was on different water - Tonawanda Creek, to be exact - and the fly, of all things, was a #12 Hornberg that I’d picked up at the local Orvis shop. I’d initially been apprehensive whether I could make the dry fly thing work, so I asked the salesman to recommend something wet. How he suggested a Hornberg, and why I bought it, both seem a mystery now.
It didn’t take long after that for my personal dry fly style to emerge and solidify. I like to fish when I like to fish. That is, if I have four hours free and the fishing muse is chewing on my ear, then away I go. It doesn’t matter to me at all if it’s “the wrong time,” or whether the right hatch is coming off or not, or the solunar tables say “stay home.” The fish better accommodate my schedule, dammit. I realized that I didn’t need several boxfuls of flies to match all the hatches if I wasn’t going to dance to their tune anyway. I bought a bunch of Adams in #14 and #16 and I was off to the races. I later learned to add elk hair caddis flies in the same size. That was that until my eyes couldn’t follow a #16 black caddis or Adams as well as they used to. I added Ausable Wulffs to the box and got happy again. So now I have a 6-compartment fly box about the size of a pinochle deck for all my fake bug needs.
Today I fished the creek where that father-son team first slipped me the fly fish Kool Aid 30 years ago. There’s no need to keep it a secret: it’s Clear Creek, home to lovely little stream bred rainbows.
I immediately hooked up with a good fish for that water - it had my new 4 weight rod quite excited - and, desperately wanting to get a good photo of it for this blogpost, I tried to “get it on the reel.” Why I tried that with only 15-20’ of line out is beyond me. Needless to say, the fish broke off.
But I soldiered on and, after landing another fish that broke off in my attempts to photograph it, finally caught a fish who didn’t mind having its picture taken. For those who haven’t tried it, it’s easier to catch ‘em than to photograph ‘em. We’ll try to post some photos that are a bit more impressive as the summer rolls along.
This wild rainbow from Clear Creek took a #16 Ausable Wulff
As reported in Cold Duck first here and then there, I’ve been really happy with the uniform quality of Remington’s STS20SC8 shotshell.
That shell was one of several examined in Tom Roster’s “Shot Talk” article in the March/ April edition of Shooting Sportsman. I have come to appreciate Tom’s painstaking gathering of shotshell performance data. I was delighted to read that his dispassionate opinion of the shell’s performance justifies my confidence in it.
The M1911 is a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, and recoil-operated handgun. Designed by the prolific John Browning, it’s chambered for the .45 ACP cartridge.
The M1911 pistol originated late in the 1890s, the result of a search for a suitable semi-automatic handgun to replace the revolvers then in service. In response to problems encountered by American units fighting Moro guerrillas during the Philippine-American War, the then-standard Colt M1892 revolver in .38 Long Colt was found to be critically lacking in terms of stopping power. Following its success in an extended series of trials, the Colt pistol was formally adopted by the Army on March 29, 1911, and thus the “M1911” was born.
This video clip shows an experienced shooter loading and firing a M1991A1, a model of the original M1911 with externally updated features.
Hollywood has had a long love affair with hard men, pump shotguns and the M1911. In the Big Shootout Scene in The Wild Bunch, William Holden as “Pike” shoots it with deadly effect. Like many Hollywood guns, Holden’s Colt holds more than a generous supply of bullets.
Little boys didn’t drive or own shotguns in 1956, so I had to be content reading about hunting timberdoodles with setters and Parkers in Field & Stream. Fishing, on the other hand, was not only allowed but encouraged, probably to get me out from under a loving and clever Mom’s feet.
Much of my early fishing was enjoyed with my closest friend and cousin Bill K. We started with dirt cheap bait casting outfits and night crawlers, fishing ponds, streams and lakes for whatever they held. By high school we’d graduated to spinning outfits, slinging plastic worms and Mepps spinners at bass and trout. As happens in life, we saw each other only on major holidays during our college years, blond women for a time replacing brown trout in our dreams.
