Lunch Time
They say you should never go to the grocery store on an empty stomach. That’s logical. But, no one ever warns you about food blogs. These websites, collected at places like Foodgawker and Tastespotting, are dangerous combinations of delicious recipes and beautiful photography. A quick browse can easily turn into two hours gone and an expensive grocery list. I blame it on the turning of the seasons as well. There’s something about the cooling temperatures and changing colors that makes my brain think “Let’s fatten up for the winter months.” Fine by me, brain.
Besides how I can resist when I see recipes for things like ‘Pumpkin Scones with Maple Frosting’ or ‘Easy Kimchi’ (a traditional Korean fermented cabbage side dish that’s addictive to those of us who regularly crave spicy food). Who could blame my stomach for growling when I read the words ‘Chile Cheese Upside Down Cornbread’? The Internet is a great resource for recipes. It’s proven especially helpful in my search for new variations on game meat and Nebraska-harvested vegetables.
In fact, it’s a great way to scout locations and connect with people who can provide or sell you those wonderful things. Omaha’s year-round indoor farmer’s market, Tomáto-Tomäto’s website frequently updates its inventory. The Pick Your Own.org’s website has a list, by county, of farms and markets complete with directions, contact information and a little history about each place.
And of course, there’s the Deer Exchange Program, which you can access through Nebraska Game and Parks website. I’m signed up and am eager to hear from area hunters with full fridges. If you would like to know more or sign up to take part in this awesome program, head to the website.
Now, if you’ll excuse me…it’s time for lunch.
Bow Journal- Hunts #6 & #7- To Pass the Time
What does one do to pass the time while sitting in a deer stand? It is a question that must be answered by anyone spending any significant amount of time living in a tree. For there will be days when nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, is happening.
For the past two hunts, I saw two turkeys and one squirrel in nearly eight hours in the stand. The area was so barren of life that my heart skipped when I saw the squirrel, a bit of nervousness reminding me I wasn’t the only living soul in the woods.
So I had plenty of time to think while I watched corn to my left, green space in front, beans to my right, and woods behind me. Plenty of time. Here are a few thoughts that passed through my mind, probably very similar to what some of you are pondering while up a tree (unless you’re much more concentrated than me).
I counted deer from past hunts; wondered how many ears of corn are in this field I was watching; thought about The Hole, The Blind, The 10-acre Field, Joshua Tree, Wanza’s, The Widowmaker, and all the names of all the other stands I have hunted through the years; questioned when I could start taking Madeline with me turkey hunting, when she would be ready; hoped Madeline and her mom were safe during their Sunday morning travels; pondered if the Yankees have enough good bats in their lineup to get through the Phillies if they get to the Series; cried about Notre Dame’s game versus Stanford; recounted deer from past hunts; estimated how many steps it takes for me to walk from the truck to Joshua Tree; prayed that my wife will be to help a friend of hers out with some of her serious, personal problems; evaluated if my nose is larger than most, for I can close one of my eyes and still see a significant amount of it; wondered how long our high school lunch periods were when I was going to school; hoped Rob was seeing deer over the ridge; and tried to figure out how I have become a Nebraska Cornhusker fan after despising them for so many years.
Well, the last thought I had a definite answer to: Pelini.
All the others, I’m never sure I came up with the right answers to satisfy me. So I continued to think, peering to my left and my right the entire time, mainly wondering where in the hell all the deer went.
And when I met Rob back at the truck, looking at my friend who I’ve known since birth, I couldn’t help but know what was coming. “Hey, Jeff,” he started, “maybe later this year I can take you hunting so we can see some deer.”
An obscene gesture later, we were riding down gravel roads laughing about the morning, comparing notes on all that we had figured out while we were up a tree.
Deer hunting in Nebraska is a very big deal for those who didn’t grow up here. So when I asked lifelong friend Rob Gaia to spend a few days with me chasing Nebraska bucks, he had no problem with the idea. “You just tell me how many vacation days I need to take,” he said. Shortly after, we were booking his flight.
Having fished in eastern Nebraska before and ridden from Omaha to Nebraska City via highways 50 and 2, Rob has always marveled at how much space there is here. “Is it hard to scout,” he said, “When most of the patches of woods are so small?”
