Fishing - The Other Side
The tales of fishing from the point of view of an individual who enjoys fishing is quite different from the view of those who, shall we say, enjoy it less. Now you need to understand I am not identifying myself with either class at this time. This writing is intended to be purely educational to both the avid fisher as well as to those somewhat less ardently into the sport. For the sake of argument we will use the term “fisher” throughout, since both genders enjoy fishing equally. It is a well known fact however, that one of the two is most certainly better at it than the other.
Let us examine how a fish tale begins. While toiling from daybreak to well into the night, fanatically devoted to the fine art of fishing, an avid fisher will become delusional regarding certain facts surrounding their fishing trip. The first fact they misinterpret is this: their day started at roughly 10a.m. and finished around 2:30 that afternoon, mostly due to the amount of beer consumed the evening prior and continued at “it’s noon somewhere” that day. The avid fisher however, will inform you that the day begins before sunup and so on and so forth. Thus will begin the fountain of fanciful fish tales.
How the fisher sees it: “I fought the brute for nearly 2 hours. When every muscle in my body screamed for relief, and I thought I could take it no more, the degenerate beast broke my line“…
What really happened: His lure became entangled in a water logged limb floating just below the surface. While the drunken fisher struggled, his staggering buddies yelled encouraging words. “Keep fighting!” “You’ve almost got it in!” “Don’t stop now, could be a record!”. Finally with one last exhausted tug, the line breaks.
How the fishing story goes: “This one could have been a record for that lake. It was a beautiful thing. Four feet nose to tail if it were an inch. I could not have gotten my arms around it, I’m sure.”
The truth: It was much closer to an inch then to four feet. What seemed at the time to be a real fighter was instead a 4 inch perch with an excessively strong will.
The above writings are merely modest examples of fishing tales. Those of us who are in one way or another affiliated with an individual who fishes will understand this to be the truth. On the other hand, those who avidly fish will most certainly take offense. The sincere hope of this humble writer is that both sides will have been educated.
Just a few short stories, most unfinished, that I've written through the years. There are hundreds of more stories in the minds and imaginations of my friends and family yet to be captured in pen and ink. If you have stories you would like shared, please drop me a line through my Facebook page. Click on Rednek Ritin' in the Facebook link below.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Rednek Jokin' - Billy Bob's Strange Behavior
Billy Bob's Strange Behavior
Cletus is passing by Billy Bob's hay barn one day when, through a gap in the door, he sees Billy Bob doing a slow and sensual striptease in front of an old green John Deere.
Buttocks clenched, he performs a slow pirouette, and gently slides off first the right strap of his overalls, followed by the left. He then hunches his shoulders forward and in a classic striptease move, lets his overalls fall down to his hips, revealing a torn and frayed plaid shirt. Then, grabbing both sides of his shirt, he rips it apart to reveal his stained T-shirt underneath. With a final flourish, he tears the T-shirt from his body, and hurls his baseball cap onto a pile of hay.
Having seen enough, Cletus rushes in and says,"What the heck are ya doin, Billy Bob?" "Jeez, Cletus, ya scared the bejeezers out of me," says an embarrassed Billy Bob. "But me'n the Ol' Lady been havin trouble lately in the bedroom d'partment, and the therapist suggested I do 'something sexy to a tractor'
Friday, February 11, 2011
THE RIPARIAN ZONE
THE RIPARIAN ZONE
While driving through the woods near a little known location called Gobblers Knob we came across a sign indicating the area to our left was a “Riparian Zone”. That word ‘Riparian’ is one of those words that make the thinkers among us say “hmmmm”, and wonder as to the deep meaning of such a delightful word. Now to those of the more educated in this world that word may call to mind the area adjacent to a stream bed. However, those with adequate woods experience know the word has a much deeper meaning. Did you know that Riparians are actually tiny woods dwellers with huge feet? Did you know they typically hibernate from about the first of November until early spring? If an unsuspecting hunter interrupts their winter slumber, these tiny creatures will crawl up to the hunter’s ear and eat some of their brain. Just enough brain to make the hunter do something he might not normally do. For example a hunter might accidentally leave his gun on the bed of a flat bed pickup to fall off into the snow as the pickup drives away (this coming from actual experience). Fortunately these tiny beings are normally friendly and are only toying with the hunter. Or maybe it’s because their huge feet prevent them from entering deep enough into the hunter’s skull to eat substantial amounts of brain matter. At any rate, no lasting harm is caused by the little guys. The hunter soon returns to some semblance of normal.