Walking up trout in streams with a fly rod emerged as my favorite type of fishing after I started teaching. I used my Horrocks-Ibbotson “Ike Walton” fiberglass fly rod (Model #1348) from high school days until 1984 when I had a local TU member build me a custom 8 1/2’ 5 weight made of genuine boron! I upgraded reels at the same time, skyrocketing from my trusty but lowly H-I “Rainbow Reel” (Model #1107) all the way up to a Martin MG-7. I hope you’ll pardon my swagger.
Later in 1984 I received a disturbing surprise from the Be Careful What You Ask For Dept. My wife Nancy was still competing nationally in road races - for example, she was invited to and ran in the ’84 Olympic Trials - and was a marketable, if not quite tier one, “star.”
Nancy and Frank Shorter post race in Montana
The committee of the Anchorage Women’s Marathon solicited her to give pre race clinics, appear on local TV spots, attend some dinners and parties, and hand out roses at the finish line of their August race. For accepting this sweet gig she was awarded an all-expenses 2-week trip to Alaska complete with a financial honorarium. Sweetheart that she is, Nancy negotiated away the cash and turned it into a round trip ticket for me.
One day a local Anchorage paper advertised overnight floatplane mini vacations into nearby fishing lodges. I later figured out that the ads were selling the odd room that had not been pre-booked by Swells from the Lower 48: while I don’t recall exactly what price was asked, it was something like $100. My wife kissed me on the forehead and drove me to the deHavilland.
There was an unfamiliar noise coming from the creek behind the lodge when I checked in. After I hit the water 45 minutes later, I discovered that fish tails flapping through the shallows were raising the racket. The phrase “stacked like cordwood” accurately described the sockeye run. I began catching one fish after another. They were all of about the same size, which was much bigger than any trout I’d ever caught or even seen before. Like this:
After we returned to western NY, I soon discovered that the thrill of catching brightly colored, naturally reproducing local rainbows in the 4” - 6” range had been heavily discounted by my Alaskan experience. A TV advertisement then current bragged that “you never come all the way back from Alaska!” I guess not.
By 1990, lingering injuries forced Nancy to consider trading her racing shoes for whatever was the next best thing. She opted for golf. Since this was something we could enjoy together - she’s too antsy to enjoy fishing - it wasn’t much of a sacrifice for me to mothball the fly rod at the time and enjoy the local course with a brand new set of golfing friends.
It wasn’t until a year or so ago that I got the urge to break out the fly rod again. When local temperatures hit 95 on the 4th of July this summer, I finally decided it’d be lots more fun to wade in a trout stream than play golf in a sauna. I started scouting water I hadn’t fished for 20 - sometimes 45! - years. It didn’t take long to find fish, either. They were still nice to look at, and they were still small.
But it was different this time. The joy of catching and releasing vividly colored stream-bred trout, even 5 inchers, came back with a sweet vengeance. Life’s twists and turns over 26 years have a way of transforming a guy’s perspective. Sorry, Tom, but I had come back home again.
I’m very much looking forward to the 2011 season. I think I’ll pick up an 8’ 4 weight, if for no better reason than to continue my reckless cycle of buying a new rod and reel every 25 years. Adirondack brook trout need no help in the good looks department. But if the new rig brings out the inner musky in a 6” brookie, no one will hear me complaining.
I decided to stay home and hunt woodcock today rather than drive 95 miles southeasterly to hunt grouse. Late yesterday afternoon, a tornado warning was issued for grouse country, and I guessed that, tornado or not (it was “not”), the grouse might be a bit skittish this morning.
We enjoyed breakfast under a cloudless blue sky. A fresh southwest breeze waved the branches of trees still wearing more than a leaf or two. Gordie and I headed out at half past one and arrived at this field 5 minutes later.
I’m obviously not much of a photographer, but this snap gives a sense of the redbush meadows where I’ve been chasing woodcock since 1994. The dogwoods that were knee to waist high then are now 10 to 15 feet high. The immaculately maintained snow sled lanes running through them then are now overgrown and rutted badly from ATVs. Successful shooting over Gordie is a lot more difficult than it was over Bean, my curmudgeonly American Water Spaniel.
Still, there’s something to say for being into birds in 5 minutes, even if the sharp sticks poking at my eyes get thicker every year. And, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m delighted to hunt in places where I have some history.