Back home, Rob is used to hunting massive tracts of woods with Rob-planted food plots on open grass fields, essentially the norm for a lot of Southern hunters. So when I told him that he’d be hunting over my 50-acre corn food plots, he laughed, cursed me under his breath, and readied his equipment.
Cast in shadows, Rob Gaia sit in the Joshua Tree stand waiting for his first shot at a Nebraska deer.
Arriving last night into Omaha, we quickly discussed plans, told a few lies, and parted until this morning. The plan was for him to hunt the Joshua Tree stand, where Dad got his shot the other day, and I would be back at my same spot as my doe on Wednesday.
While his morning was uneventful, I saw three deer shortly after 8 AM, two basket-racks and one doe. The doe closed to about 45 yards, giving me a broadside shot, yet I wanted her closer. Both of the bucks were smaller than I wanted to shoot today, despite one being a small 8-pointer (4×4 for you Northerners) that was less than 30 yards away from me.
However, I was given something to think about this morning as I readied for the doe to move closer. When sitting in my climber, my view was perfect, with only one small limb to my left blocking my view yet actually providing me a little cover if a deer approached from that direction (i.e. the Deet Deer).
Yet when I stood up to shoot, my open windows closed dramatically. Which leads me to this question for you bowhunters: is it better to hide yourself completely and only shoot through very small windows, or is it better to cut a couple more limbs down around you and give yourself the ability to take longer shots?
My view from "The Hole" while sitting down
My view from "The Hole" while standing up for a shot
I am curious of your thoughts, for I know this issue will arise again.
I Like Elk
A North Platte River Bull
People often ask me what my favorite story subject is. Until recently, I always hemmed and hawed around and said I didn’t really have a favorite, that I just liked being out, and bla bla bla, yada yada yada. I was serious. I have enjoyed all of the subjects I’ve covered during my 10 years with NEBRASKAland, either for the people or critters involved, the places they took me, or the cause they supported.
Now my answer is a short, three letter word – elk – and the subject of the cover story in this month’s magazine titled “Return to the Plains: Elk Comeback Not Yet Finished.”
My fascination with elk began when I was in my teens, likely due to the intrigue of hunting in the mountains. An elk hunt was on my mind when I bought my second rifle, a 7mm Remington Magnum when I was 20 or so. A poor college student at the time, I had no idea when I might be able to afford an elk hunt, but I wanted to be properly armed when the time came, just in case I couldn’t afford to put another rifle in the closet.
It would be 17 years before that day came and I swung a late-season cow hunt in northwestern Colorado. I still had only one rifle, not the same one, but a 7 mag just the same. That successful hunt reignited a desire to get serious about hunting elk. My next hunt added a heaping load of fuel to that fire.
The Author and his 2007 Nebraska Bull
In 2007, after 12 years of finding nothing but rejection letters in my mailbox, I finally found an envelope that contained my coveted, once-in-a-lifetime Nebraska bull permit. On the fifth day of the season, I harvested a beautiful 6×6 bull. On the first day, I lost an equally impressive bull. Between that heartbreak and the elation that came with success, I saw elk every day, called in my first bull on my first attempt with my pack bugle, and generally became hooked on elk hunting.
When I returned to Lincoln, I promptly added “Elk in Nebraska” to the list of stories I was working on. I began making contacts with landowners I knew had elk on their property, and tracking down others I didn’t yet know, and told the boss what we often do here at the magazine: “When I get the photos, you can schedule it.”
My elk photo safari began in December of 2008 on the one place I truly wanted to photograph them: the North Platte River Valley near Lewellen. Not once in the countless times I’d driven across the river on Highway 26, either on my way to hunt geese or to college in Chadron from my home in Ogallala, did I ever imagine there would be elk in that country. But in two of three trips to John Orr’s, I left with elk photos. On a winter shoot in 2008, I followed fresh elk tracks in the snow into the canyons to find a pair of bulls one day, and on the next froze in the teeth of a north wind on a single-digit day while laying on a hillside across a draw from a herd I’d followed off the alfalfa. That evening, after I bumped the herd moving in for more photos, I watched one of those one of those odd animal behaviors anyone who spends lots of time in the outdoors is sometimes lucky enough to see. As two mature bulls sparred playfully, a spike walked up and presented his antlers as if to say, “Can I play?” Two days later, I watched that same spike pace back and forth in front of a fence separating the alfalfa and the canyon, refusing to jump it and follow the rest of the herd. Kids.
