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

I like snakes. Lucky for me, plenty of different species call my Osage county Kansas farm home, including the dreaded Copperhead and at least one member of the rattlesnake family – I’m quite certain it’s the Massasauga. I’ve had several encounters with the rattlers, all of them quite amicable; all in the spring. There’s nothing like the buzz of a rattlesnake on alert to make you realize that there’s still some wild left in this land.

Although I haven’t seen a Copperhead yet, the vet was pretty sure that a small one bit Lucy, one of my dogs, on the lip a couple of years ago. That little West Highland White Terrier was a little under the weather after the encounter, all it took to get her through the night was a bit of benadryl and some bed rest. Her recovery was nothing short of amazing to me – and a huge relief, of course.

The farm is also home to several varieties of Ribbon and Garter snakes, Black Snakes (some version of the Rat Snake) that occasionally raid the bluebird boxes, assorted other Rat Snakes, King Snakes, and the like.

Until recently, my snake encounters have been quite random and outdoors. But just a few weeks ago, as the weather turned to a decidedly fall-like crisp, I was drawn out of the book I was reading in the living room by an odd thumping sound coming from the kitchen. When I finally decided to investigate, I discovered that my cat Callie had squared off with what appeared to be a young King Snake (Prairie King Snake is my best guess). The snake was coiling and looking quite ferocious for its diminutive stature while Callie repeatedly wound up and smacked it with her right front paw.

Snake lover that I am, I shooed Callie off. Self preservationist that I am, I thought to grab a pair of kitchen tongs rather than getting up close and personal with a snake whose identity I wasn’t at all certain of. All I can say is that little snake was a ferocious one and after I teased it a bit – and snapped a couple of portraits with my phone – I took it outside and released it out of sight of my Border Collies, Gus and Clover.

I won’t go so far as to say I love having snakes in the kitchen. But hey, what do you expect when you live in a 102 year old farmhouse built on a stacked limestone foundation? If it’s the right kind of snake that infiltrates the crawlspace, Callie will have some help with mouse control this winter and she might need it considering her two confirmed kills this past week. Then again, I’m not so sure the snakes will be on patrol during the cold months – even if they are indoors. Either way, I look forward to the snakes I might encounter in the grass next year.

My youngest daughter, Alaina, came to the farm to visit last weekend. She was between terms in her physical therapy doctoral program at George Washington University in Washington, DC. She wished to reconnect with her old man by going fishing, like we used to do when she was young. I was taken aback and touched when she requested an angling excursion. The memories of wetting lines with Alaina (and Erin) in Black Hills streams and lakes, and the prairie rivers and potholes in South Dakota are powerful indeed.

Since I hadn’t yet gone fishing here in Kansas, I was quite sure that the day would be a bust. I didn’t have time to scope out any likely spots – but a couple of fishing lakes and 110-Mile Creek are all within minutes of the farm. We stopped at the sporting-goods store for some fresh fishing supplies and licenses on the way home from the airport and headed to the local bait shop for some crawlers the next day (after a work clothing photo shoot and mowing the lawn). As luck would have it we ran into a buddy there and he told us to check out a spot on 110-Mile Creek that was just a few minutes from the farm.

We packed the old Binder with supplies and headed down the road. It was warm and relatively wind free – we both felt optimistic. Turning left off the main gravel road, we found ourselves with the truck’s front hubs locked, pushing through a muddy bottomland trail in 4-wheel-drive and low range. I am pleased to report that the 1964 International truck never gave a moment of doubt as it delivered us to the old bridge. I rigged poles and baited hooks just like I did 15 years ago. Alaina dropped her bobber-adorned line into the creek and within short order she had her first Largemouth Bass. I was thrilled, she was thrilled. In a moment of reverie I saw a much younger us sitting on the banks of French Creek or Legion Lake or the 81 Ponds – all in South Dakota. But this time we were catching bass and crappie and bluegill instead of trout, pike and perch.

By the time the night crawlers ran out, Alaina and I were ready to head home. It was the first time I can remember that she didn’t fall asleep on my shoulder on the drive. Of course, since we were only 3 minutes from the farm, there was little chance for that. When we were younger, we fished to stock the freezer. Last weekend, we released every fish we caught. I think we were both a little relieved that we could just visit and make homemade pizza for supper instead of cleaning a mess of pike. We talked about the big bass that got away long after our evening campfire had died to glowing embers. We marveled at how it would have tasted slow roasted over that bed of Osage Orange coals.

It was a normal Friday afternoon at our house. My husband, Jim, had gotten home from work around 4:00. We usually have a Friday ritual of going to the bank and the grocery store to pick up any items we might need, and sometimes go out to eat. Hubby was on the phone, so I decided to go collect the eggs awhile. That way, when he was off the phone, we could leave. I grabbed the egg basket and away I went.

