Modern Wild Man ~Geese in the Blind~

Modern Wild Man

Waterfowl hunting on the Kansas prairie.

Modern Wild Man & Meg's goose retrieve, five geese from the water.

Waterfowling with a shotgun dates clear back to the 17th century.  Before the advent of shotguns, man was a waterfowler in prehistoric times.  A mural in the tomb of ancient Egyptian Khum-Hotpe (1900 BC) depicts a hunter in a blind capturing ducks in a trap.  It's safe to say waterfowling is a hunting tradition.

I have been chasing waterfowl longer in my life now than I have not.  Chasing waterfowl in their winter migration is a passion, an addiction, a way of life.  I've pursued early teal in September, the beginning duck migration in November, late mallards in December, but every waterfowler looks forward to late season geese.

The Canadian goose is a large sturdy bird.   Canadian geese can reach upwards of 20lbs with wing spans of nearly six feet.  Strong fliers, and wary of danger, a Canadian goose hunt is in the dreams of many a waterfowler.  Kansas is smack dab in the middle of the central flyway.  Being right on the edge of a frozen band of iced up waters from Canada through the Dakotas and past Nebraska and her winding Platte river.  Kansas is a natural resting place for late season geese.  Potholes of water scattered around sprawling crop fields, the plains of Kansas offer up a great opportunity for hunting geese.

Recently I was able to spend a Saturday morning in a blind along a small pothole of water on the Kansas prairie.  A small spot of water between feed fields and the roost lake, often pasture ponds serve an opportunity for hunters to try and entice birds on their way to or from feed to stop and rest.  

The dark hours of the early morning were cold, morning temperatures in the twenties.  The pond water seemed to steam like an overgrown kettle on the edge of boiling.  The heat from yesterday's afternoon sun had soaked into the water, and it was resisting the cold of last nights frigid bite.  I threw out a mixture of mallard and goose decoys, righting themselves with a splash.  A gentle breeze pushed in a light fog and slightly warmer air.  The low clouds covered the morning stars and moon.  Wild places in the darkness are to me the most peaceful of all places.  Early morning darkness has always served me as a type of sounding board to myself.  The quietness, and darkness serve as a type of empty canvas for thought, contemplation and introspection.  With decoys set and a steaming cup of coffee poured from a thermos cupped in chilled hands, the wait for dawn is a special time in a waterfowlers blind.

Ducks often fly early, seeking feed in the darkest hours of the morning.  Looking out over the decoys drifting slightly back and forth on their tethered lines in the morning breeze,  the sound of whistling duck wings cut through the air.  My ears perked, and I searched the still dark sky for the flash of wings.  My labrador, Meg, in her first season is still learning the ropes of waterfowling.  She looked to me at the sound of the duck wings, and with a rub under the chin, and a soft "Good girl." she smiled a dog smile and snuggled into the cover of our blind.  Waiting for light in any kind of hunting is a time full of promise.  Time in the field is unpredictable at best.  I've got to admit, I've been on my share of unsuccessful hunts.  Whole days spent without a glimpse of the pursued game, the sound of a goose honk, or a turkey gobble.  An unseasoned sportsman may consider those days wasted.  They may wish that time back for another pursuit, or time asleep in bed.  A seasoned sportsman knowns that those times are what made up the seasoning.

Meg and I watched the sky come on fire with strokes of red and orange in the east.  Groups of mallards flew high overhead, none of them were interested in our little pond, or the rest our decoys promised.  The excitement wore off for Meg and she curled into a ball, resting her heavy head on her tail and slept the slow hours away.  Slow time in the waterfowl blind is bittersweet.  Ask any waterfowler what is the best way to get birds to come into your setup, and they will answer, " Start picking up the decoys."  It never fails, and it makes a waterfowler reluctant to call it quits and wade out into the spread and pick up.  Watching the cold morning sky, and thinking about my family at home snuggled warm in their beds, I began to wonder what I was doing. 

