Some thoughts on Christmas

This whole Chrismakwanzukka thing has gotten out of control. Now the mouth-breathers that are so concerned over the feelings and beliefs of others have opted to start sending out invitations to their holiday parties and dolling out their most sincere holiday wishes. Bullocks to all that noise! It's called C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S, which is a contraction of Christ's Mass, derived from the Old English word Christ mæsse (taken from wikipedia). I can see nothing wrong with saying, Merry Chrismas AND/OR Happy Hanukkah, but this whole holiday vibe has got to go. That's really all I've got to say about that.

With that I'll leave you with the only description of the nativity in any of the Synoptic Gospels, Luke Chapter 2:

[6]And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.[7] And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.[8] And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.[9] And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.[10] And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.[11] For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.[12] And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.[13] And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,[14] Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Updated MO Waterfowl & Habitat Survey

It's official, the waterfowl season here in Missouri is hurtling toward a premature end. The lack of habitat along with a bitterly cold December after a mild, if not balmy, November has resulted in a short and less than stellar duck season for most of us on the west side of Missouri.

The bootheel is holding the majority of birds right now, but overall duck numbers have dropped dramatically over the last two weeks with about 250,000 ducks leaving the state for warmer evirons. Duck numbers, at the time of the survey, were also about 100,000 less than the same time last year; which would have preceded the large influx of ducks we enjoyed during Christmas week last year when a major cold front pushed through around the 21st.

Grand Pass CA suffered the greatest loss of birds, going from 173,000 ducks to around 50,000. I think they are basically froze solid up there so that is not surprising.

Schell-Osage & Four Rivers are still holding some ducks with 9,000 & 36,000 respectively. One anomaly that I saw was Montrose holding 18,000 ducks & 4200 Canadians, not bad numbers for them.

There is more than a month left in the southern zone season in Missouri, but I just can't see it being anything but forgettable. Oh well, it's like I said in an earlier post, they can't all be winners. Coming off such an incredible '04-'05 season makes this one a little harder to swallow, but for me it all equals out. I have witnessed incredibly large groups of mallards this year, granted most of them have been cruising southward at about 10,000 feet high, but at least I was there to see them. Hopefully, the same groups will come through next year and hopefully the habitat will be in better shape. Also, I have gone out duck hunting around 8 times this year and I have yet to be skunked (I'm knocking on wood as I type) which is a noteworthy achievement in any year. I have even limited out once... on teal.

It certainly looks like the Southern end of the flyway is going to have an incredible duck season and with that in mind I will no longer tolerate the tedious commentaries I have had to endure over the last few years while traveling in Dixie. I have listened to residents from Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana rant on about how Ducks Unlimited and the state of Missouri are ruining duck hunting for them by planting too many refuges and wetland areas (I'm not kidding). I have always bit my tongue, for the most part, but after this craptastic season I will nip such drivel in the bud from now on. The narrow-mindedness of people never ceases to amaze me.

That's all I got for now. Good luck to anyone hunting north of the Arkansas border... you'll need it.

Taum Sauk Lake Dam Ruptures

The dam at Taum Sauk lake ruptured somehow this morning and is currently sending a 20-25 foot wall of water hurtling down the Black river. The dam is located just to the southeast of Ironton, MO (AKA the Johnson Shut-ins area). Let's all hope that everyone can get out of harm's way down there. Apparently, there have been several instances of vehicles and homes being swept away. There's not a lot of information getting out through the media, but here is an informative article via the St. Louis Post Dispatch.

Later Post:
Apparently, the dam recycles water over and over from a manmade reservoir located above the actual hydroelectric dam and it is actually this reservoir that has experienced a significant breach of some kind. Here's a link to a picture of the lake when it's EMPTY, and then an older black and white photo of what the reservoir looks like when it's at capacity, all 90' deep and 1.5 billion gallons of it:

Time Well Spent

The cold front did indeed arrive as forecasted last week. Thursday morning greeted me with a thin layer of the season's first snow along with a biting north wind, naturally, I couldn't get out of the office soon enough. I lasted until 11:30 which wasn't too bad, I actually got a lot done that morning. I spent the rest of that afternoon puddle jumping ducks, and when I say puddle jumping I really mean puddle jumping. We located several ducks, mainly green-winged teal with a small scattering of gadwall and even fewer mallards, along a shallow creek that remained relatively free of ice because of the slight current that trickled over the stream's timeless rocks and worn limestone slabs. The blustery north wind allowed me, despite my size 14 boots, to surreptitiously encroach upon likely ambush spots which would have been impossible on a calm day. The only problem was that sometimes I was more surprised than the ducks; a mallard drake let me walk within feet of him after I thought I had already compromised my position by tripping over a small, beaver-felled, sapling stump. The greenhead lurched from a small hole, kept open by a busy beaver- in the literal sense, and looked over its back momentarily as it quickly put real estate between us.

Further down the stream I took advantage of a twisted pile of driftwood, left high and dry on a steep cut bank by a past flood, and sat down on a large limb that was perfect for sitting, offering up a concave cradle to straddle for a spell that overlooked the clamoring creek. This particular area of the stream is heavily timbered with all varieties of hardwood species represented in differentiating sizes. However, there are a handful of Sycamores that tower over the bottom and stand sentry in gnarled arches over the creek; most are long dead but a few still endure with bark starkly colored in strange patterns of muted green and bleach white. The waning afternoon sunlight filtered down through the leafless menagerie of trees, casting long shadows onto the open forest floor and played on the creek's slow moving surface with intermittent bright shimmers of quivering white light. The tiny stream begged to be gawked at and loitered by as if it were some lazy, uneventful early summer's day instead of a brutally cold December afternoon. I held Nellie's black muzzle in my left hand and scratched her chin and then rubbed her cold ears.

It was then I heard an almost imperceptible whistle from behind me. I turned slowly, straining to peer over my left shoulder and through a knotted wad of tree roots that splayed out from the pile of driftwood and toward the stream. A single green-winged teal drake swam in and out of my window of view, a mere 10 to 15 yards away, periodically splashing water on himself and whistling to his unseen brethren. I patiently watched between the menacing wooden tentacles as another drake teal swam from behind a partially submerged log, that had been silted in place along an eroding gravel bar, and clumsily waddled onto land only for a moment before gracefully easing back into the water with a series of high-pitched whistles. It is times like these that all hunters cherish. To watch your chosen quarry engaging, without worry, in their natural habitat is like being in the know of some forgotten secret told only to those who take the time to look and listen to the beautiful world around them.

My eyes and body shifted instantaneously from casual dreamer to methodical hunter, a trait that separates us from other mammalian predators, for I doubt the mountain lion holds the white-tailed deer in high regard or that Alaskan grizzlies often wax nostalgic over their symbiotic relationship with spawning salmon. It's the respect given to our prey, and also to our fellow predators, that adds the human touch to the hunting experience. I quietly and slowly reach for my shotgun, keeping my head still and eyes fixed on the teal at all times. As I strained to pivot my hips and simultaneously mount my shotgun to my shoulder, the proud drake teal that I had been watching broke his contented, loafing pose to one of caution- neck stretched high, head twitching nervously while enigmatically attuned eyes peered with suspicion into the shadowed background around me. I had been made by the adept vision that all waterfowl share, an exclusive avian attribute that borders on the supernatural.