My only failure at Orr’s was two summers ago, when I went west hoping to photograph cows and calves. I glassed six crossing a meadow from a distant hilltop the first morning, but never saw elk again, and left only with blisters, mosquito bites and a new appreciation for my Thermacell after spending the beginning and end of two days in that wet meadow.
Last September, I was back at Orr’s, parked on the road, lying on the hood of the truck staring at the stars and listening to a half-dozen or more bulls bugle incessantly. The next morning, I used a cow call and bugle to draw the bull you see on the cover of the issue into camera range. Paint the cottonwoods white and you’d think you were in a mountain aspen stand. Had I known he was going to circle me when he left my frame, I might have gotten a photo of him bugling 30 yards or so behind, but instead was forced to listen from the cattail slough I was hiding in. Had I packed a diaphragm call, I might’ve been able to get him to do that while he was still in front of me. I sure wasn’t going to move and grab the one around my neck.
Busted at 40 yards, give or take
The next morning, I spent several hours working my way through the maze of willows and sloughs to get close to the only bull that bugling in the entire bottom. One call sequence brought that young bull in at a run.
With more than enough North Platte River elk photos in hand, I headed to the Pine Ridge. My first evening was a bust, as I only spotted a lone cow elk from a distance. That was more than I saw the entire second day, however. Finally, on the third day, I found a herd on an alfalfa field southeast of Chadron, a photo of which leads the story. As always, an elk herd visible from the road tends to draw a crowd, and a half-dozen of us watched as a herd bull kept a satellite at bay.
The next morning on Jody Stumpf’s near Bordeaux Creek, I attempted get behind a herd feeding on another alfalfa well before dawn. But while skulking through the woods, listening to the sounds of antlers clashing and bulls bugling, I spotted the shadowy outline of a massive bull in the woods ahead of me. I didn’t spook him, but didn’t try to get closer either. That same bull was headed down a trail toward the post I took, but did an about face when cows began talking behind him. But I was happy one bull, the mud-caked one in the story, decided to walk past. With all of the talking going on that morning, I’m betting I could’ve called one of the bulls in the herd closer, but Jody’s wife, Judy, had a landowner permit to fill, and with the season just a week away, they didn’t want me pushing the elk, which I completely understood.
My safari also included two trips to Mark Johnson’s near Nenzel. The first was a bust, made in February 2008 when I’d hoped snow in the forecast would bring elk out of the Niobrara River canyons to Johnson’s pivots. It didn’t snow, they didn’t come out of the canyons and I couldn’t find them when I went in after them, but I did have a nice hike. I’ve already told you about my second trip in an earlier blog., Hunting with A Camera. Elk in the Sandhills? I like the idea.
I used no blinds or stands to capture the photos in the story, only a binoculars, a ghillie suit, boot leather, and occasionally calls. When all was said and done, I was successful on more days that I tried to photograph elk than not. I don’t know if that makes me lucky, good, or both, but I’ll take it. I do know that I couldn’t have done it without the help of the landowners who granted me access to their property, and even served as my scouts. Whether you’re hunting with a gun or a camera, effort spent scouting is usually directly proportional to success.
I know I’m glad elk decided to return to our fine state. I just wish I didn’t live so far them. But that could be a good thing. I could see myself spending way more time than I should hunting them with a camera. I’m hooked to the point that I’m going elk hunting this weekend and I don’t even have a permit. Long-time friend Gregg Sweley does, though, and since he kept me company on most of my Nebraska hunt, so I’m returning the favor, hoping I can help find him a cow (like me, he already punched his Nebraska bull tag). That will get me my fix until I can draw my own cow tag, the Nebraska Super Tag or add five more preference points for the hunt I’m planning in Colorado.
I’ll have camera in tow this weekend, of course. Maybe I’ll get that photo of a bull bugling in my face that I really wanted for the story. I tried to talk the bosses here into pushing the publication date back further so I could keep trying for that shot. But they’re no fun. Not nearly as much fun as elk, anyway.