Just like that, with a wandering mind and a sleeping dog, a group of geese hooked right in like bombers on a landing strip.  Large wings spread open and cupped into what little breeze there was, a group of five birds dropped into our spread and landed.  The sound of birds on the water quickly rose Meg from her half hearted sleep, and she begged to go out after the birds.  Concealed in camouflage, and tucked down into a makeshift blind the birds had no idea I was there.  I counted the five geese on the water, the daily limit in Kansas is six.  Staying hidden, I watched as the birds swam over as a group into my decoy spread, being social, waterfowl seek companionship of other birds.  

Picking my moment, I sprang up from the blind and shouldered my shotgun.  The birds now figuring out that the decoys weren't real ducks and geese after all, lifted off the water startled by my motion.  My first shot dropped two geese into the water, I swung around to another bird now lifting out of the spread, and my second shot connected.  A fourth bird was climbing off of the water, but was still in range, and my third shot found its mark.  I reloaded while looking for the fifth bird that was flying strong by now.  The last bird flew around along the edge of the far side of the pond, but then made a final mistake and came back over my blind.  All five birds were now floating on the pond, and Meg was anxiously waiting for me to release her.  I have been working all summer, fall and winter with Meg on water retrieves, this being her first season, it's a lot to ask of a dog.  

Five large birds now floated in the water in front of my blind and Meg was whining to get a retrieve.  Labradors are bent on retrieving, they crave it, and Meg in particular begs for her handlers approval.  She is coming along great for her first season afield, and this hunt proved her strength and confidence.  With my release, Meg jumped all four feet into the chilly water with a leap.  Swimming hard and strong, huffing a swimming dog huff she swam straight for the closest goose.  Quickly, Meg was able to negotiate a purchase on the bird by grabbing it by the neck, while swimming in water well over her head.  Peddling back to me with bird in tow, Meg was glowing.  She knew her job, she did it well, and she knew it.  Without hesitation she dropped the big bird at my feet, and turned back to the job at hand.  Meg jumped right back in, just as enthusiastic as she had been for the first bird, and made another great retrieve.  It wasn't long before all five birds were back in the blind.  Meg grinned her dog grin and sat up proud.

We didn't stay much longer after Meg's goose retrieves.  We had done what he had came to do.  There wasn't a limit of geese in the blind, and we had yet to have a group of ducks work, but that's not the point.  Meg and I spent, or maybe used our morning, for peacefulness and rest.  We acted out an ancient tradition drawn out on cave walls from millennia ago.  This morning was good, and I think that's it; this morning was good.

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Modern Wild Man and Meg with a morning's goose take.

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Modern Wld Man ~Sunday Afternoon Elk Stew~

Modern Wild Man

A hot bowl of stew with a grilled cheese, crackers and a few dill pickles.

A warm stew on a lazy Sunday afternoon is just the ticket.  I made this family favorite last Sunday to enjoy a rainy afternoon with my family.  There was a fire crackling in our fireplace, and a warm pot of elk stew on the stove simmering most of the afternoon.  The savory scent of the stewing vegetables and broth filled our home like a warm blanket on that chilly day.

I hope you have the opportunity to make this stew for your family on a Sunday afternoon.


Sunday Afternoon Elk Stew

Ingredients-

2 pounds elk roast

4 large carrots

4 ribs celery

1 medium yellow onion

4 cloves garlic (preferably stiff neck)

2 large yukon gold potatoes

1 bay leaf

1T canola oil

1T butter

32oz beef broth

1/4C worcestershire sauce

1 1/2C tomato juice

several grinds pepper

kosher salt


Start by prepping the vegetable.  Chop the carrots, celery, onion, potatoes, and garlic and set aside.  We will sweat this in a little bit.

Chopped celery, onion, carrots, potatoes and 4 garlic cloves ready to go.

Next salt a cast iron skillet (I prefer kosher salt), and add 1/2T canola oil.  Heat the skillet up pretty well, really put the spurs to it.  We are about to make a smokey mess by searing our elk meat.  When the oil is good and hot, turn on an exhaust fan and crack a window and put the elk roast, or roasts in.  Let the high heat sear the outside of the roast, put the meat down firmly and be sure to get good contact with the skillet.  Sear each side for at least two minutes.  It should wind up looking like this-

Beautiful elk roasts seared in an iron skillet.

