Pheasant Memories

•December 30, 2017 • 3 Comments

The best Christmas gifts aren’t under the tree.

My youngest son Griffin spent the past week with Danielle and I. With little happening in the duck hunting realm, I booked us a field at Quail Point in Zamora, California for a pheasant outing. No one was left behind this time; Danielle joined us, and so did the little dog, Abby.

I had high hopes for Abby, a mix of three hunting and one working breeds, with a better nose than Schatzie. Gunfire proved a little shocking for the normally fearless and rambunctious Abby. And when her big sis dropped a dead rooster at her feet, that was it. She practically climbed Danielle’s leg to get into the safety of mom’s arms. I don’t think Abby is going to ask to come along, as she has in the past, the next time Schatzie and I leave for hunt.

But there were other things very special about this hunt. A pheasant hunt was how Griff’s hunting life began. That was more than 15 years ago, and I remember it as if it happened yesterday. We were all new to hunting when I took him and his older brother Gray to High Desert Hunt Club in Gorman, California. Both boys got birds, Griff’s taken with a single shot 20 gauge he bought with his own money.

The 10-year-old Griff walked that field behind the borrowed dog with a gleam in his eye and a calm confidence rare in a freshly-licensed young hunter. He missed the first fleeing pheasant, shooting behind it with his one and only shell. No anger, no frustration; his face showed only a determination to get the next one right. And he did. When another pheasant flushed it was felled with a single pop of the little shotgun – and lost its head in the process.

That was an important morning, more important than I could’ve imagined as we pulled off the highway onto the road leading to High Desert on a small corner of the vast Tejon Ranch. A mist was just clearing when we arrived, revealing hunters covered in orange and dogs yelping to get in the game. The scene was all so new. I went thinking I was giving the boys a fun day in the field, something novel and not so commonplace and meaningless as a trip to the local amusement park. And the chance for them to put some food on the table, something most kids don’t get to claim. But after, when we were packing up to go, it was clear the day had left an indelible mark on Griff.

This time out, watching the 25-year-old Griff, nothing had changed but his size. There was still that quiet enthusiasm and eagerness. and the self-assured aura. Not cockiness at all; but a belief that effort and focus will pay off, if not the first time, then the next time with corrections. It has always been that way with Griffin. I worried about hunts; Griff knew they would be good, in some way. While I would bemoan the lack of ducks on a refuge hunt, Griff was always quietly working it out, sure that there was one duck or goose out there somewhere he was destined to get, if he paid attention and tried hard enough. And more often than not, he was right.

Later in the morning, Schatzie flushed a pheasant and Griff got off one shot that jerked it sideways. It fell but before the dog could get to it, the bird rose like a Phoenix, off again across a long stretch of field and up a hill. I watched Schatzie and Griff pursue that bird, until Griff was able to got off another shot and finish it. That pheasant reminded me of all the times Griff had to make it happen.

Something else that was special about this trip to Quail Point was that Griff was hunting with his Grandpa Mike’s old shotgun, a Remington 1100. Mike passed away many years ago, but he was with us on this hunt. The 1100 did its work with a smoothness and grace you’d expect from a good old gun, handed down from a good old guy. We ended the day with three pheasants each and a tired but happy Schatzie.

We’re all a bit sad now that Griff has flown back to Orange County, including Schatzie. One night a few years ago, Schatzie jumped up in our bed after a visit from Griff. She’d never been allowed there, but Griff had introduced her to the idea and there was no going back. So Griff occupies a special place in the pup’s heart.

It was a great Christmas present to have him here, to hunt with him again – for pheasants, just like the first time – and to see that of all the things that have changed so much in the past several years, the kid beside me in the field is still the same.



When the skies opened

•October 9, 2017 • 1 Comment

“Would you like full coverage on the vehicle?” the young woman behind the Saskatoon car rental counter asked. “It’s about $200 extra, Canadian,” she said, a little apologetically. But added with a much brighter tone: “Bumper-to-bumper, no questions asked. Anything happens, just walk away.”

Anything happens, just walk away. My mind flashed back to my own truck’s checkered past, the encounters with submerged logs, mud, boulders, and precipices that didn’t always end well.

