Deer Hunting Doldrums (Blog Fifty-nine)

My son-in-law David and I spent the entire Saturday muzzleload hunting for deer on family land in Craig County - and had nothing to show for it.  At least David had an excuse, he saw no whitetails the entire day.  I, on the other hand, saw two.

The first doe came by at 7:40 A.M., and quite simply, I blew the shot.  I am still not sure what I did wrong, but the last David and I saw the doe that I shot at, she was walking calmly up the mountain.

Once while at a fishing event, a crowd member came up to me, introduced himself, and told me the thing he liked best about reading my magazine stories  was my writing about the blunders I make while afield either fishing or hunting.  "You sure seem to make a lot," the guy chuckled as he left.

Well, now, sometimes it surely feels that I do make more than my share of snafus.  The second and final doe sighting of the day was at 12:45, not the typical time one expects to observe whitetails.  The doe was within range, but I never had a killing shot, so I never fired.

The high point for the rest of the day was observing a fox squirrel feeding nearby, interesting because it featured a black face and black feet. 

I can't wait to hunt before school on Monday.

Turkey Eggs (Blog Fifty-eight)

We are enjoying the bounty of eggs, finding five in the next box on most days.

However, this week we were able to try out something a bit different.  A co-teacher of Bruce’s has both chickens and turkeys, and the turkeys seem to be seasonally confused at the present, laying in abundance.  So Bruce came home one day with four turkey eggs for us to sample.

They were quite attractive- larger than our hens’ eggs and barely fitting in the egg carton niches, and a lovely cream color speckled with dark brown – reminding me of the spatter painting I did as a child using a toothbrush and screen wire.  I wanted to keep the eggs as a display, so I pierced each end with a knitting needle, then blew the contents into a bowl for scrambled eggs…. a good way also to do a taste comparison.

The yolks were a paler yellow than our girls’, and the scrambled eggs had what I would describe as a creamy taste, almost as if cream cheese had been added.  Four eggs made three sandwiches, a bit larger amount than four hen eggs would have provided.

And now the empty shells have been added to our “Poultry Museum” of household décor.

Best Wife Ever (Blog Fifty-seven)

There are so many reasons I love Elaine, and several of them manifested themselves today.  October 29 was opening day of Virginia's fall turkey season, and I asked Elaine to do my morning chicken rituals (bringing food and water to Little Jerry and his hens) so that I could go hunting.  Of course, she did so willingly.

Later while she was at a Tupperware party, or whatever those things are called that ladies go to where one lady hosts a function and other ladies buy things from her, I called her to come home and take pictures of me with the turkey I had called in and killed.  Of course, she did so willingly.

But it is not just Elaine's sweet nature that is so appealing about her; she also has a delightful sense of humor.  When we walked out to the backyard and woods to take pictures of the turkey and me, Violet, our most vocal hen, began squawking at me.

"Relax, Violet," quipped Elaine.  "That turkey is nobody you know.

Tomorrow, Sunday, Elaine will spend several hours cooking for me...on the menu is venison tenderloin and cherry cobbler (from our organic cherry tree - the berries which I picked and Elaine pitted - she had the much harder job).  And, of course, as always her lunch will be sublime.

Four Egg Days (Blog Fifty-six)

While Bruce went hunting on Saturday, I spent a great deal of time with the chickens.  Our five hens are developing a four-a-day habit, since Ruby and Little Spotty Hen are laying.

The first time we found a fourth egg in the nest we became quite excited and discoursed long and hard on who was responsible, Little Spotty or Ruby?  A week went by before a fourth egg appeared again.   And again we wondered.  Now another week has passed, and almost every day we find a fourth egg, distinctly different in size and color from the other three.  Number four is quite a bit smaller and paler in color, and is often more speckled compared to the jumbo sized rich brown eggs of the “big girls,”  Tallulah, Dot, and Violet.

Bruce is convinced Little Spotty is the responsible party, but unless we catch them in the act we might never be sure.  And if we go out too soon to the coop and disturb a chicky sitting in a nesting box, we feel quite guilty as they chastise us severely with lots of squawking and feather flapping.  Once we have a “Five Egg Day” all doubts about who is doing what will be cleared up for good.   