You can read my story and see more photos and information that we didn’t have room for in the print edition at http://outdoornebraska.ne.gov/nebland/articles/hunting/elk_return.asp.
See you out there.
A Bugling Bull in the Pine Ridge (aka: Right time, wrong ridge. -or- They don't make lenses that big)
Back in the Day – Chubbing
As promised a little over a month ago, now and then, when something old and of interest rises to the top of stacks of “stuff” in my home office, I would share them with the three or four other strange people out there who enjoy mentally traveling back in time. They will run under a standing head of “Back in the Day.”
This entry started with an old photo postcard I bought on eBay about eight years ago for no reason other than I liked it and it sold within my price range. It shows four men and four women fishing with cane poles from the sandy bank of the Middle Loup River near Seneca in Thomas County. The card was postmarked 1910. The obvious question was: What were they fishing for? I asked two of the Commission’s fisheries biologists and they both said about the same thing: Back in those days, before there were any impediments such as dams or diversions, about any fish found in the Missouri River that could survive in the Middle Loup River was possible, but the most likely would have been fishing for catfish or chubs.
Well, how can you not be intrigued by the idea of Nebraskans fishing for and eating a relatively small fish most anglers today consider bait, and indeed chubs are assigned to the minnow family. The state record creek chub is a little over 11 inches long but elsewhere they can be real lunkers up to 13 inches. Creek chubs are native to Nebraska’s waters and, appropriately, are more often found in creeks than larger rivers. They often are found in high-quality trout streams.
Fishing the Middle Loup River near Seneca, Thomas County, circa 1910.
That in turn reminded me of reading an old Sandy Griswold column about fishing for chubs in Big Creek in Cherry County at about the same time as the photo postcard, so I dug it out. Griswold was a long-time writer for the Omaha Bee and then the Omaha World-Herald from 1886 into 1929. In 1913, a Griswold account of a spring duck hunt on Swan Lake on the Billy Merz ranch in Cherry County was serialized over seven months in Outer’s Book magazine. In the course of that hunt on Swan Lake southwest of Brownlee, they shot ducks on Big Creek that runs into the North Loup River west of Brownlee. In addition to jump shooting ducks they fished. And this is the part I love; they were throwing back the trout to keep the chubs. Excerpts follow. Enjoy.
Back side of the same postcard.
“After breakfast Sime [apparently Merz’s hired man] hitched up the team, and we drove over to Big Creek, all of us but Merz, who remained behind to keep house. We took our game and fishing tackle, too, for Merz said that besides trout, the stream was full of chubs, many of which ran as high as two-thirds of a pound in weight, and that they made a great meal. On the reception of this information, Tom [McCawley] ran back into the house, emerging in a few moments with a skillet in one hand, and a shell box in the other, containing bread, potatoes, onions, corn meal, pepper and salt and butter.
“If there are any fish in Big Creek, you bet we’ll have a mess over there long about one o-clock—you can’t beat fresh fish on a hunting trip. But will they bite, Billy?” And he turned to Merz after he had climbed up and taken his seat in the wagon.
“Bite—yes, like rattlesnakes.”
“What bait?”
“Oh, any old thing—a piece of bacon rind is good, but kill a blackbird—they are ravenously fond of bird flesh, and you can catch all you want in a half hour’s time. But, mind, don’t monkey with the trout—the stream is full of them, but we don’t meddle with them out here until long in June.”
“Oh, no, we won’t even look at a trout,” quickly chipped in Sime; “wouldn’t touch one with a ten-foot pole if he jumped up and bit my collar button off—and then they aren’t worth anything so early in the spring—they’re too cold. Gidap! there!” and Sime swished his long gad through the air and we started at a rattling pace up and over the hill, and out onto the road leading to Murphy’s and Big Creek.”
After jump-shooting mallards, the outfit turned their attention to catching their creek-side lunch.
A bait-sized creek chub. Photograph by Ken Bouc.