Realizing that my cover was blown, I intuitively moved my feet perpendicular to the pool of teal in order to position myself for a more ideal shot. The drake fervently protested to this movement by sounding alarmed whistles and anxiously darting on the sublime green water. I rose from my hunkered position and raised the stock of the shotgun until it nestled against my cheek in one balanced motion. The two visible teal leapt from the water followed closely by the 6 to 8 more that had remained hidden behind the gravel bar and half-sunken log. The first two crumpled over the stream with consecutive shots but the third shot failed to ruffle a single posterior feather on the quickly departing green-wings. Nellie brought the first drake back before I could reload my gun and had the second drake in my hand shortly thereafter. I killed two additional teal within a few more minutes, limiting out on the little buggers after hunting only a little over an hour.

The rest of day was spent watching over a small hole kept open by a miniscule current that meandered haphazardly until ultimately dumping out into Stockton lake. The remainder of the day lingered stubbornly and with little bird movement until the sun finally fell into a hidden abyss over a tall western hill. The last 30 minutes of daylight was spent shivering and watching large groups of ducks rise from the main lake in unorganized blobs, undulating in unison, form into broken lines and then vanish in the distant southern sky. By Friday morning Stockton was locked up with ice as temperatures struggled to stay above 0.

I hunted parts of the next 3 days (Friday, Saturday, & Sunday) with little to show for my efforts. I chose to hunt secluded holes along the rivers that had enough current flowing through them to keep them relatively free of ice. This is normally a recipe for success, but the water is abnormally low this year and not overtly attractive to the ducks. The majority of birds seemed to be flying to feed in surrounding clandestine row-crop fields throughout the morning from the areas kept open on the lake only by the sheer volume of waterfowl consistently roosting on the same area night after night. Some ducks would give you a look, but most had the same predetermined route to and from known "safe water" and food. My next step is to try and find these furtive fields that the ducks have been using and then to ask the landowner for hunting permission.

The weekend ended with one mallard, 5 green-winged teal, a handful of gadwall, and at least another half dozen missed opportunities and "shoulda-woulda-couldas." Sometimes it's not all about the amount of birds in the bag but the quality of time spent away from the office, away from the house, or simply put, away from it all. I went from having only duck hunted twice this year to chasing ducks for 4 days in a row during a significant migration. I may not have been able to stock my freezer full of duck meat, but I at least got to be out there doing what I love doing.

Duck Hunting Doldrums

So far this year I have been on two, count 'em, two duck hunts. Usually by this time of year I have been on 10 or more, but the lack of suitable habitat here in my small corner of Missouri and, consequently, the lack of ducks has left me mired in a melancholy repose as opposed to my normal optimistic self (as my attitude pertains to duck hunting that is, otherwise I am a miserable and codgerly excuse for a man).

The two hunts I had the opportunity to partake in were less than spectacular, having taken 5 ducks in all. The first hunt was highlighted with the complete destruction of a lower unit in a 20 horse, 4-stroke outboard; somehow, the few feeble gears that remained worked well enough to turn the prop in reverse, slowly I might add, but we were damn glad to have that in the 20 mph wind! We did at least get to witness a large migration of both ducks and geese as we saw group after group of flight birds heading south, however, only one group ever came down from on high to give us a look. We peeled 3 or 4 off that group and they circled a time or two but that was it. A mallard drake duo swung in unseen but we were able to take one of those along with a beautiful female Barrow's Goldeneye. The second hunt went smoothly with no equipment failures but we still barely eked out a skunk by taking a single Green-winged Teal, a single hen Mallard, and a single Mallard drake. On the plus side, my female black Lab, Nellie, got some much needed work as both of the mallard retrieves were long ones. She gets stir crazy in the back yard and loves hunting more than she loves eating, which is saying something for a Labrador.

Over the next few days an Arctic cold front will entrench itself here, over the entire midwest actually, which will prematurely send more ducks down south. Low teens and single digit nights will assuredly freeze all of our shallow water wetlands & rivers as well as a large portion of our reservoirs here on the western side of Missouri. I'm sure it will warm back up in time to thaw at least the reservoirs to allow some late season hunting before the January 29th closing of the South zone, but it will take several days of temperatures in the high 40's & 50's to do so. While we have been experiencing temps in the teens and 20's the last few days here, everybody from the Iowa border on north has had sub-zero temps and plenty of snow for nearly two weeks. I suspect this early polar blast will result in an earlier than usual end to consistent duck hunting, but who knows- I have given up trying to decipher waterfowl migration; the best bet is to go and see what happens.

While duck hunting may be coming to a premature and abrupt end, this cold & snow might just be what we need for some great Canada goose hunting over the next 40-50 days. Goose hunting is never all that great here in Southern Missouri; it rarely gets cold or snowy enough up north to send a significant migration down before the end of the season. However, with the oppressive "Canadian Clipper" currently in place we may well see a lot more of our northern friends this year.

There have been several pockets of great waterfowling in Missouri this year from what I have read and been told, especially along the Missouri River and in the Bootheel, but the Southwestern quadrant of the Show-Me State has been less than spectacular. That's the thing about duck hunting though, there's good years and then there's bad years. That's the way it goes and it's just another reason why waterfowl hunting is so intriguing. Hunting a migratory animal is quite different than hunting resident game. They're often hard to predict and there is a laundry list of factors that ultimately determine the success of any one hunt, or season for that matter. When a majority of all these different facets line up and you somehow manage to find yourself in the right place at the right time, that is what makes it all worth it. Not every season can be one for the books, there has to be some give and take which mirrors the cyclical nature of waterfowl population & migration.

Habitat is also fickle from year to year and is the most important factor when it comes to attracting and temporarily facilitating a consistent local duck population. In a drought year, like the one we have gone through this year, the majority of the duck habitat is left high and dry except in places where water is pumped in from nearby waterways or wells. While this scenario narrows the choices down to a few key venues for hunters, the lack of overall habitat greatly diminishes the waterfowl holding capacity of an area. It's just a common sense matter of usable waterfowl acreage. Wetland areas that have been holding anywhere from 50,000 to 120,000 this year were holding 80,000 to 200,000 ducks during the same time last year, and that was in a down year for ducks, according to the USFWS. It's not that there's less ducks, in fact there's probably more, it's just a simple matter of less habitat. In a flood year there is more choices and places for ducks to hide and become widely dispersed, which is an argument I have heard some hunters make against "wet years," but with a little more time invested in preliminary scouting I feel that a hunter can easily find where the ducks want to be and have a much higher rate of success.

To be honest, having a down year doesn't really bother me too much but I still reserve the right to bitch about it as much as I want. Besides, the shitty seasons make the good ones all the more memorable.

