Cold Duck

English Cocker Puppies

2012-01-25T18:10:00.000-05:00

Here's a short, low quality iPod movie showing the pups in motion.

AyA’s #2 Round Action Is A Very Sweet 16

2012-01-10T17:13:00.001-05:00

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.

Scratching The Dog Training Itch

2011-12-05T09:01:00.001-05:00

My neighbor and friend Mike Ludwig has decided to sell hishalf interest in a successful construction business to scratch hisitch to train hunting/ trial dogs professionally. He’s offering sporting dog trainingas an adjunct to his newly opened boarding kennel which alreadyoffers all sorts of options for clients who want to pamper their pooches.

Here’s what a local TV station aired about Mike and his lovefor sporting dogs.

Upland Hunters Understand That Size Doesn’t Matter

2011-11-05T19:29:00.000-04:00

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.

Gordie’s Fetchin’s 2011-12

2011-11-04T14:49:00.000-04:00

Cold Duck’s few regulars know that I very rarely webLOG anything. By autumn 2005, I’d assembled a short stack of stories that a few scattered friends found entertaining. I was looking for an online place to collect them when Google fired up blogspot. While I’d gathered wasn’t designed for stories, it was free, so I jumped in and sort of bent it into a shape satisfactory for my needs.

I haven’t written too many stories in the last year. The reasons are several. I battled pneumonia through the early part of last winter; that sort of alters a person’s focus for a while. Then there’s “social media.” It’s a lot easier to make a few silly key strokes at Facebook than it is to write a decent 500 words. Finally, my interests have shifted just a bit in the last several years, such that I now spend less time dreaming of new guns than I do of a new and streamlined Federal tax code, for instance. I’m not alone lately in recognizing the value of legislation that supports my causes, outdoors-related or otherwise. When I received my first TU magazine about 30 years ago, it actually concerned itself with catching fish. I am not criticizing the magazine, or its sponsoring group, when I claim that it’s now all about winning legislative battles over this dam or that power plant. However, I promised myself when I fired Cold Duck up that I’d never go beyond a comfort zone of you and me sitting in front of a warm fire, the dogs snoozling underfoot, while we talked hunting and fishing over a wee dram. All this taken together, I didn’t have energy, time or topic to write an outdoors story I’d be proud to save at Cold Duck in the last several months.

Happily, things are brightening up, and I now have some decent story lines percolating away. They’ll probably start arriving here after woodcock season ends. One of them considers the delicate question of whether size matters. Hint: bird hunters already know the answer.

Meanwhile, I’ve decided that it’ll be fun to webLOG Gordie’s fetches for the season. I don’t care about my own shooting (neither would you if you saw it), but I’m always quite pleased when my dog hunts well and then delivers a critter to hand with a happy tail. So no matter who shoots ‘em, if Gordie brings ‘em back, I’ll log it here. Away we go:

October 3…… 1 wc…... 0 grouse…… 0 ducks…… GC Cover
We had no flushes at all on days 1 and 2, and today didn’t start very promising either. In 70 minutes of hunting, we found no birds, no splash, no nothing for 68 minutes. But in about the second last bush that we might have given a sniff, Gordie flushed a bird that came right at me. I let him get by, but then had to shoot fast before he disappeared. I fear I cooked him in the air.

October 7…… 1 wc…... 0 grouse…… 0 ducks…… EOM Cover

It's a lovely warm & dry sunny day better suited to golf. Gordie hunted hard before heating up a bit at 45 minutes.

If the weather remains like this, we'll head to Allegany County tomorrow to look for grouse.

October 9…… 1 wc…... 0 grouse…… 0 ducks…… BWF Cover

Even warmer and drier than Friday. Gordie put up two birds right away, and I bagged the one that presented a shot. Well, two shots. He very nearly overheated in the first 20 minutes, so I picked an easy route for the rest of our hour.

November 4……

Gordie, his vet and I went woodcock hunting yesterday. Hescared up a bird or two, but that’s not the story. He’s been battling a nastyinfection – actinomycosis, or lumpy jaw - since early September. He’d gotten so much better recently thatwe thought we’d try putting him down in the redbush to chase the little russetfellers.

But hair still has not regrown in the affected area justbehind his right eye ; and yesterday the exposed skin opened up in the pulpyredbush. The vet remains optimistic about Gordie’s complete recovery. But weagreed that there’d be no more hunting in such cover until the cushioning hairhas completely returned.

Until yesterday, Gordie hadn’t chased woodcock in almost amonth (since October 9). That’s one reason there’s not been much activitylately at Cold Duck. I’m hoping he’ll get better real soon, but actinomycosisapparently is quite stubborn. At least he’s systemically healthy, and he’senjoying long romps in grassy cover almost as much as he would hunting. Since Ihave his long-range interests at heart, he’ll just have to be a patientpatient.

On The Road Again 32 Years Later

2011-11-04T08:12:00.000-04:00

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.

May 14, 1978

Event: Revco Classic
Location: Cleveland, OH
Distance: 10 KM
Time: 36:40
Place: 1

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.

This Creek Is Clearly My Favorite

2011-06-14T21:53:00.000-04:00

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

Remington’s STS20SC8 Makes The Roster Of Quality Shotshells

2011-04-08T13:02:00.013-04:00

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.

Good job, Remington!

Happy Centenary To The Army's Pistol

2011-03-29T06:51:00.007-04:00

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.

Pretty Fish Are Big Enough

2010-12-22T15:29:00.000-05:00

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.

Pheasant Con Campbell's

2010-11-01T16:53:00.000-04:00

My wife and I enjoy eating a meal that’s put together by a good chef. We marvel at how (s)he can take several ingredients and make them into a meal so much greater than the sum of its parts. The art, we’ve learned, is in the melding.

I’ve been searching for a recipe to serve boneless pheasant breasts in a juicy, non “stringy” manner for several years. I’ve tried having the breasts ground into sausage; tried pheasant cassoulet; tried slow cooking in a crock pot. That I’m still looking tells all about my success.

The other day, I found a recipe online. While staunchly maintaining that we’re not food snobs, I won’t deny that Nancy and I had always refused to try any recipe whose central ingredient was a Campbell’s soup product. Nothing against a can of Campbell’s soup on a cold and rainy day, mind. But we like to cook with food, not with cans, boxes or packages.

We decided to try the bottom-most recipe on this link, the Classic Pheasant Bake. I made only one substitution. I used the10 breast halves of 5 pheasants cut into 5/8” chunks instead of two whole pheasants. I brined the pieces for 6 hours by covering them in water and adding a shot glass each of sugar and salt. I then proceeded as directed.

The pheasant was a revelation! It absolutely - and literally - melted in our mouths. I don’t know whether it was the brine, the oven, arcane alchemy in the Campbell’s or what. But we’ve got our pheasant breast recipe.

A Beautiful Day For Chasing Mid-Season Woodcock

2010-10-27T19:46:00.000-04:00

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.

October 22's Been Very Good To Me

2010-10-22T17:17:00.000-04:00

Gordie snoozling after a fun afternoon

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.

The Champ!

My 20 Gauge Beretta Cole Custom With Prince Of Wales Grip

2010-10-07T13:37:00.006-04:00

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.

The 2010 Woodcock Opener In Western NY

2010-10-06T16:32:00.000-04:00

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.

Looks Like Another Autumn'll Go To The Dogs

2010-09-05T06:44:00.078-04:00

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.

Guest Book And Coming Attractions

2010-08-23T21:54:00.002-04:00

Don't feel like making a pointed comment, but want to note that you passed on through? Fine! Please use the comment feature for this post to leave your signature. Thanks!

My Cole Special 20 gauge should arrive soon, and that will certainly merit a short story with photos.

Adirondack grouse open in two weeks!

A Quick Adirondack Scout

2010-08-11T21:33:00.009-04:00

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.

If I’m Golfing, I’m Not Grousing

2010-07-28T17:49:00.034-04:00

Not the bang-bang-damn! kind of grousing.

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.

Golf And Guns Give Me The Fits

2010-06-15T16:59:00.085-04:00

I’ve been interested for some time in buying a shotgun from a fellow up in Maine. But it wasn’t until I recently smacked several successful shots with a PING G15 driver at a “demo day” that an equipment shopping trip began brewing in my brain.

My nephew Patrick D., written up in Cold Duck here, here, and here, bought a house last year near Albany. He’d invited me to stay with him if I ever headed East on one of my trips. Since he’s located about half-way to Maine, his digs were the perfect place to overnight on my out- and in-bound legs. When I discovered a great PING fitter located about half-way to Patrick’s, the itinerary wrote itself.

I hit the road around 10 a.m. on Wednesday for the drive to Greater Golf in Endicott, NY. I’d read about GG’s talent for club fitting, specially Mizunos and PINGs, so I thought I’d get their opinion on whether my 12° G10 driver was still the best option for me.

Co-owner Craig Mabee greeted me at the counter, and I was soon limbering up on his state-of-the-art simulator. After a half dozen balls, Craig noted that my G10 was launching at 14° to 16°, a bit higher than optimal. So he disappeared and came back carrying a G15 with a low spin Serrano shaft. The sim noted scant improvement after I hit several balls. Craig disappeared again and came back with a different head for the Serrano shaft. My ball started launching at 12° to 13°, closer to what Craig was looking for; the cone of my left-right misses narrowed; and roll-out distance increased markedly. I was delighted to see that the lessons I’ve taken in the last two years, and the practice behind them, had changed my swing enough to earn me a “younger man’s club” - the new driver’s loft was 10.5°. I placed my order with Craig, popped back into the Subaru, and headed to Patrick’s.

Pat and his friend Emily met me at the door. We exchanged pleasantries and a cold beer, then headed out for dinner and a fine night out.

After driving through rain all day Thursday, I arrived in Freeport around 4 p.m. I’d previously made a date to have dinner with old friend Beth G. and her husband Paul. We met at the Azure Cafe and had a great meal while we did some catching up. Thanks for a great evening, you two!

I’ve previously expressed my affection for the 20 gauge over/ under. Having shot it in several flavors, I remain most pleased with Beretta’s 686 line. The more I’d read about Rich Cole’s custom Beretta work, the more I reasoned that a gun from him, cut to my size, would be money very well spent.

Rich spent 2.5 hours fitting me on a sunny Friday morning. I’ve done this dance before, and he was by far the best partner I’ve ever had. After a “dry” fitting in the shop to set the try gun with preliminary dimensions, we went outside to attack the pattern board. I’m afraid that the board, of all things, is not my strongest suit; and poor Rich tried to hide his disappointment with my inconsistent mounts and too-fast shots. But, with time and interaction, we got the numbers close enough to satisfy us both.

Then came the fun stuff: picking options! I ordered a 20 gauge 686 with 28” barrels (and since it’ll be a grouse and woodcock gun, I chose Cylinder, Skeet1, and Improved Cylinder for my 3 choke tubes). I asked that the gun fall within an ounce of 6 lbs. 3 oz., so Rich selected several blanks that he said were a bit lighter than average. Since the gun will earn its keep hunting, I wanted a stock with strong grain in the wrist; and after considering the several blanks Rich had selected, we agreed on a lovely piece of walnut with just enough visible grain.

I’d previously noted on his website that Rich offers a lovely Prince of Wales grip. After handling one in his inventory, I found it tactilely and visually appealing, and ordered it for my gun. Here’s an approximate picture of what the new gun will look like:

My gun will have two important differences from the one pictured above. It will have a blued receiver

and a black Decelerator to match.

I'll post photos and an initial review of the new Cole 686 after it arrives after August 15. Heroic tales of the hunt, I hope, will follow soon after Northern grouse open on September 20.

Cold Duck won't show any photos of the new driver, though. There wouldn't be much interest in a "glam shot" of what appears to be a stick with a toaster glued to its far end. But expect a story if titanic drives suddenly start flying off its face, presenting me with the novel problem of seeing whose ass I've just kicked.

Boy, Can This Boykin Hunt!

2010-05-09T08:39:00.006-04:00

(This post first appeared on December 11, 2009. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

The Boykin Spaniels were simply tearing it up when I watched them running Master Hunt Tests several years ago. And though the dogs clearly had a lot of hunt bred into them, they also hunted agreeably and merrily for their guns. I suspect that the hagiographic yarns spun by the breed’s cheerleaders have a whole bunch of truth in them.

Every Boykin I’ve seen looks like a cross between an American Water Spaniel and an English Cocker, and from what I gather, has desirable characteristics of each. That’s a lot of prime dog in a 35 pound package.

The Boykin Spaniel

I might give Boykins a closer look the next time I'm in the puppy market. Whatever the next pup's breed, I’ll resort to an old trick for sneaking it in the door. When we visit the litter I'm sold on, I'll get the breeder to wander off and talk turkey with me for 5 minutes. By the time we get back, the right pup will have found my wife.

Sneaky Trick: Letting My Wife Approve The Purchase

David DiBenedetto came upon this stratagem on his own and has been happy ever since. You can read about his Boykin bitch “Pritchard” in Garden and Gun and Field & Stream.

For even more on this pleasant flushing spaniel (pheasant flushing is a value-added bonus), visit the Boykin Spaniel Society.

May 9, 2010

Here's more on the Boykin Spaniel from Jim Spencer in a recent Gun Dog magazine.

A Ballad Of Ballard Plaid

2010-03-25T07:36:00.001-04:00

(This post first appeared on February 26, 2010. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

My father in law DVM Paul D. gave me a pair of experienced “Malone pants” shortly after I married his lovely daughter Nancy in 1978. He told epic stories of the heroic cloth from which they were made, warm when wet and nearly bullet proof. The fabric was so thick and sturdy that when I brought the pants back to Buffalo for tailoring, it was difficult to find anyone who felt comfortable working with it.

“Malone pants” came from the Ballard Mill, located on the Salmon River in Malone, NY. Of particular interest to my father in law was Ballard’s local flock of sheep. He claimed that the long Malone winters made the wool extra special. I don’t recall Doc telling me whether he'd ever provided vet services to the Ballard flock; and the last of the sheep were long gone by the time I came on the scene.

Wikipedia adds this:

The Ballard Woolen Mill, famous for its heavyweight wool garments designed to endure the rigors of Adirondack Winters, constructed most of the clothing used by Adirondack guides and their wealthy patrons such as the Roosevelts, Carnegies, Vanderbilts and Whitneys in the first half of the 20th century.

And the Johnson Woolen Mills’ website explains why “Malone plaid” is still available:

Among favorite textile patterns for various garments is a copyrighted plaid the firm bought from J. O. Ballard Co., a mill in Malone, N.Y., that went out of business 20 years ago. In this way famous old favorites can be kept alive and in production.

When I get a chance, I’ll flesh this story out a bit with photos and any other information I can glean from a visit to the Malone House of History. I’d really like to learn more about the Ballard flock.

Here’s some pictures of the pattern in clothing available from the L. L. Bean catalog. “Malone plaid” is also sold by Johnson Woolen Mills and by Woolrich.

March 25, 2010

Crack web detective and s-i-l Patricia B. grew up near Malone, NY. When she read this blog, she volunteered to poke around the web for additional Ballard references. Much thanks to Patsy, and a quack...

... from the Cold Duck herself, for providing the links below.

This site provides both interior and exterior views of the mill in 1979. By then the mill had become a “Center For The Arts,” and the Ballard flock was long gone. The interior shows lots of wood, brick and iron. Seeing these pictures makes me more determined than ever to get up there to do some first-person research.

Maintland DeSormo’s “Noah John Rondeau: Adirondack Hermit” tells the fascinating story of the “Mayor of Cold River.” There’s quite another story of putting my newish bride into the bow of our Sawyer Cruiser in 1982 and getting her to paddle Long Lake from the beach at Helm’s Aero Service to its NE end and back on a day trip in search of Rondeau’s hermitage. It will be fun to tell that tale here some day, when Nancy’s 28-year-old memory of the trip is no longer such an open sore. Meanwhile Noah Rondeau and Ballard plaid converge briefly here.