We had good luck today. I shot 4 times at 6 birds that gave us 7 flushes. I convinced a brace of woodcock to accept my invitation to tomorrow’s dinner. The sun was beaming down so brightly when I photographed today’s first bird that my orange vest bled to yellow in the photo. The Prince of Wales grip on my 20 gauge Cole Custom has been a delight both when carrying and shooting.
I decided to try one more spot, the field at the end of my street. If my Big Field Covert is growing up, then my End of Street Covert is almost completely overgrown. The first time I walked into this field in 1994, the pines in the snap below were about 8 feet tall. The area within 30 yards radius of those pines was a genuine hotspot. These pines are more than 40 feet tall today, and I got torn up when I dithered into the now-gone hotspot around them two years ago.
When I saw those pines today, it reminded me of an anecdote I’d read concerning Sam Snead. Balls, Sticks & Stuff tells the story nicely:.
“There's a story often told about an elderly Sam Snead, playing at Augusta National in a practice round prior to the Masters. He was playing with a much younger player who could really crank the ball out there off the tee.
Most of the way around, the younger player asked Snead for advice on how to play the tricky Augusta National course and Snead was more than happy to oblige, his Southern hospitality ingrained in the mountains of Virginia was too reflexive not to do so.
As the two stood on the 13th tee, a par-five dogleg left around tall Georgia pines and Rae's Creek, Snead offered this peace of advice. ‘You know, when I was your age, I used to just take a driver and hit it high up and over those trees.’ The younger player had the honor, so he addressed the ball with his driver, took a mighty cut, and the ball sailed into the trees, hitting the pines only about halfway up their trunks.
The younger player looked bewildered and Snead followed-up. ‘Of course, when I was your age, those trees were much shorter.’"
I’ll have to snooker Patrick like that the next time he and I chase birds at the end of the street.
Gordie and I had a good day woodcocking today. We enjoyed a comfortable 47°F with little wind and scattered high clouds. I punched out a bit from my familiar route in the big field west of the high school. We won’t forget to revisit some juicy little spots we dithered into.
Gordie flushed 8 or 9 birds, and I didn’t miss them all. The new Cole Custom is a delight to carry, and tosses its pattern right where I’m looking. When I anchor the butt just right in my shoulder pocket - and not, for example, across my bicep - puffs of feathers float in the air.
Thirty three years ago I spent the afternoon of October 22 running a marathon starting in Buffalo, NY, continuing into Canada over the Peace Bridge, and finishing at Niagara Falls.
Niagara Falls wasn't this cold in 1977
I spent the evening partying thereabouts with friends, assiduously replacing precious electrolytes lost in the race. Somewhere around 7 pm I met the absolutely sweetest girl holding a glass of bubbly amber electrolytes in each hand. She surveyed me briefly, noted both my hands were empty, and swung one of the glasses helpfully in my direction. I was totally smitten!
That same sweet girl - who was, as I was to discover, a much better road racer than I - still tolerates with a smile my muddy boot prints, shedding dogs and gun swapping misadventures. Thanks, Nancy, for 33 years of much more giving than taking.
Crank up the volume and fire up this Johnny Cash classic. Then scroll down to read why, just like John, "I'll have the only one there is around."
I started messing around with O/Us in 1994. The first one I handled was a 20 gauge field grade Citori. I liked the gun generally, and very much liked its rounded semi-pistol grip. For some reason, I didn’t buy one, and I don’t remember exactly what I bought instead. But it didn’t stay in the safe long, and its sale started a long and expensive education in shotgun swapping.
Since then, I’ve learned that the Citori’s grip is one of several that’re promiscuously designated as “Prince of Wales" grips. I’ve done a bit of homework on the subject, and blogged the results in Cold Duck in January, 2009. Quite a few gunners are apparently interested in the “PoW grip” as it’s sometimes abbreviated. The little netspy that tells me who is googling what parts of Cold Duck reveals that the PoW article gets pinged more than any other. Well, except for this, which is a hotly queried question from Cheyenne through Cape Town to Calcutta. Go figure. No, really.