A 30 duck day during the extremely wet 2004-05 duck season

Here Come the Rednecks

"There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace." - Aldo Leopold

This past weekend my brother, Travis, shot a nice sized buck, perhaps even big enough to warrant the $300 taxidermy bill to have it mounted. The buck, as it turned out, wasn't as eager to spend its afterlife standing guard over a living room. Travis thought his shot was well placed and that surely the buck would go down quickly, but apparently the shot wasn't as precise as he first thought. Though the blood trail was often thick, the buck remained at large as the night drew its dark curtain on the first day of deer season. The wounding of any animal is not one the ethical hunter takes lightly. There are no amusing anecdotes or whimsy, only the hope that the animal did not suffer long. Travis quickly retraced his steps the next morning, but the trail proved to be more elusive after an overnight rain washed away most of the blood trail. Soon, sometime in the early afternoon, a murder of crows began calling out from the same hill that the wounded buck had fled to. Crows are indeed macabre messengers. When their casual caws turn to violent shrieks you can bet every predator within earshot is going to take notice because 9 times out of 10 something has died or is in the process of doing so. Travis took notice and walked to the top of the hill where the commotion was coming from and, as sure as the mail, there was reason for clamor. Travis assumed he would see his buck laying on the wet, leaf-littered ground still majestic even in death with his proud rack of horns. Instead what awaited him was a fresh gut pile, complete with a set of gonads and penis! Someone had not only trespassed on our land that morning but had also took a deer that they did not shoot. Travis followed the overturned leaves and blood trail to the corner of our property where the deer was lifted over the woven wire fence and two strands of barbed wire and dragged a little further to the road.

This is why I rarely hunt during the bizarre phenomenon that is known as the firearms portion of the Missouri deer season. The tedious confrontations with trespassers has become all to commonplace these days. What's amazing is when you catch somebody they always swear up and down that they never crossed a fence... Indeed.

There is no room for elitism in deer hunting, but to ignore the obvious divisions of class when it comes to the character of hunters would be doing a disservice to those of us who conduct ourselves within the norms of lawfulness and respect. There is a small minority of deer hunters that must think that killing deer is the 'end-all' 'be-all' of human existence; why else would they throw caution to the wind and trespass on property and shoot deer from their vehicles with high-calibered rifles while traversing busy roads. This sect of bold hunters do not bother themselves with asking for permission, they just simply cross barbed wire fences with abandon as they blindly pursue whitetail deer.

These people have obviously never worked or lived on a farm. Fences are not easy to put up or repair. Fence distances are measured in miles, strands, and after their completion, the amount of blood it took to build the damn thing! (For those who don't know, building a barbed wire fence is like working with razor blades mounted on two stands of steel- yes, they're that sharp.) The fabric of fences have to be stretched to their limit in order to be effective in performing their most important task of turning cattle and/or other livestock. When weight of any kind is applied to the fence a finite amount of the integrity of the fence is lost. If this process is repeated enough or if a considerable instantaneous force is applied (especially a downward force) the fence tension will greatly weaken or even break in two. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to climb a farmer's fence please do the guy a favor and climb it at a corner post or better still, a brace post section. Now, I will also mention here that there are an even more diabolical trespassers; those who cut fences in order to get to a fallen deer or to "get even" with a landowner who took exception with the individual trespassers upon his land. Fence boundaries are in a constant state of flux as they are perpetually being tested by headstrong cattle, falling trees, and near-sighted deer; trespassers do not need to add to this already unwelcome list.

Another fact for the would-be trespasser: One of the few rewards for a farming family is the ability to hunt their land in relative safety and without having to worry about intruders. However, this rarely takes place in our neck of Missouri. Notwithstanding the priviledge of starting each day in the purified air of the country the farming life is one filled with little compensation, monetary or otherwise. Each penny is earned and with something always needing tending to the body & mind has little time to spare for rest. Wood needs to be cut, brush cleared, fences mended, cattle worked or fed, fertilizer needs to be spread, crops planted & harvested, hay to cut, and on and on. When deer season is over the slob hunter who trespasses will be back in his warm house watching football on a Sunday afternoon, while the farmer whose land he intruded upon is busting ice so his cattle can drink or chopping wood so his family can stay warm.

While it is a fact that 98% of Missouri is privately owned there is still a great deal of public hunting out there to be had. However, much of it is rugged and unmanicured unlike the majority of private land. Your standard trespasser is nothing if not lazy, it is easier for him to brush off an ass chewing after being caught by a landowner than it is to scout and walk public areas overrun with brush, brambles, and hills. If trespassers spent as much time asking permission from landowners as they do plotting out which farms they're least likely to get caught on they might just be surprised on the reception they receive.

Basically, there are two kinds of people in this world. There are those of us who try to treat each other with respect and attempt to get along, and then there are assholes. The assholes care only about themselves and they could care less how their actions for self gratification might affect you. I want to say that it is just the sign of the times, but you know what? There have been assholes since the beginning of time, heck, how else do explain the story of Cain? There were only 4 people on Earth and he couldn't get along with his only brother and finally killed him... Classy. Every generation believes that their current era has produced the most depraved and vile humans to date, but is that really the case? There have always been thieves, murderers, liars, and assholes and there is not one damn thing we can do about it.

All right I'm done ranting; it's just that people piss me off!

South Dakota On My Mind

The wind whistles unmercifully on the high lonesome prairies of South Dakota in the fall. Secrets are told, in a language long dead to humans, to the wildlife that listen intently to the loquacious and blustery currents that filter down from Canada this time of year. The animals of the prairie prepare themselves for the inevitable whisper of cold and snow by gorging themselves on the plethora of wastegrain that litter the fertile crop fields. An outsider can feel the harshness of this place long before the first snowflake falls. The farmers faces betray their ages, weathered before their time by inescapable sunlight, frigid winters, and almost constant wind. Within a day of immersion in this climate the lips become chapped and ones face turns a dark pink from wind burn like the rosey-red cheeks of a drunk. It's hard to imagine that tribes of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho (among others) flourished in this surprisingly rugged landscape and that there are still poor farming families that struggle through each winter today, using dried cow chips and corn stoves to stay warm.

Despite the palpable brashness of the climate there is boundless beauty for those who take the time to look. The glaciers that plowed their way south only to retreat 10,000 years ago combined with the meandering Missouri river have etched out a very diverse topography over the millennia across the land known as South Dakota. There are grassy buttes, impenetrable thickets, cattail-choked potholes of water, rolling plains, pancake-flat crop land, and rugged ravines that dare anyone foolhardy enough to trespass upon them. There are plenty of people, metropolitans and the like, who would turn their nose up at this landscape and retreat to the concrete refugem they call home. However, to the outdoorsman and specifically, pheasant hunters, South Dakota is a place of beauty and promise. Admittedly, the palette of the plains is a muted one, but the earthy tones that well up from the rich black soil compliment each other and please the eyes. Perhaps the lack of color is why the gaudy ring-necked pheasant stands out so brilliantly in this stark environment; its brown, blonde, auburn, and sky-blue bodies somehow flatter their blood-red cheeks and almost formal white collar. The raucous event of witnessing one of these beautiful creatures flush out of impossibly thick cover and straining for altitude and distance from its pursuers is one that plays out thousands, nay, millions of times every fall in South Dakota; and it is because of that fact that autumn in South Dakota is never too far from my mind.

