Tyson Goes OutsideEverything outdoors and adventure!

Jun 21st Bear Season

This past bear season, was likely my last hunting season for a good long while. As many of you know, Erin and I are engaged and plan on taking a trip after our wedding. This means that I will be busy, then gone, during the fall deer season and may not be back in time for the following spring bear season, there’s even a chance that I will still be gone, or just be busy readjusting, when the next fall season shows up. That means it could be up to two years before I get another chance to go hunting. But I guess that’s the way life goes when you have wanderlust.

I came into this bear season organized and ambitious. Weeks before the season opened I began cleaning out the expired food in my cupboard, fridge, and freezer, I also got several friends to do the same. I then went out to my moms farm and set up my bait. It was a basic blue metal barrel wired to a tree with some holes cut in it just big enough for a bear paw to fit in. I filled it up with old popcorn, pasta, and some ground beef that had overstayed its welcome in the freezer. I was sure to take all the wrappers off of all the food. I then built a basic ground blind about 20 yards away by nailing some old grainery wood to some trees.

20 Yards From the Blind to the Bait

My goal was simple, I wanted to shoot a bear with my recurve bow. I was well practiced out to 25 yards and felt more than confident in my abilities at 20. That said, whenever I went out to the bait I would bring a rifle with me and lean it up beside me, in case things did exactly work out for me. Needless to say my mother and my fiancee had some concerns… I guess some people have no sense of adventure these days.

The first few weeks were very uneventful, for the most part winter was still strong so bears were still in hibernation. As the weather warmed up I began to take it more seriously. Almost every weekend I would drive out to my mothers house to sit at the bear bait, I would also practice with my bow everyday I was there. I wanted to be sure I could make full use of any opportunity luck and mother nature gave me. I also made a point of being more prepared to process and save the meat from any bear I was able to shoot. To my everlasting shame; I was ill prepared the first time I shot a bear and was only able to save and eat a very small portion of it. I do take comfort in knowing it taught me a valuable lesson in being prepared, but that wastefulness still bothers me, and likely always will.

I found that changing up the target improved my accuracy

Finally the winter broke and the snow melted. There were reports of bear sightings everywhere and there was still just over a month left in the season. That gave me six weekends to get my bear, the race was on. The first of the weekends I mostly saw mosquitoes, lots and lots of them, and a mule deer that ran right passed me and the bait station as though it was being chased.

The following week, a friend of mine from work asked if I wanted all the old expired food out of his freezer, I assumed he knew I wanted bear bait… I gladly accepted the offer and said I would be by in a few days, assuming he would leave a small bag of food in the freezer for a day or two. I was mistaken, he had left a big garbage bag on the floor of his attached garage. His, then 28 weeks pregnant, wife came home to a house that smelt like old thawing meat, he got an angry text and I went straight to his house after work and picked it up. We were all aware of how close he and I had come to facing the wrath of an angry pregnant woman, far more dangerous than any bear if you ask me. The meat then sat in my detached garage for two weeks making a rather impressive stench, I imagine every dog in the neighborhood was on hi-alert that week. The following weekend I wasn’t able to go out, being an adult is terrible, far too much responsibility.

Finally a weekend arrived and I was out at the farm. I tossed the, now slightly rotten, food from my friend into the bait barrel. Its strange how often it comes in handy that I have a strong stomach for smells. The barrel now filled and emitting scent, I had a seat in the blind and waited, the first day nothing came. The second day, a coyote ran up to the bait and then changed his mind at the last second, I think he maybe spotted me shifting in my seat as he was running up. This bait was beginning to look hopeless, did I set it up wrong? was I in the wrong area?

The following weekend Erin came out with me to visit my mom and sister and do some bike riding as both my mom and sister had recently bought new bikes. Erin, not being a hunter, made it very clear that she didn’t want to sit in a mosquito infested swamp and wait for me to shoot a bear (my words not her’s)….. women right? Given how slow the season had been going so far, I felt like a weekend doing something else might be just what I needed. We arrived at the farm Saturday morning and we went to top up the bait quick, I had a little bread bag filled with some old bread, leftovers from a restaurant we went to, and some other odds and ends. We arrived at the bait to find that something had tore the bottom off of the barrel and pretty well licked it clean, there was nothing left in or around it. I folded the bottom of the barrel closed and threw my pint of food in. I knew this was trouble, if a bait goes empty bears will stop coming to it.

Torn open and emptied

I put the half a bread bag worth of food into the barrel knowing it wouldn’t last til the following weekend.

A little bit is better than nothing I guess

I was upset to find that the trail camera hadn’t taken a single photo throughout the entire incident. So I have no proof of what came there or when, for all I know it could have been Sasquatch. The rest of the weekend was spend mountain biking along the old cow trails through the woods. It was exciting and probably even more dangerous than bear hunting, Erin and I had a blast.

The second last weekend came, and I headed out of the city as fast as I could, on Friday, and stopped at a farm store on the way out. I picked up  two bags of oats mixed with molasses, I figured that would be nearly irresistible to a bear… I was tempted to eat some myself on the drive. I filled the bait, it had been emptied again, but there was so little food in it that it could have been birds or coyotes scavenging.  I sat for two days and didn’t see anything. The next weekend I went out again, it was the final weekend and I spend most of both Saturday and Sunday sitting in that blind waiting. Again, nothing showed up, and all too soon bear season was over and I had little to show for it.

No bear this season, to me, doesn’t mean a failed season.  I learned a few things and came up with a few good ideas to try again next time. In hind sight, when I saw that the bait was empty I should have ran to the farm store that day and gotten something to put in. I also should have set the trail camera up better: fresh batteries and lower to the ground for better detection. I learned that rancid meat makes way better bait than fresh meat, of course that one was kind of obvious.. Like any addicted hunter, I’ll keep trying until I succeed… then I’ll try and do it again.

Apr 24th The Hawk Kept Flying

One thing that outdoorsmen will always do, is be late getting home. No matter how long they claim they will be gone, or how long they intend to be gone, they will always be later than stated. Its not our fault really, time just changes when you’re outside, especially if you’re like me and get distracted easily.

I remember a few years ago I watched a film called “The Missing“. Its a great film and it has a quote in it that I’ve always felt struck a chord with me:

Samuel: [long pause] There’s a Apache story about a man that woke up one morning and saw a hawk on the wind. Walked outside and never returned. After he died, he met his wife in the spirit world. She asked him why he never came home, he said “Well, the hawk kept flying.”

[pause]

Samuel: There’s always the next something, Maggie. And that will take a man away.