When I saw a lovely Woodward-style PoW grip pictured on a Rich Cole Custom Beretta, I was absolutely smitten. So in June I traveled to Cole’s shop in Harpswell, ME to get measured for a 20 gauge 686. I’m delighted to introduce the little beauty that Rich has built for me.
The snap above shows why this Cole Beretta is a “Custom.” The PoW grip, black receiver with gold lettering, “field” forearm and black recoil pad that I’d specified are clearly visible. If I say so myself, the walnut ain’t bad looking, either.
The tactile sensation of this PoW grip is sinfully delicious! Very nice work, Rich.
The snap above very clearly highlights the PoW grip.
The snap above shows Gordie wondering why he’s making faces for the camera while there’s still daylight left on woodcock's opening day.
Dismal morning rains set me to working on my HoneyDo List. But by the time I’d cleared the dishes from a light lunch, only spotty light showers remained. Gordie and I jumped into the car at 1:30, and 10 minutes later I was locked and loaded and he was quartering across a long-familiar trail. He flushed the first bird of the season maybe 3 minutes later. He reflushed it 2 minutes later, and reflushed it again after another 2 minutes.
We had a ball. In about an hour and a quarter, Gordie flushed 4 different birds a total of 7 times. Fifteen years ago, I’d have had a 50-50 chance of bringing home a limit over young Bean with such a flush count. But this covert has gotten really thick over time. Today I didn’t get to pull the trigger once.
Tomorrow I may try the same spot - I was, as usual, the only hunter afield - or another spot even closer to home. The weather is expected to clear. We’ll have a ball again, for sure. If Artemis is willing, I’ll get to reward his hard work with a taste of feathers.
A cerulean sky shone through high spruce branches on my new father in law’s gone-back farm. It was Boxing Day, 1978 – the day after Christmas – and I was enjoying my first hunt. We were chasing snowshoe hares with beagles.
The farm was about an hour north of Lake Placid and the High Peaks, and not quite a half hour south of the St. Lawrence River. The rolling terrain boasted a tangled collection of cedar, pine and spruce, white birch, soft maple, popple and apple, cut here and there with tiny streams. Dad, or Doc, was an old school country veterinarian who cared for the local farms’ horses and cows. Today his buddies and their dogs were gathered for a fun hunt that promised a special perk: giving a newbie the business.
Sarge, a tri color male whose stumpy legs barely provided clearance for his abundant abdomen, gave a soulful bawl from 100 yards or so to my rear. I didn’t know then that when “dog the farthest, rabbit the closest.” Moments later, a “white rabbit” sort of hip hopped past me on the skid trail that circled the spruce stand from which I kept watch. It was an easy one shot kill with the 20 gauge Stevens pump that Doc had lent me.
I came running from the trees into the opening where the hare temporarily froze me with a death stare from its beady black eye. The sun was warm and bright outside the spruce stand, though, and when I picked up my first prize, it warmed me through like a hug from Mama.
Back at the house afterwards, Dad’s buddies were palpably relieved that the newbie had killed a white rabbit instead of Sarge. But when they asked me about how The Kill went down, I couldn’t resist turning the tables and pulling their legs instead. I straight-faced told them I saw the rabbit climbing through the lower branches of the spruces, and so I took the easy shot when it swung from one tree to the next. Full disclosure: I had already been a public school teacher for 8 years, so I had the “teacher look” pretty down pat by then. And I had those boys on the hook, too. But then I let ‘em off easy with a big grin, and, good guys that they were, they welcomed me as “family” into their community.
By New Year’s Day, I'd acquired my first shotgun – a 20 gauge Mossberg 500 – and by February, my wife and I were joined by Jupp the Wonderbeagle. For the next 10 years, Jupp taught me all about hunting. He taught me to trust him. He suggested the utility in a division of labor: he would find the critters, and I would shoot them. He taught me that he deserved two bites of my Big Mac on rides home, and a dry spot on my right thigh for his soggy chin.
Although Jupp was a pure rabbit dog, we bounced plenty of grouse by accident. I recall one bird erupting from the snow underfoot while I stood watch for rabbits on my snowshoes. I went a$$ over teacup in the deep, soft and very cold snow. It took 10 minutes to swim my way upright.