John, Paul, Gordie and Ringo

2010-03-10T06:30:00.081-05:00

Crank up the volume right now and join the Lads from Liverpool and Gordie as they follow the sun.

Old Sol has begun his annual struggle to overcome winter's grip on the land. With the sun higher in the sky, it's winning its battle to compress the snowpack, warm the earth, and cause little patches of green and brown to sprout through our recently white landscape.

The sun's streaming through our windows and skylights, too, bouncing off white walls and doors, and collecting into little pools of heat that Gordie loves to doze in. The sunlight's a tonic for him, and a soothed Gordie brings us a smile as well. He knows every hot spot in the house, and moves camp with the sun as it travels from room to room.

Gordie clearly enjoys warming his bones in the sun. But he's been reluctant to fully explain why. If anyone can speak for him, please do so in the Comments.

* * * * * * *

In the Every Silver Lining has a Cloud Dept., the greatly anticipated Spring sun will soon bring Mud Season with it.

Almost As Happy Not Hitting 'Em Where They Ain't Anymore

2010-03-04T06:11:00.243-05:00

As reported here earlier, my nephew Patrick D. shot his first woodcock last November behind Gordie. Patrick killed his bird as it skimmed over a dogwood clump that was three times taller than it'd been when I first hunted "Secret Spot" in 1994.

Back then, I would often put my gun over my shoulder and with Bean on leash, walk to that field 300 yards down the street. I didn’t hunt there to save travel time. Secret Spot was a magnet for woodcock, and the hunting was terrific. But it is remorselessly maturing, and it attracts a few less birds every year.

“Maturing” seems to describe most all the places I’ve hunted over the last 30 years. So I’m always searching for new coverts. Usually “new” means “new to me,” but not always. While scouting county forests two years ago, I found a hilltop that had been “disturbed,” probably in a strong blow. Chain saws cleared only some of the mess. So a divinely hellish covert exists now where a venatic dead zone existed then. With good habitat shrinking, finding a likely new spot is definitely a cause for celebration.

Even so, lately I’m increasingly content to hunt in familiar coverts where old and friendly ghosts sit cheerily on my shoulder. What these too ripe spots may lack in bird numbers, they more than make up for in shared history. Hunters like to style that ground as sacred where they've hunted "in the good old days" with close friends canine or human, still living or gone. "Sacred" may be a reach. But the phrase acknowledges the strong link hunters hold between the land, their companions, and their collective memory of time spent together afield.

A vest full of dead birds just doesn't float my boat much anymore. A nice bird well taken, by Gordie at each end and with a middlin' shot from the gun is much more the current model for a great day afield. Could be I’m just getting old. Aging brings a melancholy familiarity with the prospect of shuffling off this mortal coil. Maybe this is learned behavior, reinforced by the relentless daily obits. On the other hand, Dwayne Hoover, a character in Kurt Vonnegut's "Breakfast of Champions," sported a sour outlook simply because his "chemicals" weren’t working properly. I don’t know. My bald cells and dumb cells are doing just fine. Prospering, in fact.

When the shooting starts this Fall, I won't be turning down any invitations to hunt beautiful places lousy with birds. I won't spend October sitting by the phone waiting for a call, either. I'll have no problem hunting in my familiar but past prime places. I've got lots of good company there.

Like this hillside where Bean retrieved his first grouse. Technically, this was Bean's second grouse. The first got caught up in spruce branches on my father in law's land, thus necessitating my first retrieve (I recall that Beanie was not impressed).

Bean Retrieved His First Grouse On This Hill

And there's the flooded timber behind Cousin Richard's camp in Speculator where he took his first wood duck. We'd seen woodies galore a week before while hunting early season grouse in 1997. The following weekend, we splashed three. Enthused by that success, we've hunted the same spot every year thereafter, and haven't seen a duck since.

Good Days Together In Speculator

But come September, Richard and I'll be chasing early season grouse up in Spec' again. I can't wait. Not that we've ever killed one in September. But those old friends on my shoulder will be all rowdy and ready to rumble. I hope I never have to turn them down.

* * * * * * * * * *
Apologies are due to Wee Willie Keeler for hijacking his quote. For the baseball challenged, here's the history:

Lake Placid's Craig Wood

2010-02-14T08:30:00.057-05:00

Craig Wood, “The Blond Bomber,” was born in Lake Placid in 1901. He learned to play golf while caddying at Lake Placid courses where the game was becoming increasingly fashionable in the decade leading up to WWI.

After attending Clarkson College, Wood for a time lived the golf journeyman’s life. Following his first professional stint in Kentucky, he worked at several clubs in New Jersey in the years from 1927 to 1938.

It was in New Jersey in 1928 that he won his first professional tournament. He earned 21 career victories in all, including the Masters and the U.S. Open (1941) and the Canadian Open (1942). He was second in the PGA Championship held at the Park Country Club in Buffalo in 1934. He was also a successful Ryder Cup player.

Having been raised in a working class family in the turn of the 20th century Adirondacks, it’s not surprising that Wood liked to spend time hunting and fishing when he was away from the golf course. Peter Martin reveals in his book “Craig Wood” that the golfer "used to use bits of venison as trout bait.” As an older married man living in New York City, he enjoyed the outdoors at his 1,200 acre “Big Indian" hunting lodge in the nearby Catskills.

In 1948 the Lake Placid Golf and Country Club was renamed in his honor. Craig Wood Golf Course is actually located a steep drive up ski-jump Highway 73 in North Elba, about a mile from pre-Civil War abolitionist John Brown’s farm. Designed by Seymour Dunn, the course is framed in mountain views, with holes 11 through 17 being specially scenic and challenging.

The course’s clubhouse features the Caddy Shack Restaurant on its second floor. The beers and Adirondack vistas served up on its open porch are delicious.

Out With The New, In With The Old

2010-01-21T14:39:00.005-05:00

In January, 2009, while keeping a perfectly straight face, I wrote:

So there you have it. I now have my perfect 3-gun battery. It's swell to know I'll never even want another gun. No, really. Trust me.

Reports of my fidelity were greatly exaggerated.

It turns out I was closer to the truth when I wrote in August, 2008:

My “big gun” now is a 6 lb. 0 oz. 24” 3-shot 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light auto built around the Montefeltro action. Somehow the Benelli engineers have kept its felt recoil to a minimum. Further, the gun seems to point exactly where I look, swings incredibly well, and goes bang every time. It has arguably become the most effective gun I’ve ever owned.

I use this gun for all birds shot while training dogs; for pheasants and ducks; and, with small steel shot, for an occasional snipe. As much as I cherish my 20 gauge O/U, this sweet-shooting auto would probably be the last gun to go if the big bad wolf were ever to blow down my financial house.

I should have read my own writing. I never considered that I might not shoot the M2 as effectively as I did the Ultra Light. I doubt that my problem was solely the M2's light weight; Benelli lists my old 24" 12 gauge BUL at 6.0 pounds and the 26" 20 gauge M2 at 5.8 pounds. But an unaccustomed number of birds gliding safely over the hedgerow, for whatever reasons, confirmed that I wasn’t swinging the 20 gauge M2 very well.

So I recently traded it and returned to the 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light. This time the gun sports a 26” barrel which will serve it well in its mission of shooting larger birds – ducks and pheasants – out to middlin’ distances. With its protective WeatherCoat finish, the BUL will also serve as my rainy day gun for grouse and woodcock.

I like to use low brass shells to toss light loads at about 1200 fps. When possible and justified, I keep the shells color-coded, too. For chasing woodcock and grouse with the BUL, I’ll load it with Winchester AA Xtra-Lite Target Shells in #8 lead (AAL128). I have a long and successful history killing pheasants with Remington’s ShurShot Heavy Dove load of 9/8 ounce of #6 lead (R12HD6). Even so, I’m going to try a box of Fiocchi’s Light Field Upland load of 17/16 ounce of #6 lead (12FLDL). I don’t shoot ducks very often, so I expect I'll just mooch non toxic shot from my genial duck hunting buddy and b-i-l Dean A.

I'm really happy to be reunited with Benelli's 12 gauge Ultra Light. This one won't get away so easily. That said, there’s another shoe yet to drop in this gun trading business. But whether my perfect 3-gun battery will shrink to 2 or expand to 4 is a story for another day.

50 Years Enjoyed In Woods, Pond, Field & Stream

2010-01-13T07:11:00.040-05:00

Field & Stream Cover from November, 1934

In 1959, struggling under the academic burdens of 6th grade, I was nevertheless open to a curriculum extension. My adult neighbor Alois R. routinely brought home all manner of trout, rabbits, grouse and deer. I was often invited to hear how they were taken, and to observe how they were processed. Mr. R.’s son had grown to a certain age, no longer young but not old enough, when his Dad just didn’t quite "get it" anymore. So “Louie,” as his wife Gladys instructed me to call him, picked me up as a sort of project son.

Prior to my first-ever outing trouting, I spent a tough hour under his critical eye learning to snell a fixed dropper below a snug slider we’d use to attach salted minnows for a downstream drift. As beaten up as I felt when I got home, I was even prouder several days later when I showed Louie the rigs I’d tied myself. I still have a few of my originals tucked away in my equally ancient tackle box.

In addition to sharing his camp, his beloved beagle “Pepper,” and his great good nature with me, Louie also presented me with his old Field & Stream magazines. Those magazines were like the proverbial seeds that fall on fertile ground. I devoured each issue page by page.

I was delightedly surprised this New Year’s Day to find the October, 1959 issue of Field & Stream buried with some tax records I was searching for. Having pored through this issue again, I'm not sure which reading was more eye-opening. Things sure have changed these past 50 years.

Here’s what you found inside in 1959:

Phone numbers without area codes. Remember when numbers looked like Baldwin 9-9415; Chestnut 6-2000; and Palace 4-5214?
Great prices by today’s standards. The Browning Superposed listed from $280. Model 12s listed from $94.95. Model 37 Featherlights listed from $105.
Advertisements for preserve bird hunts in NY. The preserves were all “downstate,” meaning a not too inconvenient drive from NY City. I would have guessed preserves weren't popularized until a bit later.
Articles by now iconic writers A. J. McClane, Warren Page, Clare Conley, H. G. Tapply, Robert Ruark, Corey Ford, Ted Trueblood, and Ed Zern. All in one month’s issue! For 35¢!
Two advertisements for tiger hunts under the heading “India," and one offering safari in Vietnam:

“Experienced guides dedicated to give you the very best in hunting thrills for Big Game – Elephant, Tiger, Gaur, and many others.”
The first official large unit military action of the Viet Nam War occurred on September 26, 1959 when the Vietcong ambushed two ARVN companies. I suspect that demand for gaur safaris dried up soon thereafter; and this may have been the last issue to contain such an advertisement.
Hunting season dates and limits for all 49 states. Hawaii was admitted to the Union on August 21, 1959, and presumably was otherwise busy when asked to forward its sporting calendar. Surprisingly, there was a Hungarian Partridge season in NY with 3/ day and 9/ season limits.
An “original Frontier Six-Shooter” in .22 calibre for $47.50. Here is the quaint ordering information:

“Send cash, check or money order. When ordering pistols, enclose a signed statement reading: ‘I am not an alien, have never been convicted of a crime of violence. I am 21 years or over.’”

And here’s what you didn’t:

Forget about websites or email addresses: there are no zip codes in the ads. For those of you young enough not to remember, this is not an omission.

My friend Bill D. from The Black & Tan Bombshell will probably think the title picture shows a Gordon Setter; and it probably does. But regular readers will recognize that the dog is a dead ringer for my ECS “Gordie.” The February, 1935 cover dog, just like my good old “Bean,” was an American Water Spaniel. Prints of both covers were presented to me at Christmas several years ago, and hang proudly on our living room wall.

Field & Stream Cover from February, 1935

Trust Is A Must If You Lust After Cooperation That’s Robust

2010-01-02T07:09:00.005-05:00

In the off season, Gordie and I enjoy going for walks down a long service road that meanders through an expansive meadow bordered by a forest of mixed-age oaks. It’s a pleasant place to walk. Deer browse; red tails soar over head; foxes and coyotes slink off when we give them a hard look.

A technician uses this road for his job maintaining servers at an otherwise deserted TV tower at its dead end. Whenever I see him slowly rolling toward us, I whistle Gordie in and hup him at my feet. The little spaniel comes running in every time, sits before me, and studies my face with keen attention lest he miss the signal to release and resume his joyous romping. The first time that Roger saw this modest performance, he was immoderately impressed. He lowered the driver’s window, lavishly complimented Gordie’s behavior, and asked me facetiously if I’d train his neighbor’s %@$#&$% dog. Since that initial meeting, we’ve chewed the fat on many occasions; and every time he sees Gordie scoot in and park his butt, he shakes his head with a grin just like he did that first day.

I’m not a particularly good dog trainer. In Gordie, I had great luck in getting an especially cooperative pup. I also knew that he was a well-bred dog from a great kennel, and from a breed known for its biddability. And I’d gotten lots of help from reading and from talking with people whose dogs were well trained. One of the best pieces of training advice I received was this injunction: Never fool your dog.

When Gordie was a pup, he got lots of sweet talk and ear scritches when he obeyed the command “Here!” Now, when he comes in on command, even after he’s bumped and chased a bird to hell and gone, or rolled in dead raccoon, he still gets rewarded for compliance with his last command. Never fool your dog.

Whenever I put on my boots and grab the walking stick, Gordie wriggles with excitement over our impending walk. On a day when our route starts at the back gate, he knows he must sit there on command, not just until I open the gate, but until he’s released with the magic word. He always sits there like a turtle basking on a hot rock, because he knows that compliance always produces a fun run. Never fool your dog.

When Gordie was learning to fetch tossed dead pigeons, I never tricked him by either failing to toss a presented bird or tossing it into an impossibly difficult spot. Gordie always found his early marks, and got lots of love when he brought them to me. Now, there is no quit in him when I give the “Dead bird!” command. Good habits are forged if you never fool your dog.

My friends' simple injunction remains good advice. No foolin'.

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

2009-12-20T08:22:00.013-05:00

(This post first appeared on December 1, 2009. Updates including today's appear below in chronological order.)

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.

December 20, 2009

This advert for Fausti’s Dea Duetto caught my eye. What a gorgeous forend for these small gauge doubles.

The Fausti sisters clearly appreciate long wood in their left hands.

Turkey Day Duck On The Upper Niagara River

2009-11-26T12:18:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-20T22:02:00.005-05:00

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.”

Yankee Spankee Philly Thankee Hideki

2009-11-08T09:11:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-01T19:40:00.015-05:00

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.

The Season’s First Woodcock Flight

2009-10-25T20:31:00.012-04:00

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

2009-10-18T09:25:00.001-04:00

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.

The Folds of Honor Foundation

2009-09-06T08:22:00.000-04:00

(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

2009-09-04T07:50:00.005-04:00

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

2009-08-12T07:12:00.018-04:00

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?

Seal A Meal Passes The Fatty Acid Test

2009-08-02T11:11:00.001-04:00

(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:

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.

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

2009-07-26T16:41:00.005-04:00

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.

See No Bad, Hear No Badly

2009-07-10T21:48:00.002-04:00

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?

2009-06-18T09:25:00.002-04:00

(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

2009-05-20T21:29:00.012-04:00

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.

Know What “Reintarnation” Means?

2009-04-07T06:29:00.001-04:00

(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!

2009-04-01T07:02:00.006-04:00

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.

Locabeer

2009-03-20T06:38:00.006-04:00

Western NY had many small local breweries in the 20th century. One of the last old timers within the City of Buffalo was the Iroquois Brewery.