(from WikiQuote)

Now back to where I was going with this.. Oh right, getting distracted, I guess that happens even in my writing. Anyway, I set up my bear bait just before the season opened, when it was still nice and cold outside. Not surprisingly, nothing showed up on the trail cameras over the next few weeks.

A while later, the first weekend of the season actually, I decided to go have a sit in my little handmade blind. I figured nothing would show up, there were still no pictures on the trail cameras and nothing missing from the bait barrel. I figured it would be nice to just sit and relax for an hour or so and maybe see if I could spot anything that needed adjusting, maybe some branches trimmed to give me a shooting lane, things like that. A few minutes in, I realized that my blind was in short supply of something to sit on and crouching just wasn’t pleasant. Not worrying about blowing my cover, I stood up and started to walk around the area looking for a good log I could commandeer and use as a seat. Most of the ones I found were too rotten to support my body mass. Suddenly, in front of me on the trail, there was a great big, terrifying…. pile of moose poo. Then it hit me! A thought, not the moose poo, it was stationary. Where there’s moose poo, there’s moose, where there’s moose, there’s antler sheds. So I abandoned my log hunt for a shed hunt. I didn’t find much, I never seem to do well while searching for sheds it seems.

After some walking around I came to a clearing at the edge of a pond and glanced up across it and saw two beavers sun bathing on top of their lodge. I can’t help but feel the expression “busy as a beaver” might be misleading, or are these beavers the exception?  Either way, I decided to try and get some pictures of these lazy beavers. I walked up to the waters edge and snapped a few pictures with my phone, but they just looked so far away. So, I came up with a plan, I walked back to the quad and drove it around to the far side of the pond where I could get a closer look at the beavers. I walked slowly and silently toward them, I froze like a statue every time one of them turned to look at me. Finally I was about five yards from the water and about ten yards from the lodge and they spotted me. They dove into the icy water, I crouched there silently for what felt like minutes, finally they resurfaced through the thin layer of ice. The cracking ice made that amazing sound, a mix of lazer beams and rubbing polystyrene together. They both looked right at me, I refused to move a muscle. Slowly they both swam back to their home, climbed on top of it, and started licking and shaking the water from their fur.

I slipped ever closer, this time without notice. The toes of my hunting boots were in the water, this was as close as I could get without swimming and I didn’t feel like wrecking my hair. I had my rifle with me, like I always do in the bush, I carefully maneuvered it onto a patch of grass where it would stay dry. I then dug my phone out of my pocket and snapped some more pictures. Eventually I was noticed and the beavers dove back into the water, this time seemed to have a little more panic. I decided that was enough stress for two animals trying to enjoy the sun, I grabbed my rifle and snuck back to the quad, all the while trying not to arouse anymore suspicion.

As I headed home I looked at my watch, I had been gone for almost three hours. That’s triple what I had intended, but well… the hawk kept flying… and I didn’t even get a decent picture… Still a better use of time than watching TV, if you ask me.

I have got to start carrying a real camera

Dec 18th Bits, pieces and pugs

Hey everybody, I’ve been working a lot lately and unfortunately haven’t had much of a chance for a real adventure. That doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t have anything interesting to ramble about.

As many of you are aware, I shot a deer this year. It is my largest deer to date and I am very proud of it, to the point where I’m basically bragging. Anyway, I’ll try to refrain from that on this post… no promises. The meat for this deer is currently hanging in my step-dad’s shop waiting to be butchered in to tasty roasts, steaks, jerky and all other kinds of goodness. The head has been turned in for CWD testing, which is necessary for any deer taken in the area where I got mine. Before I turned the head in I cut the antlers, and skull plate connecting them, off. I’ve had a plan for them for a while now, but  this week I finally got around to actually doing something. Here’s what I did.

First I skinned any fur, fat or meat off of the bone connecting the antlers together (skull plate). It was a little on the gross side but Rose, my dads pug, kept me company and was very interested in what I was doing. Next I took some plain table salt and rubbed it on the skull plate to absorb any moisture left on the bone or any flesh that I had missed. I then left the antlers in my dad’s shop for a few days where it could dry out. While it was drying I rounded up some supplies, I needed a plaque to mount it on, so I took some aged wood off of an old grainery. It came from the same area as the deer did, and I think that’s kinda neat. Next I needed something to cover up the skull plate. I went to a thrift shop and for $5.49 I had a nice plaid flannel shirt, it was perfect.

Most of the supplies for this project

I cut the reclaimed wood into a piece about 8×10 inches, I opted to use a small piece of wood like this to make the antlers stand out more when its on the wall. I have seen people use larger pieces of wood and it looks great, as far as I’m concerned there’s very few wrong ways to do this.

Next I cut a sleeve off of the thrift shop shirt and wrapped it around the skull plate. To make it stay in place I used hot glue, just under the base of the antlers.

Hot glue is amazingly versatile

I then cut the excess material off at the back and glued it down too. I then drilled pilot holes into both the plaque and the back of the skull. Make sure to cut the fabric with a knife before you drill, otherwise it will catch in the drill bit and ball up, its a mess. From there I put some screws in from the back, through the plaque and into the skull plate.

Lastly I needed a method to hang it. I used some short screws to attach picture hanging wire and I was done.

The back, when its all done

The front, when its all done

Now I’ve just gotta find a good place in my house to hang it.

I also think, for a laugh, I should share this.

I’m sure many of you have seen this photo before.

She’s Not Much Of A Retriever But Shes Got Spirit.

Its from an older story of mine titled “Blast from the Past”. I also posted this photo to my instagram account with the same caption. Someone felt the need to post the following comment (along with a few others but I especially like this one)

“Oh look a deranged killer that could of been helped but is now a terrible thing forcing the other to obey him or else he will be killed too the other one is a poor pug in terrible murderers hands”

I think English may not be their first language, so I wont harp on the syntax here. I think what they are trying to say is that they feel sad that Rose, the pug, is being forced to kill animals or risk being killed by me for not performing.

This might be my favorite”hate mail” (ish) comment I have ever gotten (and there are some tough contenders in this category). I find it absolutely hilarious. Some of you are likely laughing right now, and some of you might need an explanation. So allow me. Rose, has never killed, flushed, or retrieved anything… ever. Her being a hunting dog is true, in that she comes with us when we hunt, but really she just wears an awesome camo vest and tags along with us. Anyone who thinks shes in danger of being put down for not performing has never seen how much my dad spoils her. He openly admits to preferring her over his kids, that’s ok, we understand, because we kinda like her more than we like him.

It’s Important To Have A Fishing Buddy

Rose is also a rather accomplished fisherwoman. Her and I hope that doesn’t upset anyone.