Next, remove the elk meat from the skillet, and set it on a plate or platter to rest.  Do not cut into the roast, or poke any holes in it.  We want all those savory juices to stay in the roast, not to run all over the plate.

Turn the heat off, and add in 1/4C of the beef broth to the still hot skillet.  The broth will steam and simmer and burp and make all kinds of racket.  Use a wooden spoon to deglaze the pan and get all those tasty seared meat bits from the pan.  Move the hot deglazed skillet out of the way, we will come back for the deglazing broth later.

Now, back to those vegetables.  Put a heavy dutch oven on low heat.  Drop in the butter and the remaining canola oil.  The canola oil will help to keep the butter from smoking or burning.  Throw in the celery, carrots, and onion to sweat.  We want these veggies to cook low and slow, gently giving up their flavor without browning or sauteing.  Be patient, and give these veggies a good 6 to 8 minutes at least to sweat it out with only a gentle stir or two with a wooden spoon.

By now the elk roast should be cooled.  Using a sharp knife cut the roast across the grain making small cubes no bigger than a bite.  The roast will have a beautiful outer bark from searing, and a succulent inner red meat like a rare cooked steak.  Try to get an even chop and set aside.

Now that the carrots, onion, and celery have given up most of their flavors to our pot, lets add in the potatoes, chopped garlic, worcestershire, tomato juice, broth and don't forget the reserved broth we deglazed the iron skillet with.

Add in the chopped elk roast and bay leaf.  Now gently bring everything to a slow boil, stirring occasionally to keep everything evenly heated, and the bottom from sticking.  Once you get the stew heated up to a boil back down the heat to a simmer.  Put the lid on loosely to let some of the liquid evaporate to the desired thickness you and your family like.  We like a hearty thick stew at our house, and a slow simmering stew with a loose fitting lid is perfect.  I usually try to have three or four hours at least to let everything stew together, but if you like a lot more liquid broth in your soup, it won't take near as long.

The seared elk meat softens to a great texture, and adds a depth of flavor that is terrific.  The reduced broth and tomato juice create a hearty stew perfectly seasoned with aromatic vegetables and potatoes that is sure to warm your family on a rainy day.

I can smell it now!

Here's to you and your family on a cold and rainy day.  A warm stew for that cold and rainy day, and make it Wild!

Modern Wild Man ~ Call of Wapiti ~

Modern Wild Man

A great Wyoming bull elk!

The great Wapiti, or elk of the west is a game animal on the bucket list of many sportsman.  These majestic animals once covered this nation from coast to coast; are now found mostly in the untamed mountains, deserts and forests of the west.  I have been fortunate enough to be on multiple elk hunts, and multiple successful ones.  These great animals whose size is similar to that of a small quarter horse, are great escape artists, and amazingly tough.

My first successful elk hunt began on a ranch on the plains of Wyoming just on the coast of looming mountain ranges.  Elk seasons generally begin earlier than a lot of other big game, and I was fortunate enough to be hunting elk in the middle of September.  Elk in September generally means bugling, and bugling means exciting!  When the elk courtship and breeding season begins, bulls begin staking out and protecting their territories and cows from other bulls.  The dominate bulls spend their time signaling with loud echoing screams that make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.  Try to imagine a six or seven hundred pound, hormone enraged male elk standing along the outer edge of his cow harem screaming to any encroaching challenger, a threat of a fight if they venture closer.    