We have to check for eggs late in the afternoon because about half of our hens are late layers. I stepped into the chicken house and was gathering eggs when I realized I was hearing a noise. It sounded kinda like a high pitched squeal or whistle. My first thought was, “Oh, there is a nest of baby birds close by.” I dismissed it as that, and started back about my business. In a couple minutes, the noise got louder and more demanding. I listened again, giving it more of my attention now and I realized this was not baby birds but something else. I looked out the door that the chickens use to go in and out of the chicken house, and I saw all of our ducks and chickens with their faces pointing the same direction, intently staring directly on the other side of the fence. I knew that whatever was making the noise also had the attention of our poultry. I finished gathering the eggs and walked around the back of the fence. There, on the ground, squealing their little heads off were three baby squirrels that had obviously fallen from the nest. It was very windy, cool, and raining. I’m not sure if the wind blew them out of the nest or if they crawled out and fell, but it really didn’t matter. As soon as I saw them, I scooped the poor little darlings up and brought them in the house to show my husband and to warm them up. They were still pretty small. They did have some hair on them, but not completely covered, and their eyes and ears were stilled closed.

We are not strangers to taking care of baby squirrels. About three years ago, my husband found a single baby squirrel that had fallen out of the nest not far from the same place these three did. We decided then we were going to try to save that one too. We got online and looked up info on how to determine the age of the baby squirrel, and how and what to feed them. The info was not difficult to find. We were to use a syringe, remove the needle of course, and fill that with the formula to feed the baby squirrel. We needed to get puppy milk replacer, available at our local pet store. That squirrel we named Spunky. It was very easy to teach him to drink from the syringe, and he did very well. We fed him the recommended amounts, and after a few weeks, we started to wean him on to solid food. He ate things like seeds and dried fruits and nuts.

I have to say here that I do NOT recommend keeping wild animals as pets. It was and is our intention to raise these babies up, re-introduce them to the wild, and set them free. When Spunky was big enough, we started taking him outside every day.

My husband built a squirrel box for him and attached it to one of our trees. He took to the box, and eventually he started staying out all the time. He would still come to us for peanuts, but he was doing fine on his own. Spunky was a success. He still comes to our bird feeders, three years later.

Now back to our new babies. As I said, we were familiar with what we needed to do, but these babies were a bit smaller than Spunky was, and there are three of them instead of one. We went to the pet store and got the milk replacer. Once again, it was very easy to teach the babies to drink from the syringe. So far, these babies are doing fine. If they continue to progress the way they have been, I have high hopes that they will be just as successful as Spunky was.

It is, however, more of a challenge trying to deal with three baby squirrels as opposed to one. They are adorable and getting more rambunctious every day! On advice from my niece, Jordan, we have named the squirrels Alvin, Simon, and Theodore! Those names fit them very well! Now if we can just convince our cat Belle, who is not happy with the situation, that these babies are just temporary residents…. No worries, the squirrels are completely safe from Her Highness!

I can still remember the first Earth Day – I was in freshman biology learning about ecology at that time. I bet I have the original Earth Day button that my teacher Mr. Z. handed out, now squirreled away in some keepsake box in the barn somewhere. Mr. Z., and my own extensive experience in the natural world, made it easy for me to believe that the gift of nature is one that’s worth taking care of – no matter how that care cuts into industrial bottom lines. I am mildly shocked to note that this year’s earth day is the 39^th such annual event. I am, however, pleased to learn that National Wildlife Refuges around the country are planning special events in mid-April to mark the celebration.

Earth Day will be celebrated at many of the country’s more than 550 national wildlife refuges, which are dedicated to the protection of our natural habitat and the many creatures that depend on it for survival. The National Wildlife Refuge System, managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, is the world’s premier system of public lands and waters set aside to conserve America’s fish, wildlife and plant populations. Look for a Wildlife Refuge near you – there is at least one located within an hour of most major cities.

Here is a sampling of Earth Day events on National Wildlife Refuges. For more information on events in your area, visit www.fws.gov/refuges and click on visitors.

Saturday, April 11
Earth Day Litter Pickup
Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge

Cambridge, Maryland

9 a.m. – 3 p.m.

Join in the refuge’s annual litter pick-up of the roads around the refuge, and enjoy drinks and snacks, compliments of the nonprofit Friends of Blackwater. Individuals, families and groups are welcome. Meet at the Blackwater Visitor Center.