The Riparians are interesting animals. In spite of the size of their feet and the shortness of their legs they are surprisingly fast. Typically the legs of an adult Riparian are no more than ¾ of an inch long with the feet being easily twice that long. A full grown Riparian can easily overtake a full grown man walking in the forest. The running Riparian, it’s said, appears to be gliding on it’s huge feet over the flora, although no one has actually seen one as of yet. The prolific amount of information gathered in just one hunting trip would leave a person believing there was actually hard data to back up Riparian lore. A person would expect to find pictures and video in multitudes. To the best of my knowledge no such evidence exists, at least at the time of this writing. So keep your eyes open as you walk about the woods in your area. You just may be privileged to catch sight of the elusive Riparian.
As more data becomes available there will no doubt be further writing pertaining to these astonishing little beasts. Should you have information you deem useful, please feel free to contribute.
While driving through the woods near a little known location called Gobblers Knob we came across a sign indicating the area to our left was a “Riparian Zone”. That word ‘Riparian’ is one of those words that make the thinkers among us say “hmmmm”, and wonder as to the deep meaning of such a delightful word. Now to those of the more educated in this world that word may call to mind the area adjacent to a stream bed. However, those with adequate woods experience know the word has a much deeper meaning. Did you know that Riparians are actually tiny woods dwellers with huge feet? Did you know they typically hibernate from about the first of November until early spring? If an unsuspecting hunter interrupts their winter slumber, these tiny creatures will crawl up to the hunter’s ear and eat some of their brain. Just enough brain to make the hunter do something he might not normally do. For example a hunter might accidentally leave his gun on the bed of a flat bed pickup to fall off into the snow as the pickup drives away (this coming from actual experience). Fortunately these tiny beings are normally friendly and are only toying with the hunter. Or maybe it’s because their huge feet prevent them from entering deep enough into the hunter’s skull to eat substantial amounts of brain matter. At any rate, no lasting harm is caused by the little guys. The hunter soon returns to some semblance of normal.
The Riparians are interesting animals. In spite of the size of their feet and the shortness of their legs they are surprisingly fast. Typically the legs of an adult Riparian are no more than ¾ of an inch long with the feet being easily twice that long. A full grown Riparian can easily overtake a full grown man walking in the forest. The running Riparian, it’s said, appears to be gliding on it’s huge feet over the flora, although no one has actually seen one as of yet. The prolific amount of information gathered in just one hunting trip would leave a person believing there was actually hard data to back up Riparian lore. A person would expect to find pictures and video in multitudes. To the best of my knowledge no such evidence exists, at least at the time of this writing. So keep your eyes open as you walk about the woods in your area. You just may be privileged to catch sight of the elusive Riparian.
As more data becomes available there will no doubt be further writing pertaining to these astonishing little beasts. Should you have information you deem useful, please feel free to contribute.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
THE BACKSIDE OF CALAMITY
THE BACKSIDE OF CALAMITY
There are few words that inspire fear into the hearts of hunters in Central Oregon as “The Backside of Calamity”. Now you must understand Calamity in this sense is not a state or situation, but an area on the map. Not a particularly impressive area from the front side, but the backside of Calamity is something to be revered. Hunters who have inadvertently wandered off the backside of Calamity and returned are never the same. Those who purposely wander off the backside of Calamity weren’t the same to start with. Let’s examine two such hunters. We’ll call them Gary and Marc.