This is just a bonus photo I had lying around

Nov 27th The Boot Leather Buck

I never really expected to be writing a part two of  my story “A Different Kind Of Success” but sometimes you just get lucky… and that’s about the only explanation for it.

I had been raring to go hunting since archery season opened for me in September. Unfortunately, the only deer that came in range during archery season was a small spiker buck and I opted not to shoot him because it was still so early in the season. I also kind of wanted to keep all my tags open for my mountain hunt, the one that turned out to be a bit of a wash, to put it politely. At any rate, the common word around my hunting pals was that there just weren’t many deer around this year. Hunters, far more competent and dedicated than I,  were all reporting strings of plain old bad luck. The season was looking to be about the same for me, until I found and followed some deer tracks through to trees a few weeks ago. Following these tracks and seeing where the buck was scraping, to me, was one of the most exciting things I’ve done while hunting.

The few weeks after my tracking experience were spent in the city. It just seemed there was always something that needed doing. This whole “being an adult” is really cramping my style and cutting into my hunting time. Like always, the day dreams of hunting started to creep back into my head. I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided that on Tuesday I was going back out to the prairies to get that buck. I gave him the nickname “The Boot Leather Buck” on account of all the walking I have done following him. Based on the size of his tracks and the fact that he was scraping (stirring up dirt on the ground with his hooves) and not rubbing his horns on trees, I assumed it was likely a small deer. Probably young and ambitious, and based on the shortage of big buck sightings this year, has yet to be put in his place by a bigger male. I didn’t care, at this point I didn’t want A deer. I wanted THAT deer, the boot leather buck.

Tuesday morning I drove Erin, my wife, to work, and headed into my works office (I work in the field and had to drop off paperwork). One thing led to another and I ended up staying for over an hour catching up with some of the guys, instead of my projected few minutes to file paperwork. Finally I was out of there, and headed home to pack. One thing led to another and I ended up taking longer than usual, it seems there’s always just one more thing I need to do before I leave the house. Finally I was packed and out of the house, now I had to swing by my dads shop before I hit the road to my mom’s house. I never make the mistake of thinking I can make a quick stop at my dads shop. I went there so that we could do a quick test drive of the car he and I have been working on. I’ve nicknamed it the “Radillac” and have been posting pictures and videos of it to Instagram as we rebuilt it. It has been a lot of work, but its nearly done. On this particular day, we tinkered with the carburetor, drove it around, tinkered with the carburetor, drove it around, and tinkered with the carburetor. Finally we were about done for the day because I wanted to be on the road to my mom’s by 1:30. I pulled the car into the shop and woooosh! A hose fell off and there was engine coolant and steam everywhere. We cleaned up the mess on the floor and at 2:30 I was headed for the door. On my way out my dad gave me a wrist watch he ordered me online for about $7 to thank me for helping him with the car. I feel I should explain, I like nice stuff, I really do. But there’s just a certain charm or personality that comes with a cheap watch, an old rugged gun, or a truly terrible car. I dont know what it is but I just have such a soft spot for them.

I made it to my moms house, just before dark but still too late to hunt. I chatted with my mom and step-dad for a bit and eventually I went to bed. While lying in bed I started tinkering with my new watch and found that it had an alarm and stop watch. I set the alarm for 6:30 and went to bed.

Beeeeep beeeeep beeeeep! It was 6:30 and my watch was expelling that awful noise that all watch alarms make. I had no clue how to shut it off and just kind of hit every button until it stopped, then I hoped I didn’t hit some kind of snooze button. I fell back asleep because… well I’m kinda lazy in the morning and I find I have better luck with evening hunts anyway. I slowly clawed my way out of bed and into the first few layers of my hunting clothes and wander into the kitchen. My mom gave me some breakfast, that perked me up a bit. I headed back to my room and loaded on the rest of my hunting gear; layers of clothing, range finder, doe bleat call, coyote call (in case I spot one), bottle of water, granola bar, some cartridges for my rifle, my lucky Buff, and my sunglasses. I laced up my boots and headed out the door. It was cold out, about -20c which isn’t too bad when its not windy and you’re not still tired, neither were the case. I put my wool gloves over my thin glove liners, and pull my buff over my mouth and nose, then clipped the bottom of my fake fur hat under my chin. It kept the heat in but it fogged my glasses, I pulled them off, there’s no way I was exposing my face to this cold at this time of day.

I wandered through the fresh snow, it was coming just over my boot and up the shin of my pants, nearly a foot deep of fresh powder. Not the easiest to walk in, but at least it was light snow and not too loud to walk on, which is a big bonus when you’re hunting. I walked the long way around to get to where I had seen and followed deer tracks and scrapes a few weeks before. My plan was to make a big loop around where I think he’s moving, instead of walking through it (which was the only other option). I walked around the field to the north west corner of the swamp on the north east corner of the field. I thought the buck was moving from the east side of the swamp along the fence line to a patch of trees south of the swamp. Between the swamp and the trees where I found the rub is a treeless patch of field 20 meters wide and 75 meters long with the eastern fence line on one side and a patch of trees on the other. My plan was to walk the edge of the swamp, opposite of where I thought the deer was, making my way to the patch of trees near the large opening and wait for him. All day if I had to.

I walked slowly along the swamp stopping frequently and looking through the trees for movement. Historically I have seen a lot of coyotes and mule deer in this area, but this time I just saw trees. Finally I arrived at my destination, the patch of trees. I was quickly disheartened when I realize I forgot to take into account how hilly this open section is. If I hid where I wanted to I would only be able to see a portion of what I wanted to. I started to formulate another plan, I was going to hide in the trees along the edge of where the swamp meets the field. I spotted what appeared to be a good sitting log, it was about the right height,and  looked good and sturdy. I walked up and just before I started sweeping snow off I noticed movement through the trees. My first thought is a coyote but as I looked more closely I realized it was a buck walking toward me. As it got closer, maybe 150 yards now I realized its a nice whitetail buck. I was shocked and excited that the buck in this area was much larger than I had thought, but now I cant shoot him because of all the trees and brush in the way. The path he was on ran between the swamp and a steep ridge, all I had to do was keep quiet and he would walk out on the trail 15 meters to my right. I watched with excitement until he disappeared behind some heavy trees. I found a clear line of sight for a shot, it was a small opening in the trees at the bottom of a short but steep hill just before the trial entered the field, once in the field I could shoot as soon as he faced broadside. I slowly spun the ring on my scope and brought it down to 3x zoom, if there was going to be a shot, it would be at close range.