Contact: Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge Visitor Center at 410-228-2677

For more information about the refuge: http://www.fws.gov/blackwater

 

Saturday, April 18
Earth Day Cleanup and Hike
Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge

Oceanville, New Jersey

8:30 a.m. to 11 a.m.

Join refuge staff and the Township of Galloway for a cleanup along the refuge’s Wildlife Drive. Then go for a short nature walk led by naturalists. Activities are free, but you must pre-register: 609-748-1535. A light lunch will be served. Rain date: Sunday, April 19.

Location: 800 Great Creek Road, Oceanville, N.J.

Contact: Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge at 609-748-1535

For more information about the refuge: http://www.fws.gov/northeast/forsythe 

 

Saturday, April 18
Earth Day Litter Pickup and Bicycle Tour
Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge

Folkston, Georgia - East Entrance

8 a.m. – noon

Join in a cleanup of the refuge and adjacent Highway 121. Then take off on a bicycle tour of Swamp Island Drive. Enjoy staffed exhibits and demonstrations along the way about wildlife, plants, wildland fire, fishing, nature photography, swamp culture, hiking, bicycling, recycling and more. Discover some of the amazing plants and animals found in the refuge. Create nature crafts, see live animals and get a free bicycle safety check. Find out what local organizations do in your community. Learn about what you can do to help protect the earth.

Contact: Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge Visitor Center at 912-496-7836.

 For more information about the refuge: http://www.fws.gov/okefenokee

 

Saturday, April 25
Earth Day Volunteer Day
Muscatatuck National Wildlife Refuge

Seymour, Indiana

9 a.m. - 4 p.m.

Join in a cleanup of the refuge. Then move on to other hands-on projects for all ages. Among these: improving hiking trails and removing invasive garlic mustard.

Contact: Donna Stanley at 812-522-4352 or via email Muscatatuck@fws.gov

For more information about the refuge: http://www.fws.gov/midwest/muscatatuck

 

Saturday, April 25
Earth Day Boating Tours, Butterfly Viewing and Fishing Lessons
Trinity River National Wildlife Refuge

Dayton, Texas

11 a.m. - 2 p.m.

Enjoy an afternoon of free outdoor activities, hosted by the refuge and the nonprofit Friends of Trinity River Refuge, at the Champion Lake Public Use Area. Activities will include canoeing, kayaking and boating tours; bird and butterfly viewing; walking the levee trail; and dip netting and fishing lessons in the lake for the kids. You may want to bring a lawn chair, as seating is limited.

Location: Champion Lake is located at the end of CR 417, two miles east of FM 1409 in southern Liberty County. This is approximately 10 miles south of Dayton, Texas, from Hwy 90 or about six miles north of I-10 at the Cove exit (FM 565).

Contact: Trinity River National Wildlife Refuge at 936-336-9786

For more information about the refuge: http://www.fws.gov/southwest/refuges/texas/trinityriver

 

Back in college, my brother’s friend loaned us a documentary that we became enthralled with for a couple of weeks. We couldn’t get enough of Okie Noodling, a Bradley Beesley documentary about the peculiar practice – also called grabblin’ – of catching catfish with your bare hands, and also the culture that surrounds the method.

The method, for those who don’t know, is basically for the fisherman to stick his hand in a hole – be it a crevice between rocks on the bottom or a small cavern along the bank of a pond, lake or river. Catfish like to hole up here, and when you put your hand in, the catfish will latch on. Then it’s a fight to the surface.

I strongly recommend that movie to anyone curious about the sport or about how admitted rednecks behave. And it’s more about how hilarious rednecks can be in a good, innocent way rather than in any morally wrong way. (The plumber is my favorite of the noodlers. You’ll know him when you see him.)

Shot in Beesley’s home state of Oklahoma, the noodlers in his video not only embrace their rural reputation, they flaunt it.

Looking around YouTube now, you can find noodling videos of both men and women. A buddy sent me a link to “Girls gone grabblin” earlier, and that led me to do a video search for noodling. This sport is more popular than I ever imagined, but I just can’t believe women are partaking.

Inspired by Native Americans, this method of catfish fishing is extreme. Catfish are a big, powerful fish, and people have drowned by being held down while noodling.

I would still do it, though. I want to someday. Catching a big catfish with your bare hands has to be quite a rush. My question, though, is how does one come upon new holes for grabblin’? Trial and error wouldn’t work, just to go down a bank feeling along. At least it wouldn’t work for me. I don’t need to catch catfish with my hands bad enough to risk losing fingers or a hand because of a snapping turtle, or getting bit by a copperhead.

But if someone else had some holes that they knew of, or maybe if the water was clear enough to snorkel and see clearly, I’d give it a try.

The only problem, before you run out and jump into your ponds and lakes looking for crevices and holes, is that the only state I’m aware of which it is legal in is Oklahoma.