“It’s a deal,” I said, handing her my credit card.

An hour later later I arrived at my destination, one of those small towns where the bank teller is also the lady you hand your package to at the post office. It took only a few minutes to drive down every street until I recognized the place the five of us had rented for the week, a nice little house in a quiet neighborhood of families and retired people. Some older residents gathered on a porch watched me drive by twice, a look of curiosity on their faces the first time, suspicion the second time. But both times, with a wave.


Rain passed by in the distance, but throughout our stay the weather felt more like California than Saskatchewan in late September.

I had been to Canada many times, the first few with outfitters, the last one without. This time we were on our own, too. The flight up to Saskatoon had been packed with hunters, the ones surrounding me part of the same group. A boisterous, moneyed bunch, already boasting about how well they were going to do, based on photos their guide had sent them of  previous hunts, and giddy from small bottles of Jack and being off their respective leashes.

“Who are you hunting with?” my row-mate turned to me and asked. He handed me his phone, which showed a photo of what his outfitter had produced for a group the day before, the kind I’ve learned to call the you shoulda been here yesterday photo.

“Some friends from Iowa and California” I replied.

“No, I mean, what outfitter are you using?”

“Not using  one,” I shrugged.

“Wow. Well, how will you know where to go? Where are you staying?”

“Well, we basically just drive around until we find the birds, and then knock on doors,” I said. “Almost always get a yes from the farmers. We’ve got a house and I’ll be doing the cooking. Hopefully be making some duck or goose.”

I don’t know whether it was the thought of duck dinners or of being totally responsible for your own success or failure, but I could tell our adventure wasn’t his idea of a good time. Which made me realize how much it was my idea of a good time. I was suddenly very proud to be going to Canada unguided, and grateful for all the work that two of our group – Mike and Don – had done to pave the way for this particular hunt. I’ve had some great hunts in Canada and elsewhere with outfitters and guides, but there’s just something deeper and more meaningful about doing it yourself. We’d be figuring out where to go, what decoys to put out and how to arrange them, when to shoot and when to hold off. Win or lose, we would each be able to say, to quote Frank Sinatra, I did it my way.

Settled in at the house, gun, gear, and clothes laid out for a quick get-ready at 4am, we went over the plan. The three that had driven up from Iowa the day before – Mike, Mike’s son Alec, and Dave – had already been out scouting that evening, and a good field had been secured.

The next morning, we loaded into the truck and headed out, a trailer filled with decoys and layout blinds in tow. We were minus Don, who’d arrived late the night before after getting held up in customs and missing his flight. We set out the decoys – mostly ducks and some geese based on the previous day’s observations – and arranged them and the layout blinds according to the light breeze. With the truck stashed behind a stand of trees and us closed up in our brushed up coffins, we counted down the minutes to shoot time.

No matter how many hunts I go on, the magic of those moments will never be lost. The first light on the horizon. The sudden whoosh of a silhouetted duck or whistle of wings. The distant sound of geese getting up, long black strands breaking up and becoming thousands of black dots that we hope will head our way. The alertness and anticipation building as the quiet reports come: five minutes, three minutes, one minute.


We put out a light spread of duck and dark goose decoys that first morning, based on the birds seen working the field the evening before.

The swarms of birds we were hoping for didn’t arrive, though we were kept busy throughout the morning with singles and pairs, mostly ducks and the occasional goose. When we packed up, our harvest was meager by Canada standards. But all of us except one were former Wister hunters, that desert-surrounded waterfowl area by the Salton Sea in inland Southern California. By Wister standards it had been a very good day, there being nothing but mallards and a couple of cacklers on the strap, and because we hadn’t braved the infamous Wister mud, bugs, and brain-boiling heat to get them.