A lot of time passed after I lost sight of him behind the trees, I worried that he took a trail I didn’t know about, or smelled me and ran off. I slowly started to work down the zipper of my jacket pocket to fish out my doe bleat. Maybe I could use the sound of a female to lure him back. I cracked that zipper about half an inch. Then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a deer walking in snow. I pulled my hand slowly from my pocket and shouldered my rifle. I aimed it through the opening in the trees and froze with amazement as he walked through my sights. He was way bigger than I expected and way closer than I have ever been to a live deer, maybe 20 yards away. He picked up a bit of speed as he went up the hill and I was sure he spotted me. With my scope I followed his silhouette behind the brush. If he went into a full run, I would be ready at the top of the hill. He reached the top of the hill and stopped to look around. He was only 10 or 15 meters from me and glanced right past me. To him I was invisible. I took aim and  squeezed the trigger and my old .243 let the world know it still had some fight left in it. The deer perked up and jogged forward another 10 meters as though nothing was wrong, and then looked around. The way he reacted, I wasn’t sure I hit him. I ran the action of my rifle to load another of my hand-made cartridges. I took aim and squeezed again, there was no mistake this time. First the front fell, and then the back. He was still.

I pulled back the sleeve of my jacket to expose $7 wrist watch my dad had given me the day before. I started the stop watch feature. When I shoot a deer, I like to wait 15 minutes before approaching it. I do this for a lot of reasons, and you guessed it, I’m going to tell them to you. A deer that is shot and down might still be alive. If you run up to it, you will scare it and it could attack you or it could run away frightened and now you have to track it and find it instead of just watch and wait. During this time you can mentally prepare for how you’re going to handle the animal. When I first started hunting I was told a simple truth, the work starts when you pull the trigger. That 15 minutes helps you organize your thoughts and make a plan to make your life easier, and you’ll need it because you’ve got a lot of work coming your way. Lastly, and in a way most important to me, this animal just gave me its life. It gave me literally all it could give me, its earned 15 minutes of peace to itself at the end and in a way that time is me giving it a moment of silence out of respect and appreciation.

Its hard to get a good photo when you’re by yourself. Any suggestions?

I called the house to let everyone know that I had gotten a deer and that I might need some help getting it back. Since my mom was the only one home at the time I decided to field dress the animal  to make it lighter for loading. While field dressing, I noticed both shots had been right on point. I then walked back to the house with an understandable amount of speed and excitement. Fired up the truck and grabbed a loading ramp. My mom jumped in, in case I needed help. We arrived and got some quick photos, then I drug the deer up the ramp and into the box of the truck, my mom helped… kinda. We got it home and into the garage where I finished cleaning it up and its currently waiting to be butchered.

The Boot Leather Buck

Its pretty close, but I believe this is my largest buck to date. I doubt I’ll ever get it measured and scored, to me its not about that. To me its about the miles and miles of walking and following tracks. Its about the books I read about deer and hunting. The hours of sitting on frozen logs and cold boulders watching seemingly barren game trails. All to have it end up with finding the right place and having the luck of being there at just the right time. I hunted for days and days this year. I put more into this hunting season than any other. I was at the trees for maybe 5 minutes that morning before I got this deer. If people didn’t know how much effort I put in on the previous days, today would make hunting look easy. Hunting is a sport of luck, luck that can be swayed with skill, experience, and determination. If you asked me, I would likely say luck played the largest factor.

Nov 20th A Different Kind of Success

Many deer hunters, myself included, tend to measure success based on antler size, or sometimes amount of deer tags filled. Once in a while, however, I am reminded that there is so much more to hunting than inches of antler and pounds of meat. I recently had one of the most interesting and memorable days of hunting of my life so far… and I didn’t even see a deer.

It started when I went out to my mom and step-dad’s farm for some deer hunting. Its mostly rolling fields of prairie farm land, which usually means whitetail heaven. I was, unfortunately, a little early in the season and wasn’t seeing much moving and the few people in the area I was able to ask said the same thing “there just doesn’t seem to be as much action this year.” Never the less, I decided to do a few laps around the fields to try and spot something. On the second day my mother and I decided to go for a quad ride, mostly because she wanted to and she wanted me to open the gates for her. While on our ride she showed me something she had found earlier. Two thick trees, about 12 to 14 inches in diameter and both dead but still standing, had been torn apart. The first had mark that looked like a deer rub but far too high off the ground to be a white tail, our best guess is a moose rubbing his big paddles. The second was far too low and gouged too deep to be antlers rubbing, which led us to think maybe a bear digging for insects. It does seem strange that they are only about 10 yards apart, but that does seem the most likely scenario.

Does this look like the work of a black bear to you?

The first few days the weather was just above zero with no snow on the ground, but then the mercury plummeted and the snow began to fall. Many old timers firmly believe that the deer mating season, referred to as the “rut”, is triggered by a cold snap. I was excited about the cold snap and the possibility of the rut starting. The rut is characterized by male deer running around desperately looking for females to the point of apparent stupidity, much like myself in high school, except I think usually deer find a mate. That reminds me of a funny story, but I’ll save it for when I’ve had a bit too much to drink. I’m rambling… let me get back to this story.

On the second to last day of my hunting trip, it snowed about three inches, and then went calm…dead calm. That day I went out and saw a lot of wildlife; 3 whitetail does (running away at full speed), 2 mule deer does (bounding passed in the woods), and 3 coyotes. I didn’t get a chance at a shot on the whitetail does as they were running away at top speed and the coyotes were in nice tall grass so I couldn’t take much of a crack at them either. I ended the day in a small patch of bush in the middle of a field so I could watch what appeared to be a rather active game trail. Sadly nothing showed.

The next day I overslept and missed my chance at a morning hunt (deer tend to be most active around sunrise and sunset). I grabbed some breakfast and decided to donate some more of my boot leather to the landscape before I headed home and possibly back to work. I opted to walk what we refer to as “The Loop” which is exactly what it sounds like, a big loop around the entire section of land. As I reached the the most northern part of the trail, this is also the farthest from the house, I spotted some deer tracks. I had just been reading up on deer hunting and had learned that male deer, bucks, tend to walk with a wide gate, while females will leave foot prints almost in a straight line. These tracks belonged to a buck, the quick fall of snow followed by calm weather meant that the tracks were well preserved and visible. On a whim I decided to follow them. First they led me north east to the farthest corner of my parents land. It was a heavily treed patch that, despite my years living on the farm, I never bothered to explore too deeply. As I wandered deeper and deeper following these tracks into the woods I discovered that what I thought was a patch of spruce trees around a swamp, was actually four swamps buried in the trees. I later found out that it used to be one large pond. The tracks led me out of the swamp southbound along the eastern fence and into another quarter section of land where the spruce was replaced with willow trees. For a brief time, his tracks overlapped mine from the day before, I lied to myself and day dreamed that it was tracking me, just like I was tracking it. I followed the tracks along the old game trails. I had been going for several kilometers now and the trail was separated from my old tracks and was beginning to narrow. Suddenly my belief that I was following a buck was confirmed, there were scrapes along the trail. Bucks, before and during mating season will scraped dirt with their paws and antlers and urinate on a patch about the size of a place mat, they will also rub a scent gland, located just below their eye, on an overhanging branch. This buck I was following left nearly half a dozen in about a one kilometer stretch. He was really trying to establish dominance over this area, and all the ladies in it.