The Hunt

To give you an idea of just how ideal the pheasant hunting is South Dakota the picture above was taken less than two hours after our first hunt Thursday morning- 6 birds in 2 hours! That's my buddy Lance in the background, my black lab, Nellie, on the right, and my english setter, Rose, on the left. If you think Rose looks tired that is because she is. Rose will be 10 years old this year and recently tore her ACL, but hunted fairly well over the three day stretch. It took a 2.5cc shot of Cortisone injected directly into her knee to get her out in the field, but once it took effect she was good to go. Now she is only a shadow of what she once was, but her nose is still as sharp as it was 5 or 6 years ago. It breaks my heart to finally realize she's nearing the end of her life, in fact this was most likely her last pheasant hunt. Oh, we'll go on a couple of quail hunting trips here in Missouri this fall & winter and with luck she'll grace me with a few more staunch points; back legs quivering with bridled restraint, her nostrils filled with the scent of birds, and her old eyes fixed upon the location she believes the quail to be holed up. During this hunt it became evident that her prime has well passed her by, as the the thick cover that is commonplace in South Dakota quickly tired her 10 year old arthritic body. She will live out the rest of her life on pillows in front of the fireplace where she will sleep and dream the dreams that all hunters have; misty recollections of perfect flushes and filled limits.

I probably make the pheasant hunting in South Dakota sound a little too easy. Rarely does a limit of birds fall without much effort, indeed it is often some of the most physical demanding hunting there is. Part of what makes South Dakota the Mecca of pheasant hunting is directly related to the abundance of thick ground cover in a variety of forms. There are soggy cattail marshes where musty black mud and duck weed sticks to your boots. Then there are the grass-choked shelterbelts of dark green cedars and plum thickets with branches at the ready to knock off your hat or slap you right across the face. 6 foot forests of horseweed; tangled masses of cane; cockleburrs; unharvested corn and milo; crp; brome; prairie grass; and common weeds all grow in loathsome tangles and cling to your legs and feet until it feels like you're walking through a thick mire of mud. After all that, there are still badger and jackrabbit burrows to keep an eye out for lest you disappear over your head or turn an ankle. In South Dakota walking distances aren't usually measured in yards, rather in miles or sections (a single section being a square mile or 640 acres).

Can you find Nellie and the pheasant?

The three of us brought back 22 roosters over a 3 day hunt. Yes, we should have easily brought back our limit of 27, but hey, that's hunting. We all had our share of misses and non-lethal tail shots, but you have to remember that even when you know a bird is in a specific location the flush can be a little unnerving and awe inspiring as well. In fact, Lance was thrice so enamored with the process of a rooster flushing that he failed to take the gun off safety; happy just to point at the departing pheasant with the barrel of the gun and give a little flinch, as if practicing with an unloaded gun. I often expected him to shout BANG! during these lapses, but he never did, opting instead for other more colorful interjections.

That's the place where we take our birds to get cleaned there in the background. Yeah, that's right we don't clean our birds. Your standard South Dakota hotel has a "pheasant cleaning station" i.e. a table and a hose, but we opt for a more, um, lazy way of doing things or smarter perhaps. Locals charge anywhere from $2.00 to $2.50 a bird to clean, wrap, and freeze your birds- a convenience too tempting to pass up. There's quite a bit of downtime too, I mean you can't even hunt until 10:00 am. This allows plenty of time in the evenings for food, cocktails, and laughs although we usually pass out well before midnight. As fun as the hunting is, it is probably the camaraderie that will be looked back on just as fondly when we're all too feeble and old to go hunting. Where else besides a hunting trip can three grown men sing a stirring medley of the BEP's lady lumps song and honky tonk badonkadonk (AKA slap your grandma song)in anonymity... I've probably said too much. We sleep like babies, eat like kings, and laugh like school girls and that is probably the best part of the whole trip.

Todd M. post 40 yard dash sans rooster

While we had plenty of pheasants that flushed early or simply ran ahead of us we were lucky enough to have a good number hunker down in thick cover and wait to be ousted. One privately owned strip of matted brome & weeds no wider than 30 yards in any one spot netted three roosters in a matter of 30 minutes. The hell of it was that about the only way you could get them to flush was to not move. Once the dogs got birdy we simply stood still and waited for the bird to flush. It is nearly an indescribable feeling that comes over you when a rooster busts through cover at your feet and tries to become airborne right in front of your face. I can't begin to put an estimate on the number of pheasants we saw. In just one small tract of milo on some public land we hunted a conservative 30 birds flushed out of a very small patch of woods. Then, as they flew over a private field of crp, already roosted birds became nervous and started to flush with them. We simply put our shotguns down and watched the show with mouths & eyes wide open. Once everything settled down, I'd say we saw around 75 pheasants flush in a matter of minutes... standard fare in South Dakota.

Nellie, after the retrieve of a wounded, but a very alive and very fast rooster.

That's all I got for now. Good luck this weekend all you Missouri deer hunters!

Back to Work

Out of the last 10 or so miles I have walked in the past 5 days the last 100 steps from the parking lot to my office have been the hardest. Though I am a little tired and sore I was not ready to leave South Dakota yesterday and return to reality just yet. I'll go futher into detail tomorrow (along with pictures) but here are a few quick statistics from the hunt:

I filled my personal limit (and a few more) everyday, but as a group we only limited out (9 roosters) one day, taking seven and six on the other two days for a grand total of 22 roosters in three days. Not too shabby, especially when you consider that we hunt primarily on public land and that this was the 4th weekend of the season. In all honestly we should have limited out fairly easily everyday. All of us had our share of misses and unfortunately we also shot a handful of wounded birds that were never recovered. Lance, dealing with the akwardness of a new gun and the different placement of the safety button, also had 3 gimmee birds that flushed a few feet away from him that he never even took a shot at.

I'll write up a more detailed synopsis tomorrow, hopefully I'll get back to my normal self by then.

Gone Hunting

Leaving for South Dakota today, and picking up Lance & Todd in KC. We won't be pulling into Platte, SD until about 7:00 tomorrow morning. Thursday will be a little rough, but it's worth it. With a little luck we can get our limits quickly leaving plenty of time for beer, food, and rest. Besides, we won't have to budge until 9:00 on Friday morning what with the 10:00 shooting time; a weird but welcome South Dakota pheasant hunting rule. Not being out there at sunrise is a little different, but most pheasants are killed in the afternoon hours anyway. Pheasants are out eating in the grainfields (some of which are wide open) early in the morning and are hard to hunt, but after mid-morning they begin returning to the CRP, shelterbelts, or uncut crop fields (usually milo or corn). In these types of habitats/cover pheasants are more likely to hold tight, ideally resulting in a close flush. That's not a steadfast rule as I have seen roosters and hens run in single file down a shelterbelt path.

I won't be back until late Sunday night, and you can bet I will have plenty of pictures and stories when I get back.

Jessica Alba...