First of all, has anyone out there ever done this or have friends who have, and second of all, how did you find your spots?

Although our city has been so cruel as to outlaw keeping chickens in your backyard (it’s breaking Brent’s heart!), we do have some livestock working for us. In January, Brent ordered a pound of Vermont Wiggler worms from a worm-farmer (www.greenmountainsoil.com) in Vermont to begin vermi-composting. It was my job to wait for the mail carrier to come, so our worms wouldn’t freeze on the front stoop. This made for a tense few days when I was waiting for 1,000 worms to come via the U.S. Postal Service. Of course, the day they did come, I was putting the girls down for a nap and missed our mail carrier. When I looked out the window, I saw him still in his truck on the corner.  I threw a blanket over the baby and went running down the street in my slippers. He opened up the back of his truck and freed the worms. 

Our poor animal-lover child, who has had to endure a childhood populated by two untouchable and frankly downright crazy cats, was particularly excited about the worms coming.  A few days before they arrived she began asking, "Worms coming to our house, Daddy?" "Yes, Ella." "I play peek-a-boo and aprise them." She continued later, "Worms coming to our house, Daddy? I bark at them. Daddy?...I can't wait for the worms to come to our home." 

At this point we were beginning to wonder if Ella knew what worms actually are, so we asked her.

L: Ella, do you know what worms are?
E: Yes, they're animals.
L: Do you know what they look like?
E. They're animals. They make noises. They quack. 

We began to worry that she might be in for a bit of a surprise. The worms were sadly quack-free, but Ella still thought they were cute. We set the worms up in their own bin in our kitchen. Brent drilled air holes in a plastic tub and filled it with damp, shredded newspaper and dubbed it the Vermivilla. The idea behind a vermi-composting bin is that you bury your food scraps in their bedding material.  Over a few months, or so we’re told, they turn all of this into the most vitamin-rich organic fertilizer around.  This “fertilizer” is really something called worm castings which is, you guessed it, worm poop.  However, as long as you’re not overfeeding your worms, the box only ever smells like rich, moist soil, but warning, do not feed your worms a large amount of semi-rotten cabbage before going away for the weekend.  If they don’t finish it by the time you get home, your house will smell very much like, well, very rotten cabbage.  And let me tell you, that’s not pleasant. 

It’s a little-known fact that besides vegetable scraps, worms also like a bit of entertainment. The day after our worms arrived, I found Ella sitting beside the Vermivilla reading the worms Green Eggs and Ham. Which frankly sounds a bit like the kind of book a worm would enjoy. 

Now they’re happily living in our kitchen eating our vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, and egg shells, which Brent grinds up in the food processor. We’re hoping for some lovely compost by spring. In the meantime, Ella has taken to introducing them to our guests, “These are my worms,” she says. “They eat my junk.”

Spring, and thus swarm season for the honeybee, are here, “already”. It seems no matter how much planning we do before it gets here, we aren’t ready for it. Everything needs to be done at the same time. With the blooming of the trees and the buzzing of the bees, our laid back winter lifestyle just changed into sunup to sundown activity. Here at Windy Ridge Apiary the bees have had to take a back seat to the other springtime chores. Not that I want them to. I wish my bees were here working those first flowers and the early blooming trees. In the mean time we will get the garden planted, the clover seed spread and the pasture rolled. Since the area I want in clover is covered with grass and weed stems, I am going to try rolling the clover seed in with a water-filled roller. Hopefully this will get it in close enough contact with the dirt to germinate. If it does, pictures will be posted. 

It’s swarm season for the honeybee. Swarms have already issued from southern hives and they are getting ready around here. A swarm is the way a colony of honeybees reproduces itself. It is their instinct to build up in late winter and when pollen is available and the temp is right, a swarm will leave when the newly hatched queen is ready to go. Swarms are good and bad. They can leave a colony weak and not able to make a honey crop. The good is if you can retrieve the swarm you can increase your apiary. Usually the bees don’t land where you can retrieve them without the risk of breaking your neck trying to get the swarm from a tree just a bit higher than your ladder. Our southern friends now have to worry about the swarm being an African swarm. We have heard about the "killer bees" for years. They have spread across the South, and the beekeepers are learning how to deal with them. If you live in the South, be careful about approaching a swarm of bees. If they seem the least bit aggressive, avoid them completely. Swarms are usually gentle. The bees have engorged themselves with honey before leaving the hive, so they have food when they arrive at the new location. The swarms you see are probably from a managed hive since the mites have just about destroyed all the feral colonies. I am putting out a nuc box with a swarm attractant to try to attract any swarms that might be in the area. 