“But I say boys, the creek is just full of fish alone here. Why not let Sam drive down this little draw and unhook the horses and we’ll do a little chubbing?” We all agreed, and taking what impediments out of the wagon we thought we would need, we got ready for a trial at the fish, while Sime took the horses and wagon away. For bait Tom drew one of the mallards, and both he and I, as well as Dick [Bullock] and Bud [Moran], baited our hooks, crawled through the brush and dropped them over into the dashing brook. Simultaneously, it seemed, we all got a bite. Not only did we get a bite, but we all yanked out a fish, Tom’s, a find chub, of course, for he is always right, and other three trout about as long as a man’s hand. The trout, of course, we threw back into the water and went on in our endeavors to get a mess of chubs. It was hard work, however, because it seemed that only these greedy little trout would bite, but after we had caught twenty-five or thirty of them and thrown them back, they seemed to get next to the situation, and cleared out. After that we just simply hauled in the chubs, some of which were of a species that I had never seen before. They greatly resembled a common native brown trout, with scarlet bellies and two streaks of gold along each side, a beautiful fish, handsomer even than the famous speckled beauties, themselves. We were an hour or so at fishing but we had a great time of it, never more fun in our lives. When we had captured what we thought were enough for five big, strong, healthy men, we crawled back through the brush, up the embankment and out onto the sward of the prairie, where Sime, thoughtful fellow that he always is, had a nice bed of glowing cow chips all ready, with coffee pot on and steaming, frying pan all greased and ready for the ichthyological dainties we had scaled and cleaned for him. And my, oh my, what a meal that was! I will not attempt to describe it, just leave it to your imagination, but even now I can close my eyes and see that never-to-be-forgotten scene on the prairie’s top, and smell again the delicious odor that filled the air. After we had gotten through our meal and were getting ready to drive on down the creek, Tom said: “By rights we ought to take some fish home, but I hardly think we can do it, because they are so soft that I don’t think they would be in any condition for eating after we have driven all the afternoon with them in the bottom of the wagon, so we will postpone that until some other day.”
Bow Journal- An Aside- Getting Re-Started
I would have to think that everyone is familiar with Moby Dick, whether or not they actually read it themselves. Man obsessively chases fish (I mean, Man obsessively chases water mammal) to the point of his own demise. That’s the Kurrus Notes version. The Farrar version, however…you know, the one that would never consider leaving out the smallest detail, is the version with all of the Asides: the history of whaling boats and whalers, knot strategies, proper gaffing placement, etc. For some people, this is a bit much, yet for those of you who have been following this year’s Bow Journal, “a bit much” is what you’re going to get.
I did not grow up with a bow in my hand. My father bow hunted a little bit when I was a kid during the prehistoric ages of compound bows in the mid- to late-1980s. At the time, he was hunting in Ashland, Mississippi, using arrows that held poison pods, a legal practice at the time in that state.
But we didn’t shoot together, and I was repeatedly told to stay away from his archery equipment because of these pods. And his bow hunting was short lived. He shot one doe, lost another, and decided that he wasn’t going to practice enough to feel comfortable in the woods. So he gave it up…at least for the next 20 years.
He did, however, buy me a used Bear Whitetail bow, with arrows, for $50 when I was in 9th grade. I shot it some, burying arrows into the hay bales, and an occasional horse apple, next to my parents’ home. I recall shortly after the purchase killing one bullfrog with the bow, yet I never shot at a deer despite hunting, at the most, a dozen times.
It wasn’t until 3 years ago that I picked up a bow again. A friend’s son from work was selling a Condor, a brand that few hunters have ever heard of, for $35. He was upgrading and I was trying to see if I could become interested again. This interest was developing, even before I shot, for three reasons: 1) The more I looked at Nebraska’s archery dates, essentially from mid-September through the end of the calendar year, I got to thinking that I could hopefully spend a lot of time in the woods when others weren’t there; 2) I get really cold when the temperatures drop, so cold I don’t like to bare it. Before purchasing this bow, most of my time spent sitting in a tree was with a rifle or muzzleloader during much cooler weather. And while I have since found ways that keep me warmer, I’m much more comfortable with 50-degree mornings, which bowhunting allows me; and 3) NEBRASKAland editor Doug Carroll is a long-time archer and an even better archery advocate. He told me how active the woods are during bow season and how much fun it is to shoot. Plus, he is a very good teacher, having spent many afternoons with me working on my form at courses in both Lincoln as well as Schramm Park SRA outside of Omaha.