One of many scrapes on the trial.

As I wandered through the narrow paths, losing and picking up the trail every time they crossed the bent-over, snow-less, slough grass, I could feel my heart pounding and my hands freezing. I knew it was a long shot, especially since I was making so much noise against the willows leaning in on the trail, but I was keeping my rifle ready and partially shouldered just in case I wasn’t that far behind, or if he doubled back to make sure the noise wasn’t another buck moving in on his turf. Eventually the trail doubled back on itself and I lost the bucks track in a mess of cattle tracks. I searched closely but all I could see was over sized bovine prints. I guess the interest and excitement of following a deer’s every move had to end somehow, though I’ll admit it was a little anticlimactic. But that’s how hunting goes I guess. I do think it was really neat to see how many scrapes that deer left and just to study where and how it moved. Even if I didn’t get a deer, time spent hunting is never wasted (though some days it can really feel like it). Plus if I get time to hunt some more this year I know exactly where to look for an ambitious buck that will probably come running to the sound of a doe bleat… Ill let you know how that goes.

Nov 6th Tyson Wanders Into The Mountains

The Setup

This hunt began, as many hunts do, as a day dream many years ago. For as long as I’ve been hunting I have been thinking about how awesome it would be to wander up the side of a mountain and return with a bighorn sheep on my back, one of the most prized hunting trophies in North America.

One day while at work, I concocted some excuse to get away from the rig and go to the nearest town. While in town, I noticed they had an outdoor shop. Since it was late in the summer I figured the new hunting regulations booklet might be out so I went in and luckily they were kind enough to give me a copy. I thumbed through it as I always do, checking species and dates against the various WMUs (Wildlife Management Units) that my friends and family lived on. One thing kept popping up in the corner of my eye: 410, archery only. There was just an amazing amount of wildlife available for hunting in this seemingly mythical 410, and it was all archery only. I investigated further and found that it was a small chunk of mountain near Canmore. It was set, this was now the plan.

I booked two weeks off work, one at the end of October for the mountains, and one at the start of November for deer season near home or possibly to stay longer in the mountains if I was just having too much fun. I realized early on that the very few people in my friend group who were interested in accompanying me weren’t going to be able to find the time. So this would be a solo hunt. People have done solo hunts for as long as people have hunted, so why can’t I?

I began planning, prepping, and buying. Lordy, did I buy a lot of gear. I finally cracked and bought a properly insulated hunting suit. Previously I had just layered a lot of old jackets and hoodies etc. Now I had proper base layers, hiking poles, a GPS unit, and a personal locator beacon (so I could call for help if needed). A friend of mine was kind enough to lend me his food dehydrator and give me a crash course on how to use it. I spent days dehydrating and packing meals based on his award winning combinations (1/2 cup of starch, , 1/4 cup of veggies, and 1/4 cup of proteins). The meals I concocted were mostly 1/2 cup of rice or quinoa with 1/4 cup of bell peppers or broccoli and 1/4 of salmon (please note these portions are measured out after dehydration). From there, all I had to do was add in 1 cup of water bring the whole thing to a boil and simmer for a few minutes. Let it cool and its ready to eat.

The Dehydrator Hard At Work. (I was later informed to cut the veggies into much smaller pieces)

I Decided To Cook Some Up And Make Sure It Was Edible Before The Trip, It Was Very Tasty.

After dehydrating and testing the food, I partitioned the meals into plastic freezer bags which were then put into larger plastic bags along with everything else I intended to eat on each day. In each pack I had two packages of instant oatmeal, two tea bags, a few granola bars for lunches and snacks throughout the day, and a dehydrated meal for dinner.

One Day Worth Of Food.

Next I packed my bag for the trip, I brought a lot of gear, but it was all things that I felt were essential (this is everything I can remember packing):

1 65L Internal frame backpack

2 Buffs (one to wear as a toque while sleeping and one to wear while out hunting)

1 spotting scope and tripod

1 two person tent

1 down sleeping bag and liner

1 emergency bivy

2 sets of base layers (one pair for sleeping in)

1 fleece jacket and pants (mid layers)

1 toque

1 two-piece hunting suit

1 pair of hunting boots

3 pairs of wool socks and boxer brief under pants

2 pairs of gloves that can be worn over each other if it gets too cold

2 hiking poles

1 water filter

2 maps of the area (one topographic and one showing the hunting/no hunting areas)

1 compass

1 GPS

1 GPS emergency beacon

1 can of bear spray

1 folding saw (for cutting branches and/or bone)

1 hunting knife

1 multi-tool

1 range finder

1 pair of 10x binoculars and harness

1 deck of cards (for entertainment purposes)

1 flashlight

1 headlamp

Spare batteries for all electronics (4 AAA and 2 AA)

2 old tobacco tins filled with fire starter (dryer lint and Vaseline mixed together)

1 basic first aid kit

1 stick of scent free deodorant

1 tooth brush and tooth paste

1 roll of flagging tape

1 trowel and roll of toilet paper

1 tomahawk (lighter and more versatile that a hatchet, plus I can say I own a tomahawk and my inner child likes that idea)

multiple carabineers

hunting tags

1 cook stove and cooking pot

2 fuel canisters for the stove

2 disposable lighters

handful of strike anywhere matches

1 pack of game bags (cheese cloth to help transport meat down the mountain, if I get lucky)

50 feet of para-chord (just handy stuff)

20 feet of nylon rope (also very handy)

1 Camera

1 Bow

1 bow sling to attach the bow to my pack

6 arrows

1 trigger release

2 water bottles

7 day’s worth of food

1 mp3 player and 1 cell phone (I have music and books on both and according to the sunrise/sunset tables I was facing about 14 hours of darkness a day)

Most Of My Gear On The Spare Bedroom’s Floor.

Everything Fit, But Just Barely.