I was joined on this hunt by my great friend Steve, a resident of Wyoming.  I arrived at his place the day before the hunt and we set about making our plan.  Steve and I both had Wyoming elk tags to fill, but much of this hunt was about our mutual love of the outdoors, and the elk; not so much about taking an elk.  We poured over hand drawn maps on the back of greasy napkins, and checked and rechecked our equipment and rifles.  Hunting partnerships are a kind of COOP.  It is understood that once a hunter downs game, the other is expected to help with the chores that follow.  This type of volunteering for the common good makes hunting friends a special kind of friend.  Opening morning came and we started the day in the early dark hours working on every detail we could think of before sunrise.  The time immediately before a hunt is unique and almost indescribable time.  So much work and preparation has come to an end, and it is time for the hunt to unfold.  Much like the time for an athlete before a game or match, but on a more primitive and instinctive scale.  There is a part of a man that struggles in modern society.  There is a part of a man that yearns to be primal, to seek wild places and see his boot print over the print of an elk or a deer.

The first orange rays of morning light found us perched atop of a rocky ridge sprinkled with pine trees, overlooking a meadow to the west.  The wind was gently blowing from the South, pushing our scent into an open prairie and away from the timber the elk call home.  The valley below began to grow long shadows against the rising sun, and the little bit of morning dew left by the cool evening quickly dried into the bluebird sky.  The first frost of the fall hadn't yet touched the valley, though many higher up had felt its chill.  Wild flowers in fall bloom, and sprouts of green, red and yellow fall grasses rose out of the prairie valley with thick stems.  Slowly, Steve and I picked the valley apart with our binoculars, looking for the horizontal line of a back, the flick of an ear, or the shine of an antler.  The prairie valley rose into buttes on each side.  The butte tops covered with dark stands of pine timber and granite boulders.  The elk typically graze into the valley in the evening, spending the cool darkness grazing on the sweet grasses, and move back to the dark shade of the timber in the morning to spend the day.  We knew the morning hours would be short, and that the elk would quickly be in the timber, and much harder to hunt.

That first morning we poked along the backside of the mornings ridge, moving to the ridge line carefully once every little bit, careful not to be sky-lighted.  We glassed all the little pockets and ridges of timber we could find without encroaching into the elks domain.  The wind was light that morning, and we heard a couple bugles.  Every time we heard the call of a bull our smiles became wide and our steps lighter.  The calls may have well came from a mile or two away, following down the valley from land that we could not hunt, but it lifted our spirits just the same.  For a brief moment we spotted two bull elk crossing over a ridge between two wooded draws.  The elk were moving, with a destination in mind.  I don't think they had seen, smelled or heard us, but they had no intention of sticking around.  They first appeared more than one thousand yards away, and moving in the opposite direction.  We let out a bugle and a couple cow calls to try and persuade them to come to us, but they only slowed their stride slightly, looking across the ridge for the source of the sound as they trotted along.  The first day of the season came and went, Steve and I neither one had an opportunity to harvest an elk, but what we had seen was beauty beyond compare.  We built a day of hunting together that we could talk and story about for years to come, the two bulls we saw that day would grow in size with each retelling, and the possibility of a shot, or a plan to head them off would happen again and again in conversation each time we retold the day.  This was the start of a hunting trip, a trip that would eventually end in a great trophy.

Glassing for elk in the valley.

   

The second morning of our hunt started much the same as the first.  We may have rested better that night with the edge of the first morning now dull, and miles under our boots.  The dark morning came, we sipped strong black coffee around a kitchen table in a darkened kitchen.  Planning the morning hunt, we discussed the wind, where to park, what fence to cross, and where the elk would be.  We got it all right, except where the elk would be.  We glassed the morning away, spotting a two year old mule buck grazing though a small finger of the main valley, his small forked horns glowing in the morning sunlight.  We watched a couple mule does work across a bare spot in the timber and down to a stock tank for a drink before retreating to the security of the timber.  By noon, Steve and I agreed we should work back to the pickup for lunch, come back before dark and camp in the valley.  We would spend the evening glassing the ridges from the valley and wake up at the mouth of the valley the next day ready to move across the far ridge we had not yet been on.  