After the Condor purchase, I learned my first very important lesson about bowhunting. The bow is just a small part. Then comes the whisker biscuit, the release, arrows, field tips, broadheads, quiver, etc. “I thought your bow was only $35,” Laura commented when she received our next credit card statement. “Well,” I replied, searching for a good excuse but failing miserably to find one.
Then came the first hunts. And more failings.
Stay tuned for my Bow Journal’s next Aside entitled “Broad Shoulders.”
Bow Journal- Hunt #4- The Deet Deer
When deer hunting, I worry a lot about scent. Not to the point of wearing specialized clothes, pouring doe urine or some other flavor on my boots, or making sure my clothes stay in a pine-cone filled travel tub when I’m not hunting, but I do worry.
Instead, my preparation comes with simply playing the wind. I have a few stand locations – a couple that are better with a south wind and a couple with a north wind. Yet I’m always wondering if I’m been smelled.
Last year, I stepped into the woods late one afternoon in early November at the tail end of a cold and drizzle-filled day. It was the type of day I was convinced I would be alone in the woods and when I could care less if I saw anything or not. I just wanted to sit in a tree.
About an hour before dark, a large deer, what I think was a nice buck, topped a hill in front of me about 150 yards away. His head repeatedly bobbed up and down until he turned to walk in the opposite direction of me. So I quickly grunted at him.
He stopped, turned in my direction, and stood motionless. Then he turned back to his original path. Another grunt. Another turn. We did this at least a half-dozen more times until he disappeared over the hill and out of sight.
A couple minutes later, the deer was walking down the hill in my general direction, but still maintaining its 150-yard distance. I grunted again. The deer stopped, again looking toward me, and started walking again toward the draw from where I was sitting.
I readied for the deer to take a right at the draw and head straight to me, but instead he crossed the draw and its creek, continuing to maintain its distance, and stopped, right behind me, 150 yards away. At which point the deer raised his head in the air, blew harshly, and white-tailed over the hill. The wind, that particular day, was blowing through my left cheek, toward the exact direction I last saw the deer.
With that day in mind, I covered my body in mosquito spray before walking into the woods this morning against all of my better judgment. And when I climbed up my tree, I grimaced. The wind was blowing directly into the woods to my left, at one of the key spots I usually see deer.
So I spent the first 45 minutes of the day watching in front of me, hoping that I could get a shot at one walking down the hill in my direction before making me. That was until I saw the doe 30 yards to my left, right in the path of my deet. I stood when she moved behind a row of trees, and waited for her to re-emerge.
But she didn’t, so I sat back down. Nearly 2 minutes later, she was now 15 yards away, crossing from right to left through the smallest gap in the woodline, head and nose repeatedly raising and lowering. Then she disappeared behind a different set of trees.
I stood and again and waited right until the point of sitting back down before she stepped through the opening to the corner of my field, her neck again extending to the sometimes overcast, sometimes sunny sky. She took two more steps forward and was now less than 12 yards away, directly downwind from me. I drew, aimed, and shot. The deer never took another step.
Me with this morning's doe. Behind me are my deer cart and climbing stand.
As I was field-dressing the deer and readying it for my deer cart, already soaked in sweat, I began to smell the intensity of the insect repellant on my clothes. All I could do was shake my head, much like I’ll do the next time I pump gas, eat onions, leave my clothes in the garage, or cover my face with sunscreen before going into the woods. Knowing that there’s no possible way, if my wind isn’t quite right, of killing a deer. Until it happens. Sometimes.
Hopefully the next time I’m in the field, preferably at about 7:20 AM this Saturday morning.
Note: While I did shoot video of the hunt, I still have some issues to work out before revealing footage.
JK
A Little Bow Journal, A Little More Chicken, and a Lot More Apples
This should get better as it goes.
I bowhunted this morning amidst wind, fog and mist for a couple of hours before work. I saw nothing and I heard nothing. Two ridges over, Dad saw a coyote, a raccoon, and nothing else.
This is the first time in three hunts thus far that neither one of us saw any deer, and brings our unscientific totals to the following (give or take a squirrel):
3 Trips: 5 Does, 3 Bucks, 5 Coyotes, 3 Raccoons, 0 Turkeys, and 123 Squirrels. Oh yeah, no video either.
On Sunday, Laura, myself, and our daughter Madeline went to the Applejack Festival in Nebraska City. The crowd was down this year compared to last year (the subject of NEBRASKAland Magazine’s 2010 August/September article “Applejack Festival), making moving from each attraction a bit easier than before. We went to Union Orchard, Kimmel Orchard, Arbor Lodge State Historical Park, and Arbor Day Farm.