While I was prepping for the trip I asked anyone I could think of for advice and tips. Very few people had much to say, but a few common themes emerged. First, good boots are a must, and second, hunt from the top down. Simply put, get to the highest peak and look below, because very few animals bother to look for danger from above.

I also did some incredibly brief scouting of the area when Erin and I were headed back from our Yoho trip. All we had time to do was find the trail head. I figured that would be enough since I had done so much hiking in the mountains before. The trail was described as  “a dried river bed” so naturally I assumed it was relatively flat with a bit of an upward grading.

Go Time

It was Saturday, and I knew I had to be back the following Friday because I had myself booked for laser eye surgery the following day. Now was the best chance I was going to get. My plan was simple, drive from my house in Edmonton to the trail head near Canmore, spend the night in my SUV, and hit the trail first thing in the morning.

It was a long drive and I daydreamt most of the way there. The closer I got to the trail, the more excited I got. Finally I arrived and went to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily due to nervous excitement, and a rather active set of train tracks nearby.

The next morning I awoke with the sun. I called Erin and chatted with her while I got changed and organized to hit the trail.  I suited up and hit the trail. The temperature was about 5 degrees which was perfect; I didn’t want to overheat during the hike.

The trail was a pleasant dirt path through the trees that slowly transformed into a river bed of rubble all about the size of apples. The walking was rough and slippery, but I had hiking poles and big feet (size 14), so it wasn’t too bad. Gradually the trail started to get worse; it was no longer a gentle river bed, but appeared to be more of an old rock slide. After a few hours I stopped for a rest and a snack break. I surveyed the area. It was a beautiful rocky trail framed by cliffs, many of which had eye bolts and climbing ropes hanging off them. Looks like fun, but I don’t like heights.

I was becoming aware of my stomach starting to hurt, I took a large swig of water and passed a bit of gas… a second later I turned around and there was an older gentleman standing 30 feet behind me and I jumped.

“Sorry” he said “I thought you heard me walk up.”

“Nope, you scared the bejesus out of me” I laughed.

We made some casual conversation and he mentioned he was only doing a day hike. He wished me luck and headed off at a much faster pace than my pack and I could achieve. I hiked for another few hours, and the trail continued to worsen. At this point it, was similar to walking over a line of cars in a junk yard, the hard way. I stopped for lunch, admired the beauty of the area, and sent in a check in with my locator beacon. I then whipped out my GPS and compared it to my map.

According to my GPS, I had hiked about 1/4 the distance I had intended to hike that day. The landscape, my pack, and my physical condition were forcing me to go substantially slower than expected, a rough estimate is about 1 to 2 km/hr. Usually in the mountains, Erin and I average about 4 km/hr. This was disheartening because my intention was to haul out anything I shot over several trips since I was alone and had a smaller than usual pack.

Typically an external frame pack is used for hunting because they can haul more weight, but I just couldn’t afford one for this trip. I did the math, and if a one way trip in or out took an entire day, that meant shooting an animal would take about 8 days to haul out, I had 5 days total to hunt. At this rate anything I shot ran the risk of being left behind to spoil, and I wasn’t willing to lower myself to wasting meat like that. No trophy is worth my integrity.

After lunch, I decided to press on for a bit to see if the trail got better. Worst case, I could still hike, camp, and scout around a bit for next year. I had my camera, maybe I could get some good wildlife photos with it. A short while later, I ran into the older gentleman again. He was on his way back. Excitedly I asked “did you go all the way to the end?” if he made it in that time I could easily make it before dark.

“No” he replied “the trail got too difficult, so I turned back.”

“I’m thinking of doing the same” I confessed.

We chatted a bit, and I told him my plan to hike a bit farther and have a look for myself, he wished me luck and was off.

I wandered for about another 45 minutes on the worsening trail. I had now lightly rolled both my ankles multiple times, but it could have been a lot worse. Those hiking poles were a life saver.  Finally, I reached where the maps had shown streams draining into the trail on which I was walking. Maybe they could offer a side track to a closer camp site I could hunt from. I was wrong. When I found them, they more closely resembled water falls than rivers, walking up their dried beds would make the rest of my hike look like a casual stroll on the boardwalk.

I pulled off my pack and had a seat to think. I drank some water and looked at the snow coming in and pulled my Buff a little higher on my neck to keep the cold wind off. I pulled out my camera and took a few pictures of the mountains, then I grabbed my GPS and marked the spot as  “Tyson’s Shame”. I was turning around, and I wanted to remember this spot when I hike passed it next time. I ate a granola bar; it tasted like failure, embarrassment… and peanut butter.

View From The End Of My Trail.

I loaded my pack on, propped myself up with the poles, and slowly trudged down the mountain. Going downhill was only slightly better than uphill. It was a long and sad walk back to the start of the trail, but it gave me time to reflect on where I went wrong. All the failings of this attempt had completely been my fault.

The first failure was improper footwear. I was told to get specific mountaineering boots with way more ankle support than you’d ever think necessary. The experienced man who suggested them compared them to ski boots. I thought my high topped insulated hunting boots would be fine, but they lacked the ankle support. Days after the hunt I went and looked at a set of the “right” boots. They were about half the weight, and with all my strength I couldn’t bend the ankle sideways.

The second failure was the pack. I brought a 65L internal frame pack, great for hiking, backpacking, and travelling, but for hunting you need the added size (usually 100+L) and rigidity of an external frame. This would have allowed me to haul out a sheep in a single trip, meaning I could take even two days to hike in or out and it wouldn’t have mattered much.

The last and (if you ask me) most important issue was that I just wasn’t in good enough shape. I’m no stranger to mountains and heavy packs, but this trail was something beyond my skill level, and it’s a whole other league of fitness to do it with heavy hunting boots and insulated clothes on.

When I finally reached my truck in the parking lot, I stripped out of my clothes and felt light enough to jump over the truck, but tired enough to have trouble opening the door. I packed my gear away and called Erin and my dad to let them know I had to pull the plug and that I was coming home. Erin was sad to hear it, she knew what this trip meant to me. My dad offered his condolences and offered me several reasonable excuses: it’s a hard thing to do alone, hard to do late in the season, it’s your first time doing it, etc.

While some of those things are true, there is only one reason why this hunt failed. This hunt failed because I was unprepared, plain and simple. I was offered advice and I didn’t take it. I am now working out every day, and when I go back I’ll be sure to have the right gear. I’m not done with mountain hunting just yet.