Ruby or Little Spotty Hen? (Blog Fifty-five)

Last May 4, Elaine and I began our chicken rearing career when we received 10 straight run chicks from the local Southern States.  As is common, two chicks perished within five days, and we raised the remaining eight chicks to maturity, along the way learning that six of the eight were roosters.

To supplement the female contingent, consisting of just Ruby and Little Spotty Hen, we purchased chickens that Elaine (she names all of our chickens) named Tallulah, Dot, and Violet.  Elaine said Tallulah received her moniker because of her big, white tail, Dot hers because of a white dot on her back, and Violet her appellation because "she's no shrinking violet." In short, Violet is constantly whining, clucking, or yapping about something being almost as vocal as our sole remaining rooster, Little Jerry.

On August 18, our new trio of hens began laying, depositing two eggs in one of the nesting boxes, and have been doing a great job ever since.  In fact, most days we find three eggs there, indicating that every one of the trio is doing her share.

This past Thursday was like every other day, as three medium size dark brown eggs were laid in the nesting box before noon.  But around 5:30 that evening, I found a small, light brown egg at the upper corner of our chicken run near the solar powered station.

Apparently, either Ruby or Little Spotty Hen has produced her first egg.  As of today, neither has taken credit nor has one or the other produced another egg.  Elaine and I are all anticipation about how many eggs will be found on Sunday.

A Long - and Fascinating Day - of Bowhunting (Blog Fifty-four)

Saturday, I spent almost an entire day in a Craig County black oak, bowhunting for deer.  The only time I debarked from the tree was between 1 and 3:00 P.M. when I went to my vehicle to rest, eat, and call Elaine.

And during that time aloft, I never loosed an arrow, although between 4:30 and 6:40, I had nine different deer around me.  There's an old saying that "close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," and close certainly doesn't count in bowhunting.  The deer just wouldn't come within the self-restricted 20-yard range that I have with my Matthews Switchback compound.  They stayed on the opposite side of the logging road that I was set up along (picture below) and just wouldn't cross to my side.

And, yes, I was frustrated and exhausted at the end of the day from being constantly ready to prepare to shoot but never doing so.  But the day was not a bad one.  Before the deer arrived, I observed a number of fascinating events.  Two mature turkey hens and I engaged in chatter, the three of us purring, clucking, and yelping at each other, but they never came within bow range either.

Later, a raven came flying in and perched right above, until it became alarmed at the blob, me, below it.  Several hours later a red-tailed hawk did the same thing, terrorizing the chipmunk population before the raptor, too, became alarmed at my outline.

I didn't sleep well thinking about the missed opportunities.  This afternoon, I am returning to that Craig County property and moving my treestand to the opposite side of the logging road.

Bowhunting Blunders (Blog Fifty-three)

Yesterday was the first day of Virginia's bow season for deer, and I committed a series of blunders, making me think that I wasn't quite ready for prime time.  My first snafu started around 5:25 A.M. when I had one last task to complete before hopping in the Xterra and leaving to hunt in Craig County.  All I had to do was put on my safety harness.

 I don't like putting on a harness in the dark at the base of a tree because I always seem to become entangled in all the various belts.  I struggled for a good five minutes trying to put on the harness before giving up and waking up Elaine.  She was not amused at my incompetence at such an early hour, but as always she sweetly helped me put on the device.  I am so fortunate to be married to her.

My next mishap took place at the base of the red oak where I wanted to position my treestand in the dark.  While I was putting on my headlamp in preparation for ascending, somehow the battery compartment opened and spilled its contents onto the forest duff.  I spent several precious minutes groping along the ground for the batteries, before giving up the search.

I didn't have a spare headlamp so I was forced to put my flashlight in my mouth and put up the stand with the aid of that light. I began to fear that the outing was going to be one of those proverbial bad days.

With all of those blunders and time loss, I was not secured in my treestand until 7:11 A.M., a good half hour later than I had intended.  But at 7:18, a mature doe ambled by, I loosed an arrow, the shot was good, and I was home for lunch.  Sometimes it truly is better to be lucky than good.