So rather than disappointment, I think we all felt it was just a good warm up for the week to come. The birds were breasted out in a matter of minutes and after naps, sorting gear, and other chores, the rest of crew took the two trucks and went scouting. I stayed behind to work on dinner, marinating our morning’s take, making do with what I’d thought to buy at the local store and what seasonings I could find in the cupboards. That evening we talked about our opportunities for the next day’s hunt over a plate of wasabi rice, Caesar salad, and fresh-as-it-gets mallard with a drizzle of sweet chili sauce. Dinner

Making dinner for me and my friends, with ducks we’d harvested that very day, is one of the things I enjoy most about a do-it-yourself hunt in Canada. That and discussing what the scouts had seen; fields loaded with grazing snows, dark geese and ducks piling into potholes, birds on the move throughout our area. Thanks to past trips, Mike and Don had phone numbers to several of the fields’ owners, and only a couple required us to ask around and visit a farm house.

In California and other places, asking for permission to hunt someone’s property can be intimidating. You never know what kind of response you’re going to get, from militant anti-hunters to stay-the-hell-off-my-land types to some just too worried about liabilities and lawsuits to give you a yes. But Canada is a different story. With the damage that geese do to crops, farmers welcome hunters and will go out of their way to provide an opportunity for you and intel about where the geese are going. I think even if geese weren’t damaging crops, farmers in Canada would probably still let us hunt. Because they’re just good, helpful people.

Of course, we’re not just helping farmers by reducing the goose population in our own small way. They overgraze the delicate vegetation in the tundra, exposing the dark peat soil to wind and water erosion, and burgeoning goose populations are causing other species to lose their nesting territories. In other words, you can’t be anti-hunting and pro-environment.

Goose_blindOff into the dark we went the next morning, in two trucks towing fully loaded trailers, headed toward the spot that had been pinned the evening before. Headlamp beams bouncing around the gentle sloping field we tossed up chaff to confirm the wind direction and positioned the layout blinds and full body, sillosock, spinning wing and motion decoys – nearly our entire arsenal. That done, we settled into our blinds to await the first of the day’s customers.

And come to us they did, dark silhouettes at first and then with more detail as the morning dawned – the whites and mottled blue-grays of snow geese, and small Ross’s geese, and the green heads of drake mallards, some bright as emeralds and others still in their splotchy green and brown eclipse plumage. So many swirled around us, from every direction, feet down and wings cupped, hovering on the wind right overhead, or already landed and walking through our decoys, eye to eye with their lifeless plastic replicas. It was hard to tell which group had prompted the shout of “take ’em!” Shouldering out of our layout blinds, guns blazing, birds cartwheeled out of the sky on top of us or glided down just beyond our spread. After each volley the two black labs, Nike and Zoey, raced into the field, bringing back the nearest and then heading out again to pursue the distant ones.

It wasn’t long before we realized we’d done it. We were on the proverbial “X.” And no guide was getting the credit, just us. Approaching geese drove us back into hiding throughout the morning, so many that we could afford the luxury of picking the perfect groups. And that is another wonder of Canada, peering at geese and ducks without the pressure to take every shot. Many are so close you can see every feathered detail and I felt the wing beat of one duck as it nearly knocked my hat off. After so many years of waterfowl hunting when only one or two ducks might come close enough for a passing shot, the aerial show in Canada is spell-binding. Watching birds working the spread, dodging each other as they compete for airspace, flipping and spilling the wind from their wings to hasten their descent, dropping their flaps and landing gear as they vector in for a landing all makes for the most incredible moments of waterfowl hunting.


Americans on the “X”: Mike, Neil, Don, and Dave. With Alec behind the camera.

In fact, the only problem with a Canada hunt that goes well is that it’s over too soon. Our hunt that morning felt that way, as we tallied up our harvest and targeted the final geese that brought us to 100. And that number represented both good news and bad.

In past trips, we’d stayed at a small, somewhat run-down – but very charming – hotel with a bar and grill. Providing our own meals – and drinks – wasn’t a problem now, but something else about our new situation was becoming one. Before, we’d barely get all the day’s breast meat into a bag out in back of the hotel before one of the bar and grill customers, sometimes several of them, would appear around the corner to take it off our hands. Now, in a house by ourselves, we were amassing enough goose and duck meat to feed a small army. And then a small army found us – a local fellow with seven kids who wanted all we could provide. Whew. Problem solved, ours and his.