I know there's starving people in this world and all that sort of stuff, but if I could have but one wish I would like to be the bedsheet in the picture above. Jessica Alba is final proof that there is a God, because no natural evolutionary occurence could be that beautiful.

A Break from the Drama

Is it just me or is Phil Garner a dead ringer for Huckleberry Hound? He even talks like him. At any moment I expect him to bust out with, "Hey, Yogi where's Booboo?"


















Also, I have always thought that Tony Larussa sounds and looks a lot like the man in black, Johnny Cash.






Seperated at birth?

Go Crazy Folks, Go Crazy- Part II

I'm still a little hoarse and a little dazed by the whirlwind of a baseball game I witnessed last night. When that Lance Berkman 3-run homerun, in the seventh inning, kicked a swirl of dust up off the top of the left field fence my heart sank slowly into a thick mire of disappointment. Another close game, another pitching duel, and surely another heartbreaking loss once the 'best closer in the game' stepped up to the mound at some point in the next two innings. Carpenter had pitched a gem, even the pitch that was taken deep was low and outside- a Carpenter staple. It was 4-2, a mere 2 run lead, but it might as well been 10-2; the obstacles were legion. We were 3 for 32 with men in scoring position in the series; Lidge was the best closer in the game; the Astros' were 136-1 since June 15, 2004 when leading after nine; and the bottom of the batting order was due up. All of these realities were swimming in my head; I was a man at the end of his desperate rope.

My thoughts turned to Busch Stadium. I was lost in emotions, somewhere between nostalgic melancholy and primal rage. I dearly wanted the Cardinals to take game 5 if only to give Busch one more moment in the spotlight; to see the birds on the bat at least one more time in the old ballpark. That hope seemed lost as the 8th inning went by without incident.

Even the announcers began to wax poetic about our old girl and her 40 year history. Various moments and players were recalled with adoration while FOX ran pictures of old Busch ominously shadowed by the brick and mortar columns of the new stadium. The end of an era was palpable as the unnerving roar of the Minute Maid Park crowd welcomed the 9th inning.

First came Hector Luna, a pushover for Lidge's knee buckling slider. Next was John Mabry who had driven in a run off of Lidge in vain the previous night. Two hits in consecutive plate appearances off of Lidge proved to be impossible as Mabry went down on more sliders. Then came Eckstien, who announcers call pesky and the toughest little player in baseball, and while that may be his heart is twice as big as anyone in the game today. However, tonight even Eckstien looked overmatched, Lidge would simply not be denied. Two straight 96 mph fastballs rocketed across the plate, then a slider went low for a ball to bring the count to 1 and 2.

It had been 44 years to the day (or something like that) since the Houston Colt .45s/Astros had come into being, and despite being on the precipice of the World Series several times before the organization had fell just short every time; karma it seemed was finally on their side...

But karma is a fickle mistress.

The Houston dugout matched the enthusiasm of the crowd. Players high-fived and carried on demonstratively before the last out, much as they had after winning a relatively meaningless game 4. The Cardinal dugout must have taken notice, appalled by the lack of respect for them as well as the game. Biggio, a player's player, seemed to be the lone cool head with his hat pulled low and leaning pensively against the dugout fence... hoping.

The Cardinals were down to their last strike. A second slider made its way toward the plate and "little" David Eckstien, and it was one too many. A wormburner grounder got under the glove of Ensberg and into left field. There was still hope after all with the hero of last year's NLCS game 6 and 7 coming to the plate, if anybody could step up in this moment, it was Hollywood. Jimmy hung tough and ran the count to 3 and 1, Lidge suddenly couldn't locate his fastball. Lidge wouldn't walk him would he? Even a homerun would only tie the game; surely another 96 mph fastball was on its way over the heart of the plate, right? When the pitch left Lidge's hand you knew it was going to be a ball as it ran in off the plate and low.

The roar of the crowd was gone, Lidge had let the tying run on with a walk, something he just didn't do. Enter Albert Pujols, the best hitter of the game versus the best closer in the game; the veritable definition of a quintessential October matchup. The once boisterous Houston crowd became hushed and nervous; the entire Cardinal nation collectively shifted to the edge of their couches, recliners, and barstools. Everybody in the free world knew Pujols would see sliders and only sliders, more than likely in the dirt. Lidge didn't disappoint as the first slider kicked up dust while the bat of Albert Pujols uncharacteristically swung wild through the pitch.

Intolerable anguish, sweaty palms, a good time.

Lidge came set, haphazardly checked the runners, and came to the plate with another slider... and the baseball world stood still.

The art of hitting the ball on the sweet spot of the bat is the poetry of baseball. When done properly the motion is fluent, effortless. When Brad Lidge's slider failed to break, the impact of Albert's bat on the ball freeze-framed the moment like some iconic tinseltown baseball flick. The ball was hit as hard as a baseball can be, the only thing keeping it in the park, a thick slab of bulletproof glass; though I would not have been surprised had it shattered along with the Astros' premature dreams of finishing off the Cardinals in dramatic fashion.

After permanently damaging my vocal chords, I squinted at the scoreboard graphic on TV to make sure my tired mind hadn't just manifested the homerun out of sheer desperation. Somewhere in the catacombs of the stadium, a mouse urinated on a soiled cotton rag in the back of a disheveled broom closet, which would have been heard throughout the gravely quiet ballpark had it not been for the eruption of cheers in the Cardinals' dugout.

The moment defined a man, a team, a city, and personified a stadium all at once. At the very brink of elimination the entire season was saved with one Pujols swing coupled with two great at-bats from Eckstein and Jimmy. From certain death, a team has lifted itself off the slaughterhouse floor and not only forced a trip back to St. Louis but has somehow found a way to turn the tables and the momentum of the series.

The comment was made by the play-by-play guy, when the Houston crowd was basking in the glory of a certain win, that the Minute Maid Park crowd was the loudest in baseball. Well, I have an idea that the Game 6 crowd at Busch Memorial Stadium will have something to say about that.

This galvanizing moment in Cardinal history is one for the ages, but there is still work left to be done. I am just so happy that we now have a chance to show the world why this team has won 217 games over the last 2 seasons. We play a hard nine, a statement that has become the rally cry of the Cardinals and what this team is all about. Now, I only hope that we will play a hard 18.

Quoted from ESPN.com: "Who knows what's going to unfold when we get home?" said Reggie Sanders. "Nobody knows. All we know is this: Now we have a chance."

Amen, and as always, GO CARDS!!!

Now is the Postseason of my Discontent

Before I get started let's take a look at Minute Maid Park's dimensions:
Distances from plate: Left field - 315 feet; Left-center - 362 feet; Center field - 435 feet; Deepest point - 436 feet; Right-center - 373 feet; Right field - 326 feet. In a word ridiculous. I have played in softball fields with 315 corners! Let's move on shall we.