Grouse shooting, it seemed, would have to wait.
Jupp’s successor Doc was a heart breaking disappointment. By Doc’s time, I concede, there were more whitetails in our secret spots than bunnies. But he spent too many nights on the loose, chasing whatever wherever and making my wife tearful. I found a nice farm where a lucky little girl was gifted a pretty beagle she could festoon with pink ribbons. Served the s-o-b right!
Doc the beagle made me yearn for a close working “people dog,” and that’s how I dithered into flushing spaniels. There was a spaniel club near my home, and its members fanned my interest. In Spring 1994, we brought home Bean, an American Water Spaniel. Bean started my education all over again. He proved to be exceeding clever from his first minutes off the plane from Wisconsin. I discovered that I had better train Bean or he would damn sure train me. Water Spaniels are an independent minded lot; so while Bean finally accepted a bit of training – calling it “polish” would be a gross exaggeration – it's more accurate to say that we came to a shaky but productive truce.
“Partridge,” as they’re called in the North Country, were what I’d always dreamed of hunting after reading the paeans written to them by Ed Zern, Ted Trueblood, Cory Ford, and “Tap” Tapply in old Field & Stream magazines that my mentor Alois “Louie” R. gifted me. But my home near Niagara Falls didn’t have nearly so many grouse – actually, it had no grouse – as did Dad’s back 40. Fortunately, my home coverts were loaded with woodcock, so Bean the puppy had plenty of birds to learn on while I perfected the technique of mounting a scatter gun, swinging smoothly through the flying feathered target, and blasting branches and bark off innocent trees while the woodcock twittered blissfully away. What a great time we had!
In 2005, Bean passed the torch to Gordie, a black and tan English Cocker. Gordie is 29 pounds of exuberant muscle with a great nose and a hyper kinetic stub tail. Gordie was gifted at birth with oodles of talent – his marks of fallen birds are exceptional; no kidding – but he’s quite the willing pupil as well. He cut his eye teeth on woodcock in many of the same fields that Bean and I “discovered” a decade earlier.
Gordie helping me brag about my two for twofer
In recent years, I’ve renewed the pursuit of grouse hunting that I’d forsaken when old Bean needed easier pickin’s. In southwestern NY, I spend much more time scouting for grouse spots than in shooting the critters. The closest coverts are at least 90 miles from my driveway. But I’ve found some spots that please my eye, and remind me of the uplands behind Dad’s and his buddies’ farms. I’ve even kicked up a bird or two. Since my 61 year old legs aren’t going to last forever, I’ve decided to whistle up my sweet young dog and go for the gusto while I can. It’s possible I enjoy partridge hunting even more these days; but for sure I’m a lot mellower about "all day hunts" and bag sizes than that newbie was.
A grouse of the year in southwest NY
Adirondack grouse open on September 20. Southern Tier grouse open on October 1, and woodcock five days later. We’ll be out chasing them on most days until the start of deer season. If we’re lucky, we might have a day or two that’ll be worthy of another story.
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My Cole Special 20 gauge should arrive soon, and that will certainly merit a short story with photos.
Back in February, my s-i-l Martha D. rented a camp near Old Forge for the first week in August. Cheered by the prospect of mooched suppers on a screened lakeside porch, I immediately started planning a compact Adirondack scout. Here’s its brief travelogue.
I headed east on Sunday, August 1. On my way to camp I checked out the Penn Mountain SF as a possible grouse hot spot. It looked vaguely promising, and I may give it a try when I’m in the neighborhood. While passing through this hardwood forest, I came upon a small cemetery. The solitude of the place now belies that a community of pioneers once tried to scratch out a living here in the skinny Tug Hill soil. I’ve wandered into such cemeteries in the Adirondacks before. Each time I’ve walked the grounds for a bit and tried to connect the silent stones with the lives of those who made this area home. The experience is personally cathartic and comforting.
I pulled into camp shortly before supper. There was just time to sip the first cold adult beverage of the day and snap the kids while they were doing the cooking. They did a bang-up job, too.
