I have to get this story over with. I never dislike writing, however, I dislike thinking about the 11-point whitetail deer I shot late last Thursday evening and never recovered, at least not yet.

At least I think it was an 11-point. The previous Sunday I’d been out sitting in a platform stand at GRIT Editor Hank Will’s house, a windy day for that platform stand, when just before the sun went down I heard footsteps coming out of the forest behind me on my right side.

Hiding my face, I turned and eyed a 6-pointer lazily grazing towards my tree. I’d just made up my mind to take him and was thinking about how to get a shot, when he lowered his head and started making a scrape in the earth to lay scent. That noise triggered another noise, slow, deliberate footsteps coming out of the timber. When a large buck caught my eye, I buried my face, tried to turn and prayed for enough daylight.

Once the larger, older, 11-point buck got to about 20 yards, he met the younger buck. They postured for about 3 seconds, and the smaller buck slowly backed off and headed to the timber, no doubt sure about whose area he was on.

If I’d have been a lefty, I’d have had a shot, but by the time the big buck made his own scrape and grazed his way behind me, now swinging to my left, there was not enough light left to see his vitals. I sat back and waited for the deer to leave before crawling out of my stand. It took about an hour, as more does and, judging by sound and the faint white of antlers I could make out, the 6-point came back near my stand. It was an awesome display of wildlife, and I was very thankful to get to observe it. Once it was clear, I stood, gathered my things and climbed down, completely psyched that this place was crawling with deer. It was a great hunt.

Which brings me to Thursday. I’d just finished “Nature’s Hidden Language” (a signs-of-wildlife article for the January/February issue of GRIT) and was headed back out to the woods at about 3:30 in the evening. Once in stand, I had one of those “Nowhere I’d rather be moments” and began glassing the land with my binoculars.

At about 4:30 (sun goes down around 6 now here in Kansas), a single fawn made its way from the timber behind me and walked right under me, emerging in the clearing out in front of where I sit (and most times stand).

Once out in the open, I saw a large doe (presumably the fawn’s mother) jump a fence and head towards it. They had probably 5 seconds alone together when the big buck – I think that same 11-point – jumped over the same fence and headed in towards the doe and fawn, trying to shoo away the fawn. After doing so he took to the trail that heads under my stand, grazing at a pace that seemed rather careless. At 10 yards and heading away, I drew back, praying that the arrow flew true and the deer would die quickly.

At about 20 yards, I steadied on the vitals, the deer was quartered away – a dream shot for a bowhunter – and released the arrow. It thumped him, halfway (up-to-down) on his body and a good three to four inches behind the shoulder, right in the bread basket (it would go forward once inside because of the angle) and, to this day, I still think a good shot.

I’ve never felt a better feeling, a great deer, good shot, now I just had to wait and go get him. After climbing down 30 minutes later and inspecting the impact site, I dialed my brother and other friends and began walking for the truck. “Let him stay the night” seemed to be the consensus, so after talking to Hank I headed home. The reason for not going after him right away was to avoid jumping him up and making him run for miles on adrenaline out of panic. I hoped he’d just go bed down and die a quick death.

At 6 the next morning on not much sleep, at daylight here, I was back out at the site, seeing no arrow but good blood. I’d seen the buck run off with the arrow still lodged, so I figured he would internally bleed until the hemorrhaging from the lung wound would end his life.

Good blood, no deer. I trailed it as far as I could, about 125 yards from impact, and lost blood. Hank has about 125 acres at his place, and I walked each and every one that I could that day, and then looked on some of the neighboring property.

My brother and one of his buddies from back home, both knowing what I was going through, brought up a hunting dog to cover the 60 acres of 6-feet-tall CRP on Hank’s land. They drove 4 hours, roundtrip, to help me recover this deer, which tells you how much they knew this deer meant to me and what awesome friends they are.

I searched Friday sunup to sundown, and never found my buck. Hank said he heard two gun shots at 3 a.m. My only explanation is that he never died or was poached.

And that’s the worst part about the sport I love so much; that’s bowhunting. But that doesn’t make it any easier. I may yet shoot a big buck this season, but I sure did love that buck. I’d seen him a total of three times, each time closer, and in the back of my mind I hope to see him again. I’m still sick over that deer. It sounds awfully romantic, but no creature on God’s green earth loved that deer as much as I did.

I hunted again Saturday morning, which helped, but I’m eager to get back in that same stand, with that same set of woods around me, sort of my way of getting back in the saddle.

On a positive note, my brother who I mentioned earlier – one of my best friends and one of the people who drove four hours for me and my deer – made me feel proud and altogether happy about bowhunting last night when he shot this tall 8-point, which green-scored 132.