I'm still simmering from the way the game went down yesterday, and here's why. In the postgame interview yesterday Tony said that MLB execs have verbally stated that teams have certain latitudes during post season play in order to insure the games are as emotional and competitive as possible. If this is true, throwing Edmonds out yesterday for arguing about a pitch that was most certainly a ball is completely uncalled for. Edmonds stated yesterday that he did not curse at the ump, Cuzzi, until after being tossed. After dodging the inside & up pitch and after Cuzzi called it a strike Edmonds lost his temper and said, "The ball's not a strike. You called a ball a strike. Do a better job than that." Granted, that's not what you want to say to an ump and I could understand tossing him on a July 14th game, but in the post season??? The ball was obviously a ball to everyone in the stadium, why couldn't Cuzzi at least meet Edmonds halfway and tell him to be quiet and get back in the box? Before Edmonds spoke up, Cuzzi told Jimmy "don't come back and start (expletive) arguing with me." How's that for calming the situation? Umps who's egos are bigger than the game should not be allowed to work in the majors. Why can there not be some give and take on both sides? Speaking of which did anyone notice Backe's antics after the leadoff walk to Eckstein to start the game? He walked halfway to homeplate and stared at Cuzzi. To me that's showing up an ump, what Edmonds did was simply plead his case. If the correct call is made then Edmonds is on 1st or worst case, gets another shot at Wheeler- a righthander. MLB did not allow Cuzzi to field questions from reporters after the game; funny, they allowed the ump from the controversial White Sox/Angels game #2 to plea his case... hmmmm?

Another reason I'm fuming is that Pujols should not have broke so soon if at all- that's just not a high percentage maneuver especially when considering the angle at which the ball was hit, all Ensberg had to do was lob it in there. I guarantee Oquendo did not send him. Really, that's Albert's only downfall- his leg do not match his aggressive baserunning. If the hit is up the line then I can understand bolting (i.e. see game #3). However, after seeing the replay that play was very, very close; Pujols' competitiveness is to be respected. (I realize I'm talking out of both sides of my mouth right- have mercy, I'm still pissed.)

Marquis is an ass. He speaks up every post season about being demoted to the bull pen. Shut up and be a team player. Oh, and here's an idea: maybe catch a bunt. Then if you can't do that at least try to redeem yourself and put one down yourself instead of popping up twice you chokin' b****!

One more thing: Isn't the tie supposed to go to the runner? I tivo'd the so called double play that Mabry hit into in the ninth about 50 times last night, and if you're telling me the right call was made you're crazy! Also, did anyone beside the first base ump not see Molina/Pujols gun out Backe? Whatever. I hope LaRussa's pre-game comments before game 3 isn't the root of all this. He basically said that he hoped that the home plate ump, Wally Bell, didn't give Clemens a "Maddux type strike zone" and take the bat out of the players' hands. While that comment is a justified one it's probably something you don't want to put out there for everyone to hear.

Even with all this negativity and even as we face the dreaded 3 to 1 series count I am still hopeful. We've got Carpenter on the mound tonight and you just know he's going to go the full nine; and you know everybody on that lineup is going to be fired up (they said Eckstien lost it when Edmonds got tossed yeaterday). We will win tonight's game and we will go back to St. Louis, and then we're in the same position we were in last year and I think we all remember how that turned out.

Albert Pujols was asked after the game how the team would relax and calm down before game 5 to which he replied with a smile,"How do we relax? We show you tomorrow." Grud also chimed in about being down 3 to 1 with a little first person perspective, "I was there in 2003 with the Cubs," said Cards second baseman Mark Grudzielanek. "We had Prior, Zambrano and guys like that going back to back to back. We lost three games and we were like, 'Oh, my God.' Before you could blink, it was over and they were going to the World Series. Things can happen, and with this team we can rattle off three in a heartbeat. But we just have to take one at a time." That's just a great sound bite!

Here's some fun facts regarding Carpenter and Game #5 tonight: Carpenter is unbeaten at Minute Maid in four starts with a sub-1.00 ERA, and this season three of his 21 victories came at Houston. In those three starts, he allowed three earned runs over 24 innings (1.13), striking out four Astros for every one he walked. Carpenter has held opponents to a .174 batting average in the playoffs, his first postseason. He has not lost at Minute Maid Park in four career starts, and he has 20 strikeouts to seven walks in those 32 innings. Houston's position players who started Game 4 have combined to hit .271 against Carpenter. Only twice this season did he have as few as six strikeouts over two starts, as he has had so far this postseason. Some more fortuidous info: Since adopting a best of seven series in the LCS in 1985, 10 National League teams have gone 3-1 in the series and all but two have gone on to the World Series: the 2003 Chicago Cubs and that's right, your 1996 Cardiac Cardinals. Wouldn't the 2005 Houston Astros fit right in that notorius club?!

Let's do to Houston what the Red Sox did to the Yankees last year. And as always...

GO BIRDS!!!!

One more time... with feeling

After watching the St. Louis Cardinals' final regular season game this past Sunday, it has finally dawned on me that these are indeed the last days of Busch Stadium. It is appropriate, for a stadium that has hosted 48 post season games, that the swan song didn't end in September. If this year's team can live up to their potential there is no reason why she cannot enjoy 6 to 10 more October games within her confines. Serving as the sacrificial lamb to Boston's world championship dry spell last year will be forgotten if the Cardinals can say goodbye to the old Busch Stadium with a world championship of their own. To add to the franchise's 16 National League pennants and 9 World Series championships would serve as the perfect farewell to our old friend that has seen so many winners in the last 5 decades. In her 40 year history only 13 sub .500 teams have played at Busch; how many clubs can make that kind of statement? During that same time frame, 1966 thru 2005, the Chicago Cubs have had 25 losing seasons at Wrigley; but then again what would you expect from the "second city."

The list of players who were fortunate enough to don the birds on the bat and play at Busch during its 40 year tenure reads like a who's who of Major League baseball. You can go position by position and start listing players who are borderline HOFers if not already in or at least on their way to Cooperstown. Managers: LaRussa, Torre, Herzog, & Schoendist are some of the best skippers of all time; Pitchers: Gibson, Forsch, Andujar, Sutter, Tudor, L. Smith, & Worrel to name a few; Catchers: Simmons, Matheny, McCarver, Porter, Pena, & Pagnozzi; First Base: Hernandez, McGwire, Pujols, & Clark; Second Base: Herr, Sizemore, Oquendo, Vina; Third Base: Rolen, Boyer, Pendleton, Torre, & Rietz; SS: Ozzie, Renteria, & Templeton; Outfielders: Edmonds, Brock, Maris, Cepeda, Flood, McGee, Coleman, Van Slyke, & Shannon for starters.

Considering all of Busch Stadium's history and all of the great players that have played in the shadows of the 96 arches that encircle the field, the current roster of players comprise one of the best Cardinal teams of all time as they have posted back-to-back 100+ win seasons- a baseball rarity to say the least. True blue (actually red would be a more succinct description) Cardinal fans will remember the 2005 season fondly regardless of how this post season ends up; however, a World Series win would bookend one of the most prolific venues of baseball history and entrust her legendary status within the baseball annals of time.