Paul with his friend Laura
Matt and Ali ready the people food while Patrick preps for the beagle
Rebecca mixing Mojitos
After supper, Patrick, Rebecca (who co-produced this video last summer) and I rowed out to a swimming platform in the middle of a small bay
where I introduced them to fly casting. Both kids did really well. I was specially impressed with Rebecca’s initial casts; she was much more thespian than Olympian in her teen years. Who knew?
On Monday morning, Matt, Alison and Patrick joined me for a visit to the Hornbeck Boat works in Olmstedville. I was interested in trying one of his lightweight solo boats.
Peter demonstrated proper form for entering his little boats,
and then I was on my own in his on-site pond.
I was surprised by the sea worthiness and secure feel of his 10.5 footer. Because I expect to have a canine passenger now and then, I was more interested in his 12- and 13-foot offerings.
I suspect I’ll get back there soon to make a decision on exactly which one.
On Tuesday, I left camp and spent the day in serious grouse scouting. I found very promising locations in Lewis and Clinton counties. Bunking for the night in Plattsburgh, I was lucky to find an eatery called Mangia’s. After a crisp salad and fresh warm bread, I enjoyed sea scallops wrapped in shaved zucchini over linguini in a delicate cream sauce with corn pesto, along with a nice pinot grigio. "Camp life" is tough, eh?
On Wednesday, I headed home. The grouse scouting en route was productive after a fashion, as I “added by subtraction” of several referred spots that were way too mature. I did find a porky in the middle of one road. I figured that it would be arrogant enough to let me drive up and snap it through the open window. Wrong. Maybe it objected to The Scent of a Subaru.
I'm so juiced by this little scouting vacation that I'm going to have Sam play it again soon. Look for the report in a week or so.
There’s two kinds of golf bitching that just drive me nuts. In one form, Golf Guy buttonholes you when you’re mowing the lawn or enjoying a fish fry at the local pub with your spouse; that is, unbeckoned. GG gushes to you about his recent score - even though the actual tally is not what he wants you to hear, anyway - but finishes with “...and that was with two double bogeys and a triple bogey on 17.” The narrative does not include that, had he missed the hole with his ham-fisted 40’ birdie putt on 3, his ball would have rolled into the lake. Similar beneficent Acts of God in his round are also conveniently elided.
My b-i-l Roy B. is not just a good stick, but he “gets it” as well. If I were to ask him how he’s done lately, he might reply with something like “I had an 83 at Panther Pass the other day, and a 79 playing with Howie last Sunday at Meadow Brook.” Well played, Roy - three times.
The other form flows from the hacker you’re sharing a cart with whose command of golf cliches vastly exceeds his command of his swing. He’ll pull one into the swamp guarding the left side of a landing area and then announce, dramatically, to anyone and no one, “Don’t come over the top, Stupid!” Upon regaining his seat in the cart, he’ll confide that he’s been working on his inside-out move with the Medicus, and he can’t understand how he possibly could make that last mistake. Why only last week...
He changes the golf buzz words and repeats as needed for 18 long holes. Where’s the beer girl?
Whenever some poor soul asks me to help him get started in golf, I offer him my humble Beginning Golfer's Golden Rule:
Always behave at the course so that a veteran golfmate never has to ask why the worst golfer in the group is spoiling his day.
This rule can be fleshed out quite well with only 3 commandments:
Do not say anything unless spoken to. If you must say something, complement a better player’s shot after his ball stops rolling.
When it is your turn to hit, execute only a brief waggle and then make your swing. After watching the ball stop rolling, bag your club, go directly to wherever your ball landed and, when it’s your turn, do it all over again.
Buy the first round of drinks at the 19th hole.
I guarantee that following this advice will earn even a chop a second invitation from his group. Arnold Palmer, Gary Player and Jack Nicklaus would gladly have you back if only you follow these 3 commandments. For some reason, it's harder to follow them than it might seem.
Now that I think about it, swap a few words or concepts - when a partridge takes off..., or speak only well of your partner’s dog... - and the same rules would get the new hunter off on the right foot, too.
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