Alec with Canada’s version of Big Bird

Later that day, after feasting on tacos stuffed with carnitas that had been slow-cooking for six hours, the process of scouting and planning began again. And after a few hours of sleep, the early morning ritual of setting up decoys and hunting as well, all of it to be repeated several more times before the week’s adventure was over. We had great hunts in the days that followed, sometimes just targeting dark geese or getting limits of ducks, though never quite like the constant grind we had going that one morning. Which was fine, because I had a photo on my phone just as impressive as the one I’d been shown on the flight up. And another one maybe more so, for the violent, beautiful, split-second of chaos it captured.


Sometimes it was a moment away from hunting that was worth a photo. Like setting my family’s signature cocktail down – a perfect Manhattan, the same drink my grandmother and parents were fond of – on the old picnic table we’d been using to clean the birds. Of all the places my Manhattans have ever been, or ever will be, none could be more worth immortalizing than that one.

Kill_table_manhattanWe were all up early Sunday morning; Mike, Dave, and Alec heading out on the long drive back to Iowa, and Don and I going to the airport for our flights back to California. At the rental counter again, we handed over the keys to the truck.

“Any damage to report?” inquired the agent, a young man this time. I thought of the mud-encrusted wheel wells. The murder scene in the back. Blood, guts, and feathers everywhere.

“Nope,” we both said in unison.

A few weeks from now, the waterfowl season will  begin in California. There will surely be good hunts this year, but none as richly layered and satisfying as the days in Canada. Ducks and the occasional goose will appear, shots will ring out, and feathers will fly. A dog will swim out to a fallen one or maybe two, but not the many that littered our late September field with each five-gun fusillade. The hunts to come will be more luck-of-the-draw at designated spots than the open roaming we did in Canada and the deliberate choices we made, when of all the places for birds to be in that vast region, we chose well and rightly more often not. On blue bird days when the wind doesn’t blow and the sky is empty and silent, it will be good to have an epic adventure still fresh in the mind to reflect upon, when the skies opened and waterfowl rained down.


Hunting the Silver Lining

•January 16, 2017 • 1 Comment

Ah, the fickleness of fowl. To be a waterfowl hunter means throwing many parties where the guests of honor are no-shows. After hours of planning, booking the venue, arranging the party favors, sending out invitations – a large amount of effort and expense – you are too often sitting there alone, looking around, checking the clock until you finally realize: they’re not coming.

Socialites and party planners would crumble. But we hunters bravely press on, undeterred.

Of course, we shrug off the absence of ducks and geese and point to one good reason or another why getting up at 3am, driving for two hours, and sitting in the freezing wind all morning wasn’t a complete waste. We marvel at the sunrise, which is indeed a grand view that non-hunters rarely enjoy. We take time to get some really great photos of the dog. We’re mesmerized by some moment we wouldn’t have otherwise seen or experienced; a twilight pond is a good place for things like a hawk killing its breakfast or a finch landing on the barrel of a gun. We text friends or family on the East Coast, just so they’ll ask what the hell are you doing up at 4 o’clock in the morning?

In other words, we’re in constant search of a silver lining.

This photo of Schatzie was taken on a slow day when the ducks weren't flying...and ending up being featured in a magazine.

This photo of Schatzie was taken on a slow day – and ending up being featured in a magazine.


Yesterday’s hunt on a Wilderness Unlimited property was like that, a party that only Schatzie and I bothered to attend. It was a nice enough spot; flooded rice ponds just north of Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge. Since these places are in the Sacramento Valley Special Management Area, the white-fronted geese that tried to crash the party were out of season and so, not on the guest list. We watched them from the cold metal sunken blind on a dike between the ponds until around 10am, and then faced the fact that something we could shoot was not likely to show up.

Trudging the half-mile back to the truck, I realized I had no silver lining. The foggy morning had canceled the sunrise. All morning the scene and everything in it had been gray and brown and flat. There was no cellphone reception. Nothing noteworthy had happened. With a sour expression, I flung my muddy gear in the back, fed Schatzie and loaded her up, too. And hit the road.