We Cardinal fans have been in anguish since 1982. Yes, we have enjoyed post season success, but the final prize has eluded us a number of times. We've also endured more than our share of player injuries and baseball anomalies. Whether it was Dekinger's call, the man eating tarp, Matheny's hunting knife, or Carpenter's sudden and rare nerve disorder it seems that we always have an uphill battle come October. 2005 is no different. Rolen has another bum shoulder (see 2002 NLDS game 1 vs. AZ)and our #1 bullpen pitcher goes down with a blown elbow on the last game of the season. Even with less than our full roster at LaRussa's disposal you still have to like our chances if everyone plays up to their abilities. Tony said Sunday that, "these players will give it their best shot... and I believe we have a very good shot." All of Cardinal nation believes too.

It's Fall... Finally!

A cool, dry wind surreptitiously forms in Canada and slowly eases its way across the border and down towards the Midwest. The sun has already begun it's southern descent, falling a little more each day until it ultimately reaches its winter perch. The tall shadows of late afternoon quietly arrive a little earlier each day as does the crisp blanket of twilight. The autumnal equinox comes and goes but the humid air of a spiteful summer lingers for just a day or two more, dying hard in the fading sun. Then, maybe overnight, a north breeze begins to blow. A cold front bullies its way through the northern plains then down to the Missouri river and Ohio river valleys, pushing the sultry temperatures far down into the south. Fall has finally arrived!

The first few days are almost sinful. After a long summer, a person manages to forget just how pleasant 68 degrees, in the middle of the day, feels on the skin. You feel superior and a little melancholy at the thought of how some people live in climates where there are no obvious seasonal changes; how do they reinvigorate their souls, how do they recharge their batteries? The nights are very cool now, forcing all but the most hardy of souls to shut the windows before sliding into a chilly bed. You shiver for a minute or two until the bedsheets absorb your body heat, a smile runs over your face in the darkness. A few tinges of yellow and red hues begin dotting the landscape's palette now, but soon entire forests will burst brilliantly with autumn foliage, inspiring deep sighs everywhere even in the most cynical of us. There are days where the sun will coalesce with the changing leaves to envelope the world in a golden aura and there will be gray days where fog gives way to a steady rain that patters lightly on so many leathery leaves; and both will be beautiful.

With so many things in life that fail to live up to the hype it's comforting to know that there are some things left that never let us down. Fall is simply the best time of the year for so many reasons. Enjoy this season and all that tickles your autumnal fancy: Whether it's high school football on a chilly Friday night; that first pot of chili; post season baseball; the sound of migrating wings cutting the air; huddling with friends and a cocktail around a bonfire; or laying wrapped up in a blanket for an entire Saturday while watching college football in between naps. Just be sure to revel in fall's majesty while you can, for not only is this the greatest of seasons, but the most fleeting as well. Before long we'll all be sipping egg nog, gnoshing on turkey & stuffing, and wondering whatever happened do those glorious days of fall.

Well, go on... Start reveling!

Picture Post

Dad and Ruby @ 8 weeks old

Nellie and her rendition of a triple lindy

Dad & Ruby, chilling

This is a piece I like to call: Dumbass, mid-flight

Keeping an Eye on Rita

Hopefully, the destruction that hurricane Rita will wreak upon coastal Texas will be minimal; but I am selfishly hoping that when it develops into a tropical depression that it will pass over southwest Missouri like many experts are predicting. In 1998 when hurricane Frances hit the Texas coast and headed north through Oklahoma and Kansas, many areas in its inland path received up to 14" of rain. Springfield reported 2" of rain from hurricane Frances even though the bulk of the storm stalled out around 200 miles to the west in central Kansas. It doesn't take an expert to realize that a 9" to 14" rainfall wouldn't exactly be great for the area, especially here in flood-prone Springfield, but at least it would most certainly set our rainfall ledger even for the year after our significant summer drought. However, it is hard for the soil to soak up that much rain in a short amount of time and undoubtedly the bulk of the rainwater would be diverted to our ponds, waterways, and reservoirs. This is obviously great news for us duck hunters. Let's say we can get even 10" over a widespread area in a 48 hour time span; not only would it immediately raise our local lake levels to power pool and above, but the soil would be so saturated that any concurrent rain in the next several weeks would not be able to be absorbed and would therefore flood the rivers and reservoirs.

I have come to realize that actual duck population estimates that the USFWS spend so much time on have little to do with hunting success. Local habitat and weather conditions are the key difference makers in any given year no matter the flyway. Last year's hunting season could not be a more convincing argument for this theory. Duck numbers were down all across the board, but our (western Missouri) habitat couldn't have been better; which resulted in most hunters having one of the best seasons of their lives.

First, let's hope that hurricane Rita will not take one human life and that it will have a limited effect on property and the environment. From there maybe it will deliver the toad-strangler we have needed for a while; a good two to three day rain might set us up for another memorable waterfowl season.

Until next time.

Pheasant forecasts are out

You can check out a state by state pheasant forecast here: pheasant forecast

The way it is looking almost every "pheasant state" should experience an increase in birds and therefore harvest success, but the big story once again comes from South Dakota, the undisputed capital of ringnecks.

South Dakota's pheasant population is at a 40 year high, surpassing the record set in 2003. The count (which is conducted by the South Dakota game & fish dept.) is determined by driving out predetermined routes throughout the state and simply counting the number of pheasants seen and then averaging the numbers. There was an average of 6.63 pheasants per mile this year, which is 74% more than the state-wide 10 year average. This is a remarkable number considering there are parts of western South Dakota that are all but devoid of pheasants. This number was slightly greater than the record 2003 brood, a year in which SD hunters took an estimated 1.8 million birds. With that in mind, it is possible that the 2 million bird echelon might finally be reached this year! To put these numbers in perspective the pheasant population hasn't been this strong in South Dakota, or anywhere else for that matter, since the early 1960's- the golden era of upland bird hunting.

I personally hunted in South Dakota in 2003 and saw more pheasants in a few days than I had seen in my entire life in Missouri and Kansas. I don't know how hunting could get much better than it was that year, but I am sure eager to find out. In 2003, we (Me, my brother Travis, Todd M., Lance, and Lance's dad) killed 20 roosters in basically 3 days, which may not sound like a lot of birds, but when you consider we only killed one on the first day and that we hunted almost exclusively on public land that number starts to sound a little better. One also needs to consider that the number of total birds taken was probably 30% less that it should have been for a variety of reasons. We lost more than a couple of birds due to the terrible ballistics and knock down power of steel shot and we lost at least 3 roosters because of dud shells. Then, of course, there was the obligatory complete misses as well as a few opportunities that were missed because of improper set up and being at the wrong place at the wrong time, but then again that's all part of pheasant hunting.

2005 is shaping up to be a remarkable year for pheasant hunting, especially in South Dakota. Even though gas is through the roof and a nonresident hunting license in SD is up to $110 I will be making the road trip this year and it will be money well spent.

Until next time.