One cold day in late November 2006 Gary and Marc decided to take a hunt into that dreaded place. Hours later, the rest of the hunting party recovered the two hunters frail and exhausted. From what the hunting party could discern through the demented jibberish that spilled from their quivering lips the two had just taken a stroll through the hubs of hell itself. To hear the horrors of twisted mahogany and jagged rocks, steep cliffs and wild animals made a persons hair stand on end. Since some reading this may not have adequate woods experience we will dispense with any detail regarding the horrors the two hunters saw. Suffice it to say that any animals larger than a squirrel, or those of a feathered variety, don’t find the place very appealing. It is assumed that Gary and Marc have learned their lesson.
There are few words that inspire fear into the hearts of hunters in Central Oregon as “The Backside of Calamity”. Now you must understand Calamity in this sense is not a state or situation, but an area on the map. Not a particularly impressive area from the front side, but the backside of Calamity is something to be revered. Hunters who have inadvertently wandered off the backside of Calamity and returned are never the same. Those who purposely wander off the backside of Calamity weren’t the same to start with. Let’s examine two such hunters. We’ll call them Gary and Marc.
One cold day in late November 2006 Gary and Marc decided to take a hunt into that dreaded place. Hours later, the rest of the hunting party recovered the two hunters frail and exhausted. From what the hunting party could discern through the demented jibberish that spilled from their quivering lips the two had just taken a stroll through the hubs of hell itself. To hear the horrors of twisted mahogany and jagged rocks, steep cliffs and wild animals made a persons hair stand on end. Since some reading this may not have adequate woods experience we will dispense with any detail regarding the horrors the two hunters saw. Suffice it to say that any animals larger than a squirrel, or those of a feathered variety, don’t find the place very appealing. It is assumed that Gary and Marc have learned their lesson.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Mall Incident and Aiming Fluid
The Mall Incident and Aiming Fluid
Last night, after an evening of deer hunting, or should we say driving through the woods drinking homemade corn whiskey, we arrived back at deer camp only to find our firewood supply had somehow depleted itself during the hunt. It has long been known that whiskey can be used as a type of aiming fluid if you're driving in the woods. It actually helps keep you between the trees. The assumption was made that it would help aim a splitting mall as well. The splitting mall is a highly technical piece of equipment consisting of an 8lb block of razor sharp steel at the end of a 3 foot wooden handle. Apparently after too much aiming fluid you need to use a mall with a shorter handle. I slightly overshot a block of wood using the standard length handle on our splitting mall. Keep in mind this is after splitting several cords of wood, I was winded and my hands were cold. When the wood handle of a splitting mall encounters an opposing, larger and more solid block of wood at velocities created only by an expert in the art of wood splitting, an interesting thing happens. The handle of said mall will actually snap into several long pieces, in the process numbing the hands and fingers of the individual holding it. The numbing process serves only to allow time to find duct tape and bailing wire to put the handle back together. After which time the fingers and hands un-numb, much to the discomfort of the former holder of the mall. The aiming fluid itself serves as a number of sorts. Unfortunately those effects also wear off. That being said, I'm typing this today with some very sore digits.
The other two campers, my brothers Marc and Toad, were delighted with my display of manliness. They were thinking only a superhuman could work with such mangled hands and fingers and such incredible pain. They watched in awe as I repaired the handle of the mall so we could finish chopping wood. As the younger of the two grabbed the newly refurbished mall from my now tingling hands he grinned, let me show you two how this is done. He had a little more aiming fluid than I had, so I was sure he'd be fine. Apparently the more aiming fluid you have the shorter the mall handle should be. After a few swings at a particularly stubborn block of wood he too overshot the block. This time the handle, now much stronger due to the mass of bailing wire and duct tape holding it together, refused to break. The raw energy created by an 8lb chunk of steel at the end of a long wooden handle swinging at speeds somewhere near that which sound travels, has to go somewhere. A properly aimed mall directs that focused energy into a solid block of wood having the desired effect of splitting the intended target into smaller and more manageable pieces. A wayward mall however has other, less desirable effects. That ominous amount of energy just referred to has to go somewhere when the solid steel head of the mall misses the intended target. Toad found out where. I would imagine he hurts today too.