If you have bees, swarms seem to be attracted to your area by the smell of your bees. The hive has a distinct order, which I look forward to smelling again. This is why to me it makes no sense putting chemicals in the hive. So much communication among the bees is done with pheromes the bees release. If you introduce chemical odors the bees lose their ability to communicate effectively, which may be part of the cause of CCD.  If I attract a swarm, I will go through the procedure of hiving the new bees. 

Swarming is natural for the bees, but beekeepers don’t want our bees to swarm since our goal is to have strong, well populated colonies for the honey flow. This is where management on the part of the beekeeper can lessen the chances of a colony swarming. Although once a colony has decided to swarm, it is almost impossible to stop them. Some ways of preempting this is to check the hives as early in the year as the weather permits. A warm day (50 to 60 degrees) with no wind will allow a quick internal inspection. Just be careful not to chill the brood, as this is the time of brood rearing for the spring flow. If a colony has abundant bees at this time, mark them for nucleus division or taking a frame or two of brood and young bees to give to a weak colony. Always check food stores in the early spring also. This is the time the bees will starve. They are raising brood which takes honey and also building their population before the nectar is available. If they are short on stores you can either take honey from a colony with ample stores or feed sugar syrup. Don’t have the mind set that if you have to feed, something is wrong. We supplement feed all of our other farm animals. I went to part of a beekeepers meeting last month. The man talking about checking your bees in the spring made it sound like if the bees need anything now, you’re just wasting your time. I couldn’t follow his logic. That being said, I would suggest a lot of reading from many different sources if you are going to have bees, so you can discern what makes the most sense in managing honeybee colonies. I’ll promote Bee Culture magazine again, it’s the best source of bee-related information I have found. 

I have been assembling the rest of the bee equipment. The frames with the wax foundation is about the last thing to do. The wax foundation is more fragile than I remember. I am going to have to evaluate the value of assembling wooden frames and wax foundation against plastic frames with wax coating. I have bought three such frames and I guess we’ll let the bees decided if they like them. I have read that some bees don’t draw out the plastic foundation very well. Along those lines I will share with you my plans and thoughts about the equipment I am going to use in my next blog. I’ll try to catch some bees at work, too.

Until last Saturday, my experiences ice fishing included plenty of frostbite, cold feet and hands, and little more than several layers of Carhartts and a nylon-fabric tent for protection. Late last year one of my buddies from up north won a weekend with Distinct Builders Inc.’s Grand Lodge Fish House. Well, he didn’t actually win the weekend, he won the silent auction for the weekend. And we got to take advantage of his hospitality in the frozen north last Saturday. All I can say is wow, there’s nothing like coming in out of the cold to experience the amenities of home … complete with indoor ice holes. I will let the photos speak for the Grand Lodge Fish House, because I am still somewhat at a loss for words about the entire luxury experience.

The Lodge line of fish houses are built in Brookings South Dakota, and they take the ice fishing experience to a whole new level.

   

If you have ever wanted to do some ice fishing, but were afraid of freezing something important, you should give it a try with a Lodge Fish House hooked to the back of your truck.

Morel mushrooms, and the hunting of this genus, are two of my mother’s favorite things. It even makes spring that much better. From an early age, I remember heading out on horseback – or my mom heading out on horseback alone – and returning with IGA grocery bags full of the sponge-like, porous plant that was, and still is, a delicacy in our home.

There was nothing better than a mess of morels, floured and fried, to go along with a fresh mess of spring, cold-water fish.

Later on, after we’d left the farm, I lived with my mom for the summer before leaving for college, and it was during that summer that she showed me her secret to hunting morel mushrooms – dead elm trees. It had never been brought up when I was a boy, since we had our spots on the farm and they seldom disappointed.

Her tactics during that summer still bring a smile to my face. Driving around, parking and walking to dead elms spotted from a distance, she’d mention the “Spirit World” as we approached. The Spirit World was her equivalent of being in a very attentive zone, scouring the forest floor. It was in this zone that we’d be as we thoroughly searched the timber floor. Once you found that first morel, more were sure to be in the vicinity.

The sunlight hitting the mushrooms makes them almost translucent. Also, the time of year – the foliage is usually a shade of brown before spring brings everything to bloom – makes them difficult to spot.

After we’d walk and come upon one, and then many, the joy and fury of the search only intensified.

Nowadays, hunting is more difficult than I remember it being back when I was a youngster on the farm, and Mom would agree. The popularity is such where I’m from that if people have mushrooms on their property, they don’t let you take them; they want them. So, although it may not be the most ethical practice, blurring of property lines inevitably enters the mix. That meant, during that summer, longer walks with my mom.