Photo second from top: iStockphoto.com/Bruce MacQueen – This is not the deer I saw or shot, it's just to give you an idea.

Bottom photo: courtesy Josh Regan, taken by Adam LaRoche

This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of taking part in a group chicken processing project as part of our Community Chickens venture, and it was a fulfilling experience processing meat that I won’t soon forget, even after I cook and eat the birds I brought home.

I’ve long been a fan of providing my own meat, a process I learned about growing up on a farm where hunting and fishing were encouraged recreational hobbies. This experience was much different though, as it brought together members of GRIT, MOTHER EARTH NEWS, Ogden Publications advertising staff and spouse and offspring, and thrust us all together into the business of killing and cleaning meat birds. We had a great setup at GRIT Editor Hank Will’s Osage County Kansas farm.

Unlike my experiences with pheasant and other game birds, these were chickens just like I’d usually buy at the store – albeit more humanely raised – which I’d never fully processed before, with people whom I’d only had a professional relationship with. It was awesome.

For me, my goal at the outset was to have a hand in every phase to fully be able to process a chicken in the future, which I want to do again someday.

In the kill cones, I took part in the dispatching early on in the day. Next, it was on to the scalding tank, where I dunked a rooster for about a minute, then to the plucker, which worked beautifully. I only had to spend about five minutes at most cleaning the final feathers off the chicken. And then came the evisceration table, and it was here that I spent most of the remainder of the day.

I don’t mind cleaning guts; through hunting I’ve done it numerous times. But unlike a pheasant, we cleaned these broilers so that every bit of the meat was saved. With pheasants, I often try hardest to save the breast and wings. Now it was about cleaning out the entire inner cavity.

Just like cleaning any animal, you don’t want to puncture anything for the cleanest possible process. Most importantly though for saving the quality of the meat is to avoid the gall bladder connected to the liver. As the day went on, I felt more and more comfortable with this and developed my own technique for slowly and carefully pulling out innards (we processed around 30 chickens that day). I wasn’t the only one at the table who jumped when, my hand in the cavity, an air pocket at just the right place resulted in the headless chicken quacking like a duck.

After a little while of just fishing for innards, we started to have a small excess pile of birds that hadn’t had the head and neck parts cut, so a little observation and coaching by MOTHER EARTH NEWS’ Sr. Associate Editor Troy Griepentrog let me get the removal of the crop of the neck as well as the esophagus and windpipe down, as well as cutting off the legs and the oil gland on the rear. Then it was back to making a small cut above the vent and removing innards.

I learned so much about processing chickens, and look forward to being able to do it again one day. To some, it would seem almost barbaric to gather and slaughter meat birds in this way. To me, as always with processing animals, it’s far less barbaric when you observe reverence for the bird by processing it yourself; at least that way you are forced to observe and recognize the gravity of the life-taking moment, paying due respect to the animal itself.

Bottom photo by Suzanne Griepentrog

Any person who’s ever shot at an animal and then undergone the task and responsibility of cleaning and eating that animal takes pride in how they prepare game. If not, that person is purely selfish in their hunting pursuit. I sure take pride in game preparation, and just last night I prepared five dove that we shot this weekend (dove season opened September 1). Here at GRIT, we’re a little under the gun with the November/December magazine deadline looming (it’s a good one too – grassfed beef, DIY cold frame, raising chickens for meat, to name a few), but I had to take a moment today and share one of my game recipes, given to me by a friend and enjoyed by family.

First of all, it’s important to admit the inefficiency with which we (Uncle Fred, brother Josh, Gwen and I) shot the dove. It was flat-out embarrassing and a little expensive. We did do better than a box per bird, but not by a whole lot. Uncle Fred didn’t shoot nearly as many times as we did, and admittedly got a kick out of watching Josh and I blast away, cuss, then throw our hats to the ground from a distance.

With dove hunting, they fly so fast that you have to lead them a little more than you would a duck, goose or pheasant. Dove are quick and come upon you fast. So I have no doubt early-season mistakes played a role in our inability to drop more birds.

Also, it occurred to us that 8 shot might have been a little light. I know I winged several birds where feathers would fly and they’d start to dive only to flutter their wings enough to make it to a distant hedgerow. I couldn’t help but wonder if 7 or, more likely in my mind, 7 ½ shot would have done any better. But, you should never put yourself in a position to blame your equipment, so I’ll just admit we stunk and get on with how I prepared the breasts of this tasty bird.

A friend of my family from Texas, Luke, let us in on this beauty of a dove recipe.

Really, all you need is some jalapenos (for five breasts I used one whole, fresh pepper), Cajun seasoning, bacon and two toothpicks for every dove breast. Remember, when you are cleaning the breasts to begin preparation, try and pick out all the birdshot.