Apple-picking with Madeline
If you haven’t been to this festival or the SHP, you’re missing out. There are activities for kids, including apple-picking, moon walks, Arbor Day Farm’s Tree Adventure, and playing at the SHP; there are also activities for adults, including live music, wine tasting, touring Arbor Lodge and the SHP, and eating until you can barely walk. It’s an event you don’t want to miss.
And while it was very pleasurable watching my 20-month old daughter pick apples, ride a horse, and repeatedly say “Ap-ple, Ap-ple,” I do have to admit that my trip last year by myself did cost me a lot less money when my wife passed on going. I never thought about buying a wine rack when visiting the festival before. Luckily, my wife opened the door to the possibilities of another piece of furniture in our home.
Voss's dog Scapa on the move
On Saturday, I spent the day with prairie chicken hunter Steve Voss in southeastern Nebraska on what he has affectionately named “Grousmas,” the opening of prairie chicken hunting in the state. That day, I got an education on how to chicken hunt, from what to look for when hunting regarding good habitat to how to work a bird dog.
Voss points to shoot at flushing grouse
First, look for ground with ridgelines and more open cover. If you think it’s good, thick cover for pheasants, go somewhere else for chickens. Second, locate spots with feathers and scat on the ground, where chickens have been spending their evenings. Also check out this link to Nebraska’s CRP-MAP atlas, which identifies multiple spots of land in southeastern Nebraska where Voss and his friends hunted: http://outdoornebraska.ne.gov/hunting/programs/CRP/atlas.asp, and get out scouting…right after you get your special permit for the East Zone where Voss and company were hunting. Information regarding this permit can be found at http://outdoornebraska.ne.gov/hunting/guides/upland_game/grouse.asp
Bird dogging
Regarding dog work, Voss knows that if his dog gets too close to birds, the birds won’t tolerate it, flushing before Voss can get a shot. “A dog has to learn that on his own,” said Voss. “You just fuss at him for busting birds until he figures it out. Typically, dogs new to chickens will try to get too close until they learn.”
An East Zone prairie chicken tag
Bow Journal-A Very Long Day 2
The “long” day portion began at 7:30 after getting a cell phone call from my Dad relaying that he had shot and hit a deer about 15 minutes prior. It had ran off, so I told him I was going to sit up for another hour, trying to give his doe a chance to finish itself off.
Because it was Dad’s first bow shot in nearly 20 years, I could barely contain myself in the stand for the next 60 minutes. When I finally did arrive, he showed me where the deer was standing when he shot, exactly 22 steps, and by 9:00 we were looking at softball-sized puddles of blood. These continued periodically through a treeline and into the world’s largest cornfield, where after several hundred yards the softballs turned into baseballs, baseballs to golf balls, and Titleists into marbles.
By 2:00, having not seen blood for over an hour, we called off our search. And then the debating began.
We assume that he caught the deer too high or too far back. For if he had hit any vitals, wouldn’t the deer have gone down sooner? After seeing the photo below and Dad pointed out where he thought he hit the deer, we think we have our answer.
The "blue" spot is where Dad said his arrow hit his doe. That said, it was outside of the vital range (Photo courtesy of chuckhawks.com).
Also, were we pushing the deer too fast? Meaning, if the deer was shot at 7:15 and we didn’t start trailing until almost 9:00, did we give the deer enough time?
Last year, I shot a doe with my bow at 2:30 one afternoon and only gave it an hour. I knew I caught it low, but I was finding basketball-sized puddles, only to find out near dark that I had been bumping that deer the entire afternoon. It wasn’t until I saw it right before nightfall that I knew to back off of it. Luckily, it was cool that night and the next morning I found the doe in less than 10 minutes.
So the rest of today that’s what I’ll be thinking about: Did we push this deer too fast? If so, how long should we have waited before trailing? If any of you have a good answer for me, I’d love to hear it.
NEBRASKAland Magazine's Afield and Afloat 