First Deer of Season (Blog Fifty-two)

Saturday while hunting the last day of West Virginia's early muzzleloader season, I killed my first deer of the season - a mature and very hefty Mason County doe.  Normally when I kill a deer, it is because I have done extensive scouting and pondered where and when to take a stand.

This time, however, I must give thanks to Chris Walls of Cross Lanes and his dad Morris who lives near Beckley.  Chris, director of public relations for the Warner Law Offices in Charleston and who also operates Beyond the Backyard, a popular program for youth interested in the outdoors, made the initial contact of the Mason County landowner who owned the property.  And then Morris scouted out the property before I arrived and instructed me where to set up.

Next month, I hope to repay the favor to the father and son team when I take them turkey hunting in Monroe County on opening day of the fall season.  When folks go out of the way to help a fellow hunter be successful, it is the least that we can do to repay that kindness.  I'll let you know next month how we did.

Meanwhile, Elaine and I spent much of Saturday night and Sunday afternoon turning the whitetail into packages of venison for the winter.  For the first time, Elaine canned some venison (picture below) which we have heard makes for great soups.  And tomorrow, I will have venison heart sandwiches (whole wheat bread, hard cheddar cheese, brown bread) for my school day lunch.

For more information: www.beyondthebackyard.org.

Wild Black Walnuts (Blog Fifty-one)

This afternoon I gathered wild black walnuts from a tree that grows in our woods.  Last September and October, I neglected to forage for these nuts and spent the rest of the fall and winter regretting it.

Walnuts, especially the ones that grow wild, have a taste like no other nut.  To be sure, I enjoy eating domestic walnuts, often having them in my morning oatmeal.  But the nutmeat of the wild variety has an intensity all its own.  Indeed, it is almost as if one wild black walnut has twice the, well, nuttiness, the heartiness of flavor, jammed into it that two domestic walnuts would.

In a month or two, after the walnuts season for a while, I will remove the outer husks (while wearing gloves of course) taking care not to let them stain my clothes or hands.  Then I will wait another week or two, then remove the shells.

The remaining nutmeat will be used to season persimmon bread, paw paw pudding, and of course my oatmeal.  Elaine will also use the nutmeat for her other homemade breads.

Other wild nuts taste great, for example the ones from mockernut and shagbark hickories especially, but none can compare to the black walnut.

In Praise of the Western Virginia Land Trust (Blog Fifty)

Next Sunday, Elaine and I will be at the annual September meeting of the Western Virginia Land Trust where I will be doing a benefit book signing, donating $2.50 off every book sold to the WVLT.  A canoe trip on the James River with me will also be auctioned as part of a fundraiser.

It always makes me nervous to be "auctioned off," as my fear is that no one will bid for my services.  Of course, nothing, I would guess, could be worse, auction-wise, than to be a male or female being auctioned off as a date and have no one bid on an evening with you. 

Still, I am always relieved when, after the bidding concludes, someone comes up to me and informs that they are the lucky winners of a canoe outing with me.  We exchange phone numbers and e-mails and tentatively plan an excursion for the following summer.

The WVLT is an outstanding organization that does wonderful work  by saving rural land through conservation easements.  Elaine and I have placed 392 acres in Craig County under conservation easements and we are very glad that we have done so. 

For more information on the WVLT and the benefits of conservation easements: www.westernvirginialandtrust.org.

Preparing for Bow Season(Blog Forty-nine)

September is the month when the impending arrival of bow season for deer takes on a sense of urgency.  I begin practicing with my Matthews Switchback every year on or around July 4.  But in the ninth month, other preparatory acts begin as well.

Yesterday, I went to a Botetourt County cattle farm where I have permission to bowhunt and placed stand steps in a hardwood.  That particular tree grows in a place where deer activity is heavy every October when Virginia's season begins.  The spot is both a natural funnel and where a grove of white and red oaks have been thinned so that only the best mast producers still stand.

I should see plenty of whitetails there next month.  Whether I kill one or not is really up to my skills and whether a deer happens to come into range.

This morning I practiced with broadheads on my arrows, saving the ones that flew accurately and culling one that did not.  Later this week, I will check tree stands, safety harnesses, and do some more scouting in places where I have permission to be afield.