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we bounced down a ranch two track across the prairie toward the valley.  The red dust from the Wyoming dirt swirled behind the pickup, and two men whose lives are spent almost entirely apart were sewn together forever in a hunt.  Stopping to open a couple gates, we dropped off our tent and a few supplies in a low hide, out of site and downwind from the valley.  Steve moved the truck back to the ranch house and I set out putting together our camp.  Quickly we had everything in order for the night, and scrambled onto a pond dam at the mouth of the valley to glass.  Only just barely sliding out of our packs and working a zipper loose to pull out a bag of last years deer jerky, a loud bugle rang out across the valley from the timber above.  Steve and I looked at each other in a moment of disbelief.  Really, we had no intention of seeing an elk this evening, especially this early.  Our glassing was more a formality, the afternoon had grown warm, and we hardly expected to see much more than a fly that evening.  

Wide eyed, we watched in the direction of the bugle.  Scanning the dark timber from top to bottom, we strained our eyes picking apart the branches to find an elk.  Then, just like that, an elk appeared.  A brute of an elk, packing a heavy load of bone pushing high above his ears.  The elks antlers spread out wide and built mass out far to the longest point.  The wind was right, and in an instant we could smell him.  The breeze waived a smell similar to a wet barn with damp hay and manure to us, we both could smell it, and there was no doubt this was an elk we needed to try and take.  This elk was big, big on the hoof.  He was a gray old bull who had battled many autumns.  There was no doubt this was a trophy to be sought.

Steve, being a great friend and host quickly offered to me that this was my elk, and I had better get busy.  Without time for thanking, handshakes, or small talk; the afternoon that was so slowly moving along to dusk quickly became a race before dark.  We watched as the bull worked his way into the valley some one thousand or more yards away.  The elk was headed for the stock tank the mule deer had drank from earlier in the day.  The warm afternoon drew him out of the dark timber early to drink.  A plan was rapidly put together, I would move up into the timber for cover and Steve would stay behind where he could watch the elk from our glassing location.  I could look back to Steve anytime I lost sight of the elk to decide if I could move closer without being caught by the elk.  Years of dreaming for a chance at an elk, months of practice with my rifle, and weeks of planning all came together for this next thirty minutes.  As soon as the elk was facing away I made a break for the timberline.  Using each small group of trees as cover I scrambled toward the elk, hoping to close the distance.  The timber was on a side hill, steep and covered with loose gravel.  I picked my footing and hoped I could keep my legs under me.  

Trembling, and struggling to find my breath I worked my way closer and closer to the elk.  I watched the large bull approach the stock tank, and pick at green sprigs of grass nourished by the dampness around the tank.  I reached for my range finder, my hands slick with sweat.  My pockets seemed deep and in a moment of panic, I thought my range finder must have fallen out.  Struggling to find it, my finger touched the black plastic deep in my pants cargo pocket.  Pulling the range finder to my eye, I had to remember how to run it.  Everything seemed awkward and clumsy, I was about to range a giant bull on a Wyoming elk hunt, and I needed to get it together.  I sat myself down, took a deep breath, and found myself.  I took in my surrounding, the astringent smell of the pines, the beauty of the valley, the feel of the dirt under me, and the time I had here at this moment.  I brought my thoughts together in one place and calmed my nerves.

The bull ranged farther than I was comfortable shooting.  Slowly I worked my way closer, watching the elk carefully drink from the tank, with trembling hands, and a racing heart I crept through along small pines.  With considerable elevation on the elk, I was able to clearly see him in the valley below.  I told myself not to look at his antlers, to focus on the his vitals, to strain to find the smallest spot possible on the close side behind the elks shoulder.  I ranged again, I had closed the distance and the beautiful trophy of a bull elk was in range.  I regained my composure, and my trembling hands became still.  Quickly I worked into a solid rifle hold, moving my knees around from a sitting position, and locking the rifle sling past my elbow.  Everything came tight and solid.  There was a magnificent bull elk in my scope and I was about to take a shot.  I forced myself to slow my breath, each breath in lifted the scope's cross-hairs above the elk's shoulder, and each exhale brought it down to his low belly.  I took a deep breath, carefully let half of it out through my nose, settling the scope on target.  My fingertip pulled evenly through the trigger, and the rifle fired.  The muzzle of the high power rifle barked loudly, and in a second I heard the bullet whop when it impacted the elk shoulder.