I guess its product was a “locabeer.” Some of its natural ingredients weren’t local, of course. Good hops might have come from Czechoslovakia, the Willamette Valley in Oregon, or going back a few years, even from the region around Malone, NY. Floy Hyde’s book claims a North Country origin for the term “hopping mad." It seems that pickers put the leafy clusters of hops in large baskets and were paid by volume; the picker had to fill the basket to get full pay for it. If the picker wasn't careful in handling his basket - perhaps setting it down a bit roughly at a rest break - his easily compressible load would settle, and he'd have to return to the fields to top off his basket, making him hopping mad.

If the Iroquois hops weren't local, certainly the Lake Erie water was. And the brew makers were recruited from "Kaisertown,"a nearby German neighborhood. Despite the brewery's attempts to achieve a wider regional distribution, most of its product probably washed down Buffalo's ubiquitous fish fries, home cooked meals, and summertime picnic fare. And in neighborhood saloons it was a staple whistle wetter for men on their way home from long shifts in mills and factories.

My Dad really enjoyed “Erie” beer as it was sometimes called; he said it reminded him of the good Canadian beers he'd drink when we'd visit attractions like Crystal Beach just over the Peace Bridge. But I was never much of a fan. "Never" ended, however, on the day I sampled the beer super fresh right at the brewery.

During my college days in the late 60s, the "legal age" was 18. Beer was centrally located in campus social events. One year our History Club booked a trip to the brewery, ostensibly to see how beer was made, listen to the old German workers, and just take it all in. I recall our amazement and jealousy when we learned that the taps located all around the building were there to facilitate the workers' time honored tradition of "quality control."

Well, we really did enjoy taking all that in. But what made these visits so enticing was the opportunity to sit in the “Rat” after the tour and freely sample the Iroquois product with pretzels and player piano favorites served up by pretty young ladies in costume. Honestly, I was shocked by the difference in the bottled product Dad drank at home and the ambrosia served fresh right there on the corner of Pratt and William Streets. That recollection is certainly the most vivid of the few I've retained from Junior year.

I wonder whether the locavore movement will help bring locabeer back. Buffalo currently has one micro brewery, and its suburbs have several more producing a variety of tasty elixirs. I hope they thrive and prosper. But I miss the rathskeller and singing along with my beerily cheery friends as By The Light Of The Silvery Moon rolled melodiously from the player piano.

When Manhattan Came To Niagara Falls

2009-03-08T06:41:00.002-04:00

"Model City," read the street sign.

Back in 1996, after being snowed out of our southern tier grouse country again, I was determined to find a release club where I could extend the season for my young American Water Spaniel “Bean.” That’s why I found myself driving down back roads in northern Erie and Niagara counties on that particular Sunday in February.

It was only lately that I began wondering about that street sign. “Model City” is a pretty grand designation for a quarter mile of country road sporting a post office at one end and a dump at the other.

When I Googled “Model City” the other day, this website covered it nicely in a paragraph or two. But as the story unfolded, Model City became a minor historical sideshow while the Lake Ontario Ordnance Works became its unfortunate and enduring focus. After reading the entire piece, I Googled "LOOW," and found several related websites. This one provides a strong personal perspective.

It's beyond sobering to read about the toxic mess still on and beneath local ground. But like Oscar Wilde, “I am not young enough to know everything.” I suspect that local residents were proud of their contributions to the war effort against enemies they believed were devils incarnate. American families lost more than 400,000 brothers, husbands and sons in WW II. My Mom had the chance to meet and date my Dad only after her fiancee, pilot Richard S., was shot down over the Pacific in his B-25 and later killed by the Japanese.

Every family that suffered such a painful, personal loss must have felt a linkage to and urgency for the war effort that would have been difficult to trump with "environmental concerns," had that even been a popular term in the 1940s. The websites' authors seem to have trouble understanding this. I'm reminded of what Anonymous said: "When you're up to you ass in alligators, it's real hard to remember that you're there to drain the swamp."

Cold Duck readers are invited to decide for themselves.

Coming To Grips With The Prince Of Wales

2009-01-25T08:01:00.017-05:00

Let’s get one thing straight right away. Considering the way their stories end, it’s not Captain Ahab, but Jonah who wins the title Prince of Whales. This entry, though, is about the Prince of Wales. Specifically, it’s about the "Prince of Wales grip" that's found on some shotguns.

There have been homegrown princes in Wales since at least the Iron Age, and English Princes of Wales since Edward II in 1301. I haven’t been able to establish positive ID on which of all these Princes of Wales favored a partial pistol grip so much that it would forever bear his name. But for many people, the smoking gun, so to speak, seems to have been pointed by Edward VII. Born to Queen Victoria in 1841, Albert Edward – “Bertie” - was apparently a rebellious hell-raiser who enjoyed generous doses of women, food, drink, gambling and sport. One source said "while Victoria's bleak piety coloured her age, the Prince of Wales's passions for girls, gambling and gluttony reflected the debauched mood of the society in which he moved." Someone else noted that "he favoured ripe bodies and ripe minds, lovely women with curves that emphasised their womanhood." The Cold Duck staff sure would have enjoyed a week or so at his woodcock camp.

If there is no certainty that Albert Edward is the eponymous Prince, neither is there agreement on the exact form a Prince of Wales grip properly takes. Manufacturers advertise "Prince of Wales" grips having either flat sawn or rounded ends. Further, the terms “half pistol” and “semi pistol” are in some places used to describe a Prince of Wales grip, but in others to differentiate them from a Prince of Wales grip. Apparently you pays your money and you takes your choice.

None of this confusion, of course, will stop me from throwing out my favorite “definition.” When I think of the Prince of Wales grip, I imagine a relaxed radius partial pistol grip (half- or quarter-) that's sawn flat on the end, approximately parallel to the line of the barrels, and finished with a metal cap. And if I could afford a "London best," I'd specify this grip for it.

Is This The "True" Prince Of Wales Grip?
Thanks To Griffin & Howe

Even if Edward VII is “the” Prince, and even if my favorite is "the" definition, the question of exactly why he favored this grip configuration remains.

Did the partial pistol give him some slight extra purchase? Did his gun locate more reliably in hand for his driven pheasants?

Did he have some disability in his shooting hand for which this grip was a palliative?

Or was this simply a device to preserve the elegance of the straight grip while providing his engravers an additional surface for their art?

Was this a "supply side" grip? Did a particular gunmaker – maybe Woodward – offer this style of grip that for some reason suited Bertie’s hand or eye?

Or was it driven by demand? Was Bertie a keen shooter, and did he approach a gunmaker with this concept he had developed?

It's certainly possible that Bertie experimented with several grip configurations, so that they all were properly "Prince of Wales" grips. Such a promiscuous use of the term would neatly account for the lack of uniformity in its application.

Until a written document specifically addressing this issue materializes, the origin of the term is conjectural, and any talk of a “true” Prince of Wales grip is without basis. Or, as I often ask when I'm shooting, am I missing something here?

A Nice Pair

If Queen Elizabeth II ever invites me to tea at Sandringham - hey, she is a spaniel lover, too - I'll be sure to browse through the royal gunroom for some informing reference to the Prince's smoking gun.

Catch And Release Hunting Smells Fishy

2009-01-13T07:52:00.001-05:00

Early in October, flight woodcock had yet to arrive in my favorite covert right out the back door. So on one overcast day I decided to wait on the 'doodles and drive up to my release club instead for a pheasant hunt with Gordie.

After parking the car, I grabbed my 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light and vest, released Gordie, and headed for cover. That’s when I discovered that my vest was full - of 20 gauge #8s. A flailing search through the mess in the trunk failed to produce any 12 gauge shells. While re-casing and storing the gun, I decided that I’d run Gordie anyway. But after about ten minutes I returned to the car, put Gordie up, and drove back home.

When I reviewed the day’s events over a wee dram that evening, a signature line used by a poster at the Shooting Sportsman bulletin board came to mind. I cannot quote his text, but I can come close. If he ever arrived at a distant cover without his dog, he wrote, he’d go home. But if he arrived without his gun, he’d go hunting. I’d always liked that signature. For guys like me, working beautiful cover with a canine buddy is what it's all about.

In “Meditations On Hunting,” philosopher Ortega y Gassett begs to differ. He writes “…one does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.” It’s obvious he’s never seen me shoot or he’d know better. Philosophy always trumped me, anyway. If anyone is interested in splitting the hairs of matters like this, you should go see what Jim T. has to say over at Grousers.

After another wee dram and some reflection, I figured that the poster and I had it almost right. If I ever arrive in wild bird country with Gordie but not my shotgun, we’ll get out and run all right, but we'll be scouting, not hunting.

When I cast Gordie off that day at my shooting club, technically I wasn’t even scouting. I've belonged to the club for 12 years. Its 300 acres hide no surprise hotspots for me, and if it weren't for released pheasants, there'd be no upland birds there at all. Furthermore, if Gordie had found and flushed any leftover ringnecks, I’d have wasted $15 of member resources every time one flew over our fence into an adjoining property. It didn’t take long to realize that if this exercise wasn’t useless, then it was selfishly extravagant.

But the fix was easy. As mentioned earlier, I drove home where I exchanged the Ultra Light for my 20 gauge Rizzini and went looking for woodcock out back. And although we didn’t see a bird, with absolutely no apology to Ortega y Gassett, we enjoyed hunting until it was almost dark.

Scouting Beautiful Cover For Wild Birds Is Always Fun And Often Productive

FC Buster Brown, King Of Meadow

2009-01-07T07:31:00.027-05:00

Buster was always special.

When my neighbor Mike Ludwig peeked through his blinds and saw the liver and white English Cocker frolicking with his littermates outside my place on a sun drenched Saturday morning in October, 1996, he fell in puppy love at first sight. And after the little guy had played, visited the woods and shared affection with them for several hours, Mike and his wife Kim assured Harold Bixby of Windwhistle Kennels that Buster had found a loving home.

It didn’t take long for the pup to conspire in mayhem with my two year old American Water Spaniel Bean. They played furiously in our back yards, Buster chasing Bean in tight circles until they crashed to the grass in a tangled ball of asses and elbows. On days when Mike was pressed for time, he’d ask me to take Buster along when I ran Bean on the trails behind our houses. The three of us enjoyed a seamless fit. I was beyond contented every time those two dogs were tearing it up in front of me.

Boy, could Buster run! From his early days chasing Bean, to the time he arrowed out 60 yards to retrieve a chukar as a young trainee, to his many flawless runs in tests and trials, he covered his ground with speed, grace, and fearlessness to cover. Cocker trials were reintroduced shortly before Buster was whelped, and the first National in 36 years was held in 1998. So the newly minted “Cocker judges” were really “Springer judges” learning to wear a different hat. Mike heard more than one of these judges say – and at the time it was understood as a compliment – that Buster reminded them of a mini Springer working the course.

While Mike enjoyed woodcock and duck hunting with Buster, he was proudest of his field trial performances. They learned the game together, quickly, with Mike taking Buster to his title in 2000. At the 2004 Nationals, only passing a third bird in the fifth series denied Buster a Certificate of Merit. And as you can see here, Buster was still performing at a high level in 2006.

The little dog’s heart and spirit were still strong after that, but health issues slowly overtook him. Mike and his family recently spent several emotionally full days comforting their pal before Mike shared one last ride together.

All good dogs leave us too soon. But in the Better Place that I envision, old Bean has welcomed Buster with open paws. They’ll be chasing each other’s tails and flushing woodcock just for the Hell of it until it’s my turn to join them. Meanwhile, I’ve added Buster’s photo to the Old Friends section in the sidebar.

I've Upgraded My 3-Shotgun Battery For Positively The Last Time Ever

2009-01-01T07:40:00.002-05:00

Back in August, I wrote an entry about my comfort level with a safe reduced to three favored shotguns. For those hopelessly snowed in, you can read the entire entry here.

For those with less time to kill, here’s a snip from what I wrote about my 16 gauge:

To my eye, the 16 gauge has the prettiest silhouette of all the SxS’s. The tubes on a .410 or 28 gauge SxS sometimes appear too thin for the stock and action; and some 12 gauge SxS’s are too popeyed at the fences for my taste. My 16 gauge SxS is an AyA 4/53 Classic from Cabela’s....
This 4/53 may be a bit too tightly choked to become a dedicated grouse gun. Further, because my hands are sensitive to cold, the double triggers are not easy for my gloved fingers to negotiate after winter sets in. If CSMC ever offers a 16 gauge RBL with a reliable single, non-selective trigger, I would strongly consider going for the upgrade....

When CSMC began offering a 16 gauge RBL SxS in November, I was delighted. My long-suffering bride liked my plan: I’d drive to the CSMC showroom in Connecticut, actually handle an existing RBL, speak face to face with CSMC staff, and make an informed decision after that. Here’s why I ordered an RBL:

CSMC is about 420 miles from my garage door. If I ever need service, I have the option of driving there and delivering the gun to a CSMC employee whose ear I can chew. This adds great value to a gun that’s not even built yet. While I am happy to “buy American” when prudent, in this case I am even happier to “buy a 7 hour drive away.” The commute to Birmingham, Brescia, Belgium, or Eibar is not nearly so convenient.
CSMC offers the RBL with a single selective trigger. Their experience with the Model 21 augurs well for its reliability. As noted earlier, a single trigger reduces the hassle on my stiff and gloved fingers come winter. The selective part is not important to me. Hunting grouse and woodcock on the brushy edges of NY forests, I shoot at most of my birds as they angle away from me at high speed. Having the right-then-left built in to my gun wouldn't handicap me at all.

Speaking of birds and places, I ordered fixed chokes. After discussing the issue with CSMC, I’m delighted with my choices of Skeet 1 and Improved Cylinder. In the event that my patterns are too open for a given hunt, I can tighten things up simply by shooting harder shot. The RBL will safely handle pellets made from soft lead all the way up to steel.
Some of the boys at the usual upland hunting bulletin boards have expressed concern about the predicted weight of an average 16 gauge RBL. CSMC’s website promises weights from 6 lb. 4 oz. to 6 lb. 8 oz., but some conjectured that this range was optimistically low.

The old “rule of 96” suggests that a shooter can comfortably fire a gun that weighs 96 times its payload. For the 16 gauge’s 1 oz. load, that comes out to 96 oz., or 6 lbs. 0 oz. When I owned such a 16 gauge, a nice Arrieta 557, I found it a bit “bitey,” and thought several ounces more on its lovely frame would not have hurt at all. So if CSMC’s FAQ page is a reliable indicator, I’ll be just fine.

I’m turning 60 at the end of this month. NY's small coverts and, to a lesser extent, my age gives form to my typical day afield. Most often, I'll hunt the day's best covert for an hour or two. Then I water the dog back at the car, maybe share a sandwich, and drive to the next spot. After 90 minutes there, I’ll repeat the process at the car. If it’s a really nice day, maybe I’ll put a long hour into my last stop of the day. So an "all-day carry gun" is not nearly so valuable to me as to a Nevada chukar hunter, for example, who heads up a mountain in the morning and doesn't come down until late in the afternoon.

And while a very light weight gun is fun to carry, it may be a bit challenging to connect with. The RBL’s extra few ounces – and, assuming the gun comes in under 7 lb., they’re only “extra” if the rule of 96 is elevated to The Rule Of 96 – should help me swing better through the grouse that Gordie works so hard for.
Finally, I find the 16 gauge RBL’s wrist a bit too thick for my tastes. The receiver’s engraved setters don’t do much for me, either. But these are very minor quibbles on a gun that costs less than $3,000 and features the three benefits just listed.

According to CSMC's FAQ page, some deliveries will begin in April. I’ll be delighted if I get my RBL in time to chase a Christmas bird in 2009.

Prototype 16 gauge RBL from CSMC

I have also been doing some thinking about my 12 gauge. I'd written:

My “big gun” now is a 6 lb. 0 oz. 24” 3-shot 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light auto built around the Montefeltro action. Somehow the Benelli engineers have kept its felt recoil to a minimum. Further, the gun seems to point exactly where I look, swings incredibly well, and goes bang every time. It has arguably become the most effective gun I’ve ever owned.