What about you? While there are all sorts of wild theories about hunting morels, where do you look?

Photo: iStockphoto.com/Jello5700

When it comes to fishing through the ice, my buddies and I like to maximize our potential to catch fish by setting the maximum number of lines we legally can. In many of my winter fishing spots, that means four lines apiece. We usually reserve one ice hole apiece in the shack for jigging or bobber fishing … we set our other three holes with HT Enterprise’s Polar Tip-Ups. The HT Polar Tip-Ups are economical, almost foolproof and heck on fish. Setting them can be heck on your hands at minus 12 degrees in a 20 mile-per-hour wind too, but hey … ice fishing is all about braving the elements, right?

One of my friends used to be a professional fishing guide in the northern plains and he is a master at setting the HT Polar Tip-Up for maximum effectiveness in varying conditions. His approach is to drill the ice hole in a shallow snow drift after scraping a trough in the drift that’s parallel to the wind. After cleaning the slush out of the hole (often with his bare hands) he clips a several-ounce weight to the hook (attached to the line that’s spooled on the Polar Tip-Up) and runs the line through the hole to the bottom of the lake or river. He pulls the line up about 3 inches and marks it with a small split-shot right where the line and spool meet (this makes it unlikely that you need to check the depth again for that hole). He next pulls up the weight and hook, removes the weight and baits the hook with a live minnow or chub … depending on whether he is after Walleye or Northern pike. With the hook back in the water, the Polar Tip-Up is placed in the trough and the spring-loaded flag is tucked under the trigger.

After setting the Polar Tip-Ups, all you need to do is head to the shack to warm up and dangle a line or watch a bobber in comfort. Look out the window now and then to see if you have a flag up … when the fish takes the bait, it releases the trigger and the spring-loaded flag pops up. It’s all very exciting. Etiquette requires one to call out “flag up” whenever a flag is, well, up. Mild pandemonium ensues as heavily insulated less-than-coordinated guys scramble onto the ice for that adrenaline-building 100-yard (or more) dash to the ice hole.

Once the hole is reached, etiquette requires one to call out “still turning” if the fish is still taking line from the spool. Once the complete entourage has trundled out to the hole, the hole’s owner may carefully pull the Polar Tip-Up from the ice, gently caress the line and slowly take up the slack. Once significant resistance is met, a tighter grip is required and a small tug should set the hook. If it is a big pike, the line will go racing out again. If it is smaller there will be just a bit of tugging. Either causes another adrenaline release. With any luck, the fish is eventually maneuvered head-first into the bottom of the hole and in a final effort will come shooting up through the hole and onto the ice. That’s when the speculation on size and weight begins … and when the entourage begins to move back to the comfort of the shack. It’s also the place where fish stories are born.

I know I promised it today, but I will report on the luxury ice-fishing shack tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Welp, we failed to hear from Hank or any of his cohorts on the ice fishing trip today, and I’m willing to bet it was because one of three things, either: he’s in such a remote location he couldn’t get wireless service to e-mail a blog; he ran into such good luck he couldn’t spare the time it takes to put down the rod, reel and beverage; or (God forbid, and this sounds like something that would happen to our Gritty) he fell through.

The good news is if he’d fallen through, all of us here at the office would probably know it by now. Watch this space Monday for Hank’s full ice fishing report.

Best Regards,
Caleb

Back in late December, while visiting Gwen’s family southwest of St. Louis, we spent part of a Sunday afternoon driving through a wildlife park, St. Louis County Lone Elk Park. Boasting bison, elk, whitetail deer, turkey and waterfowl, this free outing is a hidden beauty in the hilly, colorful eastern Missouri landscape; especially appealing to people who enjoy wildlife and nature. It is definitely a picturesque park with life, however, exactly how “wild” is debatable.

Initially, the first thing I noticed driving into the park was that the gate was wide open as we drove in and didn’t shut behind us. Sort of expecting a Jurassic Park-type enclosure, how, then, did they keep all the wildlife in this place? The answer, I think, is that by feeding these animals and after they’ve been fenced in for so long, it must just be easier to remain, accept the food, forage on the land, and stay within the 546-acre fenced enclosure. They know where the fences and gates are.

Still, I really expected the animals to know exactly when the gate was open, and it’s still kind of peculiar to me. Either they want to be there, or they’ve been conditioned somehow to remain confined and the gate can be left open for most of the day, without the animals knowing the opportunity this presents. Or they know it’s no opportunity at all. We never did see any kind of park ranger, which you’d think they need to ensure animal safety and keep track of herds.

But I digress, this park really is a cool place, and – being free – makes for a quality, different way to spend the day.