On each breast, cut a slit down the side of it. Cut right in the middle of each side too, so that you have meat-jalapeno-meat rather than meat-jalapeno-bone.

Stuff the jalapenos in the gap, and sprinkle the dove breasts with as much Cajun seasoning as you think appropriate. This may take some trial and error, but this is how I did mine and liked it.

Now, wrap each breast with a piece of bacon, and secure the bacon in place with a tooth pick stuck horizontally through each side. You can stick it any way you want it, actually, so long as the bacon and jalapenos stay in place. The bacon cooks some extra fat into an otherwise very lean meat, and it holds it all in place, obviously.

Throw it on the charcoal grill, and slow cook it until it looks something like this.

I threw some corn on the cob in foil on the grill as well, and those two, along with Gwen’s pesto pasta salad and a green salad made a meal to be proud of.

Hunting is about a lot of things, camaraderie and enjoying the outdoors and securing your own tasty food, and I got all three with this experience.

And Jean and Jenn (GRIT associate editors and a K-State Wildcat and Nebraska Cornhusker, respectively), this is just to show you what a winner looks like (look in near background).

Anyone know any heirloom or personal secrets to better prepare dove or other game? 

Live dove photo (second from top): iStockphoto.com/Steve Byland

Thursday, August 27, 2009, my family welcomed my brother Josh’s first child, Elliana Marie Regan, into the world (6 pounds, 9 ½ ounces, 21 inches long and looking every bit a Regan). What an experience it was to be able to be there at the hospital, right outside the delivery room, ear pressed against the door hearing that first wail out of that beautiful baby girl’s mouth.

The doctor emerged from the room moments later – probably a little surprised to find us so close – and said something along the lines of, “You guys have got a little cutie patootie, I’ll tell you that.” I couldn’t agree more. Although she initially seemed to look a little too much like my brother, I’m sure she’ll be alright.

I have to admit I was nervous. It sank in on Wednesday that the following day my brother and his wife would be going through childbirth, and any number of malignancies seemed a remote but very real possibility. And, not to be egocentric, but I would be an uncle for the first time. It was absolute relief when we entered the room and saw her little arms and legs flailing wildly as she tested and stretched her muscles, and to see Nikki with a wide, yet weary, smile on her face.

Ya done good, sis.

I can’t say that new life is more powerful or life-altering than death after a couple of hardships endured – losing a father in an unexpected woodcutting accident among them – but this felt like pure triumph worthy of giving thanks, and I do know that if there were ever a time when Dad was looking down smiling, that would have to be one of them. The birth of Elliana, or Ella, as she’s called, was indeed life-altering to more people than just Josh and Nikki. I know it was to me.

And our mom just beamed, which is usually life-altering in its own right.

On a side note, I did manage to sneak out Saturday during the middle of the day, while Josh and Nikki were entertaining guests in the hospital, and experience some beautiful Kansas countryside and catch a couple of small fish.

Several times while listening to Larry Gatlin & The Gatlin Brothers’ newest CD, Pilgrimage, I got chills. Six times on the album, all track titles beginning with “The Pilgrim,” Mr. Gatlin (Larry, who’s backup singers are brothers Steve and Rudy) tells stories from friendships and time periods shared with the likes of Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, Willie, Waylon and some of the musicians I look up to most.

I, too, have shared special moments with these cowboys, but it’s cool to hear about the interactions from one of the cowboys himself. Kristofferson and Kristen Kara, Larry Gatlin’s daughter, team up to sing backup on a newer version of “Sweet Becky Walker,” which was the eldest Gatlin brother’s first big hit.

The second bonus track on this disk, track 3, was in my top three for the album and might have been my favorite, “Penny Annie.” Along with “Sweet Becky Walker,” “Penny Annie” is from early in Gatlin’s career, and was written during the life and times of Johnny Cash.

From track 1 of Pilgrimage, Larry Gatlin speaks about some of Cash’s words in the liner notes of Gatlin’s first album, The Pilgrim.

“And now along comes this Pilgrim, Larry Gatlin. He’s kind of a proud banner bearer, and the banner ain’t his own. The Pilgrim has his heart for sale and soul in his songs, and the price is mighty cheap. He shared some of these songs with me, even on the day that he wrote them. I wish you could have looked down his throat with me the first time I heard him sing ‘Sweet Becky Walker’ and ‘Penny Annie.’ You would have seen soul and heard heart, and felt fine.”

After the first two songs – and like most music it’s an injustice to put a label on it, but it’s necessary to give those unfamiliar with the artist an idea – it’s a combination of country, folk and gospel, and what sticks out to me is Gatlin’s skill as a storyteller.