Last night, after an evening of deer hunting, or should we say driving through the woods drinking homemade corn whiskey, we arrived back at deer camp only to find our firewood supply had somehow depleted itself during the hunt. It has long been known that whiskey can be used as a type of aiming fluid if you're driving in the woods. It actually helps keep you between the trees. The assumption was made that it would help aim a splitting mall as well. The splitting mall is a highly technical piece of equipment consisting of an 8lb block of razor sharp steel at the end of a 3 foot wooden handle. Apparently after too much aiming fluid you need to use a mall with a shorter handle. I slightly overshot a block of wood using the standard length handle on our splitting mall. Keep in mind this is after splitting several cords of wood, I was winded and my hands were cold. When the wood handle of a splitting mall encounters an opposing, larger and more solid block of wood at velocities created only by an expert in the art of wood splitting, an interesting thing happens. The handle of said mall will actually snap into several long pieces, in the process numbing the hands and fingers of the individual holding it. The numbing process serves only to allow time to find duct tape and bailing wire to put the handle back together. After which time the fingers and hands un-numb, much to the discomfort of the former holder of the mall. The aiming fluid itself serves as a number of sorts. Unfortunately those effects also wear off. That being said, I'm typing this today with some very sore digits.
The other two campers, my brothers Marc and Toad, were delighted with my display of manliness. They were thinking only a superhuman could work with such mangled hands and fingers and such incredible pain. They watched in awe as I repaired the handle of the mall so we could finish chopping wood. As the younger of the two grabbed the newly refurbished mall from my now tingling hands he grinned, let me show you two how this is done. He had a little more aiming fluid than I had, so I was sure he'd be fine. Apparently the more aiming fluid you have the shorter the mall handle should be. After a few swings at a particularly stubborn block of wood he too overshot the block. This time the handle, now much stronger due to the mass of bailing wire and duct tape holding it together, refused to break. The raw energy created by an 8lb chunk of steel at the end of a long wooden handle swinging at speeds somewhere near that which sound travels, has to go somewhere. A properly aimed mall directs that focused energy into a solid block of wood having the desired effect of splitting the intended target into smaller and more manageable pieces. A wayward mall however has other, less desirable effects. That ominous amount of energy just referred to has to go somewhere when the solid steel head of the mall misses the intended target. Toad found out where. I would imagine he hurts today too.
ONLY CHILD - As told by one of five children
ONLY CHILD
As told by one of five children
When I make the statement that I’m an only child it usually elicits a negative response. Mainly from my siblings, but often from others that know the family. Before you pass judgment you should know I may not have been an only child in the physical sense, but in my mind I am the only one that matters. This is not a selfish look at life. Let me explain. You see, being the oldest I watched my mother and father toil and care for the other children. Time they could well have used on other pursuits if it hadn’t been for the others. Think of the countless hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on rearing five children. Had the other four not weasled their way into our happy little family my parents would have been very different people. You do the math. How much time and effort go into teaching the boys to hunt and fish? Educating a girl on the fine art of girl stuff is a daunting task as well. Parenting the right way takes energy and time beyond comprehension to those without children.
Without the others I could sit around the campfire and tell stories to myself. Without the others I could drive through the woods alone looking for something to shoot, or blow up. Without the others life would be a little more boring. I guess it’s not so bad to not be an only child.
