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!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
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:
Monday, December 12, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
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
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