I will also make a list of every item that I will be taking afield on my first bowhunt.  One can't start too soon to be ready for opening day.

Elaine on Eggs (Blog Forty-eight)

We have begun reaping the results of our chicken raising efforts as within the past week, the girls, at least the older ones, have begun laying.  Two, two, one, two, THREE EGGS!  Each day holds a surprise in the hen house.

The first egg was of such importance that we had to take a picture of it “on location.”  Not until we were inside our house and examining the photo did we realize a second egg was partially hidden in the straw.  We checked the nesting box later in the day, and there were two more eggs waiting.  How convenient for us that all hens choose to lay in the same box. 

Since we have not yet discovered the daily laying timetable of our girls, we have been checking numerous times to see what we can find.  8:45, no eggs.  9:45, “hot off the press” – the egg that day still warm from  hen's body.  Holding this roundish object in my hand makes me reflect on the miraculous aspect of the event.   Eating them is another small miracle – dark yellow yolks with a rich eggy taste.  Thank goodness current nutritional thinking says an egg or two a day is usually fine. 

Of course on the days of three eggs we heap praises on our bigger hens.  And on the days of two eggs or one, we discuss between ourselves who is sloughing off on the job: Violet, Dot, or Tallulah.  Ruby and Little Spotty have not yet begun laying, as they are about four weeks younger than the big girls.  Violet in particular clucks and squawks with great vehemence.  I would like to think once the egg for the day is done with that she would calm down, but so far her loudness is impossible to categorize. 

Meanwhile, Little Jerry patrols back and forth, seemingly very proud of his girls and himself.

End of the Season (Blog Forty-seven)

The rhythm that is the seasons is very much much in evidence right now.  Last Monday, I returned to my high school English job as the first work day had arrived and this coming Wednesday is the first day of school with students.  The previous Saturday I went on my last summertime fishing trip, as Elaine and I traveled to the South Fork of the Shenandoah in the Front Royal area.

Earlier this month, we picked wild blackberries for the last time this year, just gathering enough for blackberry pancakes (picture below).  That blackberry harvest ended a long sequence of berries that has ripened with strawberries in May, cherries in May and June, raspberries and wineberries in July, and dewberries and blackberries in July and August.

Next month, we will be able to pick a few summer grapes, as well as gather some mockernut and shagbark hickory nuts, plus some paw paws.  The main nut, though, will be the wild black walnut harvest in early October, and the trees on our Botetourt County land are heavily laden.  Good for us, and good for the gray and fox squirrels that also live here.

Sometime in late October and early November, we will gather some persimmons and that will conclude our various harvests for the year.  But it is a comfort knowing that our freezer will be full of quart berry "bags," and our pantry filled with jams and preserves.

Up a River without a Paddle (Blog Forty-six)

My son Mark and I are both high school English teachers, and we both go back to school in a few days. So this past Monday we decided to take our Dagger Legend canoe on a fishing excursion down the James River which flows near our Botetourt County, Virginia homes.

 Elaine kindly did the shuttle, dropped Mark and me off at the put-in near the community of Glen Wilton, and we then arranged our lunches, water, rods, and tackleboxes, and prepared to debark.

"Dad, where are the paddles?" Mark asked.

If two people are going on a canoe fishing trip, there are three essentials: a canoe, fishing gear, and, well, paddles.  I had managed to leave one-third of the essentials in the backseat of my vehicle.

Of course, I know better.  I have written four books on river fishing.  The following day I was scheduled to give a talk to the Buchanan Rotary Club on river fishing for goodness sakes.  It was also abundantly clear that I had royally messed up in the trip planning category.

There were only two options.  First, I told Mark to see if he could find some sticks that might serve as makeshift paddles (picture below).  Second, because Mark had left his cell phone in the car, I would walk into Glen Wilton and see if someone would let me use a phone and call Elaine on her cell.

Fortunately, the local post office was open and the kindly post mistress let me use her phone.  As the line from Streetcar Named Desire goes, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Elaine, who has long sweetly endured my forgetfulness, drove back to the access point and dropped off the paddles.