As told by one of five children
When I make the statement that I’m an only child it usually elicits a negative response. Mainly from my siblings, but often from others that know the family. Before you pass judgment you should know I may not have been an only child in the physical sense, but in my mind I am the only one that matters. This is not a selfish look at life. Let me explain. You see, being the oldest I watched my mother and father toil and care for the other children. Time they could well have used on other pursuits if it hadn’t been for the others. Think of the countless hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on rearing five children. Had the other four not weasled their way into our happy little family my parents would have been very different people. You do the math. How much time and effort go into teaching the boys to hunt and fish? Educating a girl on the fine art of girl stuff is a daunting task as well. Parenting the right way takes energy and time beyond comprehension to those without children.
Without the others I could sit around the campfire and tell stories to myself. Without the others I could drive through the woods alone looking for something to shoot, or blow up. Without the others life would be a little more boring. I guess it’s not so bad to not be an only child.
Hunting Stories
HUNTING STORIES
Hunting stories have a way of getting out of control. Like a three year old in Wal Mart they can take on a persona not at all resembling their former selves. How or why this happens is largely a mystery to those who frequent the woods in pursuit of game. While a hunter may mislead intentionally when it comes to the exact location the game was taken, I was up No-Tellum Creek at the tree line…an ethical hunter will not actually lie as to the details pertaining to the animal taken. For example, that monster buck was at a dead run at 180 yards, through the trees. I shot him mid jump. Boy that was a difficult shot. To the ethical hunter that is how the details played out in his head as he raised his rifle to his shoulder to bring down his trophy. In actuality that particular rather small buck was 35 yards away and had twitched his ear giving the impression that at any moment he might break into a full run. The seasoned hunter knows that the time it takes an agile buck to run 145 yards is…well let’s just say the details in his mind were pretty darn accurate.
Let’s get back to the how and why this happens to even the most discriminating hunter. My theory is, this is a defense mechanism that dates back to prehistoric times. In the camps of the prehistoric man only the families of the best hunters ate. It was only the hunters with the best stories that had families to feed, if you get my drift. You see the prehistoric ladies liked to hear the hunting stories as they prepared the fresh kill their man had brought home. So who do you think had the ladies at his hut when the hunt didn’t go so well and the entire hunting party had only a hand full of dead bugs and a rat or two? Todays modern hunter is simply running on instinct when the stories begin to flow.
Hunting stories have a way of getting out of control. Like a three year old in Wal Mart they can take on a persona not at all resembling their former selves. How or why this happens is largely a mystery to those who frequent the woods in pursuit of game. While a hunter may mislead intentionally when it comes to the exact location the game was taken, I was up No-Tellum Creek at the tree line…an ethical hunter will not actually lie as to the details pertaining to the animal taken. For example, that monster buck was at a dead run at 180 yards, through the trees. I shot him mid jump. Boy that was a difficult shot. To the ethical hunter that is how the details played out in his head as he raised his rifle to his shoulder to bring down his trophy. In actuality that particular rather small buck was 35 yards away and had twitched his ear giving the impression that at any moment he might break into a full run. The seasoned hunter knows that the time it takes an agile buck to run 145 yards is…well let’s just say the details in his mind were pretty darn accurate.
Let’s get back to the how and why this happens to even the most discriminating hunter. My theory is, this is a defense mechanism that dates back to prehistoric times. In the camps of the prehistoric man only the families of the best hunters ate. It was only the hunters with the best stories that had families to feed, if you get my drift. You see the prehistoric ladies liked to hear the hunting stories as they prepared the fresh kill their man had brought home. So who do you think had the ladies at his hut when the hunt didn’t go so well and the entire hunting party had only a hand full of dead bugs and a rat or two? Todays modern hunter is simply running on instinct when the stories begin to flow.