I use this gun for all birds shot while training dogs; for pheasants and ducks; and, with small steel shot, for an occasional snipe. As much as I cherish my 20 gauge O/U, this sweet-shooting auto would probably be the last gun to go if the big bad wolf were ever to blow down my financial house.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made in selling off shotguns,...

…this may turn out to be the biggest. Time will tell. The Ultra Light is gone, replaced by another Benelli, this one a 20 gauge M2 Field with a synthetic black stock. I traded down for a simple reason: recoil. Many gunners who also wrote (O’Connor and Foster come immediately to mind) ultimately went to a smaller gauge to diminish the pains that the 12 gauge perpetrated on their “experienced” bodies. I'm just acting pre-emptively. I can still shoot the 12 gauge without pain. But my right shoulder is getting a bit creaky generally, so I figure it's a good plan to reduce stress to it any way possible.

Here's why I believe this 20 gauge can replace my 12 gauge Ultra Light:

Near as I can tell, 3 or 4 pellets of a target-appropriate shot will cleanly kill most birds taken within range. It’s not gauge or dram equivalent or initial velocity or the right choke tube that kills the bird, it’s energy at or beyond the lethal limit delivered by appropriate shot. At comfortable distances, the 12 gauge's extra payload isn't worth its wallop.

I’ve shot enough birds to recognize which are the chances that I usually shoot dead. If a bird rises outside my reliable killing zone, I know I can make potential problems go away simply by not squeezing the trigger. And this is one thing I can control, every time.
I'm also comfortable downsizing because I no longer see birds that I need to kill.

I've been privileged to be an official gun at spaniel and NAHRA trials and tests. I have enjoyed helping others train their spaniels, and one necessary part of that training is making a live, flushed bird into a dead one in a manner that pleases the handler. For a number of reasons, I’ve decided to let the younger guys take my place. Many of them practice their shooting much more than I do these days. Some of them are keen to start building their mountains of feathers. Mine is pretty much big enough.
I haven’t done much deer hunting lately. For reasons I don’t completely understand, I'm interested in taking a deer for the freezer one of these years. If shooting bird shot through a 12 gauge is problematical, then shooting deer slugs through a 12 gauge is positively painful. I have no doubt of the lethality of a 20 gauge slug fired broadside at a standing whitetail out to 50 yards. As when hunting birds, I'll be fine if I simply take the right shot.

This M2 has a 26” barrel and uses the Crio choke system. It will adapt well to different hunting environments, and be easy to clean. It also features the ComforTech stock. After firing about 10 rounds through it, I can happily say it is virtually free of felt recoil. Finally, a fully rifled barrel is available. If my current interest in deer hunting survives until August, I’ll pick one up and sight it in then.

So there you have it. I now have my perfect 3-gun battery. It's swell to know I'll never even want another gun. No, really. Trust me.

20 gauge Benelli M2 Field

Another Cold War Relic

2008-12-26T07:57:00.008-05:00

When I stumbled into a long-closed Nike base while hunting woodcock in November, I blogged about it here.

Byron York and his family visited a different base in November. His reflections appeared in a well crafted story in the National Review Online. The piece needs no help that I can give it, so I’ll cut right to the chase with the link.

A Falls Of Woodcock

2008-11-07T17:44:00.063-05:00

"Bean" the American Water Spaniel and I brought our first woodcock home from Corky’s Covert on October 10, 1994. Over time, we really came to love that ground. Not only was it a magnet for flight birds; but it also had the cool feature of a clear if distant view of Niagara Falls. As time marched on, the dogwood cover changed as did land use by resident neighbors. It's probably needless to say that neither of these developments improved the hunting. Sadly, we haven’t chased woodcock at Corky's for several years now.

So when my friend Jim S. recently invited Gordie and me to hunt woodcock on land near Corky’s, we were delighted. We visited the property behind Walt’s house around 3 p. m. in the final week of the 2008 season. I immediately recognized the cover that I’d learned to love almost 15 years earlier. Much of the dogwood was only waist to head high, offering the luxury of a second shot at birds whiffed with the first barrel.

The Niagara Falls Skyline From Walt’s

Not that the birds were easy, mind. We burned through some powder before we, ahem, warmed up our gun mounting techniques. But the woodcock were in, and Gordie had a ball rousting them up for us into the crisp blue sky.

One bird that we saluted flew over a barbed wire perimeter and came down inside in a small dogwood patch. Jim knew where a hole in the fence might get us an opportunity to reflush this possibly nicked bird. Moments later, we passed several large concrete slabs covering the ground. I asked Jim, and he confirmed the nature of these slabs: we were hunting on the grounds of an old Nike base. For those too young to remember, Nikes were a system of defensive missiles buried in communities here and there in the 1950’s and 60’s. If you’d like, you can read a bit about that history here. I enjoyed the irony of happily hunting wild birds in an attractive covert on the site of a Cold War icon.

Jim In Long Shadows At The Perimeter

Did Ike Like Nikes? Absolutely!
Cold War High Tech

It’s always terrific to find a cover that is a cracker jack replacement for one that’s been lost. Now that woodcock season has ended, I’ll scout it thoroughly over the snowy season to be ready to walk up the best spots come next October.

Jim is throwing a small dinner party tonight, featuring woodcock we’ve shot and the backstrap of a deer he arrowed. I got off easy, and only have to bring the wine. It sounds like a good time!

Gordie Clearly Relishing 3 Yummy Woodcock

Saturday morning addendum:

When I guessed that we'd have "a good time" Friday, I grossly underestimated the excellent table that Jim and Laurie would set for us last night. Read the menu and drool:

jalapeno and banana peppers sauteed with prosciutto, Parmesan and aromatics and served with chunks of bread;
sauteed chopped woodcock heart and liver over croutons warmed in a skillet of garlic butter;
plucked and roasted woodcock, done rare;
backstrap and other cuts of venison, done rare. Cherries in a thin glaze, for spooning over the venison, simmered in a pan nearby;
diced goose breast in a cream sauce, served over spaetzle;
green salad featuring raspberries and grapefruit;
big, dry red wine;
pumpkin tarts under whipped cream; and
Zaya, a 12 year old rum from Trinidad, served neat in Irish crystal.

I'm eager to let Gordie help Jim get some mallards and a pheasant or two, maybe even a rabbit. Whatever Jim wants. I can't wait to taste what surprises he'll cook up next time.

Grouse Covert Hunting Pays Grouse Hunter Off Later

2008-10-26T11:07:00.001-04:00

When I was a newlywed in 1978, my father in law introduced me to small game hunting. He was a North Country vet living on a going-back dairy farm off Route 30 just north of Malone. His youth – during the Great Depression – and later his work for struggling small dairy farmers never left him much time or money for training bird dogs. But the North Country had a great abundance of snowshoe hares then – his buddies called them white rabbits – and Doc just loved to hear beagle music as his hounds ran through the cedar swamps, birch clumps and pine patches just behind the barn.

I flushed more grouse by accident back then and there than I do now on purpose in western New York’s Southern Tier. Maybe it’s because Doc’s land was my formative hunting ground, or maybe it’s simply that I saw a lot of birds erupt from that sort of landscape. For whatever reasons, that habitat has remained my personal vision of what proper grouse cover looks like.

Thirty years and 400 miles to the south and west later, early successional forests are not common on public land hereabouts. In fact, they're damned scarce. Imagine my delight, then, when I recently followed up some scouting leads and discovered a place that looks “just right.” I flushed a bird there on my initial visit, and got a shot at one on the next. By concentrating on this particular parcel, I’m finally hunting grouse instead of grouse coverts. And it paid off just the other day.

We weren't 10 minutes out of the car when Gordie, a flushing spaniel, began working ground scent on the edge of a dry creek bed. I could see his enthusiasm ratcheting up, and, happily succumbing to optimism, I took a set-up step with my left foot in the direction in which the dog was working. With incredible timing, the pup flushed the bird not a dozen yards in front of me, and I had a rather easy shot for the 20 gauge L. L. Bean “Uplander” from B. Rizzini. The retrieve was short and sweet, and before there was any sweat in my hatband, Gordie had his first-ever local grouse.

Gordie Already Eager For His Next Cast

In the remainder of the 2 hours we hunted there, Gordie flushed two more grouse and three woodcock. I had good shots at only one of each. I’m still not sure whether to be happy that I grabbed a good shotshell for that first grouse, or angry that the rest of the box was so obviously defective. Since I’ll be getting back there a time or two before the deer hunters take over in November, I guess it’s OK that I left some birds for seed.

Bird Hunting In Western NY On The First Weekend In October

2008-10-06T21:58:00.005-04:00

Blue Skies And Rolling Farmland Near NY Grouse Country

I opted for staying local on the first weekend in October. On Saturday, I hunted/ explored a spot I had only driven past and labeled “Check Out” on my map last year. It had several areas of obvious “disturbance,” and seemed a fair bet to hold some partridge. Since the covert is only 68 miles from my front door, it is also far and away the closest possible spot in which I might bang-bang-damn a grouse.

I parked the car just off the road and, after determining that 280° was “in,” put Gordie down. For the next 30 minutes, we walked either on the remnants of a skidder trail or armpit deep in brutal blackberry canes. “Disturbed” was an apt description for more than the landscape. When the trail petered out against a mature canopy, we turned south for about 400 yards so we’d have the easier walking just inside the edge of the blackberry-canopy border on our way out. His stub of a tail a merry blur, Gordie showed his appreciation of this more user-friendly cover by snuffling under, around or through it all in the pleasant morning shade.

After almost an hour, Gordie flushed a beautiful red phase bird from a large rotting log into a golden shaft of sunlight. I whiffed gracefully at this calendar-art shot, but sent Gordie out for a precautionary sniff anyway before we moved on. As it turned out, we were less than 60 seconds from where the car sat parked.

On my way to a second parking spot, I stopped for howdy and shake with the dairy farmer whose property is adjacent to this bit of state land. After I explained what I was doing, he told me that he’d often seen partridge near a road just a bit to the north, and encouraged me to give it a try. I thanked him and promised that I would. But when I got there, the block of cover was a bigger bite than I wanted to chew, so I saved it for another time.

I parked once more and hunted another disturbed piece of cover. It, too, was very attractive, but we had no flushes in our short hour on the ground. Even so, with the bird and cover I’d seen, and with the farmer’s endorsement (unless he just wanted me away from the edge of his herd ;-) I felt very pleased to have added a decent partridge place that was birdy and close to home.

On Sunday, family commitments left us just an hour to see whether we could take a pheasant left over from the morning’s hunts at my release club. The weather was again gorgeous; but in 58 minutes, Gordie didn’t make game once. I already had my 16 ga SxS broken and resting on my shoulder for the last 100 yards to the car when the dog went into hyperdrive. I swung the AyA 4/53 from right to left and was rewarded with a dense puff of feathers floating slowly downward in the after-shot stillness. In a jiffy Gordie brought me the stone-dead hen and we were done for the day.

I was delighted with the mild report, at both ends, of the shell I’d used. For the record, it was a 2.75” RST 16 ga. “Best” Lite 1 oz. load of #6 lead. Although the load put very little hurt on me, the pheasant was mercifully dead in the air.

On Monday, woodcock season opened, so out we went for our third species in three days. We went to an old spot we’ve been scouting for the last two weeks, turning up a bird or so on about half the visits. Today, unfortunately, belonged in the wrong half, although Gordie worked with enthusiasm for an hour and a quarter. I noticed with disappointment that a single Posted sign suddenly has appeared in a corner of our hunting area. But the posting was the only small blemish on three days that were otherwise terrific.

Finally Comfortable With A Bare Bones 3-Shotgun Battery

2008-08-12T20:01:00.013-04:00

Just like a great white shark, my wife rolled her eyes and knifed in for the kill. “You’re just getting old, Hon.”

I’d awaken with a stiff neck, my penance for the simple sin of sleeping crookedly. Getting old, indeed. Actually, I’d suspected as much all Spring. I could barely raise a ho-hum of enthusiasm when the lurid reviews of new guns continued to arrive in the usual magazines.

Shrugging off these geriatric messages as groundless, I washed down a multiple vitamin and my prescribed drugs with a stout glass of prune juice and then waddled off to check my logs. The record showed that I’ve bought 27 shotguns since 1979, but have traded or given away all but three. Each of these survivors solves multiple problems from the set that’s evolved in the course of my hunting. I can’t imagine adding another shotgun. But I’d consider upgrading any of these arms if a more functional and prettier piece came along simultaneously with a winning lottery ticket.

Here’s how the guns left my safe. In NY, we have woodcock and grouse to hunt in the uplands. I also enjoy jump shooting wood ducks in front of my English Cocker, and the occasional mallard over decoys. When we hunt pheasants in NY, the birds were most probably released, although some spend lots more time on their own in the wild than others. For me, other than the occasional pigeon or chukar planted for dog training, that’s the complete roster of my targets.

That’s not all. I no longer hunt deer. I’m not interested in turkeys, or even geese. Official gunning at spaniel field games isn’t appealing anymore, either. And, as much as I have tried, I still can’t work a pump gun well. In “Pheasants of the Mind,” the late Datus Proper said it better than I can: “I like the toolness of the pumpguns, the way they clank like 1932 Fords. I would enjoy carrying one around to aggravate the dudes. It happens, however, that I shoot better with a double-barreled gun....”

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. 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.

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.

20 gauge B. Rizzini L. L. Bean “New Englander”

To my eye, the 16 gauge has the prettiest silhouette of all the SxS’s. The tubes on a .410 or 28 gauge SxS sometimes appear too thin for the stock and action; and some 12 gauge SxS’s are too popeyed at the fences for my taste. My 16 gauge SxS is an AyA 4/53 Classic from Cabela’s. It has lovely 29” fixed choke barrels, double triggers, a splinter fore end agreeably matched with a straight right hand, and a checkered butt. The 4/53 Classic also comes with “upgraded wood” and a stock oval, and is not punishing to look at. When I shouldered this arm in Cabela’s Wheeling, WV Gun Library, I was instantly taken with its weight, balance, and out-of-box fit. I traded two former eye apples and a bit of cash for it, and so far have been delighted.

I like hunting mid- and late-season grouse with a 16 gauge. I’ve also had success with the gauge at the release club where I shoot pheasants and, on occasion, wood ducks and mallards. Ironically, the 16 is a gauge I could enjoy for all my hunting, but, because of ammunition constraints, would also be the first of my trio to go if I somehow had to get by with just two guns.

This 4/53 may be a bit too tightly choked to become a dedicated grouse gun. Further, because my hands are sensitive to cold, the double triggers are not easy for my gloved fingers to negotiate after winter sets in. If CSMC ever offers a 16 gauge RBL with a reliable single, non-selective trigger, I would strongly consider going for the upgrade. If that seems like it’s a long time coming and the 4/53 otherwise performs well in the interim, I’d probably have Mike Orlen open up the fixed chokes on the AyA just a bit.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made buying shotguns, the worst was in ordering a 16 gauge Huglu O/U in 1995 from a now out-of-business vendor in Charlottesville, VA. When the gun finally arrived, it was 6 months late, 16 oz. overweight at 7 lb. 2 oz., and off in varying degree from several specs on my order sheet. There’ll be more on this gun later.

16 gauge AyA 4/53 Classic

My “big gun” now is a 6 lb. 0 oz. 24” 3-shot 12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light auto built around the Montefeltro action. Somehow the Benelli engineers have kept its felt recoil to a minimum. Further, the gun seems to point exactly where I look, swings incredibly well, and goes bang every time. It has arguably become the most effective gun I’ve ever owned.

I use this gun for all birds shot while training dogs; for pheasants and ducks; and, with small steel shot, for an occasional snipe. As much as I cherish my 20 gauge O/U, this sweet-shooting auto would probably be the last gun to go if the big bad wolf were ever to blow down my financial house.