The fishing was poor as I never could figure out what the smallmouths were feeding on, but Mark and I enjoyed our day together, witnessed an osprey, a turkey hen with poults, and a fawn along the shoreline.  I also broke my flyrod, which like the paddle episode was entirely my fault.  All in all, it was a day when my incompetence seemed to be as glaring as the August sun.

Six Roosters, Two Hens (Blog Forty-five)

Recently we wrote about our fear that we might have six roosters and two hens in our backyard chicken run.  Well, about two weeks ago, friends Jack and Marylynn Leffel came over for dinner and the former confirmed that we do, indeed, have a half dozen young males. 

What to do? Given the fact that two hens would not provide us with enough eggs, we purchased some16-week-old hens.  We were able to swap our alpha male, Third Man, and two of those newly bought hens to a farm family in Franklin County.  In exchange, we received seven dozen farm fresh eggs. 

In spite of our best efforts to find good homes for several of the other roosters, we have had to dispatch two of them, which, we must admit, was a very hard thing to do, given the fact that we had raised them from chicks. 

The good news is that the three remaining roosters, Little Jerry and two nameless males, are quite tolerant of each other...for now.  And our now five hens, Ruby and Little Spotty Hen, which we raised from chicks and the three newbies, which Elaine has named Tallulah, Dot, and Violet, seem to be happier that several of the roosters, specifically the aggressive Russell, have, well, become the dear departed.

This leaves Little Jerry in charge of the backyard, and we believe he will be up to the task.

Vacation Time (Blog Forty-four)

I am one of those truly fortunate people who  enjoys his two jobs, as a high school English teacher in Botetourt County, Virginia and as a freelance outdoor writer/photographer.  However, I am constantly amazed at how many people don't understand what goes into being a travel writer.

For example, this past Thursday I went fishing for pleasure for the first time all summer.  When I am off doing a fishing story, the pressure to catch a big photo-worthy fish, conduct interviews, and take pictures is enormous.  I don't feel like I am fishing, I am working.

Now please don't misunderstand what I am saying.  Fishing is a marvelous pastime and a sport for a lifetime.  But when I am doing a story on a particular excursion, the act of fishing is just plain, hard work. 

Another aspect of being a travel writer that the public does not understand is that some writers, particularly myself, do not like to travel when they are not doing a story.  I don't plan on leaving Botetourt County the next few weeks.  I am on vacation and not traveling anywhere.  I am going to enjoy not driving hours and hours for a working, fishing trip.

Elaine and I are going to putter around in the backyard, go walking together, and, yes, go fishing behind the house and on Craigs Creek.  And that will be really fun and relaxing.

First Rooster is Crowing! (Blog Forty-three)

It's Bruce's job to let out the chickens from their coop in the morning and mine to lock them in for the night.  But Saturday, Bruce was away doing a fishing story, so I let out the chickens just  before 6. One chicken paused on its way down the ramp, seemed to steady himself, then let loose with what can only be described as a very feeble attempt at crowing.  Our first chicken to crow!

Sunday morning Bruce was back home and having had Elaine regale him with stories of the momentous event on Saturday, he waited at the ramp as the chickens filed down it on their way to the feeder.  The last bird out paused at the top of the ramp, shook himself slightly, seemed to clear his throat, then emitted a series of five crows.

We have named five of our eight chickens.  Two we are sure are females (Little Spotty Hen and Ruby below) and three we are fairly confident are roosters (Little Jerry, Russell, and Third Man, so named because he was the third to manifest male aggressiveness).

But we are shocked that one of the "Amorphous Three" as we call them (chickens that we don't know yet whether they are male or female) was the first to crow.  The first crower, after his greeting the dawn was finished, marched down the ramp where Little Jerry met him and "smacked" him on the head.  And "First Crower," as he temporarily is being named, submitted, to the smacking.

What do we do now? We are very worried that we may have six roosters in our flock, which would, obviously, tend to defeat the purpose or at least make it difficult to accomplish our main goal of raising chickens for eggs.  If only Ruby and Little Spotty Hen are females, they will have quite a production goal.  And why wouldn't First Crower (below) stand up to Little Jerry who seems to be third on the pecking order behind Third Man and Russell?

Advice from anyone?