Standing in a remote valley along the Wyoming plain with a great friend, looking over a magnificent trophy is not something to soon be forgotten.  Steve and I shook hands, the kind of handshake that grabs a hold of you, firm hands gripped together in much more than a greeting or congratulations.  A primal bond between men, a hunt that will always be shared.  Both Steve and I were able to fill our tags that week.  We worked together packing the animals out, and processing the meat.  This hunt was a great one, we finished out elk season smiling like kings.  My boyhood dream had come true.

The end of a great hunt is oddly like the beginning of a great journey.  A large game animal on the ground is the start of a lot of work.  The days, weeks and even months ahead include feeding our families the spoils of our hunts, the telling of the stories, and reliving the details again and again in our minds.  Elk hunting is a love of mine, something special that I have been fortunate to be apart of.  These great animals are warriors of the rugged lands they live in, and I have the highest admiration for their strength and courage.  The antlers from this hunt hang in my basement, and remind me every time I pass them of a boyhood dream of mine come true.  I have been elk hunting since, I have killed elk since, but those are other stories.

Rob and Steve, both with elk taken on the hunt.  Steve took his elk the next morning.

    

Modern Wild Man ~ A Perfect Saturday ~

Modern Wild Man

Meg in her first season, my 28 gauge, and a mess of quail.

Few things in life can be called perfect. We all strive for it, we search for it, and if we ever find it - we never want to let it go. When I think of perfect, I think of a mother's love, a perfect sports season, or maybe a homecoming of a long awaited loved one. Recently, however, I was fortunate to have a perfect Saturday. We only get a few perfect days, and when it happens, it can change you.

My weekends are cherished, and a balancing act between family, chores and hobbies. With two days between work weeks, it's often so hard to fit it all in. The saying goes: we work to play, and I know that is often the truth. This particular weekend, things fell into place, and it came naturally. I spent the morning in the house with my family, curled up on the living room couch with a warm cup of coffee in my hands. I got to spend time with my sons. Often, I like to remind myself that they are spending their time with me as much as I am with them. We laughed and sat by the fireplace telling jokes and being lazy. I got to be with my wife in our home. We held hands and got to talk to each other like adults, a luxury not overlooked with children in the house. We enjoyed each other's company, and I think if that is all the day had for me it would have been a great Saturday. We had lunch and cleaned up, and my wife suggested that she knew I would like to spend some time in the field, and why don't I go? This invitation was quickly snatched, I changed into some hunting clothes, grabbed a shotgun, and seemed to jump from the house into the pickup with dog in tow.

The weather that afternoon was perfect, cold and clear. The breeze was only slight, just enough to help a dog in the field. I drove to a corn field edge with a thin strip of wooded cover, an ideal place for a covey of quail. Our family labrador Meg is just over a year old. She was a gift from Santa as an eight week old puppy two Christmases ago. Meg has figured out that she truly loves to hunt quail. She aches for it, and when she gets the chance to go she brings an enthusiasm that I think only labrador puppies are capable of. As soon as the pickup stopped Meg was ready to go, whining to begin the hunt, not willing to wait for me to pull on my bird vest and load my shotgun.

The shotgun in my hands on this hunt is as special to me as the family dog and the hunt itself. The gun is a sporty little 28 gauge over under. As just a gun, it is finely made, the walnut stock has a deep finish, and its lines perfectly fit my hands. The forend is cleanly checkered and the balance is a joy to swing in the field. All these things are fine attributes to a field gun, but this gun is more. This little shotgun was a gift from my wife. After 10 years of marriage she knew me and my habits and likings so well that she found me the perfect gift. When I handle this little gun, smaller that a 20 gauge, only larger than a .410, I see a family heirloom in the making. I hope that one day decades from now a young man or woman who knows of me through family and sporting and writing, is swinging that little gun through a covey flush on their perfect day.