Deer Camp
Deer Camp
Setup and First Day
Of all a mans pursuits in life there’s hardly another that compares to the yearly trek to deer camp. While there are almost twelve full months since the end of the last deer camp until the start of another the preparation usually begins days if not hours before the trip begins. Yearly the question is asked, ‘why is it that while we knew this was coming we wait until the last minute to get things together”? That being said this is how the preparation goes. Keep in mind that while the word ‘preparation’ is used it is really not as prepared as the word might suggest. Preparation starts with the customary question ‘what do you want to eat’? The answer from all parties is standard from year to year and goes something like this ‘I don’t care, whatever you want’. Thus it is implied that everyone will bring what he wants to eat. The result is 73 coolers full of every imaginable food on the face of the planet. Of which approximately 1-½ coolers will be emptied in the course of the hunting season. That is with the exception of beer coolers, which are kept separate from the food coolers for obvious reasons. Beer storage consist of another 73 coolers which are intended to get all four campers through the first weekend at which time a beer/ice run will need to be made. For you non-hunters the beer is kept separate from the food so a person doesn’t accidentally mistake a biscuit tube for a fresh cold beer. Understand? Can you imagine the surprise on the face of an unsuspecting hunter after opening a biscuit instead of a beer? Not to mention the difference in carbs. We still like to keep an eye on our middle. Maybe because that’s what we see when we look down, but that’s a different story entirely. How did we get so far off track? Back to deer camp preparation. After shuttling several pickup loads of food and beer to camp living arrangements begin to arrive. Tents, camp trailers, awnings and all manor of modern comforts are shuttled hurriedly in anticipation of the opening morning of deer season.
As midnight arrives half erected tents and un-level camp trailers become sleeping quarters for the weary hunters. As the hunter-gatherers of our family we are expected to bring home a winter’s worth of meat. We take this responsibility seriously. No hunter wants to be known as a vegetarian, as hunters know that is in Indian word meaning ‘bad hunter’. A good night rest is imperative for a successful daybreak hunt. The setup crew staggers off to bed after emptying the first batch of beer coolers in full support of the first beer run. Camp looks good.
Dawn arrives much too early, catching the campers unaware. About five hours later the first bleary eyes begin to open. ‘Oh my, it must be almost six o’clock by now’. It’s actually 10:45. The hunters decide it’s too late for an early morning hunt, besides the deer were up feeding all night and had bedded down at dawn. A late hunt would be much better. ‘Great’ some say, this will give us time to finish setting up tents and leveling camp trailers. Others are thrilled to sleep a little longer and spend some time in a good book. As the work progresses it becomes vividly plain the campers were not as prepared as they would have liked. Where are the tent pegs? Who brought blocks to level the camp trailer? Have you seen the propane cooker? Are the propane bottles in the trailer? Well at least we have plenty of food.
Setup and First Day
Of all a mans pursuits in life there’s hardly another that compares to the yearly trek to deer camp. While there are almost twelve full months since the end of the last deer camp until the start of another the preparation usually begins days if not hours before the trip begins. Yearly the question is asked, ‘why is it that while we knew this was coming we wait until the last minute to get things together”? That being said this is how the preparation goes. Keep in mind that while the word ‘preparation’ is used it is really not as prepared as the word might suggest. Preparation starts with the customary question ‘what do you want to eat’? The answer from all parties is standard from year to year and goes something like this ‘I don’t care, whatever you want’. Thus it is implied that everyone will bring what he wants to eat. The result is 73 coolers full of every imaginable food on the face of the planet. Of which approximately 1-½ coolers will be emptied in the course of the hunting season. That is with the exception of beer coolers, which are kept separate from the food coolers for obvious reasons. Beer storage consist of another 73 coolers which are intended to get all four campers through the first weekend at which time a beer/ice run will need to be made. For you non-hunters the beer is kept separate from the food so a person doesn’t accidentally mistake a biscuit tube for a fresh cold beer. Understand? Can you imagine the surprise on the face of an unsuspecting hunter after opening a biscuit instead of a beer? Not to mention the difference in carbs. We still like to keep an eye on our middle. Maybe because that’s what we see when we look down, but that’s a different story entirely. How did we get so far off track? Back to deer camp preparation. After shuttling several pickup loads of food and beer to camp living arrangements begin to arrive. Tents, camp trailers, awnings and all manor of modern comforts are shuttled hurriedly in anticipation of the opening morning of deer season.