Driving south on i-5, it was still rumbling around in my head that I couldn’t recall a hunt where there was not a single thing to say after the “but” in I didn’t get any ducks, but

And then I saw it. It was only for a few seconds; a great black beast to my left, speeding north:

Milo Yiannopoulos’ “Dangerous Faggot Tour” bus.


I recognized it instantly, and some quick mental fact-checking confirmed I wasn’t seeing things. I knew he had been at UC Davis for an event this past weekend (which was shut down by some protestors who – surprise, surprise! –  seem very opposed to anyone’s speech, ideas or beliefs except their own).

For those who don’t know, Milo is a very controversial, quick-witted journalist, entrepreneur and public speaker for the “alt-right.” He’s gay. And he a strong supporter of President-elect Trump. The contrast between those last two certainly makes heads explode.

Love him, hate him, or something in between, there’s no denying seeing THAT bus on a hunt is a very rare thing. So Milo, thanks for the silver lining.

Hunting Beaver Bay

•December 23, 2016 • 4 Comments
Sunrise on the bay

Sunrise on the bay

The water was obsidian as we motored across the bay with Captain RJ Waldron at the helm on Wednesday morning. There were four of us hunters – Erin, Jimmy, me and my hunting partner, Tracey. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to a distant shore and offloaded ourselves and our gear. RJ and his first mate set about deploying the strings of diver decoys while we brushed up the portable blind.

A short time later, shoot time was announced by distant gun fire. We didn’t have to wait long before our turn came; a black silhouette darted by low and from the left, and Erin and Jimmy ensured that our tally that day would not be zero. Then a pair zoomed in and were dropped by a four-gun volley the second they arrived at the sweet spot between the two strings of decoys.

The view from our blind

The view from our blind

As the morning brightened and a light breeze kicked up, we watched flocks crisscrossing our spot, a little too far or high for shot. But every fifteen minutes or so, a single or pair or more came within range and very few escaped. Though we each had a miss or two that left us shaking our heads, most of the ducks were dropped with just one or two shots. One flight of five lost four of its members. Of course, with sea ducks, down is usually not out, and follow up shots were the norm before RJ’s first mate JJ was able to motor over and net them.

Movement on the water between the shore and decoys caught our eye about mid-morning. I thought it was a muskrat. Someone else said otter. And then RJ jumped up and was suddenly stalking whatever it was as it swam along the shoreline. Moments later – BAM – and he came back to the blind with a beaver! The bay we were hunting had a name before we arrived, but for me it’ll now always be known as Beaver Bay.

Tracey and our surprise visitor

Tracey and our surprise visitor

Our communal strap grew throughout the morning, a mix of blue bills and goldeneyes. With the tally at 27 ducks, a final pair was spotted heading toward us. As they passed in front edging along the decoy strings, Tracey raised up and fired, bringing the hunt to a close with a 28th duck. It had been a glorious hunt – beautiful weather, good blind mates and hosts, plenty of ducks to watch and lots of close up shots, many with feet down. And one unexpected wood chipper in the bag.

I felt very fortunate. Not having had much luck in the Fish & Wildlife draw, getting picked for this California Waterfowl Association hunt was a very good thing by itself. That the hunt turned out so well, probably the best I’ll have this season, was a bonus. It was very generous of RJ and Jason Adversalo to donate this and other hunts to help CWA raise money.

From now on whenever I make the trek on the highways from my home to the bay area, it will bring back a great hunting memory as I look out on Beaver Bay.

Our group with the morning's harvest of Goldeneyes and Blue Bills

Our group with the morning’s harvest of Goldeneyes and Blue Bills

Grizzly Ranch

•November 20, 2016 • 3 Comments
There's some debate whether or not Grizzly Bay and Grizzly Island were so named because of the bears that once did live in the area. Early documents show it instead as Grisly, possibly suggesting other reasons behind the name.

There’s some debate whether or not Grizzly Bay and Grizzly Island were so named because of the bears that once roamed the area. Early documents show it instead as Grisly, suggesting other possible reasons for the name.