As soon as we entered the field cover Meg and I were in birds. A quail flushed so quickly and early in the hunt that I lost my composure and didn't even mount my gun. Now many would think of a missed opportunity not as a perfect day or hunt, but to get into birds so early in a hunt is rare. Hunting with a dog that loves to retrieve and not holding up your end of the bargain can be interesting as well. As the bird flushed and flew away from under Meg's nose she watched the bird, then looked at me, then back at the distant bird and found it in herself to let out a bark. She let me known right then and there that my job was only to shoot the birds she finds for me, and she would even go and bring them back.

The partnership of a sportsman and a gun dog is special. This is Meg and I's first season together, and it has been great. Watching her work through cover, cruising over tangles and through tall grass, nose to the ground is a site to see. That afternoon the sun was high and bright, everything seemed clear and the light wind brought all the sounds of the field closer in. I felt as though my dog and I were the only two in the world, that our hunt was less a pastime or hobby, but more a necessity, part of what we and who we are. I am blessed to be able to find and act on that necessity of my life. Meg went right to work after our missed opportunity and quickly found another single bird. The grass along the edge of the corn field hung under knee high, and weighed heavy under a frost from last night's coldness that today's sun couldn't seem to melt. Meg's tail went from side to side to little circles; her nose hung low and huffed the ground searching for any scent of a bird. The fog of her breath seemed to hang in hesitation before a soft breeze floated it away. We were quail hunting, and into the birds! Gun at the ready I moved in quietly to Meg's shoulder planning the shot and placing the birds flush with my body. A kick to a bunch of frosted grass and a quail flushed from the cover in a flurry. In an instant my little gun found my cheek, all instinct and practice and concentration came together and a smooth swing through a flushing bird was echoed by the call to my partner to fetch a dead bird. Meg is not one to leave a bird, she hunts dead and downed birds like a seasoned professional, a quality in bird dogs that cannot be taught. Quickly she found our bird, and it was just that, our bird. A partnership of man and dog, an example of something as old as the hunter and his game.

The afternoon spilled on. We found and flushed more birds, crossed the road to different cover and found birds there too. Meg hunted hard, and smiled a dog smile. We worked together and enjoyed each other's company. The days are short this time of year, and the sunset wasn't far off. The Kansas sky filled with blazes of orange and yellow, and I found a spot to snap a picture of my partner, my gun, and our take in the waning last rays of light before the sun fell below the West horizon. Walking back to the pickup, I new something great had happened, I knew this was the end to a great day. So many times we find stress and pain, hurt and ends that don't meet the way we think they should, but this day was a day of contentment and blessings. I thought briefly about being disappointed that it had to end, that it was already evening, and I didn't start my hunt till after lunch, but I think without all the parts that made this day so great, it wouldn't have been the day it was.

Modern Wild Man ~ Gear Review / Lucky Duck Junior ~

Check out the Modern Wild Man Youtube channel, and our first gear review!  

If you're thinking about adding a motion decoy to your spread, take a look!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gr7oqoYpyQw&t=37s

Stay Wild!

Modern Wild Man ~Old Friends~

Modern Wild Man

A great hunt with an old friend.

As sportsmen we trickle through life between outdoor sporting experiences.  Weekdays at work are often spent with our hearts in the field.  We anticipate opening day, and then the next day, and the day after that.  The last day of a season is kind of marker of experience, or maturity.  How was your season, how often were you afield, and what did you learn.  Whatever your quarry, sportsman spend the time away waiting.  We wait for the next sunrise in the duck blind, the next perfect day in the tree stand, the crappie bite, or a trout rise to a fly.  As a child I spent countless hours waiting to grow old enough to be afield.  I poured over brown paper pages of sporting catalogs.  Dreams of wool hunting vests, sharp stag handled sheath knives, strings of duck decoys, and rubber bottom boots filled my imagination.  Before I was old enough to shoulder a gun I had already been on countless hunting adventures in my mind.

One aspect of the sportsman is the sporting friend.  Sporting, or outdoors friends are their own kind of friend.  For many of us, that first sporting friend is family.  Our father, a cousin, grandfather, brother or uncle are as good a sporting friend as you can hope for.  But then their are sporting friends who start off friends, and become family.  Many times a sporting friend comes along by accident.  We are drawn together somehow with a common thread in our lives.  I think the friends we make along the way in the field and on the water are so important because of the experiences we share.  A four AM breakfast before a cold morning on a goose field, or a dark walk through the woods to a deer stand become things of ritual.  Sportsman are often superstitious, and forgetting the lucky camo hat your friend gifted you 10 years ago may very well curse your hunt.