The only thing that I didn’t get to see was the bird sanctuary – Gwen wouldn’t go down to that area because she said the birds are caged and tied down, and it’s sad and even inhumane. That made me want to go down there even more, if nothing more than to see what sort of system they had in place that would make a girl who dove hunts think something inhumane. Not that I think dove hunting is inhumane in the least – especially once you marinate them, stuff them with a jalepeño pepper and wrap them in bacon – it’s just that the tolerance of such a girl would seem to be higher. What I really thought was, Those cages must be tiny. And, on second thought, who wants to see such a thing?

Once past the turn off for the bird sanctuary, we entered an area that serves as kind of the bottoms of the park. There’s a rather small lake (I’d guess around 50 acres), and the road runs around the lake and through forest and grassland. As soon as we reached the lake, we were surrounded by a herd of elk, and I was in awe. The only time I’d seen elk before was while hunting them in Colorado, so the tameness these exhibited really caught me off guard. Looking to the left, I was observing a bull with four or five cows, when a reflection off the windshield caught my eye and I turned to my right to see another cow staring at me about 2 feet from the passenger-side window. The best elk we saw, by my standards, was a pretty mature-looking 4-by-4 (8-pointer). For whatever reason, all of these elk didn’t seem to have the sleek coat that you’d expect to see on a wild, roaming animal in the heart of winter. I’ve never heard of confinement causing mange, if mange is even what this was (true mange is caused by a parasitic mite, so it’s hard to say).

Moving on around the lake and entering the bison area (with a sign posted on another open gate indicating you shouldn’t exit the vehicle), you begin to ascend up an incline to what presents the highest, best view of the entire park. About a quarter of the way up, we saw four or five cars pulled off the road and knew what that meant.

Seeing a group of about 10 bison at various stages of maturity, and this being all we saw, I couldn’t help but think what it must have been like to see a sea of these front-heavy, robust animals with humongous heads stretching to the horizon, or, better yet, shaking the earth during a stampede.

Once to the highest point in the park, it’s pretty cool to roll the window down and stare off into the hilly timber, never quite sure what you’re going to see next.

For anybody in the area, or for those who find themselves passing through St. Louis, this would be an ideal place to stop in and picnic. I know there are two picnic areas, and there may be a third, complete with picnic tables and barbecue grills. The only two rules that come to mind are no pets – even if kept in the car – and don’t exit the vehicle in the places that are marked. What other place can you picnic in a setting like this? Yellowstone sure, but I know of none others around the Midwest.

Monday, the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks released its annual Kansas fishing forecast, a tool I anxiously await each year that tells anglers the best locations for the fish they are looking for.

This is one of the coolest, most useful tools in evaluating where to go fishing in Kansas during spring. The report incorporates the KDWP’s Density Rating, Preferred Rating, Lunker Rating, Biggest Fish (found during sampling), the Biologist’s Rating (which introduces a human element – the biologist’s personal opinion given the data), and the Three-Year Average; all things that help the angler who wants to find bigger, more numerous fish.

This report is done through actual sampling, too, which I find to be cool. Lakes, ponds and reservoirs are monitored by biologists – through test netting and electroshocking – and the data is compiled. Since it’s impractical to survey each lake every year (especially smaller reservoirs), the 3-year average is included.

This is different from a fishing report. It’s more of an indication of what is to come during spring and summer, since it is actual data about what is in the lake, numbers-wise, whereas your typical fishing report, found here, often relies on word-of-mouth and gives more indication of what is happening at a particular moment – or more often, what was happening a week ago.

Perusing the 2009 Kansas Fishing Forecast today, all indications say if walleye are your thing and you want to take a fishing trip this year, you’re best served heading to Lake Scott. Compared to other lakes and reservoirs in Kansas for walleye fishing, it is far superior. Webster Lake may have a higher density, according to this forecast, but Lake Scott has a much higher density of fish 20 inches and above (called the Preferred Rating).

If crappie are your thing, travel to Moline New City Lake, Lake Wabaunsee (near Eskridge, Kansas), or Sedan City Lake for the best chances for success.

Crappie numbers are pretty good at Lake Scott as well, so that would be my pick as far as a summer vacation destination to plate the tastiest fish Kansas has to offer. Other states have similar reports, and this is one way to plan an inexpensive trip and ensure high chances for success.

Has anyone seen similar reports for other states? What are they saying?

Photo: iStockphoto.com/Judy Foldetta

What do you get the person who has everything this year for Christmas?

According to Purdue University, my youngest daughter Alaina’s alma mater, the gift of immortality tops the list this year. Huh? Wait a minute … immortality? There has to be a catch, right?