My duck hunting season began this past Saturday at Grizzly Ranch, a former private duck club now belonging to California Waterfowl Association. I got to hunt this beautiful property thanks to CWA’s hunt program, when the hunt’s actual winner couldn’t go and so as runner-up I moved into the top slot. There were several sons and daughters with their fathers at the morning safety briefing, which is always good to see. After a quick lottery we had our blinds and all headed out to the boat house where maps, walkie-talkies, and spotlights were handed out.

With Tracy Fremd, my neighbor and last year’s winner of CWA’s Artemis Award for her efforts to support women hunters, and my dog Schatzie aboard, we motored out to the blind. Those two had recently hunted together, when Tracey borrowed Schatzie for the opener. Lucky dog!

A rainbow appeared briefly between showers

A rainbow appeared briefly between showers

We set out the provided decoys and hunkered down in the island blind to await shoot time. The quacks and whistles around us faded as dawn approached, but even so, a beautiful sunrise on the marsh always makes the 2 am wake up call worthwhile. The ducks we did see were local and wary, and mostly skirted us high and wide. Still, it was nice to have ducks in the air, and to hope they would give us a shot. We dropped the only two that came within range, and while that’s not much of a strap, it’s gratifying when the number of ducks and expended shells are the same. The blinds around us had more action, and we hoped those were ones with kids in them as the distant silhouettes fell to their volleys.

Grizzly Ranch was a wonderful way to start the season. It’s a real gem, well maintained by CWA, and will gleam even more when the migrators arrive.

Tracey Fremd at the helm

Tracey Fremd at the helm

The Learning Curve

•June 13, 2016 • 2 Comments



I remember my first hunt  like it was yesterday. Excited and bursting with anticipation, I knew I was in uncharted territory. While much of life had become routine and void of surprises, hunting promised adventure, unforgettable moments, amazing vistas, celebrations of successes and facing up to – and learning from – failures. It delivered all that and more, and to this day still does. Hunting really is the last frontier, the last link to our ancestors, the last gritty tactile experience in a world fast slipping into interactive this and virtual reality that, none of which are truly interactive or real.

If you’re born into a family of hunters, lessons and learning come naturally. If you decide one day to take up hunting, like I did as an adult, the learning curve can be steep, compressed from years to mere weeks or months. And if you have kids or friends who see the great thing you’ve discovered and want to go with you, well, suddenly you’re in the role of teacher, ready or not. So I can sympathize with people who are inspired to venture into the hunting world but find taking their first steps a daunting task.

Fortunately, most hunters are willing mentors, with decades of experiences to share. Finding and connecting with these experienced hunters isn’t always easy though. One website has come up with a way to provide neophyte hunters with tips and advice on what to do, and not to do. Not just one expert’s advice, but many, including yours truly.

Check it out. There are some good lessons to be learned, that might flatten out your curve a little.

Outfitter Spam

•March 13, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Zenhunting doesn’t accept advertising. Sometimes I’ll mention or link to a product or service that I have personally used and can vouch for. Bottom line is, this blog doesn’t take money to promote something. Never has, never will. And it will never promote something I don’t believe in.

It was amusing at first when shady salesmen would try to sneak in plugs in the comments section. “Your blog story reminded me of the time I hunted with XXX outfitter at XXX Ranch…” or “I don’t know what kind of rifle you used on your hunt, but I just tested the new XXX custom rifle and it’s the best rifle…”

Yeah, nice try. More often lately, these scammers aren’t even trying to make it relate to a blog post. You all never see these, because they get marked as spam and ditched. But something about them, and the things they’re promoting, just bugs me. Especially because this is, not

Recently I’ve had a couple from a Triple S Wildlife Ranch in Calvin, Oklahoma. Never heard of it, but got curious and decided to do a little quick research.

Well, here’s your free advertising Triple S. Enjoy!

The Oklahoman

Tulsa World

The Company You Keep

•March 7, 2016 • 5 Comments

I hope the old saying you’re known by the company you keep is true, because is mingling with some big time hunting celebrities and websites these days. just released their compendium of the top 59 hunting websites, and Zenhunting – last in the alphabetical order – got in right before they closed the door, at #59. It’s quite an honor to be in a pack with Bone Collector, Buck Commander, Pat and Nicole with Driven Hunter, the DU website, Field & Stream, Jim Shockey, Melissa Bachman, Mike Hanback, Outdoor Life, Realtree, and a lot of other great sites and personalities, including my favorite hunter, Steve Rinella from Meat Eater.