Since writing this story I  have had time to talk to a few hunters who can easily be described as older and wiser than me. They have unanimously agreed that I learned a lesson about hunting the only way one can really learn about hunting, first hand experience. They can tell you everything they know, but it won’t stick until you go out and do it. Achievement or failure I am still glad to have had this experience I feel I did learn a lot. I was also recently reminded of how lucky I was to have the lifestyle that allows me to at least try and go hunting in the mountains, or even to visit the great Canadian Rockies. And hey, there’s still time left for white tail season at home, where I can sleep in a nice warm bed in a heated house, eating actual meals… I dont think I could ever get tired of that.

Oct 16th Sportsmen and The Internet

Last weeks article got a few positive responses so here’s the other half of what was originally a very long rant. Again, I would love to know what you all think of it.

I like the internet, well mostly the idea of it actually. I live and work in Alberta, Canada. Thanks to the internet, people anywhere in the world can hear what I have to say, if they so choose. I can also hear them, which is great (but I sometimes wish I couldn’t). Thanks to the internet, I have had conversations with South Africans, Americans, Germans and many many more about what being a hunter and sportsmen is like for them in their country. It’s an amazing thing to think about when you compare it to what life was like 100 years ago. Back then you were lucky to have a pen pal that far away. The internet, and our usage of it, amazes me. Anyone of us can learn almost anything we want on the internet for free. Many universities publish their course materials and there are even free online education sites which means anyone who can get online can get the same (unofficial) education that any university offers. But how many do? I certainly haven’t logged into Khan Academy and learned about finance, history, or grammar (that last one I really should work on). So what do we use the internet for? Besides cat pictures that is. The lighter side is the sharing of ideas and making of friends. The darker side of the internet is that it provides both a voice and anonymity to absolutely anyone and in my experience, for the most part, this has never ended well, especially for those that fall into any minority of any culture or civilization.

The internet is rife with faceless racism, sexism, homophobia and hatred of really anything I can think of. I dare you to find me one thing, anything, that isn’t hated by someone on the internet. This bothers me deeply, I have a hard time dealing with hatred towards anyone. Despite being a straight, white, middle class (ish?) male, literally the most non-minority possible, I have more than once been driven to feeling physically ill from the awful things I have seen displayed on the internet. That is the result of both the best and worst thing on the internet.

No matter who you are and what you do, you can find people like you on the internet. If you have severe social anxiety and a love of muscle cars, there is probably a website full of people like you. On the same coin, if someone hates something they can find it and ridicule it from behind the mask that the internet so easily provides.

I love hunting and as you can tell I like talking about hunting. I’m a member of several social media groups and often converse and offer congratulations to other hunters. I occasionally offer tips, but honestly usually I’m asking for them. At the same time, those who hate hunting have easy access to ridicule and mock those who like hunting. Yes, the block button does exist but that’s more damage control than prevention, and at what point is it infringement on freedom of speech? Also blocking only acts to stop you from seeing what they are saying, not stopping them from saying it about you.

A few quick examples from my experience: When I first started blogging I also started a twitter account, I met many fellow sportsmen and sportswomen from all over the globe. However, I received enough hateful comments, mostly on account of a picture of my bear skin rug that I decided to shut down my account. No matter how much you block it seems there is always someone willing to tell you they hope something bad happens to you and your family. I have a lot of screen shots of the hate mail, but most of them contain the kind of language I don’t want on this website. On my pinterest account I will occasionally post photos from my blog with links to the stories in an attempt at shameless self-promotion. Since then I have seen my photos be “pinned” exclusively to boards titled “evil” or “scum” or anything along those lines. It’s an interesting feeling to know that some people believe you fall into the same social circles as war criminals, murderers, rapists, pedophiles, and dog fighting rings. I’ve never considered myself an evil person. I help stranded people on the highway. I’ve walked back into the store to pay for an item the teller missed scanning. I make point of holding the door for people. To my knowledge the only evil shortcoming I have, according to the internet, is my love of hunting. Am I a bad person? I don’t feel like a bad person. Do bad people FEEL like bad people? I have looked into the science behind conservation and the ethics of hunting an animal and it still adds up as acceptable and reasonable to me. Of course I am likely prone to confirmation bias.

I intend to keep hunting as long as I can, until it be age, fatal accident, or complete outlawing of hunting that prevents me from doing it. Based on my cautious nature, love of adventure, and the way the wind seems to blow in our modern times, all three seem equally likely. It’s just a sad reality for hunters that we are severely outnumbered by people who don’t like hunting or at the very least are indifferent towards it, meaning they aren’t likely to help us stand up for our rights. Reading my old hunting novels and articles it saddens me to see how much ground hunters have lost in regards to rights. Things like countries banning hunting all together and other countries banning import of trophies no matter how legally they were hunted. Oddly I have found sources that claim both of these things have actually increased poaching and decreased animal populations. But I’m sure we could find people claiming the opposite. I do think that at this rate I’m already living a somewhat antiquated lifestyle. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if someday my grandkids show off my old bear skin rug, deer heads, and my old hunting rifle (likely rendered inoperable by law at that point) to their friends as a novelty, much like you would show off old farm and pioneer equipment. Almost in a “can you believe people used to do this” sort of way. I always wanted to be a cowboy, I guess I’ll just have to settle for being a dying breed.

I am a rather small time guy in the blogging world. I have low enough traffic that if you email me your mailing address I’ll send you a thank you card with a letter inside, for real, I’ve got the time. As such the backlash I receive is comparatively small and inconsequential, outside of some hurt feelings and the occasional laugh at creative language, it doesn’t actually change my life. I am, however, often amazed at the infamy and treatment hunters get once their photos get more publicity than usual. It’s often famous hunters called out by famous actors, or organizations but in rare occasions its people with about the same fame as me, who just have the wrong person stumble into a photo of an amazing hunting accomplishment. Next thing you know their face is all over the internet “debating” just how evil they are, followed by death threats and personal attacks as well as attacks on the entire institution of hunters. If its men it’s usually attacks on their masculinity, if its women it’s usually attacks at their physical appearance. Which, if you ask me, shows our societies underlying insecurities and shameful double standards. Is hunting wrong? There is science on both sides and more than enough people to argue it. I don’t know the answer, I just know my opinion and I am happy to keep it. All I know for sure is that it strikes me as unacceptable to talk to each other like this, whether it’s anonymous or not, and I have seen this hatred comes from both sides of the fence. On the plus side, everyone ever attacked by the seemingly singular hive mind of the internet has had their infamy short lived. Look up any old controversial issue or news story, look up those tweets with millions of angry comments, they’re nearly abandoned. People have marched on to the next hot debate, leaving the earth scorched and salted behind them. I’m sure Melissa Bachmann is still having a hard time getting sponsors and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Corey Knowlton was still expending a large portion of his net worth on private security for his young family. Axelle Despiegelaere lost her modelling contract, and likely won’t find a company willing to take the heat for something so controversial. These people’s lives were thrown into a wild tail spin because the internet didn’t like what they do and even after the mob has moved on there’s still a lot to clean up. Keep in mind that these people weren’t breaking the law in any way, shape, or form when they became the subject of public scrutiny.