One particularly chilling track is “The Pilgrim: Little Tin Cup” in which Gatlin tells the story of his son’s birth, Joshua Cash Gatlin. So the story goes that Gatlin runs out of the delivery room and calls Johnny before anyone else, and Cash and June Carter were the first to show up. Johnny presented the son with a letter “he’d just written, and a little tin cup. The letter read, ‘If you’ll drink from the cup of Christ, you’ll never drink from the likes of this tin cup that I got from Folsom Prison.’”

That’s quite a story, although Gatlin’s telling of the story requires you to look past the dramatics of his voice that he uses to reenact the exchange (his boy “just discovered America”). But hey, if that’s how the exchange took place, I can’t blame him for this, it just makes the cynic wonder.

Pilgrimage reminds me of sitting around listening to the older country singers I mentioned above that my brother Josh and I both liked to listen to while sitting around in our college home, sharing beers and passing the evening with friends we’d never met.

I find this album a joy to listen to and a fresh peek back into my favorite country music time period. It’s produced, fittingly enough, by John Carter Cash.

A few weeks back, I took the advice of GRIT Editor-in-Chief K.C. Compton and went down to Osage County to pick fresh blackberries at Fieldstone Orchard near Overbrook, Kansas.

It was a Sunday afternoon, around 2 p.m., and sunny and warm out. I took my girlfriend and the dog along, and it turned out to be one of those moments in life that remind you of days gone by when you get more out of it than what you expect. Don’t get me wrong, I was excited about it, but I just didn’t expect berry picking to be so easy.

Picking blackberries is one of my mom’s favorite things to do. I can remember midsummer days spent fishing and stopping by a favorite blackberry bush to fill a plastic bag with blackberries on our way home.

And those times were always great. I loved picking and eating juicy, cool-tasting blackberries as the sun went down after a day outdoors, oftentimes wiping the juice on my already-dirty shirt. But most times those locations dealt with keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes and getting poked by a briary bush.

It was a different experience at Fieldstone, I had gloves on and didn’t wipe my hands on my shirt, and the briars weren’t as bad as I remembered them being. One thing remained the same though; opting to pick our own – it’s $2.75 per pound to pick your own or $3.50 to buy already picked berries – I couldn’t help myself and numerous times plucked a dark berry from up underneath the plant and shoved it into my mouth, and tasting the deliciousness made it even harder to stop at just one.

I did feel a little bad, but probably made up for eating a few off the plant by picking nearly 5 pounds of berries. We ate them on the way home and all afternoon, then Gwen washed them, let them dry completely and froze them. We still have a bag in the freezer, just waiting for that day when we crave to eat berries out on the porch – or if they make it to winter, bake a tasty blackberry cobbler.

I’ll soon miss these midsummer days.

The boys over at Buck Commander just released their second DVD, Buck Commander 2; Ballistic, and I can’t be more excited to see it. Judging by their first DVD and the trailer for the second, this hunting video separates itself from others by incorporating one of my favorite parts of the Buck Commander philosophy: “It is not the size of the horn, score or location that makes a hunt successful; it is the experience and enthusiasm for the hunt.”

During this part of the year, summer to early fall, deer hunters everywhere are antsy for the upcoming season. In the meantime – throughout the year, really – I watch Outdoor TV and ESPN Outdoors for many reasons: entertainment, education and simply because that’s what I love to do. It’s like a college ballplayer (maybe, in my case, a little leaguer) watching the pros. It drives my friends who don’t hunt crazy, but that’s just the way it is – I’ve sat through soccer games before, after all.

But in a lot of hunting shows, they move from hunt to hunt so fast it all seems kind of the same after a while. It’s almost a race to get the animal down, get a camera up there and hold the antlers up. This style of film and TV totally misses out on the best parts – the anticipation and enthusiasm before the hunt, the story behind the hunt, interaction and behavior of predator and prey, the result, and good times had by all throughout the experience. The entire thing, not just the harvest, is why I love to hunt. From all I’ve seen – and I’d encourage you to check out the Buck Commander 2: Ballistic trailer – Ballistic captures the whole package, just like their philosophy, and makes you laugh and reminds you of being with your buddies right after a hunt on a November morning around 11 o’clock.

What other hunting video have you seen – ever – that has one group of hunters hitting golf balls at another group sitting in the stand!? And the other part is there, too: big, old, experienced deer being hunted by experienced hunters. Even if you don’t hunt, watching the trailer should at least have you cracking a smile and understanding a little more about why hunters love their sport.

Other people are taking notice of Buck Commander as well, as ESPN has slotted a 13-episode miniseries of original video on ESPN2 starting July 5 and running every Sunday morning at 8:30 Eastern.

What about you? What are your favorite outdoor shows and videos to watch?