Happy to be on the list.



What Real Men Do

•January 9, 2016 • 4 Comments

My fiancée Danielle informed me recently that she had unfriended someone on Facebook because they’d posted something about how real men don’t kill wild things, they take pictures. That she was offended on my behalf – though I was not aware of the post, nor would I have cared one way or another about this guy’s opinion – is one of a thousand reasons why I love her. She has my back. But I think too, she’s learned a lot about why I hunt, witnessed all the conscientious effort that goes into it, and not least of all, tasted the savory, story-rich results. So, on her own, she knows that her former friend is wrong and that, knowing both of us, there’s far more to real manhood than slogans and moralizing.

It did get me thinking. I’ve never, in all my years as a hunter, questioned the real man-ness of any guy who didn’t hunt. I’ve tried to explain why I hunt – explain, not apologize or rationalize – on occasion, but mostly to get people to leave me to it, not take it up for themselves. To hunt or not to hunt is a deeply personal choice. And never mind what a bunch of smug, picture-taking yuppies do to the environment versus the nearly invisible conservationist hunter.

So why do some people feel the need to tell us to trade our guns or bows in for cameras in order to join the ranks of real men? This particular former friend is an overly bouyant scuba diver, so clearly he’s stuffing some dead things in his gaping mouth, just not any that he has killed himself. Doesn’t that mean he’s maintaining real man-ness at the expense of some poor guy in the fishing fleet or butcher’s shop who’s had to sacrifice his real man-ness for the sake of this corpulent moralizer?

Forced to consider all this, I’m led to the question of what is a real man anyway? When did it become manly to eat from styrofoam and plastic wrap but not from an animal you have stalked, killed, gutted and butchered all by yourself? If left in the woods, would the photo-taking “real” man survive or the one who knows how to hunt for food? But that’s what these Facebook posters have put on the scale, not me. I think a real man pays his debts, supports his family, does right by others, builds and fixes things, respects others and in doing so, minds his own fucking business. Have I left anything out?

So I wonder what someone who thumps his chest with the claim of “I take photos, not animals” is truly, deeply, psychologically saying. My guess is he’s trying to change the equation to one that suits his absence of skills, for it takes none to order in a restaurant or pluck from the meat department freezer.

But I’m OK with that. I don’t care that some men in America wouldn’t last a day in the wilds. Not every guy can stand a post or gut a deer. I respect the ones who admit it. I am more than willing to share with those who can’t, or teach and encourage those who would like to gain the skills. Just know that when you try to declare your real man-ness  based on your inability or unwillingness to get your own food, those of us who can and do, we pity you. We see straight through to your deep-seated feelings of inadequacy. And not to rub salt in the wound, but I know a few women who put wild food on their table. So maybe it’s just about being real. Some can handle it. I don’t mind the ones who can’t. But the ones who feel compelled to make comparisons? They are the saddest bunch of all.



Hunting the Eagle

•December 5, 2015 • 2 Comments

Most everything that we do or that happens to us is the last link in a chain. Those links are often invisible until we get to the end of it, and then suddenly we can look back and see very clearly where the chain started and, depending on how it played out, whether it was heavy and rusted or a bright chrome steel.

The first link in this chain was the California Waterfowl Association’s annual dinner and 70th anniversary celebration in Sacramento in August. The truth of it is, our main motivation for attending this particular dinner was that our good friend and neighbor, Tracy Fremd, was receiving the Artemis Award, which honors a woman each year whose efforts support hunting and conservation.

The second link was when a hunt came up for auction at Eagle Lakes Ranch in Othello, Washington. I hadn’t heard of it but Tracy, who was sitting at our table, had hunted it and loved the place. “Bid on it!” she urged me, and so I did. After the high bidder generously donated it back to CWA, my second place bid became the new winner. A quick text to my son Griff, my once constant hunting companion but now grown up and far away once-a-year partner, forged the third link in the chain:


For me, the duck hunter, and Griff, the goose hunter, the promise of a duck and goose combo hunt was ideal. A previous rare hunt with Griff had been the only good hunt I had on the rice that year, so it felt like Lady Luck was polishing the chain.