Of all the mistakes I’ve made in selling off shotguns, I wish most that I’d kept the 12 gauge Arrieta 557. The gun was wonderfully crafted, with a lovely stick of well marbled walnut for my right hand. Its sin was in having fixed chokes cut precisely as I had ordered them: too tight. If I had had the wit to have its barrels opened up a bit, a whole lot of time, money and missed birds might have been avoided. To close the circle on the story, I got this gun in trade for some cash and that damned Huglu.

12 gauge Benelli Ultra Light

So that’s how I’ve arrived where I’m happily sitting tonight. It’d be nice if a new game were to make another gun purchase interesting. But if I could add a new gun, or instead a new friend to pursue my old faithfuls with, I’d opt for the latter in a heartbeat.

Anyone who has a favorite battery – specially if you’re from an area of the world whose hunting is different from that in the northeast USA – is encouraged to email its description and any supporting jpegs, and we’ll add it to the bottom of this entry, making sure to give you full credit for your work.

Preseason Grouse Scouting

2008-07-14T13:22:00.025-04:00

Veterans will easily recognize the spot on the left side of the road
but dead center in the photo as a grouse. Cold Duck's meager budget
last year suggested a 16 ga. SxS over a telephoto lens.

When Cousin Richard mentioned he was heading to his camp in the southern Adirondacks to perform some minor maintenance, I promptly volunteered for a 4-day weekend’s worth. After we spent two days porch painting, rug laying and wood cutting, the womenfolk generously granted us Saturday morning to head out on a random scoot scouting for grouse.

We found some birds near a fire tower and carefully marked the location in the deLorme. In case you’re interested, the spot is precisely 100 miles northeast of Syracuse. Don’t shoot ‘em all if you get there first.

Our nephew Patrick D. arrived in camp Friday night, and tossed in with Rick and me on Saturday. Pat will be a senior at RPI this Fall, but he’s eagerly picking up woodcraft, too. The grouse – we call them “partridge” in the Adirondacks – in the lead photo was the first he’d seen, so we tried to get a closer look, but the bird hot footed into the scrub and disappeared when we tried to sneak out of the Jeep.

On our way back to camp, we ran into some likely looking water that Rick wanted to try. The tea coloring is typical of Adirondack trout streams.

Cousin Richard bumping a huge stonefly downstream

Since we were all heading home on Sunday morning, we dedicated the rest of Saturday to celebrating a successful camp. Dolly Parton-esque chicken breasts were the featured item, fatted calves being in short supply, while tasty bowls left over from the last 3 nights’ feasts filled in all the gaps on the table. What with a few cold beers down at the lake in the afternoon, a crisp gin and tonic or so at cocktail time, and plenty of Pinot Grigio to wash down supper, we were right happy campers when it came time for a roaring fire and just a wee dram or two.

Patrick is a talented student and a hard worker. I’m not surprised that he was offered a great job in his “co-op” year at school. Since he’s just turned 21, he was waiting his chance to take his place alongside us old folks, and, with a few well-earned bucks in his pocket, more than happy to share the bottle of Black Bush he’d picked up. As the shadows lengthened and the fire burned down, the yarns and their deliveries got cranked way up. Along about midnight (I am told), I gave everyone a crooked smile and tacked unsteadily toward my bunk.

Great camp smells like percolating coffee and bacon on the griddle bounced me from bed around 7 on Sunday morning. All the veterans were up and bustling, either helping with breakfast, or packing the cars for departure, or in Rick’s case, rigging another fly rod to fish a favorite river on his drive home. Everyone was accounted for except Patrick.

It certainly had been an instructive trip for Pat. He’d seen partridge, and the gnarlies where they like to hang out. He’d learned the difference between a stonefly dead drifted down and an AuSable Wulff fished dry up. He’d paddled a kayak, split wood, and spun yarns admirably. And, after he finally left the pitching deck of his bunk, he gathered powerful empirical evidence about when to say “when.”

Rick and I are looking forward to the pleasure of Pat’s company when partridge open in northern NY on September 20.

All that's left is hair of the dog.

Video of Woodcock Feeding Amid Snow and Ice

2008-04-12T15:37:00.005-04:00

Michel Gelinas passionately bands and hunts woodcock in Quebec behind his Braque Francais pointers. We have maintained a friendly correspondence over the last dozen years, and enjoyed a hunt together in the country around Malone, NY in 2000. I speak no French, but his good dogs communicated with me just fine. More about Michel and his dogs can be found at his website listed in the Links.

Michel has sent along a fascinating video shot on April 6, 2008 by one of his friends. It shows woodcock seeking and finding worms along the recently thawed bank of a Quebec watercourse. The images suggest that the woodcock do a fair amount of walking as they seek food, and that their searches are not confined to bare patches of topsoil. Additionally, the birds' bobbing gait sure looks to me like they're sending up John Travolta's dancing in Saturday Night Fever. So little Bec likes to get down, eh: who knew?

Frankly, Scarlett, I Just Don't Care Very Much

2008-02-07T15:49:00.002-05:00

Murphy’s Chessie “Rommel” farted again, drawing tears that blurred a sky full of chill rain but no ducks. My prospects for roasting a fat mallard any time soon had been flimsy to begin with. On recent Niagara River hunts, Rommel had retrieved ducks successfully; not whole ducks, though, just duck parts. Too bad Rommel doesn’t eat beaks or guts first. Neither do I.

Half an hour after the rain turned white, so did my toes, nose, and fingers. Noticing me shivering glumly, Murphy asked if I wanted to pick up and have a hot breakfast. The hairs on Rommel’s nape bristled when Murphy reached toward the decoy sack.

I chattered through lying teeth that I didn’t care. Maybe I didn’t, but getting the hell out of there had definitely crossed my mind. It was after we collected the dekes and began schlepping our gear back to Murphy’s pickup that it hit me. The phrase “I don’t care” is often about as genuine as one of Murphy’s rubber ducks.

As happy as a puppy’s tail, “I don’t care” can be a soft-pedaled substitute for “I’d be delighted.” When a young Nimrod's eyes first start to shine on grandpa's well worn scatterguns hanging on the wall, the twinkle is contagious. When the boy finally asks, his grandfather might tell him to take down any gun he wants and to go enjoy himself; grandpa doesn’t care. But the old man’s faint smile tells a different story.

Most commonly, though, “I don’t care” is intended as a literal declaration. For example, Angler B might tell Angler A he honestly doesn’t care which pond they try first on a pleasant summer morning. But in this case, Angler B should not express a geographical preference, such as for casting along the pond’s rocky-bottomed western shore, or his initial declaration will become littoral.

“I don’t care” has a salty side, too, and is versatile enough to use when the gloves come off. A hunter will occasionally float a harebrained scheme – like hunting turkeys with beagles, or making coot jerky – past a buddy, looking for some encouragement. Saying that he doesn’t care what his pal does slams the door on that conversation. If needed, emphasis can be added with a well nuanced eye-roll.

Chillier still is this response for a guy met now and then in camp. He habitually carries his gun with the safety off so he’s ready for a quick “sound shot.” His companions bob and weave every time his gun barrels trace through their torsos in merry arcs. When the host asks whether it’s OK for this jerk to hunt at camp next weekend, the nays are phrased to spare the host’s feelings, but just barely. Even in the funny papers, the thrust of “I don’t &%#@$ care” is crystal clear.

While the example above crashes on the ear, the most ominous expression of not caring is delivered less with a bang than a whimper. Imagine a sportsman receiving an email from his buddy who’s discovered a pond stiff with foot-long brook trout just north of Saranac Lake. Better still, the region was logged about 6 years ago, leaving the cedar and birch clumps that remain a bonasa bonanza. His buddy wants him to drive up late in September so they can enjoy an early season Adirondack cast ‘n blast. The sportsman is excited, and hurries to share the good news with his wife. He thinks better of it when he sees her enjoying herself on the riding mower out back, and so, not wanting to interrupt her fun, he decides to wait for a more opportune moment.

An hour later, still in her sweaty work clothes, sipping a lemonade, she smiles happily at him after hanging up the phone. Now is the time, he senses, to announce his plans. What he’s forgotten is his promise, made after his salmon fishing expedition last September, not to miss their wedding anniversary again this year. What he doesn’t know is that her phone call confirmed reservations for a romantic anniversary dinner on the very night his buddy expects him at camp. He watches as his wife gently sets down her lemonade, walks toward the bathroom to shower, and sweetly tells him to do whatever he thinks is right. She says she doesn’t care, then quietly clicks the door behind her.

This fellow has just heard Bad News, just like the deer that’s heard the snick of a 12 gauge slug being chambered in a pumpgun nearby. For both, any hope of a long and happy life depends on their responses to these dangerous environmental sounds. Even if they both scoot at just the right moment, only the deer can hope for a bloodless getaway. Heck, it’ll even be safe enough one day for the deer to come back.

If Murphy ever invites me back to hunt with Rommel, I’ll probably say something like “Sure…OK... I don’t care... Or maybe we could hunt with my dog this time.” And if Murphy says he doesn’t care, either, maybe I’ll be enjoying that roasted mallard after all.

Doodling With Bean

2007-11-16T08:59:00.000-05:00

Back in September, 2006 I promised that a story about woodcock hunting "would be 'up' one of these days soon."

That day has finally arrived. Please check out Spaniel Journal for the details.

Just Like The Good Old Days, Only Better, In The Cessna SkyCatcher

2007-11-09T14:12:00.000-05:00

In 1984, I went to Anchorage courtesy of my wife and Alaska Airlines. Nancy’s agent had passed her name along when the airline contacted him, looking for an accomplished road racer to give a clinic or two, press the flesh, rally the troops and hand out roses to the finishers of the all-ladies marathon they were sponsoring. In return, Nancy received a 10-day all-expenses August vacation in Alaska, complete with all the fixin’s. Alaska Air even offered to convert Nancy’s $1,000 honorarium into a $1,200 ticket for me. And so I soon found myself wobbling under the weight of my 3 oz. flyrod, and 200 lbs. of Nancy’s essential impedimenta, as we weaved through a fluid tangle of idling taxis and taxiing float planes at the Anchorage airport.

A highlight of the trip for me was an overnight fly-in to a remote salmon camp. I’d never flown low and slow before in the likes of a deHavilland Beaver over such a beautiful landscape. The experience was, as the saying goes, transforming. When by chance I bumped into my friend Stan N. at the pickled herring case of a super market around New Year’s, I enthused about my flights in the light plane. Did I say that Stan is a flight instructor? By the time I’d tossed the Vita Herring in Sour Cream into my cart, I had a date for an introductory flight in May, 1985.

The plane that I first left seated on that memorable May day turned out to be a well-worn Cessna 150. Over the following months, I learned a whole lot about old N5383Q. How it sipped red avgas. How the seats reminded me of folding lawn chairs, but stronger, probably. Maybe. Since its flap indicator was broken, how to count screws and scratches inside the flap hinge to get the proper flap angle. Light planes like the 150 weren’t nicknamed “Spam cans” for nothing.

Flying the 150 was both instructive and fun. But its charm – what I still miss after 22 years – was the feeling that my linkage with the aircraft was personal. The little plane simply connected with me as seamlessly and comfortably as a pair of broken-in boots or my good old dog.

I haven’t flown much in recent years (Hint: It’s too expensive). But just the other day I chanced into an advert touting Cessna’s new “SkyCatcher.” The text and glossies revealed a part–composite two seater that features a “glass cockpit.” Upon some reading at the SkyCatcher’s blogsite (you can read it, too, here), it was clear that Cessna is marketing this sweetie as a “personal aircraft.” I suspect that other not so young pilots who trained in a 150 will be taking a nostalgic peek or two at the SkyCatcher before the first production unit rolls onto the tarmac in 2009. I know I’ll be checking on it, just before I see whether my financial plan has been funded by the lottery.

Gordie's First Grouse

2007-10-09T09:30:00.000-04:00

A Typical Scene From "Early Grouse Season" In Northern NY

I’m not sure what got me so fired up to chase grouse with Gordie this Fall. Maybe the fascination began when we were out drilling in August. I aimed to sharpen his performance so he’d finish his Junior Hunter title in high style. The little guy really had matured over his third Winter. He began to respond crisply and with enthusiasm to my voice, hands and whistle. He also conceded that I was The Big Dog around the house, and fell into a comfortable role as my permanent shadow. So we were ready to pursue some partridge.

But it’s also possible that the visits to the chiropractor beginning in the Spring had given me a new, sharper-focused perspective. After examining the X-rays he took during my initial appointment, the Doc casually tossed out that I had “minor” arthritis here and there all along my spine and shoulders “consistent with a person your age.” Yikes! Time’s a’wastin’, Gordie, let’s head for the hills!

I even indulged myself by trading a bit of hard cash and a couple of former favorites that no longer shoot straight for a dedicated grouse gun. It’s a side by side 16 gauge, not too fancy at all, but honest, with a decent piece of walnut on her, double triggers, a straight right hand and fixed chokes. At 6 lbs. 2 oz., the gun promised that she’d prove no burden for even a rheumy codger like myself to wobble through the grouse woods with.

Proper Gear For Grouse Hunting

Grouse season in Northern New York opens on September 20, eleven days earlier than in “The Southern Tier” where we live. So when I heard from two old friends, Jim T. and Don M., urging that we get together for some early season action, I was delighted to gas up the van and roll.

We met on each of September’s last two weekends, watched Gordie put up a number of grouse (open season) and woodcock (closed season), and even touched off a shot or two. But we weren’t quick enough in the verdant early season woods to put a bird on the ground for him to retrieve.

Gordie was next invited as guest of honor to my cousin Richard’s camp for the Columbus Day weekend. Since the little spaniel doesn’t drive, I was invited too. We were expected in camp Friday afternoon for a quick hunt in the hour or so before dusk. I decided I’d leave home Thursday; hunt a covert or two near Watertown; and after a great meal at Cavallario’s Cucina and a good night’s sleep, head for camp Friday noon after a morning spent scouting.

We didn’t find a thing in an hour’s hunt at our first stop Thursday. On the drive to our second covert, though, a single grouse scooted across the gravelly road not 15 yards ahead of my van. I chose to believe this a Good Sign.

By the time we reached our next covert, the shadows were getting longer and the uncharacteristically oppressive heat we’ve been having began to dissipate. I parked the van, checked the vest for my shells and Gordie’s water bottle, and walked into some young hardwoods dotted with aromatic spruce and hemlock. As I loaded my gun with low brass lead #7 ½’s, I thought wistfully about the 16 gauge sitting at home in the safe. On Saturday of Columbus Day weekend, you see, ducks would open in Richard’s northern zone camp. To make life easy for everyone, I’d brought two boxes of 12 gauge steel #7’s so that we’d all be legal for a grouse, woodcock and wood duck trifecta. But that meant today I was carrying my 12 gauge Benelli autoloader. Jim T. had given me quite a teasing about losing this gun’s “easily detachable butt pad” in a grouse tangle two weekends earlier. Since the pad’s replacement had not yet arrived, I’d done some custom handiwork to make the gun a bit more user friendly. But this was patently not the classically handsome gun with which I’d hoped to shoot Gordie’s first grouse.

Packing Tape Provides A "High Gloss Finish"

We began working a southerly line through the woods. We hadn’t gone far at all when Gordie’s tail began beating a double-time tattoo. Then stuff happened, fast.

It started with Gordie working a bird in dense understory. When he flushed it with a concussive “whirr,” I squinted hard but failed to pick up the out-bound grouse.

“Gosh Darn! Mother's Father! Life is so unfair!” Or other words that form a loose equivalent...

Still working desperately, his nose glued to the abundant ground scent, Gordie encored by putting up two more birds. Yes Sirree, I eyed the trailer bird jinking to cover his six with a spruce tree and snapped a shot vaguely in his direction. The bang caused a fourth grouse to flush wild just off to my left, and I gave it a “Hail Mary” blast. Too bad a maple whip chopped off the twitchy lurch that was my swing.