175 mph wind vs. Oil rig

This is what a category 5 hurricane can do to a multi-million dollar oil drilling platform. Just one of many. Not only was the wind greater before Katrina hit land, but the waves measured 30, 40, 50 feet high. A wave measuring buoy, located 70 miles SW of Dauphin Island, AL, reported 47 foot waves! I've been at sea in 6' to 8' foot waves and they were probably 12' to 15' wide at their base; how big are the bases of 47' waves you think?! It's going to be awhile before the crude starts pumping in the gulf. The bottom picture is obviously the same rig before Katrina:

Flooding & Destruction of Plaquemines Parish

Check out these amazing and awful pictures taken 8/30/05 over the Plaqumines Parish area in SE Louisiana at this website:

plaquemines parish pictures

This is near the area where we took out of (Venice, LA) while deep sea fishing this past spring. I just hope all the great people I met down there evacuated the area, especially Captain Kevin Beach, a fellow Mearle Haggard fan and duck hunter in addition to being one hell of a saltwater fisherman and captain of the PALE HORSE.

This area is also the operating hub for the majority of offshore oil drilling in the gulf. Every major oil company was represented in Venice Harbor and there were at least 3 or 4 different helipad airports where workers departed and arrived at all hours of the day & night.

There are a lot of working poor down there with nothing more than a flimsy trailer for a home. I seriously doubt they could afford the gas to evacuate if they even had a vehicle in the first place. I would be surprised if there were many survivors. God bless the people searching for survivors right now.

Give to the Red Cross

There's a lot of people needing a lot of help right now. Go to www.redcross.org and give what you can. $5 or $10 is a significant donation if everyone in the U.S. who can afford it pitches in accordingly. I have been to New Orleans and all the way to the southeastern tip of Louisiana, and I'm afraid that a lot of the people I have met down there may not be around any more. There is a lot of rifraff in and around New Orleans, but there are twice as many good folks in SE LA and in Southern Mississippi. There are lots of guys down there who live for 2 things: Deep sea fishing and duck hunting- let's do our part and help them out as best we can and maybe they can get back doing what they love a little quicker!

How High's the Water Momma?

There have been several state officials from Louisiana and the city of New Orleans that have defiantly proclaimed that, "We will be back and we will rebuild." My only question to them would be: WHY? This city, that only a week ago was home to 1.5 million residents, is now a submerged ghost town save for the poorest and the weakest of its population. Why should the American taxpayers and insurance policy holders be responsible for rebuilding a city that, for the most part, sits 2 feet below sea level. So it can be leveled again in the next 50, 30, 10, or 2 years? The logistical importance of New Orleans is obvious as it is basically where the Mississippi river and the Gulf of Mexico meet, but why must it be populated by people other than those working at shipping yards, oil company outposts, or other necessary maritime occupations. The whole New Orleans experiment has failed. Scientist's have been saying for years that if New Orleans should ever take a category 5 hurricane on the nose that all would be lost. I would say that theory has been proven beyond all doubt as a glancing blow from a category 4 has all but turned the city into the new "Atlantis."

I say let's try to clean up New Orleans the best we can and keep the toxicity and the pollution of the very fragile ecosystem in place there to a minimum and never allow residential rebuilding to take place. Oh, and I've been to Bourbon street and it is overrated at best. I guess gawking at naked breasts of all shapes & sizes and dodging transvestites while the permeating stench of human urine stings the nostrils is fun to some but not me. Here's all you need to know about New Orleanian moral fiber: It's one thing for looters to steal food, diapers, and other essential items- in fact, it is completely understandable. However, in their city's most desperate hour, many of the refugees have returned to their thuggish ways and have stole shoes, tvs, computers, and other materialistic merchandise. What do they plan on doing with all this merchandise? Swim down to their local pawn shop and sell these looted items? When people should be focused on survival and helping others, why are so many New Orleanians spending so much energy on stealing in a place where, for the moment, money and material items do not hold any value? With residents like this, it is no wonder New Orleans has held the murder capital of the U.S. (per capita) title for the last few decades.

It won't be long...

A picture to help cool you off on this hot ass day. It's just a matter of time, boys. Hold... Hold...

The Wet Dog Days of Summer

After suffering through a significant drought over the past couple months, August has been suprisingly wet for Missouri. The rains have resuscitated brown lawns back to their spring lushness and have begun to swell the area creeks and rivers that were previously mired in stagnation. As I write this a huge storm front is moving across Missouri's mid-section that will hopefully send a few showers this way as well. So much rain has fallen in August that many people who were falling just shy of performing rain dances on their crisp pastures are now beginning to wonder if we're ever going to get a day or two to dry out. This is not the perspective of the Missouri waterfowler. It really can't get too wet or rain too much for our taste. For us and the ducks & geese, rain = habitat. By the grace of God we always have the ducks, there are well over 30 million ducks on the North American continent in most years, and 50% of those migrate through the Mississippi River flyway. However, it takes abundant habitat to attract and keep those 15+ million ducks contented enough to put the brakes on their southern migration and stay a spell. When the water stays between the banks, Missouri still has good to great waterfowling; it's when we get enough fall precipitation to send the water up over the banks & levees and out into the fields and forests that Missouri becomes more than just a fly-over state but rather a major staging area for all waterfowl.

Despite our recent good fortune, most of Missouri is still reeling from the mid-summer drought. The USDA has just announced today that all but 2 of Missouri's 114 counties are agriculture disaster areas. In addition, the majority of the state's reservoirs and wetland areas are either merely at a tolerable and manageable level or significantly dry. With underproducing crops, low water levels, and the fast approaching waterfowl season (teal season is 2 weeks away), the anticipation for a lackluster season is in the backs of every Missouri waterfowler's mind. We were spoiled last year with rainwater that backed up and flooded green timber and crop fields all over the state, and the thought of having to hunt while desperately trying to find adequate cover along sun-cracked banks is less than appealing.

However, we waterfowl hunters are a hopeful bunch, even when it flies in the face of common sense. With a great deal of luck, perhaps the sweet summer rains we have enjoyed over the last few weeks aren't just flukes and are actually a harbinger for an extremely wet fall.

Until next time.

Throw another blog on the fire...

After sitting idly by and reading other people's blogs from time to time over the last year or two I figured it was high time I joined in on the ruckus. My main focus will be writing about the many outdoor misadventures I inevitably find myself enjoying with friends and family. I probably won't delve into my personal life much and I'll try not to get too preachy. All I am really after is to create a forum for my hunting and outdoor stories that my friends and other like-minded people might enjoy. Obviously, hunting can be a controversial issue for some people, and I can respect that, I only ask that they respect my rights as well. Ideally, some people will visit this blog who don't hunt or who aren't outdoor types and will come away with new insight and perspective on why people hunt and spend countless hours freezing their tails off on a winter's day. Too many people who are against hunting focus only on the death or killing of an animal, and there is just so much more to it than that.

I enjoy all sorts of outdoor pursuits, and I'll try just about anything once. I may write about cutting wood, a float trip, training dogs, deer hunting, salt water fishing, or any other number of topics. However, my main focus will most likely be on waterfowl & upland bird hunting which are what I love to do the most. Hopefully, this blog will be different from the sea of blogs that now infiltrate the WWW and will serve as a respite for those who enjoy the outdoors as much as I do. Who knows? Somebody might actually learn something, it will more than likely be what not to do, but at least a lesson will be taught!

Until next time.