It turns out that Purdue University is auctioning the naming rights to several new animal species discovered by researcher John Bickham, a Purdue professor of forestry and natural resources who specializes in genetic studies of fish and wildlife, including biodiversity and biosystematics. If you are on the receiving end of one of these gifts, your name will be Latinized and immortalized. Mere mortals though we are, we will eventually turn to dust … or pickled jelly … as planned. Only your name will be immortalized … and only in the international scientific community at that.

First up for naming is a rare relative of the little yellow bat that’s currently known as Rhogeessa tumida. Bid early … bid often.

"This provides a terrific opportunity to recognize someone who loves science and wants to be more involved in the discovery of a species in the vast world around us," says Bickham, who is donating the species naming rights to Purdue. "They would be able to join me and a Purdue team on a future scientific research expedition. Plus, the species name is forever, so you'd be immortalized in the international scientific community."

All joking aside, this novel approach to fundraising offers an excellent opportunity to make a difference. Proceeds from the naming project will be used to fund environmental research at Purdue and in the country of the new species' origin. In addition, the funds will be used to host symposia and to sponsor undergraduate and graduate student research programs. Check out Purdue’s naming initiative website for more information.

Why, I bet you could drive your loved one positively batty by naming this little winged wonder after her or him. I can just imagine the look on Kate’s face if I were to show her a photo of her new namesake. Now if it was a new David Austin Rose variety, her response would be completely different. I think I’ll stick with something conventional this year … perhaps another 100 trees I can plant in the spring.

Photos courtesy Purdue University.

Good things come to those who wait.

At least that’s been my experience in most of my hunting and fishing pursuits, and I’m banking on that same notion proving true this deer season.

Since opening day, I’ve been out in the woods a total of about 25 hours sitting in the woods. That doesn’t include work put in ahead of season in preparation for the season: scouting, hanging stands, making sure my bow was zeroed in and, honestly, just driving around with binoculars dreaming.

So far, it’s been an abnormally warm early bow season, and hopefully the warm weather won’t last much longer. Either way, people all over are taking huge deer, and each email that I get from my brother and friends just makes me that much more anxious for the weekends.

What I do feel good about is I’ve seen the buck I’m hunting. About three weeks back, walking into the woods, I saw both a scrape on the edge of a soybean field I’m hunting on, about 70 yards from my stand, and a bedding area just in the woods about 20 yards from the scrape – very encouraging. Weekend before last, I saw an old-looking, 8-point typical come out and check the scrape before going out on the beans.

With a rifle this deer is hanging on my wall right now. But, that’s why bow hunting is so much better. Before I have a shot at this buck, I’ll know if he has any stubs on his rack and I’ll know exactly how many years old he is. And hopefully he won’t know what I smell like.

Maybe the allure of the sport can best be described by a story involving three brothers unrelated to myself.

Three or four weeks ago, my brother emailed me this story. Here’s the picture of that buck.

The story of the brothers – from Marquette, Kansas – began in 2005, when they spotted him as a 2-year-old buck measuring around 120 inches. Since that time he grew to a 160-inch buck last year and this year he’s expected to be about a 185, after grossing at 200 7/8 before the mandatory 60-day antler drying period required by the bow hunting record club, Pope & Young.

Each year they scouted him with trail cams, never being able to get a good look at the monster since he was wise enough to avoid many of the game trails used by other deer and also because he was largely nocturnal. But hours spent in stands and blinds gave them glimpses, and sometime around October 29 of this year, Scott White rushed home from work, showered and went to his stand. That evening “Big Nine,” as they called him, came rustling through the branches and he got his shot, which he didn’t miss. Turns out he was “Big 11” by this date.

 My immediate reply to my brother expressed how awesome I thought it was that this set of brothers  hunted the same buck for about four years. They scouted it every year, watched it grow and knew every time they sat in the woods this deer was lingering. My brothers reply, parallel to mine, was something like, “Those are the kind of stories you like to hear about. They deserved it.”

Then, a couple of weeks later, an older brother of Scott’s shot another trophy. Simply put, time in the woods always pays off.

Or, something like my mom’s bad luck turning good last Thursday can get you there by way of accident. On her way to work, mom hit a doe, a common occurrence all over Kansas, given the deer population. Thank goodness she was alright first and foremost. Then in good, old-fashioned rural resourcefulness, the sheriff who showed up on the scene gave mom a tag, and she had the deer processed.

Her words to me? “Caleb, I got mine, where’s yours?!” I can’t wait to eat a portion of that 30 pounds of summer sausage, and maybe listen to how my hunting methods are flawed.

To any of you readers who may have already filled your tags, email me any pictures you have (cregan@ogdenpubs.com). It may make me long for the forest, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. And I’d love to see the fruits of your labor.