Then all the woods were quiet. No bird was left to flush, no dog was to be seen, and I was standing there alone, thumping heart slowing, the enormity of my incompetence settling in like an all-day rain. Time hung there heavy for what seemed forever, but it's doubtful that even a minute passed. Then I heard leaves crunching out near the third bird’s escape route. In another second or two, there was Gordie, proudly carrying his first-ever grouse. Just like in the training videos, he brought it to me, sat down, tail just a’waggin’, and tenderly released it to me when I said “Give.” I told him what a fine retrieve he’d made, gave him an ear scritch and a splash of water, and we agreed to call it a day. A special day, with any luck the first of many more to come.

Gordie Already Thinking About His Next Grouse

Early Season Grouse Hunting in Northern New York

2007-09-24T17:02:00.000-04:00

September weather in New York is routinely gorgeous. Warm days, cool nights and bright blue skies seem to be the rule. But while perfect for golf, such mild weather is often a bit too warm for the hunters and much too hot for the dogs who pursue early season birds.

The annual pilgrimage for “early grouse” in northern New York is therefore a glorious triumph of Hope over Experience. Forgotten in the current hunt planning are memories of last year’s debacle where the woods were too hot, too dry and too thick. Surely it will be better this time!

On Friday the 21st, I met my friend Don M. and his veteran Lab “Tino” for breakfast at a pleasant diner north of Syracuse. When the last coffee was chugged, we headed for some coverts where we lazy “locals” usually wear tall rubber boots against the region’s ubiquitous seeps, springs, streams, puddles and ponds. This year, the covert was almost bone dry. In the first two hours working behind Tino, we flushed just two “partridge.” I whiffed spectacularly on a right-to-left bird that flew straight across a wide open lane. After watering Tino and settling him in his crate, we tried a spot up the hill with my English Cocker “Gordie.” He went birdless in 90 minutes, even though he worked the cover relentlessly.

Still, Don and I had an enjoyable afternoon, and over a cold one we planned to meet again before he and Tino head to North Dakota for ducks later this Fall.

I stayed overnight in Watertown, enjoying a wonderful Italian meal at Cavallario’s Cucina . The service and food were so outstanding that I’ve added their website in the Links section. Plan on enjoying a meal there when you’re in northwestern New York.

On Saturday the 22nd, I met another old friend who I hadn't hunted with in two years. Jim T. had left his fine English Setter “Katie” at home. Kate’s getting along in years and has some medical history, so Jim decided to rest her on this trip. He was also interested in seeing how young Gordie the flushing dog would work for grouse, so the decision was easy for him.

Since Jim was nice enough to write up his impressions of our hunt, I think I’ll simply supply the link to his story. I think you’ll enjoy it. Click here to go there now.

A Pup's First Title

2007-09-12T09:32:00.001-04:00

Our local club hosted back-to-back Hunt Tests on the weekend of September 8 and 9, 2007. My English Cocker “Gordie” and I trained hard together all summer, especially on his delivery to hand, so that we could gather the last two qualifying scores required to finish his first title. You can catch up on that part of the story, if you’re interested, in the entry called “A Pup's First Ribbon, Revisited Again,” below.

Saturday was sunny, very hot and humid. I got to the line a bit after 1 p.m. and, after the judges gave me the day’s rules, I cast Gordie off to the right. I was pleased but not surprised when he quartered his ground well and quickly produced his first bird. The chukar went straight up in a leisurely climb about 15 yards out, and the shot was so easy that it flummoxed the wing gunners each into emptying both barrels. The bird flew weakly off toward a tree line forming the left boundary of the course, and crash landed in thick scrub about 85 yards down field. I thought the bird was at very least pricked as I watched it fly away in a wobbly manner embarrassingly familiar from my own shooting. Gordie is very good at marking this kind of bird, and I really wanted to let his skills shine on the long retrieve.

The lead judge didn’t know that this was Gordie's game, and because it was so hot, wanted me to recall him while he was still fresh. I told the judge to give me a bit, that Gordie was going to produce the bird. The judge was skeptical, and let me know it. Just then, a chukar flew out of the trees, my hard charging pup right on his tail. At this testing level, by the way, the dog is not required to be steady, so this chasing was OK. The bird flew across the course into dense cattails and disappeared. Gordie arrived shortly thereafter and once again tried to recover the bird. The judges were more interested in his efforts this time; but after he hadn’t produced the bird in about 40 seconds, they instructed me to recall him. And in he came to my 4 toots. I hupped him, gave him a good long drink and a splash for good measure, and cast him off again.

After a bit of a run, Gordie produced his second bird. It flew straight back over the judges and then the gallery, so no shot could be taken. Gordie gave scant chase and was easily recalled. I again watered my dog, who by now was feeling the heat, and prepared to cast him off again.

Instead, the judges produced a dead chukar, and gave it a toss while the wing gunner fired a shot. Gordie flashed out to the bird, brought it to within 6 feet, then dropped it and sat there panting. I had seen this behavior before. I waited a moment, called him in, watered him, then sent him with a "Back!" Gordie trotted to the bird, picked it up, and walked it back and dropped it into my cupped hands when I commanded “Give.”

”Thank you,” said the judges.

Not being a veteran campaigner, I had no “read” whether the judges liked what they'd seen. If we had actually been hunting, I'd have been well satisfied with the way Gordie performed on his first and second contacts. But my rookie handler's eye doubtlessly sees things in a softer focus than the judges'.

So it was a long wait to hear whether we’d be called back for the water retrieve. Finally, the marshall announced "Dogs called back for the water are #1, #2, (small pause), #3, (a much longer small pause), ... #4...." I acknowledged Gordie's good fortune with an Aeolian exhale and a quick thank you to the Big Guy. We were still in this thing.

We had worked on the retrieve from water daily for two weeks, and for some reason I felt uncharacteristically comfortable. At the toss of the dead chukar and the report of the 12 gauge, Gordie remained rock solid at the line. When the judge tapped me and I released him with his name, my dog made his typical “big air” entry and bee lined for the bird. And then it was over in an instant: he grabbed the bird, swapped stem for stern, swam straight back and carried the bird directly from the water to my waiting cupped hands. Good dog! I walked him back to the car and enjoyed a few claps on the back from friends and fellow testers.

After a short wait, Gordie was awarded a qualifying score – his third – for his day’s work. Worn down from the emotional roller coaster we’d ridden all day, we drove the hour home so we could have a nice meal and just flop on the sofa and chill.

Sunday dawned cool and gray with on-and-off rain that lasted through lunch time. It was a much more comfortable day for the dogs to run. Gordie was first off the line, and he put on a good show in the cool, fresh field. His quartering was crisp, his response to whistle instantaneous, and his marks were perfect. He did give me some pause when he persisted in dropping his birds short. After stopping to reposition it, he brought the first retrieve directly to hand. I elected to take a step toward him and picked up the second bird. Given his strong overall performance, I decided to give up a style point with the step in trade for nailing the performance shut.

”Thank you,” said the judges.

Not a chatty bunch, judges, are they? My long-suffering wife banters more pleasantly with me when I come home late for dinner with a loopy grin from a 19th hole marathon with my foursome.

That step I took toward Gordie’s second bird got longer and longer in my imagination as the afternoon wore on, and by the time callbacks were announced for the water retrieve, I was convinced we'd been tossed. But happily enough Gordie was once again called back. He was a single good retrieve from a title.

Gordie was nicely steady to the tossed chukar and the shot, and the judge tapped me, but very lightly. Not sure whether it was a tap or just another geriatric twitch, I didn’t release my dog. Then the judge was in my ear, and I feared I had done something wrong. But she was simply telling me to send the dog, so I whispered “Gordie!” and he was off. Then I turned to the judge, and without thinking, simply said “When my wife taps me, I know I’ve been tapped.”

By the time both female judges stopped laughing, Gordie was at the bird. His retrieve was almost as good as Saturday’s. When he just missed my cupped hands with the bird, I reached 8" over to take it to end his time under judgment. I would have gone for perfect delivery to hand if this were a training situation, but this was like getting the third out in the bottom of the ninth. As my Little League coaches always said, just get both hands on the ball.

It was an expectant wait with my fellow testers for the committee to make its announcements. But there were no bad surprises, and Gordie took his fourth Junior Hunter qualifying score. After we hear from the AKC, we’ll have to upgrade his stationery to Flash Gordon of Windmillwood JH.

I think I am prouder of this than he is. When I chatted him up about his accomplishment over some Irish Whiskey after the feathers stopped flying Sunday night, he licked himself down below, scooted his butt over our new carpets, and "retrieved" the bedroom TV’s remote clicker to me on the living room sofa. Fifteen minutes later, he was curled up next to me, zonked, only occasionally farting contentedly.

(Gordie's post title photos were taken by talented pet photographer Kim Ludwig. Thanks, Kim! You can see more of her work here).

A Pup's First Ribbon, Revisited Again

2007-09-09T19:24:00.000-04:00

(This story first appeared in November, 2005. It's a natural for revisiting with updates until I can rename it "A Pup's First Title." The updates begin at the south end of the original text. The latest, and last, addition is dated June 10, 2007.)

November 13, 2005: Gordie and I entered his first judged events this weekend. Today we ran what is called a "Hunt Test." Many dogs are entered, but there is no single winner. It's a sort of pass/ fail event, so that at the extremes either all dogs or no dogs might receive a "qualifying score." Usually the number of those receiving qualifying scores is somewhere in between.

His job was to find and flush two birds hiding in the brush on land. After the gunners shot the first bird that Gordie flushed, he was to locate it in the field and retrieve it to me straightaway. After taking delivery of the bird, I'd send him on again, hopefully for a repeat performance on the second bird.

Later, a duck hunting scenario was fabricated where two men with a gun and a pile of the late lamented birds hid on the far side of a middling size pond. They blew a duck call to get each dog's attention. Then they tossed a dead bird through the air into the pond and touched off the shotgun to simulate an actual duck hunting event. The dog is to swim out, find the bird, and swim back and deliver it to the handler.

14 month old Gordie did all this with a flourish, and won his first qualifying score toward Junior Hunter. With three more, he gets to wear the title "JH" in all his correspondence, kind of like the Duke of Earl. We intend to travel through Canadian border and Middle Atlantic states beginning again next Spring to nail down these qualifying scores. In the meantime, we'll continue to enjoy our hunting season.

April 22, 2006: Gordie and I traveled to the Hillendale Club in central Pennsylvania to run in the junior division of the Mid Penn English Springer Spaniel Club's licensed hunt test. Although I wanted to run him both days, plans at home for Sunday limited us to the Saturday event.

The grounds, cover and valley views at the Hillendale Club were outstanding, even in the rainy 47 degrees in which we huddled over our check-in coffee. The tests were sequentially scheduled, with 8 Masters running first, then 8 Seniors, with 12 Juniors bringing up the rear. Gordie ran 27th of the 28 entries, so it was 12:30 before we saw action. His quartering was brisk, his marks just fine, and his first retrieve perfect. Gord dumped his second delivery a bit short, but recovered with a minimum of cajoling to bring the quite dead and soggy chukar within a long step. We were rewarded for this performance with a call-back for the water work.

At the water, Gordie executed an "expectant hup" as the gunners arced one of the dead chukars from the giant "sling shot" and touched off a 12 gauge. His entry was crisp and eager after the judge tapped my shoulder, and out he went in his pleasing, "low slung" and direct style in the water. In my limited experience, he seems as comfortable in the water as any young dog I've ever seen.

When Gordie arrived at the poorly floating bird, he somehow whiffed on the retrieve and dunked the bird underwater. Undeterred, Gordie began a series of shallow dives looking for it. Happily, the bird bobbed up, Gordie grabbed it, and 15 seconds later the three of us were united on the bank.

At 4:30, over a warming tot of adult beverage and much mutual back slapping, I received Gordie's rosette for this second qualifying score. I'd have 5 pleasant hours in the car through the Allegheny Forest to mentally review his performance, make mental adjustments in his training regimen, and make plans for his next test.

June 10, 2007: OK, I have to fess up from the get-go. I should have put this post here when Gordie and I returned home from two days of testing in north central CT over Memorial Day, 2006. Gordie performed at both ends of the excellence scale, and exposed my weaknesses as a trainer. I spent the rest of 2006 thinking about his performances, and only today did I have the chance to test my plan for improving them. Let me explain.

On Day 1 of the CT test, Gordie ran a wonderful land series. He quartered well, found his birds, made strong marks and finds right on the money. It was a very warm day, and the vegetation was green and thick. The judges therefore excused his stopping 10 feet short and dropping his birds (chukars) in a fit of panting. Upon urging, he picked up each bird and brought it to an acceptable 1-step distance. So far, so good. As a hunter, I was pleased with his performance, as it would have nicely put two birds in our bag.

It was therefore with a mildly excusable cockiness that I enjoyed holding forth at lunch and as we milled about for our turns at the water. When his number was called, Gordie was rock steady at the line, and made a beautiful, aggressive water entry. He was out like a shot and back, carrying the bird in the shallows 15 feet from earning his third qualifying score. Then, to my surprise, the gallery’s laughter and the judges’ distaste, Gordie started tossing the bird in the air like some Iron Chef twirling pizza dough overhead in frenzied competition. Once, twice, three times and more, up and out went the soggy chukar, with Gordie in hot pursuit for another go. After this had gone on for maybe three minutes, the inevitable “Ahem. Mr. M., you may pick up your dog” came. Thanks for coming, drive home safely. Good Night.

About an hour later, I snitched a dead chukar, went to a similar shoreline on a different pond, and tried this again mano a cano. I even stood farther back from the bank than usual to remind Gordie that the retrieve didn't end at the water's edge. Of course, Gordie made a perfect retrieve and delivered the bird thoughtfully to hand. No wonder Keith Erlandson described them as “wicked Cockers.” At least I could enjoy a pleasant evening meal and expect better results tomorrow.

It really was an attractive entry

On Day 2, Gordie ran an even better land series. A fellow whose family name is well regarded in eastern spaniel circles asked me who had trained Gordie. When I told him that the fault was all mine, he was complimentary not only about Gordie’s pattern, but at the apparent strength of our partnership. He had noticed the way Gordie happily heeled to the line, kept his eyes riveted on me when hupped at the line, and how he ran today requiring virtually no whistle commands. It was, of course, very nice to hear. Here’s how a chukar taking off looked to Gordie. He picked the bird cleanly when it fell back in that tree line moments later.

Once again, though, the day was spoiled by failure at the water. Gordie made short work of bringing his bird back to shore; but once there, he released it to shake and was reluctant to bring it to me. After some cajoling over 90 seconds, he finally brought the bird within a step. I took the bird, and the judges told me they’d let me know. I’m still waiting.

In the months after May, 2006, I thought about Gordie’s poor delivery. Since I don’t feel confident with my ability to force train him – I have only a little trouble with the idea of force training, but I am not interested in its benefits if I can’t do the training myself. Since he is a decent hunting companion, I am reluctant to possibly mess up the acceptably “country broke” dog I already have by gumming up the force training regimen – I am seeking some other way to “reach” this otherwise cooperative and, some say, naturally talented dog. The idea came to me in March, 2007.

We were swapping the trainer/ gunner roles in a field out back during a nice break in the late winter weather. My buddy must have fringed a chukar Gordie flushed with only a pellet or two. When Gordie went to the fall, he caught the running bird and brought it toward me and prepared to set it down 10 feet short, currently "as usual." When the bird started to run off, he scooped it up, moved to a safe spot once again about 10 feet off, and set it down again. This time, Gordie caught the bird as soon as it started to run and, as if he sensed that shenanigans were in his birthright but not this bird’s, brought it to me to put an end to the chukar’s nonsense.

Because I was still hot about the incomplete retrieve, the possibilities this posed for training didn’t hit me immediately. Over time, though, I decided that with the next opportunity, I’d set out a wing-clipped bird as his first contact. Maybe chasing the bird and discovering the need to hold on to it would help his delivery. So when our club met today for a simulated test/ trial, I had the planter set out a wing-clipped chukar, and asked him to be ready to roll in a flyer only if Gordie successfully delivered the wing-clip to within 1 step. The results were incredible.