Fishing for Goldfish? (Blog Forty-two)

Yesterday I was at Chief Logan State Park and Conference Center in West Virginia doing a river smallmouth fishing seminar as part of an outdoors' expo.  Since the event did not begin Sunday morning until 10:30, I decided to visit the state park's pond (picture below), which is a very good fishing hole and hosts largemouth bass, bluegills, and catfish among other species.

Upon arrival, I encountered a local angler who told me that he had already caught and released a "half dozen cats" that morning and that the largemouths were feeding along the shoreline.  Looking in that direction, I did see a number of fish feeding on top, so I hurried over there.

For the next half hour, I cast to every rise I saw and failed to gain even one strike.  Then I saw, as one fish wallowed on the surface, what I had been fishing for...huge goldfish.  I asked my fellow angler about the pond's goldfish and he confirmed that he had caught them before and, in fact, had even eaten one, stating that it "tasted like a carp but had purple flesh."

A few minutes later, I saw huge pods of golden colored fish finning the shallows and decided that I had better return to the expo to prepare for book signings and a seminar.

I am in a fishing slump right now.  Counting the ill-fated excursion for goldfish, I have gone four straight trips without catching a good size fish.  What's more the guides and friends who have been fishing with me have also been doing very poorly.  Perhaps the slump will end this week...at least the destinations I am heading for won't have goldfish - I hope.

Wineberry Time (Blog Forty-one)

This past Friday, I spent much of the morning picking wild berries behind our Botetourt County, Virginia home.  The first two weeks of July means that the wineberries especially are ripening and for that fortnight every day I try to pick a quart or so.

Friday alone I easily could have gathered two gallons of these bright, red berries, but I stopped after having accumulating three quarts.  The first two quarts went into Elaine making jam and the third one went for my wife baking a cobbler.  I ended up by picking a quart of wild blackberries and freezing them for the winter.

Out of all the wild berries that we gather and of all the sweet treats that Elaine turns them into, I would have to rate wineberry pie as my favorite.  Wineberries are so much sweeter than other wild fruits that they don't need much sugar, particularly when compared to tart blackberries.

But the wineberry cobbler was a taste sensation, too, even though the berries do not hold us as well as they do when part of a pie.  And the wineberry jam goes great on any kind of whole wheat bread.

Although the ratio of wineberries to blackberries picked was three to one in favor of the former, soon the wineberries will cease to be so plentiful and it will be the blackberry that reigns supreme.  Which reminds me that I need to pick several quarts of each after Sunday's lunch of grilled tenderloin, corn on the cob, and wineberry cobbler.

Fishing with Family (Blog Forty)

This past week I went fishing twice, once with my son Mark and the other with Elaine.  Although as an outdoor writer I am fortunate to be able to fish and hunt with some of the most gifted sportsmen in America, my favorite people to go afield with are family members.

Mark and I floated the James River near our Botetourt County, Virginia homes, and the fishing, frankly, was terrible as we caught nothing over eight inches.  But during our afternoon afloat, Mark and I discoursed on politics, sports, books, movies, teaching high school English, and a host of other topics.  The phrase quality time is often overused, but our time together this past Sunday was truly of high quality.

Several evenings later, Elaine and I went fly fishing behind our house in Catawba Creek.  One of the great  joys of my life is that I can walk out my backdoor and go fishing and hunting on my own land.  But the biggest joy of my life is being married to Elaine for now 33 years. 

We had only fished for about 15 minutes when Elaine slipped and fell, landing hard on her ribs.  For a while, we feared that she had broken something, but later it turned out that she had only suffered some bruises.  As I was comforting her, she gave me a hug and said how much she loved me as well as how stupid and clumsy she felt at that moment and that she wanted me to continue fishing.

It was such a warm moment between the two of us and typical of what a great person she is and how happy she makes me everyday.  I decided that we both should cease to fish and return to the house to examine her bruises more carefully.

On the way back to the house via our logging road, we stopped to examine some bear scat, only to look up and espy four mature gobblers just 40 yards away. After watching the toms slip away, we had only walked another 60 or so yards when we came across a gang of turkey poults with their flock hen.

Although the fishing was poor this week, the companionship and experiences were memorable.