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.
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.
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.
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In the Every Silver Lining has a Cloud Dept., the greatly anticipated Spring sun will soon bring Mud Season with it.
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.
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Apologies are due to Wee Willie Keeler for hijacking his quote. For the baseball challenged, here's the history:
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.
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.
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 $47.50. Here is the quaint ordering information:
“Send cash, check or money order. When ordering pistols, enclose a signed statement reading: ‘I am not an alien, have never been convicted of a crime of violence. I am 21 years or over.’”
And here’s what you didn’t:
Forget about websites or email addresses: there are no zip codes in the ads. For those of you young enough not to remember, this is not an omission.
My friend Bill D. from The Black & Tan Bombshell will probably think the title picture shows a Gordon Setter; and it probably does. But regular readers will recognize that the dog is a dead ringer for my ECS “Gordie.” The February, 1935 cover dog, just like my good old “Bean,” was an American Water Spaniel. Prints of both covers were presented to me at Christmas several years ago, and hang proudly on our living room wall.
In the off season, Gordie and I enjoy going for walks down a long service road that meanders through an expansive meadow bordered by a forest of mixed-age oaks. It’s a pleasant place to walk. Deer browse; red tails soar over head; foxes and coyotes slink off when we give them a hard look.
A technician uses this road for his job maintaining servers at an otherwise deserted TV tower at its dead end. Whenever I see him slowly rolling toward us, I whistle Gordie in and hup him at my feet. The little spaniel comes running in every time, sits before me, and studies my face with keen attention lest he miss the signal to release and resume his joyous romping. The first time that Roger saw this modest performance, he was immoderately impressed. He lowered the driver’s window, lavishly complimented Gordie’s behavior, and asked me facetiously if I’d train his neighbor’s %@$#&$% 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'.
(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.
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!
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
(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.
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.
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?
(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.
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.
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.
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.
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 __________.
(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.
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