Gordie had a good set of chases before he nabbed the chukar, and then he not only brought it all the way in, he hupped right in front of me with the still-struggling bird held gently in his mouth. Wow! I gave the planter the wing-clipped chukar and indicated to everyone that we’d try a flyer. The gunner made a good shot to give Gordie about a 40 yard chance. He has shown repeatedly that such finds are no trouble at all for him, and it wasn’t this time. Boy, was I happy when he did a reprise of the delivery hupped at my feet.

I knew that I should quit right then and there “with a winner.” Since it was a fairly hot day though, specially for one wearing a fur coat, I decided I’d take a dead chukar and let Gordie have a refreshing water retrieve in the pond. Pushing my luck, I hupped Gordie about 20 feet from the pond’s bank, then set the chukar down half way between. Gordie stared at the bird but didn’t budge. So I tossed the bird, counted to three, and released him. When he exited the pond, I was back at the spot 20 feet away. He brought the bird smartly toward me, then… hupped right before me and offered me the bird!! To reward him, I loved him up with petting and soft words, and then, never taking the bird from him, let him proudly parade at heel back to his crate with his prize visible for all to see.

I have no idea whether it was my plan with the wing-clip, whether Gordie is simply gaining a bit of maturity, or whether the planets were aligned just so. But Gordie behaved perfectly. I intend to try this technique several times when the weather cools later in the summer and we're planning our testing schedule for the Fall. Check back now and then to see how we're doing.

Woodcock Hunting 2006

2007-07-08T17:08:00.000-04:00

Mixed Bag from October 18, 2006

Bean the American Water Spaniel taught me quite a bit about woodcock hunting when the birds were plentiful right out our back door in the middle 90’s. We became such aficionados of the little russet fellers that I volunteered to send a wing from each bird we took to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to be inventoried as a data point in its continuing study.

Last Fall, young Gordie and I did some pre-season scouting and came upon attractive cover that looked little changed since I’d worked it years ago with Beanie. I was eager to hunt woodcock there again to enjoy seeing Gordie literally and figuratively follow in Bean’s pawprints. We went on to enjoy a wonderful season, even after the surprise October 12 ice storm put quite a shock on our woodier cover.

Just the other day, we received our annual report from the USFWS. It gave the age and sex of the 11 woodcock and the single snipe we took in 2006. The composition of our bag was interesting, even if it was so small as to be statistically insignificant. Seven of our woodcock were immature birds while only two were adult females. The ratio of immature birds to adult females is called the “recruitment index,” and bigger is considered better for the long-term health of the woodcock population. The 3.5 computed for Gordie and me compares with 1.0 for the hunters who reported a total 1,403 birds from NY in 2006, and with 2.2, the best index in the Eastern Region, reported by hunters who took 236 birds in NJ in 2006.

The long-term recruitment index (1963-2005) for all of the Eastern Region is 1.7. I’ve been fiddling around with all the tables in the FWS’s full report, enjoying “what if” games here and wondering “how does that work” there. For example, arbitrarily looking at only the 8 eastern states whose total reported bag for the survey period was >10,000, I find a narrow range of recruitment indices between 1.4 and 1.7, except for anomalous NJ at 2.6 and CT at 2.8. Anyone who knows what's going on in NJ and CT is encouraged to share the skinny as a comment.

Readers interested in the entire USFWS report can find it right here.

Best Wishes to the Class of 2007!

We're Back After A Pleasant Summer Recess

2006-09-17T21:33:00.000-04:00

Gordie’s “silly season” began yesterday when he was asked to be one of the experienced hunters for young people attending a Pheasants Forever sponsored Youth Day at my release club very near Niagara Falls. Even though they know me, the PF people allowed me to handle Gordie anyway.

The temperature was just above 70 degrees, and the cover in the field we drew was knee to shoulder high. Thankfully a thick overcast kept temperatures from soaring. With mixed goldenrod and young redbush interspersed with the odd singleton oak or pine, the field offered a realistic but hot hunting experience for the kids. After the Mentor explained the ground rules which stressed safety, I gave a brief description of my 2 year old English Cocker, explaining how he hunted, what the kids could expect, and how I wanted the gun to work with me. After the customary teases from friends and hangers on – “Hey, Mister, where’s the other half of your dog?” – I hupped Gordie, removed his lead and cast him off.

For all of you who have had your dog teased because (s)he was a little different from what was expected – too small, too fat, too old, too slow, whatever – This One’s For You. Gordie swept the cover before us 12 yards right, then 24 yards across to the left, and so on as we windshield wipered our way up wind. When the bird took off rising slightly and just a bit skewed to the right of straight away, the young hunter did a very nice job identifying it as a rooster, making sure that both people and dog were clear of his shot, and fired the single round I’d given him.

I thought he’d missed as the bird glided down in heavy cover across the field at the edge of a wooded area. The gallery milled about, and we all jabbered a bit, trying to decide what had happened. I have not steadied Gordie, so I knew he was up ahead in the region where the bird landed. I was about to recall him when a fellow I trust said he was pretty sure the bird had dropped a leg, indicating a hit. So I held off on the whistle and gave it a moment’s thought.

I only had a moment before the goldenrod parted in front of us and a very hot, burred up Cocker presented me with a still flapping rooster. The oohs and aahs from the former non believers was more than adequate repayment for the teasing they’d given earlier.

We then swapped kids and began again. This youngster demonstrated remarkable restraint in not shooting at either the hen that PF likes to set just for the educational opportunity, or at the rooster that flew over the gallery. I was glad that he was shortly rewarded with a nice pair of roosters. Here’s a photo of father and son with smiles all around.

Today I sat with friends and watched the locals win their televised football game, then dressed around 3:45 pm and took Gordie back to the club to see if any of those birds just might have escaped yesterday. It seems that a lot more than a few were available. Gordie worked his first field nicely, and made a nice retrieve of the straight away hen I chopped off with the new Benelli Ultra Light. After a bit more work, I decided to work a field adjacent to our large pond so that Gordie could enjoy frequent cooling swims. It didn’t take long for Gordie to boost a rooster from some dense cover on the bank. It flew landward from the pond, offering me a right to left. I let the bird get out a bit and suddenly the Benelli was two for two. Gordie dropped his retrieve short and sat panting. So I picked up the bird, gave him some encouragement, water and rest. When we started again, I decided that I’d only take one more bird. Gordie would have to flush it such that it flew out over the pond, thereby giving him a chance for a coolly successful retrieve.

It was not hard silently to salute the first rooster that Gordie flushed over the cornfield into the forest. Nor the second and third. By the fourth and fifth, however, my discipline was fading like April snow on the morning Honey Wagon. So when Gordie nicely jumped a long tailed rooster that squawked up and off across the sun, my resolve was toast. When Gordie brought this bird all the way in, I loved him up, sent him into the pond, and unloaded. All in all, a nice two-day prelude to the season.

I bought the Benelli Ultra Light 12 ga autoloader at the end of June. This was my first experience “hunting” with it. I used the factory’s IC choke for the 3 shots out to 30 yards. I may pop in the Mod when snow knocks down the cover. But Gordie seems to work closely enough that I can use IC with great comfort. I was using the rather beefy Remington Shur Shot Heavy Field load. This is a 3.25 dram, 1.25 oz. Load, in this case of #7.5 lead. The “longitudinal” recoil into the butt pad was insignificant. There was a bit of jump in the butt stock which massaged my schnozz with my thumb. The 3 dram 1 oz. loads I intend to use in this arm for ruffed grouse will behave just fine.

Cheering Family Celebration Par For The Course At The AuSable Club

2006-04-09T20:23:00.000-04:00

The AuSable Club was pretty much a mystery to us. Years before, we had parked near there for a scoot up Giant. Other bits of lore gleaned from fellow travelers and from Adirondack-themed magazine articles teased us with visions as sweet as Christmas sugar plums. But we had never been actual guests there.

Leave it to The Kids to help us scratch that itch. One of my wife’s younger twin brothers was engaged to a lovely young lady who also had strong Adirondack ties. The photo below shows all three in August, 1995. They decided they’d somehow get us all invited to the AuSable Club where we could relax and celebrate their wedding in memorable Adirondack style. We were pleased to hear their intentions, and did much polite head bobbing and um-umming. But we privately held off just a bit on packing our hiking boots and flannel shirts until such time as their intentions became a date on an engraved invitation.

Not to have worried. And so we found ourselves driving east on a rainy Thursday afternoon in June, 2000, hoping the weather might improve by the time the outdoor ceremony began on Saturday. But from the moment we turned off Hwy 73 and headed up the St. Hubert’s Road, we experienced a remarkable turn of weather events: the sun came out, brilliantly, and didn’t hide until we were on our way back home after breakfast Sunday morning. The preacher reckoned that if the kids could talk their way into the AuSable Club for their wedding, then schmoozing the Big Guy for a little nice weather was a cinch.

If the weather was a pleasant surprise, our initial view of the main building was a genuine jaw-dropping eye popper. This was going to be nice. Entering the building through the venerable doors on the lengthy covered porch, our blood pressure dropped by about 100 years. Inside, the pleasant staff informed us that we had the Club to ourselves for the entire weekend. Already tickled by that information, we asked about greensfees. “There is no charge for the course. Enjoy yourselves!” This was going to be very nice.

The course is a 9 hole affair with smallish greens and largish changes in altitude, design features common in “mountain golf courses.” Although surrounded by “the Forest Preserve,” the fairways were in general liberal and not nearly so severely tree lined as, for example, the course at Inlet or some of the back 9 holes at Craig Wood and Thendara. But the dramatic views and the “Holy Cow! We’ve got it all to ourselves!” nature of our visit made the golf uniquely delectable.

Eight of us played on Friday afternoon, with an encore on Saturday morning. There were several pars, a birdie or two, and a whole sackful of ooohs and aaahs. The surrounding high peaks framed most shots, already visually interesting to the golfer, in rich tones of green, gold and black. For those 18 holes, we older folks in the party had the rare joy of having it “as good as it gets,” and knowing it.

In a broader sense, the enduring charm of the weekend is borne of the inspiring scenery, the well-worn-in comforts of the clubhouse, the challenging golf, and the warm mix of family and friends all intersecting synergistically as we bore witness to our friends' celebration. That, and the bittersweet knowledge that, like the fellow fly fishing in Heraclitus' river, we will not be able to enjoy that enchanted weekend again.

Rowing an Adirondack Classic

2006-04-03T15:09:00.000-04:00

The invitingly remote waters of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and Ontario’s Quetico Park provided the classroom in which I enjoyed my earliest canoe instruction. In the summer of 1965, the instructors at the Minnesota Outward Bound School used J- and draw strokes along with portages and woodcraft skills as sternly physical vehicles to deliver lessons of self discovery to us teenage boys.

Ten years later, I “discovered” recreational canoeing in the Adirondacks. With the exception of calling portages “carries,” New Yorkers enjoyed paddling a forest-framed mosaic of darkly beautiful and wild waterways much as did their Minnesota counterparts. Paddling within the “Blue Line” also offered occasional views of high peaks and a heightened sense of pride in my home state’s natural beauty as added perks.

By 1990, I was cheerily married to a wonderful North Country girl with whom I’d dabbled in several types of canoes and a pair of kayaks. I suspect that modern building materials and technologies were beginning to trickle into the recreational boat building market then, as we began to see advertisements for wood-and-laminate versions of the classic Adirondack Guide Boat. Intrigued, we arranged to try one on the water. When we met a retailer at a small pond nearby, he had already set his boat in a few inches of water on a gently sloping sandy beach. We waded in, hopped aboard, and spent ten delightful minutes putting the nimble craft through a series of tight turns and arrow-straight sprints. By the time we had driven home, we were committed to a custom order.

We were excited when we picked up our black and green boat in the spring of 1991. Our initial surprise – and viewed against our experience with canoes, it was a disappointing surprise – was the boat’s ungainly fit as a car topper. Our canoes had been generally lighter; less beamy amidships; and shaped more like a cigar than a football. As a result, I found the guide boat somewhat unwieldy and was unable to load the boat onto the car without a helper. Once up on the rack, we discovered that the guide boat had much more rocker, or curve, than our canoes. This design feature compromised visibility through both the forward and rear view glass of our SUV.

Over the summer, we developed solutions to these new challenges on shakedown trips to the water. The good looking boat never failed to draw questions and positive comments from curious onlookers. The photos here were taken in August, 1991 on Indian Lake in Hamilton County. The lead photo clearly shows two features of guide boat design. The oars are "pinned" so that the guide could release one or both to take care of other business - presumably his sport's - without losing the ability to positively and effortlessly reacquire them. The cross over of the guide's hands at the completion of the stroke is also readily seen. In the bottom photo, yet another feature can be seen in the delicate taper of the oar's shaft from just below the pin down to the top of the blade. The relatively long, squared "handle" section of the oar from the pin to the grip, in combination with the tapered shaft, gave the rower great mechanical advantage while simultaneously providing a slight "shock absorber" effect in the narrow flex-and-release portion of the shaft. This combined benefit more than compensated the guide for learning to row using the cross-over finish.

The third photo also gives some impression of the rocker built into the hull.

Although rowing is arguably a more efficient action than paddling, it comes with this cost: it's much easier for the rower to see where he's been than where he's going. Since I used the boat only for personal recreation - frequently solo recreation - I ultimately found the one-two punch of problematic car topping and reverse visibility sufficient to knock me out of guide boating. In 1994 I traded it for a Kevlar hulled, cane seated canoe. Even so, if I ever were to own a lake-front Adirondack camp where I could leave the boat near the water and use it whenever my wife or guest felt so inclined, I would definitely consider another purchase. For me, the lovely boats, a good companion and Adirondack flat water belong as synergistically close together as pancakes, blueberries and maple syrup.

Carry a Pumpgun while you're Learning to Hunt

2006-02-19T15:54:00.000-05:00

Young people enjoy joining their families for a day spent hunting. Nothing says a youngster's "grown up" quite like his - or her - being allowed to carry a gun afield. And getting to take a shot when the hunt goes well is an extra special bonus.

Adults enjoy hunting with their youngsters, too, and realize that kids who are safety conscious contribute greatly to a pleasurable day afield. Here's a tip that not only assures a youngster's safe carry of his shotgun, but also improves his gun handling skills and provides a stage for him to demonstrate sound decision making afield.

I think a young hunter is really well served by carrying a pump gun as he or she learns the game. Guns built for smaller shooters are readily available, and they're almost always lighter in weight and much less expensive than semi automatics or over/ under doubles. And pumps offer a neat loading configuration that yields them visibly safe to other hunters in the party while still being instantly ready to activate for firing. I was taught this technique when I learned about small game hunting, chasing rabbits before beagles many years ago. I was told to load two shells by inserting both into the magazine and none in the chamber. Whenever possible, I also was to leave the action visibly open. The open action part is a whole lot easier to do when the gun is at rest.

By keeping the chamber empty, the gun remains safe. The novice hunter gets the opportunity to decide when a shot is imminent, and then (s)he can arm the pump and enjoy that satisfying "snick" of the action in the process. I think this is a terrific technique for keeping the gun safe until the appropriate time, and for encouraging the novice to understand that the time spent shooting is only a small part of the total time spent afield.

Is a professional fitting with a "try gun" for you?

2006-02-18T17:45:00.001-05:00

Gun Fit Basics

Ever notice that shotgun writers are forever obsessing about "fit" while you may never find that word referenced in writing about rifles? A rifle that shoots high or low, left or right can readily have its impact point corrected by moving the rear sight. Since there is no physical sight on an upland shotgun, it has to be invented by placing the dominant eye - that's the right eye for me and other right handed shooters, and I'll stick to that frame of reference here - consistently over the centerline of the gun's barrel or barrels, and consistently at just the right height. Experienced shotgunners can accomplish this by fine tuning their guns' length of pull, drop, cast and pitch.