You’re probably asking yourselves “Where the hell is he going with this?” Honestly I don’t have an answer. Sorry about that. I guess I just felt like sharing my thoughts on globalization making adventure a much rarer thing. Honestly that’s probably for the best considering that more people have access to medicine and the average life span has increased dramatically in most places. I also just wanted to get it out there that I think the internet holds up a mirror that has the capacity to show us the worst part of ourselves and our society. Again, I’ll still vote to keep it because it does do some good and the potential for it is amazing and I know somewhere out there someone is using it for good, even if that’s just self-improvement. Until then I suppose I’ll do my best to stay outside and try to ignore the digital hatred I get for being who and what I am. Sorry to bring everybody down, I’ll try and have an actual story for you soon and I’ll even try to make it funny. Lastly, since you suffered through these two hodgepodge articles mapping my strange thought process, I was serious about that thank you card thing and if you don’t believe me send me your mailing address to TysonGoesOutside@gmail.com

Sep 11th Blast From The Past

I have always had a soft spot for antiques and just generally old stuff. Some people, who I may or may not be dating, sometimes accuse me of hoarding. I like to think of it as preserving history and like all hoarders I fall back on “its all good stuff”… old coins, books, and various odds and ends. I have a real tendency to lean towards more historical prairie items like my used day planer from 1912, its interesting to see the price of cattle back then or old school books from small towns where the only thing left of the school, is a patch of grass that grows a little darker where the frame used to be. Mixing this with my love for the outdoors, and possibly idolizing Jed Clampett when I was younger, I often find myself drawn to old guns, especially a nice double barrel shotgun. I have stumbled across a few older doubles, the first I found was a 12 gauge made by “Tobin” as best we (by which I mean my step dad and all his books on the subject) could tell, it was made somewhere around 1910. The next was a .410 labelled as a “El Faison” a beautiful little gun that I certainly didn’t pay much for and according to the internet was made in Spain and is worth between $50 and $1500. So hopefully someday someone with too much money will want to buy it from me.

The last old double I purchased was a “New Haven Arms” in 12 gauge with a Damascus barrel meaning it can only use old style black powder cartridges.  These cartridges now have to be hand made, luckily for me I bought the gun off of a coworker who threw in a few shells he had made. Some are a nice full length brass cartridge just like it would have shot when it was new, and some are modern plastic hulled shells that have been cut down, refilled, and glued shut. Its a rather hodgepodge looking affair but they fire every time, so who am I to question his methods.

Left: Remake of a Brass Cartridge. Right: Modern Cartridge Cut Down and Refilled.

Shortly after purchasing the gun I did some research on it and turned up very little information. As best I can tell it was either made in or imported to Portugal at some point in its life, based on the stamping under the barrel. Lastly it is at least 150 years old. It is also labelled “Interchangeable” on the side which tells me that somewhere in its long life it has lost a few barrels.

This passed week I was lucky enough to have some time off work, and this time of year that means only one thing… grouse hunting. Grouse hunting has got to be one of my favorite forms of hunting, its usually during relatively warm fall weather. Grouse typically spend their time in the ditches along gravel quad trails which means they can be hunted by walking and looking for them or driving a quad to cover more ground. The trade off with the quad is that you cover more ground but are more likely to drive right passed them as their camouflage makes them the envy of the hunting industry. The last reason I am so fond if hunting them is that they are a small animal that is easy to clean, its not a large time, space and labor commitment like with big game hunting. Its just a much more relaxed form of hunting, you walk around in a fall jacket looking at the falling leaves. If you’re lucky enough to encounter what you’re after, it doesn’t result in a lot of hard work, and if all else fails, you went for a lovely fall walk.

I decided to take the old “New Haven” shotgun out with me hunting this time, I hadn’t shot it much since I got it and I figured my dad would like to see it. Him, Rose the pug, and myself loaded into his side by side quad and started driving down the trails. The leaves were still on the trees which gave the birds a lot of cover, its a pretty safe assumption that we drove right passed a few and didn’t even realize it. Finally after only a few hours of touring the country side our trail came to a dead end as the result of a large downed tree. We stopped to take a break while my dad answered some phone calls, when you run a business you’re always on call. While he chatted away about various lengths of light bars available I grabbed my old shotgun, scrambled over the downed tree and wandered up the trail on foot. A few hundred yards down the trail I heard the quiet yet unmistakable gobbling and clucking of a grouse. I froze and slowly turned, there it was, perched on a log, slowly wandering away from me. There was a lot of brush and branches in the way so I slowly moved forward to find a shooting lane. I found a clear line of sight and the bird was only about 5 meters away, it hopped up on a log and started to bounce like it was prepping for takeoff. I shouldered the old gun and cocked back the hammer and fired in one smooth motion. That old gun spit fire, thunder, and smoke, a lot of smoke, the kind of smoke only black powder and high performance diesel trucks can produce. After a few long seconds the smoke cleared and there it was, my first grouse of the year, taken with a shotgun older than Alberta’s provincial status. I was happy to see it was a quick clean kill and I had managed to not hit the breast meat. I picked up the grouse, threw the shotgun over my shoulder and headed back to the quad.  I could hear my dad yelling to his dog to go see, needless to say the dog was pretty interested.

She’s Not Much Of A Retriever But Shes Got Spirit.

The rest of the day I couldn’t help but wonder how much game that shotgun has taken in its career, and what variety. I usually have a tendency to baby antiques and keep them in storage, after this hunt I’m starting to understand what an old coworker said to me. We were talking about hunting rifles and he mentioned that he still used an old Husqvarna rifle that his grandfather had given him. I joked that it should be in a museum to which he quickly replied “no, it should be out hunting, that’s what its built for, and that’s what it wants to do.” In a lot of way he has a point, how would you rather be treated? Left in storage and taken out only on sunny days or out proving you’ve still got what it takes to get the job done?

So what can we learn from this old shotgun of mine? Firstly, a gun will last a very long time if you take care of it, so do your maintenance and buy a gun that you like not just one that you need, because you and your great grand kids might have it for a very long time. Lastly, just because somethings old doesn’t mean its not useful or able to kick some butt, so go visit or call your aging relatives. My guess is they can still do things that would surprise you, or  at the very least tell you something worth hearing.