We spend our weekends, holidays and vacations together; seeking out time in the field or on the water.  Our children grow up to know our sporting friends through deer seasons, pheasant hunts, and western road trips.  Often times, sporting friends fade away to phone calls over time.  Life takes us in different directions and lives part at forks in paths.  Some we stay in touch with, we find ourselves thinking of old times, past hunts and old friends.

I have had the privilege in my life to know many great men.  Men with conviction for their country, for their families and for the sporting life style.  Many role models who value conservation and time afield over bag limits and trophies.  This past season I was fortunate enough to reconnect with three of these sporting friends.  My son and I made a trip to Wyoming for a great antelope hunt with a great friend and his wife.  We spent time in their home, we had fellowship, and to top it off we harvested an antelope.  Great trips with great old friends are often times the most rewarding.  Also this fall, I was able to reconnect with a sporting friend from almost 20 years ago.  A man who I met through a friend of a friend and took me on my first elk hunt.  We got together this fall after years of only phone conversations, to chase upland birds.  It was a great day catching up, remembering old times. and making new memories.  The hunt wasn't the most successful, but I would say the time spent together was well invested.

Most recently I had a great privilege to reconnect with a great sporting friend of mine.  A man that I met by happenstance some years ago when we worked at neighboring businesses.  We connected over a short conversation of the up coming fall and the weather.  Somehow our conversation drew to our mutual admiration for duck hunting, and our time spent afield together began.  I cannot tell you how many hours, even days we spent together over the years.  From marshes to lakes, and frozen rivers we chased ducks and geese.  We spent hours between flights of birds discussing life, family and careers.  Sporting friends you see develop a level of trust that goes farther than that of many friendships.  Confidence in the security of the location of ducks, the lure the fish are hitting, or the trust of mutual private land access go beyond many sacred bonds.  Life and circumstance had moved us apart some 7 years ago, and our time afield together was left to phone conversations sharing each others current adventures.

Then, just like that, I reached for my ringing phone.  I had just jumped into my pickup, on my way to a corn field to hunt ducks.  The voice on the other end was familiar, and I was about to share my plans of a great field hunt, when the other voice asked where I was off to.  Looking in the rear-view mirror I saw my friend, he was passing through my town on his way between family holiday obligations, and he was hoping to catch up with me for a few minutes over a cup of coffee.  Quickly I explained that I was off to pursue ducks in what was sure to be an epic late season mallard hunt, and asked if he would like to go along.  Low and behold he was ready.  Licenses, stamps, camo, gun, duck call, and shells ready to go, he jumped in the truck and off we went.  

Life and friendship is funny sometimes.  With my old friend and the shotguns and decoys we had hunted with for years, but years ago, I was taken back.  Riding along on our way to the field, I went back in time.  Somehow, for a short while, it was some sort of time warp.  We picked up right were we had left off, almost a decade ago.  Conversations and references seemed familiar, and unexplainably time seemed to stand still.  We hunted ducks, and it was a great duck hunt.  We had more mallards over us than I think I have ever had.  Large groups of ducks circled our decoys, and the sound of their wings cutting the air filled our ears.  Each time a flight worked, we looked at each other and grinned.  The sound of working ducks, the smell of gun powder, and the cold winter air on our faces made for an exciting new hunt.  We took some ducks, but not a limit.  After the hunt he had time to join my family for a meal.  The time we had together was great, the hunt was great, but the feeling of belonging and reconnection was the best part of the day.

I hope that you have a sporting friend or two.  That traditions of opening days, or a shared investment on decoys or tree stands will bring you and your friend together in the field.  Include your family and pass on traditions of friendship in the field!

My friend and I with a mutual sporting friend on a mallard limit day, circa 2002.