As midnight arrives half erected tents and un-level camp trailers become sleeping quarters for the weary hunters. As the hunter-gatherers of our family we are expected to bring home a winter’s worth of meat. We take this responsibility seriously. No hunter wants to be known as a vegetarian, as hunters know that is in Indian word meaning ‘bad hunter’. A good night rest is imperative for a successful daybreak hunt. The setup crew staggers off to bed after emptying the first batch of beer coolers in full support of the first beer run. Camp looks good.
Dawn arrives much too early, catching the campers unaware. About five hours later the first bleary eyes begin to open. ‘Oh my, it must be almost six o’clock by now’. It’s actually 10:45. The hunters decide it’s too late for an early morning hunt, besides the deer were up feeding all night and had bedded down at dawn. A late hunt would be much better. ‘Great’ some say, this will give us time to finish setting up tents and leveling camp trailers. Others are thrilled to sleep a little longer and spend some time in a good book. As the work progresses it becomes vividly plain the campers were not as prepared as they would have liked. Where are the tent pegs? Who brought blocks to level the camp trailer? Have you seen the propane cooker? Are the propane bottles in the trailer? Well at least we have plenty of food.
Goose Hunting - Another Deal Altogether
Another Deal Altogether
Goose hunting is another deal altogether. Grown men lying in a field of stubble trying to make themselves invisible to the keen eyes of a Canadian Honker is a comedy routine in itself. While the birds are still tiny dots on the horizon the call goes out “BIRDS IN THE AIR!!” The next few seconds turn into a mess of burlap sacks and brandy bottles as several hunters attempt to disguise themselves as stalks of grain. The hunters wait in anticipation as the designated caller coaxes the birds within shooting range. Honk! Honk! the hunters hear as they squish their bodies even closer to the ground. Suddenly the tension is broken “who farted” is heard from one hunter…..”crap, I can’t find my shells from another”. The wait for the birds to arrive seems like an eternity. When the hunters feel like they can’t wait another second they hear the long awaited “TAKE ‘EM” from the caller. All at once the air comes alive with gunshots. Wads are flying everywhere. The sound of thousands of bb size steel balls racing through the air is exhilarating. After 6 shooters finish expending approximately 200 rounds, the group raises up to retrieve the fallen birds. It’s at that moment they realize they have only a few tail feathers to show for all that powder burned. The brandy is passed again. Shell boxes are retrieved from the pickups and burlap sacks are re-arranged until again they hear “BIRDS IN THE AIR” and the sequence is repeated.
Goose hunting is another deal altogether. Grown men lying in a field of stubble trying to make themselves invisible to the keen eyes of a Canadian Honker is a comedy routine in itself. While the birds are still tiny dots on the horizon the call goes out “BIRDS IN THE AIR!!” The next few seconds turn into a mess of burlap sacks and brandy bottles as several hunters attempt to disguise themselves as stalks of grain. The hunters wait in anticipation as the designated caller coaxes the birds within shooting range. Honk! Honk! the hunters hear as they squish their bodies even closer to the ground. Suddenly the tension is broken “who farted” is heard from one hunter…..”crap, I can’t find my shells from another”. The wait for the birds to arrive seems like an eternity. When the hunters feel like they can’t wait another second they hear the long awaited “TAKE ‘EM” from the caller. All at once the air comes alive with gunshots. Wads are flying everywhere. The sound of thousands of bb size steel balls racing through the air is exhilarating. After 6 shooters finish expending approximately 200 rounds, the group raises up to retrieve the fallen birds. It’s at that moment they realize they have only a few tail feathers to show for all that powder burned. The brandy is passed again. Shell boxes are retrieved from the pickups and burlap sacks are re-arranged until again they hear “BIRDS IN THE AIR” and the sequence is repeated.
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