Before I talk just a little about these four variables, let me emphasize the importance of the term "experienced." If you're a newer shotgunner and haven't considered, practiced and grooved the moves you make when mounting your gun in acquiring a moving target, then your lack of consistency in locating your dominant eye means that you, as yet, have no "perfect fit." Save your money, but spend your time grooving a good mount.

Getting back to those four gun fit variables, let's first collocate them by stating, perhaps obviously, that they all relate to the size and shape of the butt stock, traditionally the piece of wood held in the right hand. Length of pull is the distance from the trigger to the back of the butt. For the other three, let's first imagine shoving a broom stick down and, in our imaginations, through the back end of the gun's barrel or barrels. The drop of the stock measures its distance below the extended broom handle; the cast of the stock measures its distance right or left of the extended broom handle; and the pitch of the stock measures the angle - usually close to 90° - made between the extended broom handle and the line made when the sawyer cut the butt's rear end off.

A "try gun" as shown in the lead graphic is a simple break action gun that the customer is made to shoot at fixed and moving targets. The fitter notes the impact point of the shot cluster when the customer believes he has "centered one," and, through a series of adjustable joints, configures the physical dimensions of the butt stock to place the dominant eye right in the sweet spot. When this is achieved, the gun will shoot, in fact, "right where the shooter is looking," and the gun will be said to "fit."

What The Try Gun Doesn't Tell You

An experienced shotgunner can expect measurements for all four variables, accurate to about 1/8", from his "professional fitting." In 2006, this most likely costs somewhere in three figures. If the cost doesn't make you blink, good for you; but it's far from the worst of the news. First of all, there is no Grand Poobah of Gun Fitting who has set out The Standard And Immutable Table of Values for fellows of your size and shape. This means that your measurements from a fitter in Portland, ME, accurate to 1/8", might in no way match similarly "accurate" measurements from another fitter in Portland, OR.

Worse yet is what can happen after you actually - finally! - get "your perfect measurements." You know these measurements are sweet because of the way you effortlessly smash your targets as they pass left and right. But, as time marches on, your wondrously fitting gun becomes erratic, and seems to experience success rates as variable as the weather. What has happened? Part of the problem is, in fact, the weather. You were wearing, well, whatever you were wearing when the fitter measured you. When you're out shooting on days hotter or colder or wetter than the fitter's studio, you change your inner and outer wear accordingly, effectively making you larger or smaller than the fellow who paid for the fitting. With the addition of a garment a bit bulky here, a tad stiff there, your perfect fit has gone down the drain. The other part of the problem sometimes comes with the passage of time. You lose weight - ha! - or gain weight, in your face, or chest, or variously; or your neck loses some of that youthful flexibility. The result is a needed change in one or more of the formerly "perfect measurements." Or, if you are fortunate and nothing changes but your preferences, you may decide that you need to replace the butt plate with a recoil pad, or that you just must have one of those little leather "pot holders" that the Brits slip over the fore end of their pricey side by sides. This, too, can hurt fit, specially if it had been pretty good to begin with.

So there you have it. A shooter shouldn't even consider a gun fitting until he has begun to groove a decent mounting move. Once he has, the fitter he chooses - and don't get me wrong, there are some good fellows doing this - will not even have had an opportunity to become licensed in his profession. Finally, once a shooter "gets his numbers right," it's unlikely they'll stay the same over a 25 year shooting career. Sort of takes some of the magic from the ads promising you a "perfect fit" through a try gun fitting, eh?

Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

What should you do? Many shooters buy, sell, trade, borrow and sample several guns over their shooting careers. When I say "several," that's what we tell our wives, if you follow. In this course of transactions, we occasionally find that a particular gun is very dependable in a certain regime of shooting. We either kill 35 yard ducks stone dead with it in our cold weather gear; or hammer woodcock in the pleasant weather of October; or maybe score consistently well on clays during the off season. Here is the mistake we too often make. One bad day - sometimes even one bad miss - sours us on that gun, and we make haste to get it out of our safe pronto. Don't do it!! It says here that a shooter's safe is best filled with several proven "niche" guns of whatever price, configuration and dimension, acquired after the shooter has begun to develop a sound mounting move. And don't even think about finding that one magical gun that "does it all;" it's mythical, not magical, most likely the peevish concoction of some seasoned bride with one too many dogs to feed and all too few party dresses.

"A Great Collection: Guns That Deliver On Your Favorite Game"

Hitting The South End Of A High Pheasant Flying North

2006-02-17T15:47:00.000-05:00

Coveys of "Gentleman Bob" obligingly held tight in front of southern pointing dogs before a hunter's boot sent them buzzing off the ground like a feathered explosion. And northern gunners still catch their hearts in their throats when a ruffed grouse thunders up out of the gnarlies and rockets his way toward safety beyond leafy cover. Whether he chooses to hunt with one of the pointing breeds, a flushing dog or even dogless, the upland hunter is routinely presented with a classic rising shot.

Since the rising bird is such a common shot, the technique for shooting it is very important. There is even a shooting game dedicated to this shot. Trap, the most popular shooting sport in America, is designed solely around shots at rising outbound birds from random angles. Guns set up for trap shooting typically incorporate some simple design features so they remember that the target is rising even if the shooter forgets.

Figure (1) shows a typical example of the shot at a rising bird. As the bird comes into view at A, the gunner begins his mount and the muzzle rotates up and through the bird, taking it just beyond B.

Figure (1)

Every now and then, though, the technique for shooting rising game can really hurt your score afield. I'm talking, in particular, about those birds that have already gotten up a head of steam - maybe they were put up by your friend or his dog - and are now flying straight and level away from you. As you see the pheasant's tail heading away pronto, you rotate your 12 gauge up and through the bird and slap the trigger. Instead of a spray of feathers, you just see that rooster heading over the horizon. What happened?

A quick peek at figure (2) shows what the gunner must do with this shot, as counter as it might be to what we've learned from birds flushed from the ground. As the bird heads straight away at A, the gunner has to make his mounting move and then slip his muzzle below the bird, not up and through it. The hunter will not want to obstruct his view of his target by elevating the muzzle above the bird and then rotating down. An alternative technique might be to insert the muzzle on the bird's belly and then just "ease off" a bit, taking the bird a bit beyond B.

Figure (2)

Next time a bird has a flying start on you and sails by like an outbound express, remember the diagrams you saw here. They're not as complicated as the ones that confused you in high school geometry, and they may help you add a bird or two to your bag.

Pint Sized Dog Makes Ten Gallon Retrieve

2005-11-20T20:45:00.000-05:00

I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool waterfowler. I don't do early mornings well, nor am I comfortable when it it is more than a bit cold or wet. Part nature, part nurture; whatever.

Walked up rough shooting, though, lets me hunt in the afternoon, and the trek through good cover helps me stay warm. Flushing spaniels are a perfect fit for me.

My 14 month 25 lb. English Cocker Spaniel and I hunted pheasants at our release club today. There is a sizable pond in the back of the property. One side is bounded by a cornfield from which a great many pheasants attempt a flighted escape. The other side of the pond, maybe 250 yards distant, has dense, nasty multi flora growing up from the bank, and with only a 6 ft. wide 4-wheeler trail in between, a mature oak woods extending beyond. My old American Water Spaniel and I learned years ago that pheasants missed on the cornfield bank often wound up safely in the gnarlies on the other. The pup and I were looking for such birds again today.

There is also the occasional goose or duck on the pond. Since waterfowl season is currently open, I was loaded with #6 non tox in the lower barrel and #4 non tox in the upper, thinking I would not mince a pheasant with a good first shot nor fail to anchor a departing mallard with a good second.

As we worked down the 4-wheeler track, I noticed geese swimming on the pond. Try as we might to hide, these birds usually see us crouching behind the multi flora and begin by swimming away, only to take off in the away direction in a raucous caucus of honking. But today, one bird swam sideways from the main group, its head sinuating on the water in a serpentine fashion. I took this as a clear indication that the bird was wounded and incapable of flight. After a 100 yard "stalk" behind the multi flora, giving the bird every chance to take flight, I decided that the bird was in fact a cripple and that I'd harvest it and see what pup could do with the retrieve. This is, obviously, not a story about my waterfowl hunting skills.

I killed the bird on the water at about 30 yards from the bank. The pup was out on it like a shot, and had it back to the bank in no time. Had I had the camera, the winning shot would have been of the 25 lb. dog dragging the 10 lb. goose tail-high arse-first out of the water up the bank. Delighted with his pluck, I didn't push for delivery to hand, and went to him about 3 yards up from the bank. He was happy to lay his burden down, and I was happy to "give him a pass" on delivering his first goose to hand.

I'm sure this pup is neither the first English Cocker, nor even the smallest dog, ever to fetch up a goose. But I'm very proud of him just the same, and excited about the future of our hunting partnership.

A Good Day Woodcocking

2005-10-26T20:05:00.000-04:00

Except for a brief but glorious sunny period of about an hour, today was about as cold and damp as yesterday. The pup and I went 400 yards to the end of the street to hunt woodcock around 3:30 p.m.

This is the same field in which my old American Water Spaniel and I learned together about woodcock back in 1994. The dogwood, hawthorn and arrowwood has been growing in severely. I did not hunt the old guy there at all in the last two years as I thought it too severe for him. But since the pup is full of energy and I, for a variety of reasons, want to hunt this field, we ranged slightly outside our old killing grounds and found, much to my surprise and delight, cover that looked just like that which greeted us 11 years ago.

The recent wet wind from the north must be working its magic. I saw 8 birds in just over 80 minutes. Some of them were instantly invisible behind towering dogwood bushes still 60% in leaf. Two of them, though, just skimmed the tops of the bushes as the pup boosted them, offering snap shots. It is great fun to watch him - he's 13 months old - literally figure out where the woodcock are and aren't. When the season opened, he was still chasing around in the grass, probably because of his training on pheasants. Now he scoots through the heart of the bushes, right where my old veteran would have gone. The pup does not "flash point," though, as the AWS did, so this whole thing is happening much faster than it used to. Coupled with me being an old pensioner, I fear I'll be wasting lots of shells over time.

Not today, though, as I went a crisp 2 for 2. I'm using the Rizzini "New Englander" in 20 ga wearing .000" and .005" tubes. In a move to simplify my inventory of shotshells, my only 20 ga load is Remington's STS Target Load in #8 lead. This load is universally available, has quality components as it is a target load, and features a very slick plastic hull, literally, which feeds well in autoloaders and pumps. I only use it as a target buster and small, close bird killer, roles for which its high antimony content shot is well suited.

The weather man is forecasting happier weather for the weekend, so the pup might have his first whack at grouse then. I am thinking of a treasured but smallish spot where we might also find a duck or two. I'll take the camera just in case.

Deer Tracking

1999-12-04T16:12:00.000-05:00

A thin sun was already rising on a crisp December morning when I rolled out of the rack for a day of leisurely deer hunting. I pulled into Grady's Christmas Tree Farm around 10 a.m. and rang the doorbell, carrying the still-warm cherry cheese Danish I'd bought as a “thank you” to my hosts. After some pleasant conversation over coffee and a bite, I was back out the door. As soon as my vest was loaded with the requisite candy bars, hand warmers and paperwork, I headed northwards through a light snow pack onto the property.

I had only been walking for about half an hour when I bounced a doe from where she had been laying near two small ponds in a field of goldenrod. Technically, the deer was on the neighbor's property. She was also a mere yearling. Although doe are fair game here by permit, I just watched with a small smile as she bounded off.

Ten minutes later, I was comfortably sitting against a small tree, overlooking a gamy-looking bowl with a swampy trickle oozing down its middle. This was a good place to daydream and chew on my Snickers. But no deer appeared.

As I prepared to move on, two orange-clad hunters came my way from the other side of the swamp. These were Keith and Tom, a couple of Grady's neighbors in their late teens. We did howdy n' shake, discussed strategy ("they're layin' in them pines," Keith confided), then went our separate ways.

I still-hunted without event for another 90 minutes. Getting a little chilly and a lot antsy, I decided to wander back towards the house for lunch and hot coffee. But I hadn't walked 20 yards from the tree where I’d last been sitting when I found some cold tracks in last night's snow. I figured that trying to follow this deer would settle the antsy part by curing the chilly part.

So I set to following the tracks into the woods. Cold cold cold tracks: the challenge was trailing this deer through several snowless swampy areas. I did, and soon fetched up to a hemlock tangle just beyond a tiny creek. Once again, the track became difficult to follow. I slowed down and studied the ground hard, following the tracks right through some gnarlies. They actually led me almost full circle. But on the far side of the tangle, the tracks were suddenly hot: that rascal had been laying in the tangle, literally under my nose.

These tracks were not remarkable for their length and breadth. They definitely didn’t belong to Old Hat Rack. Even so, it was a kick to have actually walked up a deer. I would tell my story back at home tonight, I daydreamed, and my wife would hang on to the Mighty Hunter's every word with admiration and rapt attention.

Following the hot track naturally increased the excitement level. Antsy and chilly were left for dead on the back side of that hemlock tangle. I noted that the deer was now heading in the general direction of the house. In fact, it crossed my in-coming track once, and bounced right through the target zone of another of my still-hunt stands. Oh well...

During all this tracking, I had heard a single shot here, and, a while later, a single shot there. I thought I might have driven this deer right into Keith and Tom. If so, I figured I'd just keep tracking, and help them drag the deer back to their car when I found them dressing it out. If I came upon a live deer instead, well, that would be just fine, too.

Soon, the track was bounding through a meadow of shoulder-high Christmas-trees-to-be. It disappeared at the edge of yet another wood, right at the base of a large old apple tree hopelessly tangled with thorns, prickers, and blackberries. I remembered how this deer had hidden just so a mile back. So I finally took the gun off my shoulder, and furtively slipped into the woods, sidestepping the thorns as best I could.

Ten yards ahead, there it lay at the base of a pole-sized tree: one tiny dead deer. Upon inspection, I saw it was a button buck. I daydreamed again of the admiring smiles of my wife: I had stalked this deer so relentlessly that it just up and died rather than prolong the Terror of a Stalk by the Mighty Hunter!

Upon closer inspection, however, “natural causes” were replaced by a shotgun slug through the heart as the immediate cause of death. My wife isn't impressed with my Mighty Hunter act anyway.

But now I was puzzled. Who would shoot a deer and then abandon it? I guessed that anybody dragging home a rabbit-sized critter in deer's clothing might be darn embarrassed with this “prize.” Even so, you just don't kill and run.

I followed the hunter's tracks from the swiftly cooling deer, and shortly came upon Keith and Tom. I asked which of them had shot the little buck. Neither of them had fired a shot, they said, but they had earlier seen two shadowy hunters skulking about the periphery of Grady's land. No sooner did the three of us return to the diminutive deer and curse the lowlife who would leave it in the woods when the two Shadowy Hunters arrived from over the hill, waving a doe management permit at me. It seems they had shot this pot-of-stew sized deer, but immediately discovered that their paperwork was back at the car. Now they were back to claim their prize. Happy enough ending, I guess.

I went back to the house for lunch and the telling of my mighty tale to hostess Sally and her daughter Mary. Did I notice just a hint of admiring sparkle at the edge of teenaged Mary's eye as I finished both tale and lunch and rose to go?

Yes I did! But the sparkle turned first into a snuffle, then a snicker, finally culminating in an outright guffaw. The Mighty Hunter had sat at the table for 30 minutes sporting his Hot Seat as a bright orange fashion accessory. The Mighty Hunter goes down in (orange) flames again. With dignity shattered, I fled the house for a final scoot around the property.

The only remarkable sign in the afternoon woods was a narrow track - kind of like a single fat cross-country ski - in the snow. After following it briefly, I noticed a drop of blood here and there. Then it hit me: the Shadow Hunters had dragged out their deer. For the life of me I couldn't understand why they hadn't just cut off its legs so they could stuff the remaining deer in a pocket.