The next link was tricky. It turned out that between the demands of his vaping business, Fate Mods, and his last semester in college, the only time Griff could go was the weekend after Thanksgiving. So I called Kaci at Eagle Lakes and could hear link number four clinking onto the chain when she said that weekend was open.

Three months later, gear packed, we flew up North to meet the birds coming South. I lamented the full moon that graced the calendar, but that proved of no consequence, since we saw neither sun nor moon for the next three days. What we did see upon our arrival was a lodge like something at Yosemite. Animal heads and mounted ducks and geese adorned the great room, with a massive central fireplace and – cocktail aficionado that I am – a full bar and lots of big cushy leather chairs to sink into while sipping one. The rooms, too, were grand, and ours was labeled Eagle One. We felt, well, presidential, and another link fell into place.

A 4 am wake up call and a hearty breakfast got our first day started. After scraping the ice from our windows, we followed the guide Dan to our duck spot, a pothole cleared by ice-eaters in a frozen, flooded field of corn. Approaching the spot in the dark, we heard what must’ve been a hundred ducks crowded together, cold and bitchy and quacking up a storm. It didn’t take long for them to return once we’d settled in, their brilliant green heads muted by the overcast as they swooped in, and fell to the three of us – me, Griff, and a retired firefighter named Gary. Griff doubled on a pair, and I even managed to connect on my share.


By 8am it was over and 21 big beautiful ducks had splashed down in the icy water or slammed onto the frozen fringe. Gary and I managed to bring ourselves and our guns back up the steep, frosty hill to the truck, so it was up to Griff to haul our bounty. For hunters who’ve spent many a 100-degree opener in the desert by the Salton Sea, the snowy scene that morning was a new and beautiful thing.


We dropped our ducks off at the processing shed and returned to the lodge, plopping down in some overstuffed chairs. Neither of us is used to a limit, let alone one by early morning, so we wondered what to do with the rest of the day. Watch football? No, we aren’t big sports fans. Get a drink? Way too early for that. Fortunately it wasn’t long before Kaci asked if we wanted to add a goose hunt to our Saturday, and not more than a fraction of a second before we answered yes!

With a different guide this time (though all of them seemed to be some other guide’s son or brother or cousin), we were soon in layout blinds on a field of winter feed. And just like that morning, it wasn’t long before the birds showed up. The guide Tim peeled off singles and pairs until we had our six lessors and two honkers.


Two great hunts. And two more links in the chain had fallen into place.   Back at the lodge, I pondered our good fortune over a reheated steak sandwich lunch. It matters a lot to me that the few and far-between hunts that Griff and I have are good ones. That mission was accomplished by morning, and now, barely mid-afternoon, I was savoring the gravy – a second great hunt in a single day! The chain was shining up nicely.

That evening the bar was in full swing, noisy with talk of epic shots, embarrassing misses, and just the pure joy of being here rather than back at work. But with another day to rest up and get ready for, things wound up early.

Next morning we were at it again, wolfing down eggs, sausages, and hash browns before heading to an “X” some thirty minutes away. This time it was a larger group – Mike, his brother, and Mike’s son R.J. joined Griff and I for a last round of geese. Decoys in place, we hopped into our pit blinds and closed the lids.

The action was a little slower that morning. Geese were everywhere, but it seemed that so were the fields they could fly to. Our guide Brian talked plenty into a closer look, and quite a few into landing. Griff amazed everyone by knocking down a low crossing goose, in the quick second it appeared between two groups of decoys. And despite a malfunctioning gun, Mike’s son R.J. did his share of fine shooting. When a large flock finally came in, and nine birds fell, the smoke was still hanging in the air when Mike declared you know, it’s a good thing our kids can shoot. Isn’t that the truth! And for me, it’s always the best last link in a chain of events.


%d bloggers like this: