Hodgeman's Thoughts on The Great Outdoors

Chinook!

2012-02-04T20:41:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the dearth of posting lately- winter is in full force here and I've been quite busy with work projects, taking a couple of classes and teaching a couple of classes as well. Winter has been a little easier without hours of idle time to contemplate on things but my blogging has suffered.

About a week ago, a relentless high pressure system moved into the Interior region and the millibar chart went off the charts. One thing happens here during such high pressures- the atmosphere thins and all the latent heat radiates directly into outer space. On those cold nights, a well dressed North dweller can go outside and stare heavenward and seemingly look all the way into Creation. Most folks who live in the Lower 48- places with pollution, light wash, and mere thick atmosphere have no idea what kind of view can be had over their heads when the contents of the atmosphere peel back.

The downside of this startling and miraculous view is cold....bone chilling, dangerous, life threatening cold. During this particular episode, the official temperature for my small town hit -50F and many folks in the low lying river bottoms hit -60F. At those temperatures, exposed flesh freezes in seconds and machinery often just fails for little apparent reason. Travel is not recommended and survival gear is a must when one does. The other upside is such cold primes the body's mechanisms and after a stint at -40F or below; temperatures of 0F feel downright balmy.

The extreme high pressure system also did something else- as it moved off to the east and our Canadian friends it left a vacuum that the next low pressure system rushed to fill. Those low pressure systems carry lots of moisture from the Gulf of Alaska and warmer air masses from the Pacific. In coastal Alaska, those systems dump mountains of snow when they contact the coastal mountains with the cold Arctic air masses spilling over; but when they build enough force to cross into the Interior regions they create what is known as a Chinook.

The Chinooks here pack unbelievably warm temperatures and gale force winds and its not unusual for these winds to hit, raise temperatures dramatically and then vanish as quickly as they came. The chart below shows just how quickly it happens- on January 28 and 29 the temperature was -50F (often -60F in low spots) and by the evening of February 2nd the winds were in excess of 60mph and the weather had warmed to 40F! 100 degrees Fahrenheit delta in 100 hours. In the early morning hours of the 3rd the winds vanish and the temperatures plummet to below 0 again. Returning the North to its frozen state.

The brief respite was welcome from such a cold January and it was nice to go outside in a light shirt and not feel immediate pain and worry about losing appendages. Just a couple more months until winter's grip is broken we return to warmer weather and more adventures.

Chart sourced from Weather Underground

Tactics... Travel Light and Fast

2012-01-22T19:43:00.000-08:00

I was reading one of Steve Rinnela's Meateater posts the other day where he was talking about the method he used to harvest a great Coues Deer in Arizona and he introduced me to a new term for an old method of hunting. I've not seen the show (hard to do without cable or satellite) but I'm well acquainted with the method. The term he learned and used was "cold camp" although I've heard "spike camp", "coyote camp" and the technique called "search and destroy", "dash and crash" and a couple others but none seems universally used. I guess its more of a loose philosophy than a well defined technique.

Some honesty here- I work for a living and while I dream of 10 day wilderness trips, Super Cub drops and descending some long unknown drainage in expedition rafts; the overwhelming majority of my hunts are much shorter affairs conducted much closer to home. The tactic I normally use isn't the one most of us think so much about; hiking or moving in a heavy base camp and then journeying from there into more remote areas looking for game. It works and you read about it in most of the journals and hear stories about the epic trips- but among locals it isn't very common. For one, it takes a lot of planning and quite a lot of resources (read: money) and not an inconsiderable amount of time. For the working man, its hard to pull off consistently.

I like to travel light, taking a minimum of equipment and move quickly into an area likely to contain animals and try to maximize my hunting time at the expense of comfort. If I only have a weekend to hunt, I'm not going to waste a day moving in 50, 60 or more pounds of equipment. I'd spend the entire hunt ferrying it in and out. Instead, I'll take enough equipment for a rough overnighter. Maybe a bivy, or poncho and move quickly into position to glass and spend all of the time I've got hunting, glassing and then moving quietly up a drainage looking to score on an animal. If I have to spend a night out it will not be comfortable and the lack of equipment leaves me at the mercy of the elements which could lead to a cancelled hunt should weather deteriorate. As a local hunter, I take great solace in getting weathered out means I just get to go back out the next weekend.

What about night? During our early season in the high Arctic, the hunting occurs in August- long hours of daylight and only brief periods of darkness too dark to hunt. At most we have just three or fours hours of gloomy dark huddled up trying to get some sleep knowing that if the next day turns warm you can sleep in the afternoon's warm sun when the animals are all bedded in the high country not stirring. I've heard from many hunters who hunt hard from breakfast (8:00a) until supper (6:00p) and never see any animals- they've missed the two most important times. The early dawn movements occur between 4:00 and 5:00a that time of year and the evening period often as late as 10:00 or 11:00p- the hunter keeping banker's hours will be ignoring the most important times of the day. For the chilled and sleep deprived hunter, those long hours of warm sun and minimal movement are great times to make a little food and curl up in the sun for a nap.

When practicing this tactic it pays to be in "hunt mode" all the time- minimal talking, minimal fires and movements along protected routes. I believe too many hunters today don't realize the signature they make on the environment and just how far scent or noise carries. I don't believe animals are as scent adverse or even noise adverse as we make them out; but a group of people moving loudly and haphazardly across the environment will affect their movements. The thinking hunter should be minimizing their signature on the environment by maintaining silence and above all else- moving slowly and methodically looking all the while. Thinking like a predator moving in stealth mode could be the difference between scoring and going home with an empty pack.

Merry Christmas...

2011-12-25T09:38:00.000-08:00

The presents are open, the dessert enjoyed, the roast beast sliced and served.

Friends came and went and back again with gifts and fellowship and tidings of joy.

Phone calls and messages to and from distant family- goodwill over long distance.

Dishes done and put away, wrapping papers picked up, little boy tucked into his bed.

Now just enjoying some quiet time.

Peace on earth....peace in me.

Merry Christmas.

Georgia Pellegrini- Girl Hunter

2011-12-14T19:48:00.000-08:00

I was contacted a few months ago and asked if I'd be willing to review a new book titled "Girl Hunter:Revolutionizing the Way We Eat, One Hunt at a Time"...

How could I pass that up?

So I told the publishing agent that I'd be glad to review the advance copy of the book. I've got to say that I enjoyed the book quite a bit...kind of a mix between Steve Rinella's American Buffalo meets Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma.

I really didn't know what to expect since I haven't read any of Georgia's previous work. I know quite a few chefs and more that a few female hunters so I really didn't know what to expect when all this would be mixed into a bowl and served up.

The resulting dish was really quite good and the book centered around a series of hunting adventures about the country on which she endeavors to kill game and then cook that game into meals. The recipes sound excellent, if a bit complicated for my rural taste which runs more to Neanderthal than Tres Cheval. I have a nice batch of grouse and ptarmigan in the freezer that practically begs to be used in a special meal using one of the recipes from the book. I'll keep you posted on how that turns out.

Perhaps more interestingly to me are the other characters in the book- ranging from Berkley liberals relo'd to Montana, to a driven shoot on an English estate, to hunting with the wealthy and politically connected good ole boys of Arkansas. Each hunt was something quite unique and entertaining with the exception of the creepy and unsuccessful elk hunt that centered on her interaction with a free range beef rancher and apparrent attempts at wooing Ms. Pellegrini via poaching. Without a doubt- Ms. Pellegrini runs in better heeled circles than I.

But I've got to be a bit truthful...I enjoyed the book on its own merit but the embedded video trailer portrays a huntress with a different voice, attitude and approach (as much as I can tell from a 1 minute video anyway) than the one I read and admired in the book. Where will it all go? I can only assume with a video trailer a television pilot probably is already on the reel. Since my exposure to television is limited I can only hope the thoughtful hunteress doesn't go from a Pollan meets Rinella writer to a Nugent meets Rachel Ray television personality.

Time will tell, but the book is certainly a worthy read.

Go read this...Hank Shaw on killing for food.

2011-12-07T22:33:00.000-08:00

I've longed wanted to write a piece on the emotional aspect of hunting and killing for food; but the effort usually results in something I'm not happy with. I'm frequently asked how can I stand to kill, or field dress an animal. I'm usually articulate enough in person to have a coherent conversation about it without sounding like a defensive hillbilly but my efforts in prose fail me in that regard.

In the meantime, meander on over and read this wonderful piece by Hank Shaw at Hunter Angler Gardner Cook.

Post Hunting Season Gear Review

2011-11-12T11:15:00.000-08:00

As promised to several readers who've contacted me regarding the performance of some of the new gear I acquired this year...

Not a detailed "gear review" per se but rather a collection of impressions I've developed using some of this stuff in the field over the last year. I generally don't like to develop strong opinions about an item until it has stood the test of several seasons. So with that caveat out of the way- bear in mind that long term durability is something of an unknown for several of these items.

Bibler Fitzroy Tent- quite expensive at full retail but generally obtainable for much less, this is now my standard for mountaineering tents. I didn't have any condensation issues over the summer and it survived a 60mph blow and torrential rain on my sheep hunt with barely a rattle and nary a leak. My only criticism is that the vestibule design seems like an afterthought but its a bad weather bunker worthy of its asking price. Kind of heavy by today's ethereal standards, its also durable and worth it's moderate weight. Two thumbs up!

Western Mountaineering Badger Sleeping Bag- also expensive at full retail and quite hard to find for less. Extremely warm and roomy for it's remarkably light weight. Despite the disadvantages of down when encountering water, I've become something of a down bag convert. It packs down unbelievably small, which is one of the main disadvantages of a synthetic. It is also good right down to the rated temperature, which is something of a rarity in sleeping bag manufacture these days. As long as you're up to the minor task of keeping it dry, two thumbs up!

Kuiu Icon 6000 Pack- I was attracted to many pieces of the Kuiu line during their introduction and this was what I hoped to be the "crown jewel" of their product line. A serious hunting pack that didn't start off weighing 10 lbs empty but could carry remarkable loads. The carbon fiber frame had my mouth watering and the feathery weight sealed the deal. After a couple of encouraging day trips I slogged it into the mountains with a true week's load...and that's when the fun stopped. The frame pivot squeaks despite frequent lubrication and the straps slip and release under load. On our pack out in the rain I resorted to tying the "tail" of the straps in a knot as I could actually watch them slide while I hiked. A call to the company has not resulted in customer satisfaction with a couple interim fixes and an as yet undelivered promise of new straps. Company reps say this issue didn't show up during internal beta testing but every one with one of these I've talked to had the issue within a few hours of donning any respectable load. I still have hope because I want to, but at this writing- two thumbs down.

Kuiu Attack Pants- as disappointing as the pack was, the pants are equally as excellent. I've used and abused my pair for months and they are still going strong into cross country ski season. Water resistant, quick drying, comfortable as pajamas for a really reasonable price these are likely my favorite piece of new gear. Its quite likely Kuiu ought to stick to clothes given how good these are and how hard they are to obtain- the company is perpetually back ordered on these. Two thumbs way, way up!

Kuiu Chugach Rain Gear- named after the Chugach Range in Alaska, which is also the farthest northern temperate rain forest appropriately enough these worked pretty well. Fairly light and packable, they kept me pretty dry in some real torrential rains. Deeply skeptical of any rain gear advertised as breathable, they do live up to their claims. I also don't think they're worth the considerable asking price despite being in line with competing products. I had one of the cuff tabs delaminate on the first wash. The jury is still out on how long they'll retain their water proof integrity. A thumb down (value for money) and one thumb up (performance) at this writing.

Lowa Tibet GTX Boots- I picked these up on deep discount at a specialty hunting retailer in Fairbanks last year and the price was still heart stopping. That said, I'd buy another pair at full retail tomorrow if I needed them. It took a hundred miles to even break these in and the boots have unreal amounts of support and torsional rigidity only rivaled by rigid plastic mountaineering boots (which I find miserable for hunting). They are incredibly comfortable and have held up to a full year of wear in every conceivable condition from steep talus slopes to slogging through bogs. A pair of boots this good is very hard for me to find. Two thumbs way UP!

Nosler 48 Rifle- I've written about this rifle a couple years ago and the more I use it the better I like it. I had a safety fail this year just a month prior to my hunt and the Nosler folks got to flex their customer service muscles. They sent me a UPS label and I put the rifle on the truck with little hope of seeing in time for my hunt. Just 8 days later it was delivered back to my home with a new trigger, safety and a note that wished me luck. Their customer service was simply superb and they've offered me a refinish on the stock if I send it in for a recoat of the barreled action. It didn't hold up to their expectations (although it held up to mine) and they've offered to refinish it- given the beating I've given it I'm surprised the finish has held up at all. On the practical side, I've now shot several critters with the rifle and everything has pretty much died in its tracks. Serious riflemen need to look at this rifle with significant consideration and acquiring one is well worth gutting your collection of lesser pieces if you value field performance. Two thumbs up.

Wyoming Saw and Knife- field dressing tools that were a gift from my wife. Affordable, simple and effective- what more could you want? The saw is handy and sized for backpacking with wood and bone blades included and the knife, despite its unusual design, is likely the best skinner I've ever used for big game. My sole criticism is that the sheath is camouflage...which seems silly given its purpose. Nevertheless....two thumbs up!

Black Diamond Trekking Poles- fairly light and compact as well as expensive. One folded up and collapsed on me while descending a dangerous slope; at least contributing to a nasty fall and painful injury. They may be fine for effeminate Euro hikers but manly hunting men bearing manly hunting loads need to look elsewhere in my opinion. Two thumbs way down...

Minus 33 Merino Wool- the intermediate layer is excellent, warm, stink free and much recommended. The lightweight T-shirt, while warm and stink free, is much to fragile to wear as an outer layer. Both of mine developed numerous holes and loose seams. One thumb up and one thumb down.

I've bought other pieces of gear but either I've not used them enough to get a good feel for it or it was something so unremarkable it doesn't warrant writing about. So despite the claims of every manufacturer the age old adage of caveat emptor is still much in force.

The Zen of Wingshooting...Hits and Misses.

2011-10-30T22:10:00.000-07:00

After posting about my new Benelli shotgun I bought myself for my birthday last year, I had meant to post several times about learning to wing shoot. That's about where I left it. After a summer filled with work, training for a sheep hunt, hunting caribou, reviewing a couple of books and sundry other activities, I totally abandoned my efforts at learning to hit flying things. I did make a promise to myself to abandon the apparently slovenly practice of killing game birds with a .22, despite how efficient and clean it is, and instead propel my shooting to a higher plane and kill them on the wing. That frankly didn't go so good at first.

The first game bird I took this year was a large spruce grouse who made the error of hanging out in my front yard. My son spotted him while out playing with the dog and after an attempt to brain the rooster "cave man style" with a large rock he burst through the front door looking for a better weapon. Initially, I shooed him from such an endeavor but after a couple of insistent passes through the garage looking for his bow and BB gun I decided to take it to get in a little fresh game meat for my visiting extended family. While the shotgun resided in the safe quite capably, I never even so much as thought about using it until the grouse was leftovers after having fallen to a single .22LR "CB Cap" through his head out of my son's rifle. Efficient and clean harvest? Check. Elevating my wingshooting? Fail.

The second bird came after a lengthy dry spell because generally during big game hunts I won't take the time to kill small game for noise concerns unless I really want camp meat. During my moose hunts this year I saw dozens of grouse and regrettably no legal moose. After a long and very disappointing day searching an area I mistakenly believed a hotbed of moose activity, I did see a prize of a bird- a beautiful ruffed grouse. Ruffed grouse are wonderful eating, quite a bit better than spruce hens or ptarmigan, but somewhat hard to find in my location. Typically whenever I see one of these I'll make the effort to bag it but a problem presented itself. Since I was on a moose hunt without expecting to shoot birds, I was armed with only a high powered rifle. What to do? Something that my hunting companion didn't believe I'd do... I leveled down on that grouse with my .300 and aimed very carefully. A body shot at thirty yards would leave nothing but bloody paste and feathers but accounting for the distance between scope and bore and the short range zero I was able to pull off a bit of fancy shooting and literally pop the grouse's head off while leaving the edible bits untouched. Points scored for making do with a bit of short range sniping for a tasty delicacy? Check. Abandoning slovenly practices of ground sluicing winged creatures? Epic Fail.

My third attempt came during a caribou hunt that I was endeavoring with my neighbor and new hunting partner. I was already tagged out on caribou so I packed along the new Benelli with a mixture of ammunition- low brass number 6s for ptarmigan, 3" 00 Buckshot for bear defense, and 3" "Dead Coyote" T shot for roving predators. After a long and fruitless day looking for the herd that had already left the area, I noticed a covey of ptarmigan about a 1/4 mile distance. With only about twenty minutes of shooting light left I baled out of the truck and stuffed my vest pocket with shells and then loaded the magazine. Taking a heading through the snowy tundra and low brush I set off in pursuit of proper wingshooting.

Hearing the covey's roosting calls I quickly zeroed in on one visible at the edge of a band of low brush. Readying the gun, I crept up on the bird. Just when I thought I would have to chuck a rock to get the bird to flush, he ran backwards into the brush and out of sight. Frustratingly, I realized I would have simply shot him with a .22 ten yards ago and would now be picking up the dead bird. Undaunted I crept up to the edge of the brush and then all hell broke loose.

Fully a dozen of the white birds exploded within five yards and took skyward. Startled, I tried to pick out a single bird and fired a haphazard shot- BOOM!- that didn't hit a thing followed by- BOOM!- another miss. I swung over to one rising up to my left and pulled the trigger- BOOM!- and saw the bird dive for the brush trailing feathers. Getting my wits about me finally I swung over on one flying straightaway slightly to my right and took a clean bead- BOOM!- and the bird crumpled mid flight amid a cloud of white downy feathers.

I reloaded, somewhat amused that in just a couple seconds I had emptied the autoloader's magazine, and went into the brush to retrieve the two I saw fall. The first I found rather quickly and I hadn't found the second one when I was joined by my hunting partner. "Go on and get some more...I'll find the second one." exclaimed my partner, apparently thrilled that we finally shot something after a long day of seeing nothing.

I climbed a small rise, convinced the birds wouldn't go far, and was quickly rewarded with hearing the cackles of the alarmed birds. The fact the birds were nervous didn't bother me- in fact, upon reflection I'm sure the birds started flushing earlier giving me more reaction time to swing the barrel. On the rise a couple flushed at about 7 yards, I picked the right and- BOOM!- the bird folded and gravity brought him to earth in a beautiful sailing arc amid a cloud of feathers. I swung left and- BOOM! BOOM!- two clean misses on the fast moving streak of white. I stuck my hand in my pocket for more shells and found nothing there but lint. Looking in the magazine I saw the follower. I retracted the bolt slightly and saw a shell stuck under the extractor- one shot left. Crap, where did all the shells go?

I retrieved the bird and made my way back to my partner still searching for the second bird of the first flush. He still hadn't found a thing. I noticed from my vantage point a bird about 5 yards to his left- on the ground and moving in a crippled wobble. I called out and had him maneuver well out of the line of fire. Fearing the bird would simply run on the ground into the brush or flush and I'd miss with my only shell I raised the gun and fired- BOOM!- and finished him. We collected the remaining bird for a total of three and headed back for the truck. It was getting pretty dim with the sun below the horizon as we crunched our way over the snow, arriving there we started cleaning the birds. Within moments the covey landed within a hundred yards of our location and started their cooing, roosting cries.

"Heck! Go get some more if they want to be dinner that bad. I'll take care of these.", cried my partner. I stuffed more shells in my pocket and the magazine tube of the gun and set off. I quickly flushed a fast moving bird quite far out- BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!- and missed every time. I had to get better at this kind of shooting and judge what kind of lead was required at what distance- wondering bewilderedly what sort of Euclidean geometry and vector calculation would get me on the birds. I reloaded and continued with just enough light left for a couple more moments. I flushed a rather large hen out of the brush about 5 yards out and she appeared to hover there slow motion for a few moments in midair, twisting and turning, trying to determine which direction to take flight. She turned on the wing and headed straight away gaining momentum as the butt of the gun hit my shoulder. The bird seemed to by flying in slow motion but I seemed to be moving at faster than normal speed.

There in a brief moment, frozen in time, I finally got it. The entire wingshooting zen I had read about for years caught up with me full force as the entire moment felt right. Not calculated, not aimed, not consciously and deliberately fired. The gun, the trigger, the bird, the eye- all in alignment of their own accord. I don't remember the shot or the recoil; all I remember is seeing the bird fold in mid air and hearing the "ka-Chunk" of the action as the smoking hull was ejected and then seeing the bird hurtling to the ground streaming downy feathers with the golden, orange sunset on the white mountains beyond. It was all those things that wingshooting writers endeavor to describe in flowery language and fall (myself included) woefully short.

Firing without conscious thought at a target that presented itself unexpectedly- quite the opposite of rifle shooting. I am quite accustomed to taking deliberate shots at distance with the rifle and this whole process seemed rather haphazard. Roaming over the country, blasting haphazardly- that is until that moment when everything lined up. Not to delve too far into the sound of "one hand clapping" but the experience of instinctive shooting was rather new to me. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, I searched the brush for the downed bird and after looking for it just a moment I realized it was really too dark to continue. I finally retrieved the bird and made my way back to the truck- a very happy...wingshooter.

Making Sense of a Magnum

2011-10-03T18:27:00.000-07:00

Its been a few years since I switched from my long held standard hunting cartridge to a "magnum" cartridge and what follows are some of my impressions I've developed while using it in the field. While the Internet is chock full of countless folks churning electrons and armchair ballisticians like to debate the minutiae between the various cartridges, I wanted to avoid that. I simply can't convince myself that a big game animal can discern the difference in a 7mm vs. a .30 caliber or 2800 vs. 2900 feet per second given a life studying such things in the field. But I've come to the conclusion that there is a difference between standard and "magnum" cartridges in the field and like everything else- there are pros and cons to examine.

First off, let's be realistic- "magnum" originated as a name for an extra large bottle of champagne and the term was applied to the early enhanced class of cartridges due to their larger case capacities. When the magnum craze hit the sporting community in the mid-20th century, the marketing departments of all the various manufacturers applied the term to all sorts of new products and cartridges whether they offered enhanced capability or not. For the purpose of this article consider any cartridge, .338 or smaller, capable of throwing a standard weight for caliber projectile to 3000 feet per second at the muzzle a magnum cartridge whether it has the title or not. For instance, all of the Weatherby cartridges easily make the cut but so does the 280 Remington Ackley Improved which gives up nothing to the 7mm Remington Magnum. The fireplug shaped 350 Remington Magnum is a magnum in name only and fails to reach 2600 fps with most practical bullet weights as does the new line of Ruger Compact Magnums despite the marketing. Manufacturers furthered the confusion by slapping belts on nearly every cartridge in the 60's and then making cartridges in the 2000s that had no belts but exceeded the belted cartridges level of performance.

Since I don't subscribe to paper theory I'll have to compare the two cartridges I have the most on game performance comparison with- the .30-06/.308 and the .300 WSM/ .300WM. I used the .30/06 and .308 nearly 20 years and if there's a difference in the field I can't determine it. I've also used the .300WSM and .300 Win Mag quite a lot and balistically there isn't a nickel's worth of difference between them either. I won't talk numbers of creatures killed since that generally devolves into a discussion that borders on the vulgar, but I've shot a fair number of representative animals with each to feel comfortable that my impressions are solid while that number isn't near what one might expect of a Craig Boddington it is certainly on the high side for the average recreational hunter today. When you add in the number of animals I've witnessed shot with the respective cartridges I become quite convinced that the data pool is big enough to encompass a few anomalies as well as anticipated results.

While I certainly don't support the idea that the standard cartridges are insufficient for most big game I do think the magnum class of cartridges (at least in the .30calibers) is an all around more effective tool for the hunter- particularly the Western or Alaskan hunter hunting large game over wide open or mountainous terrain. In the East, at least in my experience, the magnum class of cartridges is completely over the top except in very specific circumstances. I know that piles of big critters have been killed with the '06 and I've put many of them in that pile myself but if the dear reader will bear with me I'll explain my thought process.

Over wide open and mountainous terrain the ranging abilities of even great hunters are suspect and with a .300 class rifle you simply have to put the animal in the cross hairs and shoot. Many high speed thirties are suitable for a 250 or even 300 yard zero allowing a dead on hold from the muzzle out to the limits of ethical shooting. While it may seem a trifling detail- nearly every miss I've seen in the field occurred when the hunter was attempting to "help" the trajectory and aiming high resulting in shooting over the animals back. Just a few weeks ago I helped a less experienced hunter harvest a caribou at longish range with a .300 Ultra. I've passed on shots just like that with my .308 simply because I wasn't comfortable guesstimating the bullet drop. With the fast thirty it was a simple matter of holding the crosshairs steady and practicing good shooting technique.

Another thing I've observed, and the reader will have to excuse the lack of concrete evidence, is that a fast thirty given similar shot placement almost always seems to kill the target animal quicker than a standard cartridge. I don't know why. My habit has been the broadside, behind-the-shoulder-lung shot for many years and with the .308 and '06 I've been used to uniformly dead animals. But, they generally didn't tip over in their tracks and sometimes a little bit of judicious tracking was involved. While tracking isn't the end of the world it isn't the ideal situation either. With the magnum class of cartridges, nothing I've shot moved more than three or four yards from the point of impact with the majority falling where they stood. I've heard many theories as to the mechanism of injury that causes this and I must admit they all sound suspect; but there is no arguing that the amount of shooting I've now done with the .30 magnums resulted in uniformly fast kills with little to no tracking involved. In my book that's a very good thing.

That kind of performance doesn't come without a downside, some of it mitigatible and some not. The first serious downside to using that kind of velocity is meat damage. I am foremost and always a table hunter, so meat damage is something I'm exceedingly conscious of. With a magnum class rifle you need to do a couple of things to minimize meat damage- the first is shot placement. I know that I've often heard the dictum preached that you should shoot the point of the shoulder. The thought being that once the shoulder is significantly damaged it makes the escape of the quarry unlikely. I don't know about that, since I've seen several three legged deer harvested that managed just fine but I do know that high speed bullets smashing through shoulder bones destroys a lot of meat. As a consideration, the hunter should aim behind the shoulder and strive for a lung shot that avoids the thicker bones and muscle tissue of the shoulders much the way a bowhunter would.

The other consideration to reduce meat damage is for the hunter to use a tougher bullet. The fantastic .300 Weatherby built its reputation using much too soft cup and core bullets that on a behind the shoulder lung shot detonated like hand grenades and dropped game like Thor's hammer. Those same soft bullets would also fragment on shoulder shots, destroy a fair amount of edible meat and occasionally fail to penetrate the chest cavity. Most of the early criticism of the Weatherby cartridges centered on meat damage complaints. It's no surprise that Weatherby was the first company to commercially load ammunition with the Nosler Partition bullet- the first "controlled expansion" bullet that would withstand the high speed impacts common with all magnum cartridges.

With good shot placement and a modern bullet designed for higher impact velocity the amount of meat damage can be greatly reduced. On both caribou this year I didn't lose a significant amount of meat while a companion shot one with a .300 Winchester Magnum, hitting both shoulders and he lost several pounds of edible meat in the process. Identical quarry, identical ballistics and nearly identical range but vastly different outcomes. Shot placement and bullet construction matters.

The other downside to the magnum class cartridges is sheer recoil. While I think that the primary effects of recoil are felt between the ears rather than the shoulder there is no denying that some individuals find recoil at even moderate levels distracting enough to preclude good shooting. There are a few things you can do to mitigate recoil effects- first is to wear good hearing protection on the range. Most shooters find muzzle blast more disturbing than actual recoil so minimize that as much as possible. In that vein, do not muzzle brake your rifle. Muzzle brakes increase the amount of the muzzle blast directed back toward the shooter and can be more disturbing than recoil itself. A shot without hearing protection can be disastrous to the ears almost without fail.

Another item to reduce felt recoil is to make sure the stock fits properly and avoid those endless hours of shooting from a bench where felt recoil is perhaps its worst. Almost anyone with a well fit stock can handle surprisingly large cartridges from a good field position. There certainly is a learning curve to shooting magnums and I advise anyone getting one for the first time to practice often but keep the number of shots per range session fairly low. Even as an experienced shooter I find myself anticipating recoil after a while (see flinching!) and I know its time to transition to lighter rifles or call it a day.

If a shooter simply finds they can't handle the recoil of a magnum class cartridge then the only sensible course of action is to sell it off and get something more tolerable. But, with a little judicious range work and perhaps a bit of instruction almost anybody can develop the ability to shoot the magnum class of cartridges (particularly the lesser ones, ie. 257 Weatherby, 270WSM, 7mm Remington Magnum, etc.) quite effectively in the field. For those hunters willing to put in the work to master them, it is an investment that will return tremendous dividends in open country shooting.

Hunting with The Big Eye

2011-09-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

On a recent Sunday afternoon, a new friend and neighbor at church and his wife invited us out to lunch at a local restaurant. I didn't know him well as he is one of Alaska's thousands of remote workers- working in a remote mine for several weeks before he gets to spend a week or so at home. I've done it in the past and its tough on family life, your social life and, especially, your sporting life.

As we discussed Evan and my recent successes, he lamented that he'd been unsuccessful so far with his limited time. We talked a little of caribou strategies and locations and after a little bit of conversation I discovered that he was an enthusiastic, but rarely successful hunter. He hunted in a style that is pretty typical for a lot of folks here in the Interior- ride a four wheeler through trails, look for animals, see none, and ride some more. He was reasonably well equipped with an ATV and a suitable rifle and some other miscellaneous equipment but nothing in the way of optics outside of his rifle scope. A somewhat recent transplant from the big woods of Pennsylvania his lack of binoculars didn't particularly surprise me.

In my youth, I hunted in a similar fashion in Tennessee. I didn't own a set of binoculars until well into adulthood or even a riflescope until college. A spotting scope was something rarely seen- possibly in magazines featuring Western hunts or maybe on the odd segment on television. Truth be told, such equipment was largely superfluous until "bean field shooting" became popular. In the thick woods, visibility was so limited that the standard open sighted rifle was more than adequate for any shooting and all but the most visibly challenged could identify buck or doe at those ranges. A spotter could have you finding deer three or four farms (if not the next county) away.

Over our meal, we made a quick plan for an evening hunt about thirty miles to our south. In the interest of time, we decided to take ATVs into the fairly well developed trail system known as "Top of the World". A BLM managed trail- the trail system makes efficient use of ATVs to move people through some mountainous plateaus while limiting habitat damage that is so typical of that form of transportation. After loading the machines and packing for a quick hunt- we were off.

We arrived at the trail head to a well established camping area in a gravel pit at the bottom of a steep trail along the Alaska Pipeline pad. There were perhaps 15 camps loosely spread over the area and several of the hunters had erected meat poles- suspiciously empty given the area and season. We climbed astraddle our machines and motored up the hill- approximately 2000 vertical feet in just a few minutes. On my recent sheep hunt this climb would have taken hours. Turning onto the first trail head up the knife edge of a ridge we climbed perhaps another 1000 vertical feet and my partner was all but surprised when I just pulled off the trail on a rocky bench and just stopped.

"What are you doing?" he queried curiously as I unpacked some of my gear.

"Glassing," I replied, "we can either hunt with our feet or our machines. But either way we can still hunt faster with our eyes." I donned the binoculars and scanned the mile wide plateau below us looking for signs of caribou. There were several parties of hunters below, we could see them on their machines cruising the trails standing on the pegs looking for caribou. Apparently, the understanding that caribou are wide ranging animals- and while possible to locate near a trail, it certainly isn't a strategy to rely on. We were buffeted by a fast moving storm that pelted us with enough rain to reduce visibility and enough wind to make the machines rock. We hunkered in our rain gear, confident the lighter skies to the south would mean a short lived storm and better weather. In about twenty minutes the rain stopped and wind died down enough to restore good visibility.

I scanned the plateau below. Nothing moving except our fellow hunters. I explained the tactic I was using to my new friend. "Scan with your naked eye- don't look for caribou. Look for things out of place- movement, odd colors, odd shapes. Then repeat with the binos- looking for something that doesn't match." I instructed. After scanning the plateau out for about a mile and satisfied that I couldn't detect anything, I handed the binos to my neighbor with instructions on their use. "After you get used to using them you'll feel naked without them on a hunt." I joked.

It was time to pull out The Big Eye. A spotting scope. I had picked one up a couple years ago and since then it became and indispensable part of my kit. As a foot hunter, I could cover more ground with the spotter in a few minutes than I could walk over all day. I began by scanning the far edges of the plateau, looking for out of place shapes and colors. Finished, I looked at the next plateau from which we were separated by a deep canyon a mile distant.

In a few minutes I found what I was looking for- a caribou. The lone bull was prancing and feeding about a half mile from the pipeline trail, on the north side of a lake. I reckoned the bull was about two miles away. I called out, "There one is. Over there." Setting the ball head lock to keep the bull in focus and stepping back to allow my companion to look through the eyepiece.

"Well I'll be..." he exclaimed, "that's just impossibly long to find an animal." He stared a little longer, switching between binos and the spotter to compare the views. "You'd never see him, even looking right at him with the binos and the naked eye- forget it." he remarked. We were both amused when another hunter rode right past the animal on the pipeline trail without seeing it across the wide open tundra. I could see the animal's breath steam as it stared at the distant machine and snorted.

I warned him, "that's a long way off for a stalk to start this late. Let's go to that knob for a better look." I said, indicating a low round knob on the near lip of the canyon between us and the bull. "Maybe we'll see something closer in."

I was somewhat doubtful of our ability to pursue the bull, he was at least two miles and two plateaus and one canyon away. About two miles by ATV and about a mile hike along the far lip of the canyon to skirt three small lakes and the attendant bogs. Even using the machines it would be a long stalk and take a lot of time. We only had a little over an hour of shooting light left. We departed our high ridge and after several minutes of riding, climbed the knob trail. This halved the distance to the bull and gave us a great chance to observe the bull and confirm we had no game closer. It also gave us good opportunity to plan the stalk in detail and get an entirely different perspective on the terrain. The route to the bull would be just under a mile and would take a circuitous route to take advantage of natural features and avoid the obstacles.

We took the ATVs alongside the pipeline pad and ditched them on a gravel siding pad where perhaps during the construction days three decades ago a generator shed or a foreman's shack had been. In the darkening gloom the alders beyond looked foreboding, but we knew from our earlier observation that they would soon give way to lower brush. After crashing 50 or so yards through the dense alder, we spooked a flock of ptarmigan out of the edge that nearly gave us both heart attacks. We both knew how much bears love holing up in alders until night when they prowl and hunt.

Along the pressure ridge, we kept a low rise between us and the caribou. My partner, despite my reassurances that the bull would still be there, fretted about it since it was largely out of sight. We arrived at the head of a drainage that emptied a small lake and from our previous vantage point knew he was on the hill beyond. Quiet as thieves we picked our way up the drainage and after several exhausting minutes in the thickening dark we arrived at the edge and there, on the far side, was the bull. Unfortunately, at 500 yards we were spotted and the bull's breath exploded in the a visible cloud as he snorted loudly. The sound carried across the water. Crap. Busted.

We tried to retreat into the thin brush and skirt the lake to our north, despite the stealth our quarry matched our move to the south. A reverse of several hundred yards to the south and the cagey little bull matched our move to the north. While not scared enough of us to bolt and flee across the ridge, he simply was determined to keep the lake between us. On our southern feint, we stopped at the toe of a long point that jutted out into the lake a good distance, perhaps a hundred yards or so. It wouldn't put us on the far side of the lake but it just might put us within shooting distance, albeit long.

We stalked along as best we could in the low brush while the caribou fed and intermittently looked in our direction. The light was failing quickly and at some point when we stopped moving the caribou lost visual acuity of us completely. He panicked somewhat and after several minutes of running in circles- determined he was safe enough. We evaluated our situation; more or less stuck on a peninsula sticking into the lake with a bull prancing across the water at what we reckoned to be three hundred yards. About as long a shot as I'm comfortable with. My partner's rifle was a .300 Remington Ultra (for once magnumania worked in our favor) about as flat shooting as shoulder fired rifles get. At my insistence he stretched out prone across the top of a small beaver lodge while I spotted his shots with my rifle scope. I would fire only if he wounded the animal and I was needed to prevent its escape.

Boom!

I was somewhat shocked by the ferocious muzzle blast of the rifle when he took his first shot- I saw a clod of tundra fly up behind the bull and I called the shot, "High." He cycled the bolt and ejected the smoking hull onto the grass and lined up for his next shot. Boom! The rifle rang out again and I clearly saw the impact of the bullet high. He was shooting over the caribou's back as is often the case when novice hunters attempt to shoot at extended ranges. "Where are you aiming?" I queried tersely.

"I'm aiming a foot over his back!" he said quickly racking the bolt. Clearly nervous the bull would bolt.

"Aim dead on! You're shooting over his back! And while you're at it, calm down and breathe " I replied. I looked at the bull. He was standing there, clearly alarmed at the sudden thunderclaps that had echoed over the tundra. Without a visual cue he was clueless as to which way to run- so he stood there broadside scanning furiously for danger. He was puffing like a locomotive and in the chilled air his breath flashed to steam instantly. Boom! The big rifle rang our again and I saw the impact of the bullet behind the shoulder clearly through my rifle scope, shock waves rippling over his flank. I saw an explosion of steam on the far side of the animal as his breath escaped the exit would. I ejected the shell in my chamber, there would be no need to back that shot up, as the bull fell to the ground.

My partner was in shock, overjoyed at finding success after so much disappointment. Introduced to a new kind of hunting unique to the west, he was hooked.

"Nice shootin' partner...we've got a caribou to skin." I said as I dug my headlamp from my pack. It would be a very long night as dusk turned to dark. We had to gut and quarter the bull and then haul him out the varied terrain to the waiting ATVs and then a short ride out of the mountain to the waiting truck several miles away. The growing dark was accompanied by a cold rain.

It would be a miserable pack out.

By the time we arrived back at the camp the storm had grown into a full blown gale. Darkness, strong winds and cold rain had driven the other hunters into their tents and RVs to drink beer or coffee, tell tales or swap lies with their companions as we unloaded the meat in the dark. I wonder how many of them went to bed that night convinced there was no game there on that high plateau.

Evan, the Hunter.

2011-09-22T23:51:00.000-07:00

After returning from my successful hunting trip, my son became pouty and sullen. I had abandoned him to the confines of school and learning while I went out and harvested game. I could tell from his disappointment that I was going to have to try to make it up to him. After chores the next morning, the family conferred and decided that we would take a Saturday trip down to the Denali area to enjoy the weather, pack a picnic, pick berries and take our Lab for a much overdue swim. Evan kept chattering about hunting for caribou so he could "do his part" to feed the family. At his insistence, I threw the hunting and field dressing gear in the back of the van to placate him. I figured that this hunting trip would be like others I'd taken him on- he'd either quickly tire of the endless glassing or back off from his determination that something should catch a bullet.

We pulled into our favorite spot at Octopus Lake (where we had camped a couple years ago) and got out to stretch after the long drive. We saw several parties of hunters working on caribou they had down and after a few moments with binoculars spotted several small bands of caribou moving through the drainage. As we ate our lunch a gunshot punctuated the fact that the caribou were still in the area. Evan was, of course, delighted at the prospect. We left the wife and dog at the van with the spotting scope. She would follow our progress down the drainage and watch the animals intermittently while she picked berries, played fetch with the dog and worked on her sewing.

I shouldered my pack and we moved out, Evan pressing ahead eagerly through the rough terrain and we followed the creek as it drained out of the lake and headed for the Gulkana some miles away. He was undeterred by bands of alder and bushwacked his way through with abandon. After a mile or so of hard won progress, I decided we should cross the creek to get on a low rise to the east that split the drainage into two irregular shaped canyons. Evan approached the water tenderly- clearly reluctant to get his feet wet. I waded out to the other side and dumped my gear, waded back and retrieved the boy high and dry. He'd only be little once and my feet would dry- eventually.

Arriving on the low rise, we pressed binoculars to our eyes and watched several bands of caribou further down the canyons as they fed and moved. Evan wanted to chase the closest group and shoot one immediately but I reminded him that chasing caribou like that was a fool's errand. The creatures wouldn't bolt and run- they'd simply continue browsing and outpace you. A much better tactic was to simply wait in ambush until one wandered close enough to shoot.

Evan's patience was certainly growing because after an hour of steady glassing I'd not heard a peep or grumble despite a slightly chilly wind and light drizzle of rain. We watched as a band of caribou had moved from one canyon to the other several times without getting close enough to launch a stalk when on the last move a small bull separated himself from the herd and began moving through the bottom of the drainage toward us. Still about a mile away we crept forward perhaps a hundred yards to the limits of our cover. With extreme patience we sat with baited breath as the bull moved to within 400 yards of us and simply stopped approaching and began feeding intently on some morsel he found growing there. Evan remarked to me in hushed tones- "I know what happens now...he's separated from the herd...that means he's gonna die, all the nature documentaries say so."

I asked him back in low tones, "Well how do you figure that Evan?"

Deadpan he replied back, "...cause we're gonna shoot him."

I informed him that he was still too far away to shoot and if he wanted me to shoot the bull he'd have to find us a way closer in. We backed slowly off of our advanced position and realized that there was no way to get off the hillside without the bull easily spotting us due to the dearth of cover available. Evan exclaimed very excitedly, "I've got an idea..." and laid out his plan.

I've got to confess its something I would have never considered in all my years in the field. We simply stood up and walked off the hill away from the bull...in plain sight. Evan had explained his plan- he didn't think that the bull would spook if he saw us walking away from him, getting further away instead of closer. Skeptical of the plan but feeling it might work we did just that- walking a quarter of a mile away as the perplexed caribou watched us retreat. I saw a couple of guys on ATVs at the top of the hill with a sense of dread. They likely thought we'd called off the stalk and would soon swoop in on their machines and shoot the bull. As the caribou disappeared from view behind a fold in the terrain Evan cried out "Let's go!" and took off for the creek at a dead run.

Arriving at the creek there was no hesitation this time, he plunged into the icy water up to his waist and forged across. I followed and we made our way up the slope past the bank and hooked back to where the caribou had continued feeding. We crossed several smaller streams and rivulets draining into the swollen creek and I hate to disclose I had a hard time keeping up with Evan through the alders- his smaller body contorting as he passed easily through the gnarled and twisted branches. I hadn't heard the ATVs yet and hoped the hunters had decided this small bull was a good one to pass up. We soon topped the small fold in the terrain that had held us concealed from the bull.

There he was! Evan's unconventional approached had halved the distance to something like two hundred yards. Evan was down on hands and knees now moving over the tundra in a scramble carefully keeping some low growing foliage between him and the bull to conceal his approach. I followed the best I could. Finally arriving at the last dwarf willow between us and the bull I was quite proud- we had followed the hunter's dictum to a 'T'. If you can get closer, get closer. If you can get steadier, get steadier. Evan beamed with pride as he looked at me with a smirk..."How's that for close?" his eyes said merrily.

I looked at the bull. He was feeding unconcernedly a mere hundred yards away. I cast a glance over my shoulder to the van back at the head of the drainage- a mile and a half. It was going to be a long evening packing this critter back that far. I crept around the willow and raised the rifle. Not wanting to stand offhand and risk startling the bull but unable to assume either prone or sitting due to the sloping, tussocky terrain; I simply crouched in an unconventional position that's best described as "Rice Paddy Prone meets Saturday Night Fever." I looked through the scope at the bull- he was huge in the 6x scope at this range and wonderfully steady. I glanced over at Evan, he was practically vibrating with excitement with his fingers in his ears to shield them from the muzzle blast. I slipped off the safety, looked through the scope and took up slack on the trigger as the crosshairs found the fold of flesh immediately behind the bulls shoulder.

Boom! The gun practically fired itself as I applied the final fractional pressure to the trigger when the crosshairs found their mark. The bull staggered at the impact. The shot was too close for the kugelschlag to sound separately from the muzzle blast but the shot felt good. The bull took a wobbly step forward, a good sign. Evan yelled out, "Shoot him again!" but there was no need. He took several more wobbly legged steps before his brain succumbed to the inevitable- he was hit hard but stubbornly stayed on his feet. I explained in quiet tones that additional shooting would only frighten the animal and that he was already as dead as he'd ever get at this point. I've always hated shooting a second time once an animal has been fatally hit. Besides, where do you shoot an animal you've already double-lunged?

After perhaps 5 seconds the bull tipped over on his nose and was stone still. I stood up and looked back at Evan- he looked triumphant and a little bit sad. I had apparently done that bit of parenting right.

"Good job Evan, that was a great stalk. You got us so close I just couldn't miss."

I approached the animal from the rear and looked him over. Dead. I took off my pack and jacket and looked at the shot placement- perfect double lung shot at fairly close range. I knew there would be a matching hole on the other side and there would be little meat damage on this small bull. We started the butchering process, intending to quarter him. I would be packing meat most of the evening, he looked like he would take at least two and likely three loads to recover. Some shooting across the drainage reminded me that other hunters were taking advantage of the herd's proximity to the road system and were busy filling their tags and freezers as well. I told Evan, "Why don't you put your yellow rain coat back on? Probably a good idea."

We had just removed the second quarter when the rumble of an approaching ATV reached my ears. Taking a break from my task, I stood up and a young man approached and introduced himself saying his partner would be here in a few minutes with a meat trailer and their caribou. He told us they'd watched the whole thing from the edge of the overlooking rim of the drainage. They'd contemplated pursuing this one when they saw Evan's yellow rain coat emerge from the brush in a totally different spot so they elected to leave us to our bull and took a cow in the next canyon. They'd thought we'd broken off the pursuit but we had appeared out of nowhere.

"That was the best strategy and stalk I've ever seen. You guys are awesome hunters! You worked in so close and smoked that guy with one shot! We'd be happy to haul that guy back to the road for you if you like." he said, much to my relief.

I pointed at Evan and said, "He's the guy who planned that one. Now if I can just teach him to shoot the big rifle and grow him big enough to pack meat, I won't even have to leave the house." We all shared a laugh as Evan beamed proudly with the small antlers in his hand.

Days just don't get much better than this.

Scoring Fast Food...or the Caribou is Down.

2011-09-15T22:46:00.000-07:00

I was just recovering from my week of on- again/ off- again foul weather sheep hunting when one day at work my frequent hunting partner Dan came by my desk and asked about a weekend trip on his new boat. It sounded marvelous frankly- cruising the lakes looking for caribou or moose with a fishing pole in the water and a cup of coffee in my hand. All the while kicked back behind the console with a canvas top and Buddy Heater if the weather went south. It took me all of five seconds..."I'm in." I replied.

Dan arrived at the appointed time of 0'dark hundred and I quickly loaded my gear and away we went. We stopped off at the gas station and I fueled the boat and the truck while Dan went for coffee and doughnuts. A few adjustments to the tie downs and windshield cover and away we went in Dan's big Dodge truck pulling the boat. We had a great trip down the highway and spotted numerous animals milling in the dawn light near the edges of the highway including a caribou who ran directly down the road in front of us for a half mile before veering off into the brush. It just felt like a great day to be hunting and I could taste success in the fall air.

As we turned down Denali Highway, the mists began burning off the numerous pothole lakes and patches of blue sky shown through the intermittent gray as the sun began its creep over the horizon. As we motored down the narrow and twisting highway we conversed about the coming fall season and goals we had for hunting as well as observing the changing fall colors of the blueberry bushes and willows. As we passed the boundary marker that announced we were now entering a "Subsistence Hunting Area" and validated the numerous tags we carried, I casually looked west at a rugged mountainside covered with several rocky benches and intertwined patches of moss...and caribou.

"Bou out the port side Skipper!" I announced and Dan quickly slowed the truck and pulled off the narrow shoulder. Finally feeling the momentum of the ponderous boat subside and the truck roll to a stop we jumped out to see the animals. This was ridiculous. We weren't even hunting yet. I had mixed feelings, this wasn't much of a hunt if we connected here on these caribou but then again- I had plenty of air in my freezer at this point.

"What do you think?" I queried as I heard Dan stuffing shells into the magazine of his rifle.

"I'm gonna put one in the freezer!" he answered and started across the road to line up a shot. Its illegal to shoot from, across or to a roadway in Alaska but you don't have to be very far from it to be legal in this location- just off the driveable surface. Dan stepped a couple dozen yards off the road to be on the safe side as I was foraging in the cab of the truck for my rifle shells and hurriedly playing catch up at this point. I had been caught unawares and this seemed almost surreal given the effort I'd expended the week prior for a mere photograph of a sheep, a mile away, through a spotter.

I was midway across the road when Dan, several dozen yards across the other side, pulled up his rifle and fired offhand at a nice plump cow caribou at the edge of a small stone ledge- perhaps a hundred yards distant. I was trying to do too many things at once and this event was unfolding at high speed- running, observing, the animals, loading the rifle, watching Dan in the brush. I glanced up at the crack of the rifle and saw Dan's caribou fall headlong off the ledge. The sharp crack of the kugelschlag indicated the round had struck bone and the reaction of the animal indicated it was stone dead, even in mid fall.

The small band of caribou now exploded into action.

Finally drawing up to Dan I looked up the hill, the caribou were running confused- dodging left and right, pouring up the narrow approaches to the ledges and back down the far sides. Sometimes with herd animals a hunter is often confused by looking at the mass of animals rather than individuals and I fell solidly into the category at this time. I raised the rifle and looked- the crosshairs wobbled with my ragged breathing. I probably hadn't drawn a single breath since rounding the truck and burning lungs demanded air, right now. Animals were piled thick into each other and it was entirely possible to shoot through one and kill or wound one behind it. A disasterous situation.

Its funny how at times like this you mentally do the strangest things. I can only imagine that what I had practiced took over on autopilot as the hunter's dictum ran through my mind- If you can get closer, get closer. If you can get steadier, get steadier.

Closer? Unlikely given the speed at which the animals were moving away. Steadier? That I could do and plopped down on the rough gravel and assumed my favorite of all shooting positions- sitting. I looped up in the sling and drew tight as the animals finally slowed on top of a rock ledge at a distance we would later measure with a GPS as 255 yards. The caribou were still ganged up as I started tracking them through the crosshairs. A nice, fat cow caribou stood out in this small band but I held fire as I could see the legs of another caribou behind her. This was finally slowing down to a pace my brain could handle. The animals traversed the ledge south to north, headed for the lee of the drainage and safety.

"Got one picked out?" asked Dan. Obviously wondering if I was here to hunt or just watch with my mouth agape.

Through the scope I could see a phenomenon that I had observed countless times with all sorts of quadrupeds. Because ungulates have eyes on both sides of their heads they don't see particularly well forward or rear and since they have such limited depth perception with their visual arrangement, they almost always do the most peculiar thing. After an initial burst of speed when startled and a short mad run, the animals will simply stop to look around and see if they are pursued...generally broadside.

I tracked the mature cow and watched as she stopped on the ledge and looked around oblivious to our presence far down the hill. I also watched as the caribou behind her moved clear, providing an ideal, if somewhat long shot. Although it takes some time to write, the actual event took less than 10 seconds in reality. I evaluated- the crosshairs were marvelously steady with the rifle locked in with a taut sling and my forearms firmly on my shins and knees. The distance, albeit slightly longer than I normally like to shoot, was well within the capability of myself and the rifle. I looked carefully, flicked off the safety and took up slack on the fine trigger.

I applied the final fractional ounce to the trigger. Boom! The rifle cracked and I rocked back in recoil. I clearly heard the sound of bullet striking flesh, what the German hunters refer to as the kugelschlag. As I brought the rifle out of recoil I cycled a fresh cartridge into the chamber. I quickly found the ledge again in the scope but I couldn't find the cow again. The herd continued moving north and was soon around the ridge and out of sight.

All business, I calmly asked Dan, "Where?"

"Down!," he replied, "She flopped backwards at the shot and hasn't moved."

I scanned the area through the scope where I believed the caribou had fell, watching for the cow to recover from the initial shock and run off. Many hunters who follow up on game too quickly are surprised when their animal jumps up and runs off as they approach unprepared.

Nothing moving. I was nervous that one of the caribou now putting distance between us was carrying one of my bullets.

"Let's go," I said and we got up and started our climb up the hill. We quickly reached the base of the ledge that Dan's bou had tumbled down. The ledge was perhaps ten feet high and the cow was piled up right at the base. She had never felt the impact at the bottom. His .300 Winchester with a 150gr. bullet had hit the cow at somewhere near 3000 feet per second velocity at 100 yards. The impact force had broken the onside shoulder turning the shoulder blade fragments into secondary projectiles through the lungs. The bullet had punctured both lungs as well and still had plenty of momentum to completely shatter the offside shoulder and punch a large exit wound. Death had been instantaneous. We moved the cow onto a flat patch of ground on the steep hillside, marked it with flagging and got our bearings to continue up the hill to where mine hopefully lay.

We spread out about 50 yards apart and worked our way through the shin tangle and rocky ledges. We went up the steep hill slowly and looked out the ridge- there, perhaps 500 yards away, the rest of the herd had stopped and watched as we made our way up. I had just looked back and thought that I had surely went too far and passed the caribou in the brush. I also had the nagging voice in the back of my head- wondering if I had just wounded the animal and it made an escape as we had climbed up here. It had certainly taken long enough, perhaps ten minutes, to get here and the terrain had enough variation that a discreet escape unseen by us approaching from below would have been possible. I looked at the distant herd, watching for tell tale signs of a seriously wounded one- they all moved with the grace and posture that caribou normally display.

I pushed on and climbed a small, rocky chute to the next rocky ledge to get a vantage point to scan the brush below. The stones had been freshly dislodged as caribou had recently scrambled up this access to the bench above- a good sign. As I pulled myself over the edge of the ledge there was my caribou, stone dead where she fell. I felt a rush of relief as I examined the animal with the distinctive smaller velvet covered antlers. She was in excellent condition, plump and healthy- prime sustenance and wonderful table fare for my family this winter. I examined the wound- the bullet had entered just behind the shoulder, penetrated the vitals and after rolling her over saw it exited high lung through the ribs. Death would have been exceptionally quick and given the myriad of ways caribou die out here in this harsh land- maybe merciful to an extent since old age is not one of them.

While the act of killing isn't something I particularly enjoy, I do take great satisfaction in being proficient at the task. If I cause an animal's death, I strive to do so with minimal suffering. I reflected for a moment here on the mountain with my animal- the caribou had went from alive and living free to quite dead in mere seconds. I wondered a bit about my own eventual death. Would it be as merciful or as quick? After seeing my father's lingering and prolonged suffering bout with cancer my views on death had perplexed me somewhat over the last year. I tired of such melancholy and dark thoughts in such a beautiful setting. Dan rounded a point a short distance away and we had lots of hard work ahead to do given our unexpected and quick success.

"Hey Dan...she's over here. Down in her tracks..."

Sheep Hunting...Weather's Remission.

2011-09-12T23:19:00.000-07:00

continued from "Sheep Hunting...Weather's Finale"

On Thursday morning, at about the second pot of coffee and something like the twenty-fifth check of the NOAA website the change occurred. It took me a minute to pick out the small change after days of viewing it with the same repetitive forecast that accompanies these huge, slow moving low pressure systems.

"Rain, with low lying clouds and decreased visibility in the Eastern Mountains" became instead, "Partly Cloudy with clearing in the afternoon and increased chance of rain in the evening". In other words- sloppy just became partly sloppy.

Before my browser could fully load the page I had already cut and pasted the forecast into a text message and forwarded it to my partner. We had a single day left to hunt and it appeared that our weather lock down was being given by a rogue high pressure system that moved farther to the East than anticipated and would (at least temporarily) push the low pressure monster back over the mountains into Prince William Sound. I received a text from my partner almost immediately- "Tomorrow? What are you thinking?". I replied, " Day trip- pack light, essentials only, hike fast for search and destroy. Leave at 7a, back at dinner."

The reply came back quickly- "Cool."

As we motored south down the highway toward the mountain valley that held our hunt area the weather forecast didn't look accurate as the wipers slapped in rhythm on the windshield. Looking to the north, behind us, the sky was clearing with some blue patches showing so there was some validity to the premonition of the weatherman. As we parked the Jeep, the rain had slackened and we were able to begin our climb in rain gear to protect us from the water pouring off the foliage we had to pass through.

We had packed light- I only had my pack, rifle, spotter, rain gear, lunch and a few survival essentials along- probably a pack weight of 15 pounds total including my heavy tripod. My partner had packed similarly and we moved quickly up the trail toward the tree line. I was weary from the earlier excursions this week but I quickly had the soreness hiked out of my muscles and we broke treeline sooner than expected. We had covered five miles and several thousand vertical feet in just over two hours. We were moving fast over the broken terrain in anticipation of finding the broomed ram still hiding away in the cliffs at the head of the drainage. After being burned earlier in the week, we kept one eye on the weather, and as we gained altitude we could see the dark clouds of the low pressure system being held at bay on the summits of the mountains to our south. Once our current high pressure passed to the east, this system would reclaim the mountains with a vengeance.

Moving through the rock fields we spurred the cries of hoary marmots, collared pikas and ground squirrels (all preferred food for grizzly bears). Each made a distinctive noise that signified their intruder alert for their colonies. As we crossed the high tundra to our over watch for the ram we found our resident caribou- still parading around like an energetic pony. Apparently he was living in anticipation of the coming rut. Every few hundred feet we would slow and scan the surrounding hillsides for any sign of sheep. The sky now perfectly clear, the sun grew intense and hot. Remembering our frigid and soaking experience earlier, I had only a wool watch cap in my pack- my beloved baseball cap forgotten at home. I was going to get a sunburn in one of the weirder twists in my hunting career.

After a hard slog to 5500', we approached the ridge summit cautiously and peered over. We were both giddy with anticipation to see the ram in his favorite spot- hanging out with his two youthful sub legal buddies munching a favored plant that grew on the benches there.

The ram that wasn't there anymore.

We looked very hard and over the next couple of hours picked apart every glen, glade, nook, cranny and crag with the spotter; desperate to get a look at the broomed ram. What we found was disheartening- all the sheep were clinging hard in the escape terrain. The steepest, most difficult and inaccessible parts of the mountain. Ewes, lambs, young rams- stuck on pinnacles and spires looking watchfully over the drainage below. But none was the mature ram or his two partners, they had vanished in the rising mist.

As we picked our way off the mountain the high pressure that gave us such fair weather was starting to wane and the first clouds off the storm began to pour in over the high passes. By the time we reached the jeep a light drizzle started to fall. I had been on one of the hardest and most rewarding hunts of my life despite not harvesting an animal. I was ready to call it quits and give my battered body a rest and turn my attentions to caribou season now starting to pick up in earnest and look for moose in the lowland bogs in order to put some delicious meat in the freezer for the winter. By the time we reached my home, the view south was a solid wall of cloud and rain and wind. We had spent the only precious clear hours of the early season where we wanted to be- on the mountain among sheep.

Sheep season was over for me. It was my first experience seriously chasing sheep but it would not be my last. My partner and I are already discussing next August's foray to chase rams among the clouds.

Sheep Hunting...Weather's Finale

2011-09-02T22:42:00.000-07:00

After donning what was left of our dry clothes and shaking out our rain gear we began to pack up our camp. Few people have any realization exactly how much a wet camp weighs in comparison to a dry camp but on your back it feels like several hundred pounds of water trapped between the layers of your high tech, gossamer fabrics. In reality, it's probably about 15% more weight due to water. After packing up everything the best we could in the drizzling mist, we began the long descent.

The initial terrain was waterlogged tundra interspersed with rivulets of water recently deposited on the mountaintop now headed for the seas. Walking across boggy tundra with a heavy load is exhausting for those who haven't tried it but after a couple of miles and roughly a 1000' feet of fall in elevation we came the steepest part of the descent- an 800 foot drop in as many horizontal feet. A fall here would entail a long tumble to very nearly the bottom of the mountain. We adopted the mantra "slow and safe" before we started down the broken shale face, now slickened by the rain. If the temperature had fallen another ten degrees and resulted in a light snow or ice storm this face would be suicidal to descend.

Things were going pretty well with all things considered- we made good time attempting to beat the setting sun prior to getting to the final part of the hike, a descent through a thick black spruce forest interwoven with impenetrable bands of alder. Navigating past a scree chute, I planted my outboard trekking pole and as I transferred my weight from my foot to the pole the dreaded happened. The pole collapsed and folded under me. Suddenly I was caught off balance on a steep slope with a 60 pound pack on. I was exhausted from several days of hiking and little sleep. I reacted the only way I really could and I sprawled out on the rocks rather ungracefully and attempted to catch myself on something solid before gravity took over and pitched me headlong into the misty abyss below.

My right hand found a jut off rock just as I started to slide and I managed to dig my pack in as well. Thankfully my unintended momentum stopped and for the moment I was safe. I noticed a tremendous pain in my thigh, I had fallen rather hard on my right side and my thigh had impacted a sharp piece of granite protruding from the face. That hurt. I quickly assessed my condition and determined the bone probably wasn't fractured but I did have a small cut and a rather large scrape on my leg that burned like fire. I would bleed a little but I'd live. I managed to work my way to safety where I could rest and regroup with my partner who lagged several hundred feet behind me for safety since we didn't want to fall into each other or dislodge a rock onto the hunter below. Already I had noticed several rocks plunging at high speed from his struggles and I had sent more than a few bouncing down myself.

We at last came to the large rock ledge where our descent transitioned from open cliffs and high alpine tundra back to the forested slopes. We had about a mile to go and about 1500 feet to descend back to the highway where our vehicle was parked. It was 8:00p and we looked like we had just been on a forced march. I had a visible limp from my swelling thigh and my partner's boots had stretched to the point he had to walk gingerly or the whole boot would roll under his foot causing a fall. We drank some water and powered down a couple of candy bars each. We had descended below the thick cloud layer and looking up the sky and mountainside were just a huge wall of grey water trapped in the atmosphere.

I transitioned my trek poles for my rifle. I did this for a couple of reasons- first, encounters with bears would be at rock throwing distance in this thick wood and (maybe not so obviously) walking through the alders and spruce with a rifle barrel sticking two feet over my head would ensure a lot of snagging and fighting an already heavy pack down the mountain. I tightened my straps and found the faint line of the trial in the now darkening forest and plunged in.

I wish I could say our descent down the mountain was a graceful walk down a thin line of a trail through the brush, but it wasn't. The trail was little used and had the habit of vanishing in the brush periodically. We were so tired and exhausted we just plowed though. Like human bulldozers, we knew the way was down and as long as the next step was lower than the first we pressed ahead. Every contact with the trees or the tall alders would dislodge hundreds of collected raindrops and it would pour down on us, soaking us to the bone despite our raingear. Not that it mattered, despite temperatures in the mid 40s we were sweating heavily under our heavy packs; when we stopped in a thicket the prevented the breeze from moving through we steamed profusely. After two hours of this hellish hike we emerged out of the trees, just a few hundred feet from our vehicle. We were battered, bruised, exhausted and soaked, but we were down. It was 11:00pm.

The next day I awoke to the smell of strong coffee permeating the house. My wife had let me sleep in and it was 10:30, hours later than I usually sleep as an early riser. I tried out a few moves while still horizontal. Yep, everything hurt. Despite weeks of training the only thing to prepare you for sheep hunting was sheep hunting. I managed to stagger downstairs and filled my mug with coffee. I looked out the window at the torrential late summer Alaska downpour. The Granite mountains, normally visible from my home, were just a mass of cloud and water. I checked the NOAA site and a couple of FAA Weathercams in the hunt area from my PC. No break in sight in the forecast and just a gray blur on the webcam from the thick fog. That set a pattern that would repeat itself for several days. Drink coffee, watch rain, check forecast (no change from 30 minutes ago), send email to my partner back at his home, restlessly read a magazine, drink coffee, watch rain...you get the idea.

Then on Thursday, after checking the weather for the fourth or fifth time that morning, I noticed a change in the forecast...

to be continued.

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt. 3

2011-08-25T23:38:00.000-07:00

continued from Pt. 2....

As I peered down the ridgetop, I saw immediately what my partner was referring to- a brown/blond animal moving toward us at high speed! As I looked closer it didn't have the lumbering gait of a grizzly bear but rather the characteristic lope of a wolverine! Some 100 yards away it did have the appearance of a bear, especially in the frontal profile- but this creature was closing the distance rather quickly and was bearing down (rather determinedly) toward my partner. I was partially obscured by a small pile of rocks and only after we both moved laterally did the wolverine see there were two humans and break off to the other side of the rock pile. Hearing the animal scrambling over the loose shale behind the scree pile, what it did next surprised me greatly. It popped up behind us. I'm used to seeing wildlife and occasionally animals do things that surprise us. I fully expected this wolverine to scamper off down the hillside, happy to escape the presence of two other much larger predators- not circle around to flank us!

Being in the presence of a creature with the panache and reputation of a wolverine had my rifle at my shoulder- not that I expected trouble, but the wolverine's behavior was already surprising at this point. I must say at this point that wolverine attacks on humans are exceptionally rare and most serious research into such degrade pretty quickly into stories and legend. But there are several documented occurrences and a few more that fall into "likely" wolverine attacks but the events are not even remotely common. There are also several local stories of wolverines that have exhibited stalking behavior toward humans. Would the wolverine have had a go at my partner had he been alone? No one could say with any certainty, but I think so given the determination he exhibited in the charge. What he did next surprised me even more.

As he came around the scree pile he came to a full stop a mere 20 feet away- much closer than I've ever been to a wild wolverine. This was, in fact, only my fourth sighting of these creatures in 12 years. Looking at him over the top of the rifle scope with my index finger resting on the trigger as he emitted a low growl standing on his rear legs, we sat "eyeball to eyeball" for what seemed like an amazingly long time. He seemed genuinely irked that he rounded the pile looking us in the face rather than seeing our vulnerable backs. I must admit that the thought of tangling with this guy was as appealing as juggling running chainsaws (with similar results) and I gave serious thought to killing it right then and there. In fact, I planned that if it dropped to all fours facing me I was going to blast it off the mountain with a .300 magnum shell. I've never been seriously challenged by a wild creature that weighed perhaps all of 30 pounds but here I was...and I've got to admit I didn't like it.

Much to my relief, gulo gulo (the glutton) dropped to all fours headed away from us and speedily galloped down the ridgetop in the direction of the knoll we'd just rested on. I'd hate to think of what might have happened had I napped a bit longer and had this thing wander across me dead asleep. We scouted around the ridgetop, thinking we might have disturbed it in its den but we found nothing but barren rocks for hundreds of yards in every direction. Slightly shaken, but undeterred from our sheep mission, we continued along the lee of the ridge toward the head of the drainage. Stopping periodically we looked across the top of the ridge beyond the drainage to our ram, still resting on his perch chewing his cud with a couple of other immature rams for company.

After a couple more miles, we could visually scout a route across the drainage and onto the opposite ridge above the ram. We held a "council of war" as O'Connor would have written and made a plan to begin our stalk at first light (about 4:30am). We'd make a long, arduous hike up and around the head of the drainage and climb the opposite ridge to a point where we could hopefully get a clean shot at the ram without him spotting us or falling down the cliff that he presided over. We glassed the terrain and looked for potential obstacles, consulted the map and reckoned the stalk would entail a 5 mile hike from camp and a vertical ascent of an additional 1000 feet. Unfortunately, the 1000ft climb would only be possible after a 1000ft descent through the drainage and an equal ascent to our level on the opposite side. It looked exhausting after our activities of the last few days.

We crept up the ridge to peer over and I was surprised again to not see the ram, but a solid wall of thick cloud had blown up the drainage. The ram was perhaps a 1/2 mile away and now swathed in fog. The sporadic rain that had fallen since I woke up from the nap turned into a more steady rain. The ceiling which had been unlimited yesterday had steadily moved down to our level and continued to drop. By the time we had hiked a half mile on our route back to camp, visibility had fallen to a mere 20 or 30 feet. Out on the barren alpine tundra, without a visible landmark to guide is back to camp we would have certainly become lost without a GPS. Even with a GPS we'd get off course within a few minutes if we didn't make a conscious effort to follow the indicator. We quickly abandoned the concept of getting a bearing and then turning it off in a bid to save battery life. The hike back which had taken a mere hour on our way out took over three to get back. To make matters worse, a torrential rain began to fall soaking our boots and running through any chink in our rain gear armor.

Arriving back in camp, we piled into our respective tents and I stripped off whatever wet garments I had (which were nearly all despite serious rain gear), made an effort to mop up the residual water in the tent with a handkerchief and then I climbed into my bag to warm up. I must admit, the thought of the weather turning sour like this was deeply discouraging and given the exceptional weather we'd enjoyed so far in the hunt, put a cramp into my spirit I was having a hard time overcoming. I ate a little food and peered out from the door at the steady rain and obscured peaks that surrounded us.

The high pressure system that had given us blue sky and fair breezes had finally given way to the low pressure system pouring over the peaks and through the passes to our south. We didn't know it at that moment but the snow line was now creeping from 8000 ft to just a few hundred feet above our camp at 5500ft. But we couldn't know that- the ceiling had dropped to just 2000 ft., nearly to the valley floor far below. Without visibility, sheep hunting in this weather was useless. Just useless. The only way we'd bag a ram is if he wandered into our camp and became entwined in our guy lines. Busted.

At this point, I did something most unusual on any Alaska hunt. I pulled out my Blackberry and fired it up. Given our elevation and proximity to an AT&T microwave station, perhaps I could get a signal. Surprisingly I did- its becoming more common to get such signals as our communications infrastructure grows- a few years ago this would have been impossible. I navigated to the NOAA website and checked our forecast. Days of this weather without change as the low pressure system became the dominant climatic force in the region. That low system brought heavy rain, low cloud, no visibility and a broken spirit. With just a week scheduled to hunt and no break in the weather in sight our useless turned into hopeless.

Like broken men we donned our rain gear and began packing our soaking wet camp for the long descent off the mountain. I couldn't help but feel like we were throwing in the towel but given our current situation our only other option would be to hang out in our tiny mountaineering tents, try to stay dry, try to stay sane and think about rams. We planned to hold our schedules open in the event the weather broke we would make another assault up here after the ram. With a heavy pack and a heavy heart, I walked off the mountain.

to be continued....

Author's note- wolverine photo credit Wikipedia Commons.

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt. 2

2011-08-23T23:11:00.000-07:00

continued from Pt.1...

As the sun continued to set we realized just what an exhausting day we'd had- a long, hard climb with heavy packs followed by more mileage searching out a ram. I've got to admit that getting in the bag felt good. Shedding heavy boots, jacket and outer layers; I nestled myself into the warm down cocoon and within moments I was dozing contentedly.

A short time later I was jolted awake. The cooling earth to the south was causing the air to contract- generating a stiff breeze. The conflicting weather systems consisting of the low pressure cell moving off the Gulf of Alaska over the pass to our south and the stationary high pressure parked over the Interior were competing for dominance and that competition resulted in wind... a lot of it. Sheltered as we were behind our fortress of broken shale we were spared a direct onslaught of the wind but the williwaw blasts still managed to generate a random pattern of gusty blasts that rattled our tents unmercifully. I'd estimate the winds at elevation to gust in 60mph range. I had utmost confidence in my single wall mountaineering tent to survive such a blow without damage but there's a huge difference between surviving a windstorm and sleeping through one. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a light sleeper in the wilderness and the windstorm partnered with my new partners snoring ensured that I slept little and what little I got was fitful. Only after daybreak with a warming Interior helping that high pressure system regain the upper hand did I manage to get a couple hours of sleep.

Waking for the hundredth time about 8:00am finally did it- an aching back and bursting bladder finally convinced me to wake up and stir around. I gathered my water bottle and filter and walked the short distance to a small seep of water running across the alpine tundra. It only took a few minutes to pump 48oz. of water and just a few moments later I was back at camp making oatmeal and coffee in the Jetboil. Hot food and caffeine never tasted so good after a long restless night. I reflected that last night's wind was precisely the reason a couple of my mountaineering pals read the isobar charts the way other folks read their email or morning paper. As the elevation increases the margin for error in predicting the weather gets perilously slim. A thunderstorm that presents a stiff breeze and inconvenient rain a couple hundred feet above sea level will be much more dangerous at 5,000 feet and perhaps generate fatal conditions at 10,000.

With my partner rousing a few minutes later, I passed the stove to him so he could eat his breakfast and we could get moving for the day. He ate a quick breakfast and we packed daypacks in anticipation of spending the day exploring the adjacent drainage several miles from camp where we saw the legal ram bed down yesterday. Setting off on a easterly course, we found the hiking much more pleasant if we plotted a course along the pressure ridges of gravel and rock near the high points of the saddles and along the spines of the ridges. These firm surfaces made much better terrain for walking that a straight line course across the alpine bowls filled with tundra. An extremely rainy summer had left the spongy tundra full of water with many seeps and tiny ponds with vegetation that was soft. Tundra is often described as walking on a soft mattress covered in bowling balls and the description is as apt as any I've heard.

Distances across the wide open tundra were also very different than those at lower elevations. For instance, the straight line distance across an alpine bowl might appear to be a few hundred yards but in reality would be a mile across. Without substantial vegetation to give size reference we found estimating distances beyond a couple hundred yards nearly impossible. A short distance away a large bull caribou followed us curiously appearing every few minutes. A couple miles along the ridge and we were arriving at the round topped peak where the ram was feeding the evening before.Taking our time and moving slowly we found a lot of sheep sign and a colony of exceptionally vocal hoary marmots. Making our way to the edge to look over the main drainage of XXX Creek we found ourselves staring at the ram, just a 1/2 mile away. With a catch- there was a 3000 ft deep chasm between us.

We kept low and out of line of the rams keen eyesight. At this range, with the rams already bedded in escape terrain we were unlikely to spook them but we were certainly likely to change their movement patterns. Eyeing the deep canyon between us, reaching the ram would either entail a hair raising descent and an exhausting climb in a direct line or a long arduous walk several miles up the ridge and crossing the drainage where it was shallower. The first option was foolish- chasing sheep in their escape terrain was ridiculous. One whiff, one inclination and that ram could spook and leave us sucking wind while he effortlessly sprinted over the ridge where we'd be unlikely to find him again. The second option looked better although longer since sheep rarely look for danger from above them and getting above the ram from the east and approaching down the spine of the ridge would be relatively safe although a hike measured in miles. We decided to just hang tight and quietly shadow the ram from here. We took several photos and the ram finally gave us a good look at that right horn. Broomed and he was legal. We'd found our first target.

Exhausted from a long night, I found a soft patch of grass out of the returning wind to lay down and take a nap in. I've got to admit that the nap was something I needed desperately. I slept very deeply and after a couple of hours I looked up- just a few feet away a collared pika (a small member of the rabbit family) was looking intently at me. I'm quite confident that had I not woke up, that little guy would have climbed right up on my chest and foraged my jacket pocket for trail mix. I roused up and immediately noticed what had broke my nap- a few small drops had fallen on my face.
Rain.

Crap.

I quietly made my way down to where my partner was bivouacked. He'd gotten a short nap and eaten some lunch while keeping periodic eyes on the ram. Looking around I noticed the ceiling had moved in and no longer did we have a bluebird sky but the entire sky was the color of matte stainless steel- dark and impenetrable. The ceiling had also moved down considerably and was now obscuring the higher peaks at 8,000 feet. While we watched the ram we saw the occasional low flying cloud sail up the drainage. The weather was deteriorating more rapidly than we had thought. We decided the ram with the deteriorating weather would be unlikely to move from his perch. We thought we would take a look at the head of the drainage where we would have to cross tomorrow in a bid to take the ram. We placed the ridge spine between us and the ram and headed up the drainage to the northeast toward a dramatic looking bluff of soft mineral that was obviously breaking down rapidly turning the glacial stream flowing through the drainage a green-gray color.

As we were walking out the ridge my partner pointed and excitedly called out, "Hey look! Is that a bear?"

To be continued...

Sheep Hunting...Wolverines and Weather Pt.1

2011-08-22T20:14:00.000-07:00

I'll pick up the narrative where I left off in my last post, "Scouting for Sheep" so the reader is advised to read up on that before they continue.

After establishing our cache of food in the rocks we made plans to hike in to begin the hunt on Monday in anticipation of the Wednesday opener. All evening I packed and checked and got my gear in order- without substantial food or my heavyweight tripod my gear weighed in at 51 pounds. My new hunting partner arrived right on schedule in the morning and we departed for the hunt area which I'll refer to in the best sheep hunting tradition as "XXX Creek". Arriving at XXX Creek we were surprised to find another pickup parked there- it seemed awfully early for someone to be walking in to begin a hunt considering we thought we had beaten everyone to punch ourselves. With our food stores already cached at the head of the drainage we had no choice but to continue as planned-regardless who might be sharing the drainage with us.

The initial ascent went slowly given our heavy loads of equipment and we were much relieved to to finally break free of the treeline. At the tree line the trail to the top turned painfully up- gaining over 1000 feet in elevation in a little over a quarter of a mile. We cautiously climbed inch by painful inch up the slope watching our footing because a tumble over the edge with our unwieldy packs would result in a long fall on broken rock only to be stopped by being strained through the brush. An errant piece of scree inadvertently knocked loose reminded us just exactly how far down the mountain we would fall if we misjudged our footing. The crashing went on for what seemed an eternity as it bounced down the scree chute and through the brush.

When we finally summited the scree chute we were rewarded with a wonderful vista and an alpine meadow full of fresh sheep scat. Things were certainly looking up. We decided to place camp in a sheltered rock structure a couple of miles away on the top of the ridge that might give us some relief from the relentless wind. When we were placing our camp it was obvious we weren't the first sheep hunters to shelter in the fortress of shale- decades of sheep hunting in the area had left few places like this secret. I turned over a piece of flat shale to weigh on a shallow tent peg and found an empty C-Ration can. Even Frank Glaser (see Alaska's Wolf Man), a pioneering market hunter from the turn of the last century had written about this drainage, hunted sheep here, and established a roadhouse a few miles to the south.

With camp established we turned out attention to the business at hand- finding a legal ram to shoot on opening day. We donned light packs- just snacks and optics- took rifles in hand and set off to the east toward a promising ridge between both points. Sheep hunting is a game of optics- while sheep are readily visible miles away in their white coats judging a ram is a game of extreme patience. Every half mile or so we'd set up the scope and spend at least half and hour scouring the cliffs and meadows looking for a ram.

As the afternoon wore into evening the sheep became more active and began an evening feed. Suddenly, as if rather unexpectedly a small band of rams wandered over a bluff a mere half mile away. We quietly sequestered ourselves in the rocks and looked them over intensely with the Zeiss glass. I've often wondered if the rams could feel our gaze as we concentrated on them as intently as any "spoon bender". The band contained just three rams- two immature rams who were quite obviously not legal and one grand old ram who favored showing us his left side.

That left side was broomed heavily and what few glimpses we got it appeared either full curl or slightly broomed. His bases were very large for a sheep younger than 8 years old. A legal sheep either has to be full curl on either side or broomed on both -so either of those conditions would make this guy legal...on Wednesday morning. We changed priorities immediately, no longer looking for a legal sheep we now decided to quietly bird dog this guy for the next two days until the season opened.

We followed him the rest of the evening from a mile out, desperately trying to stay down and out of his line of sight. Since sheep have vision the equivalent of 8x binoculars that's not the easiest thing to do but we appeared to be avoiding alarming the sheep as they finished their evening graze at leisure. We then followed them another half mile until they were ensconced in some steep cliffs to bed for the night and chew their cud. A faint hint of cloud began to pour through the pass to the south but we gave it little thought since the weather had been perfectly clear with bluebird skies and just enough breeze to keep the bugs at bay.

Retiring to camp at around 11:00p we watched a band of 6 caribou bulls with massive racks and shovels make their way over a ridge a mile distant as we ate our freeze dried dinners and drank a cup of coffee. The sky turned a wonderful shade of pink as the setting sun reflected off the braided river 4000' below.

Life was good. Very Good. But nothing scares me like a good day since the law of averages never sleeps.

To be continued....

Scouting for Sheep

2011-08-07T20:00:00.000-07:00

I know its been a good while since I've posted but I've got a good excuse...I've been roaming over hill and dale looking for a likely spots to sheep hunt. Putting together a sheep trip isn't exactly a difficult undertaking but it can be a challenge to line up partners, equipment, schedules and get it all into an area likely to contain a ram.

Given my planning bent I had most of this stuff arranged well ahead of time but as the adage goes a well thought out plan just gives you a place to change it from when it falls apart.

And fall apart mine did.

My plan included a 9 mile mountain bike ride followed by a 4 mile 2500' climb to put us into great sheep country. My party included two friends that I'd hunted with several times before but I was the only guy with a sheep tag. One of my companion was just in for the trip and the other was looking for a nice Interior grizzly. The "in for the ride guy" cancelled on Monday, the grizzly hunter on Tues...rats. In the meantime, I had been contacted by another hunter from the state who's partner had cancelled out last minute on him as well.

A leery as both of us were about arranging a hunt with a total stranger we agreed to meet and discuss the possibility and see if we thought we could get along on a strenuous hunt together. As luck would have it, we found ourselves well matched as hunting partners with similar levels of experience, fitness and objectives for the hunt. That just left us the logistics.

Equipment was no issue, we had that covered in spades- it was a short matter to arrange who had the better of a particular item and split it up. As far as area is concerned we were in trouble. Both of our plans had included packing in a long distance and having a partner (or two in my case) to help ferry the weight back out- since we both had tags the task of hauling two sheep among two hunters was a far cry from one split three ways or even among a pair of hunters.

We looked carefully at the map and looked for other likely areas that were perhaps closer to the road system- identified a couple and made plans to hike in, scout the area and cache some of our camp. We visited the first of these over the weekend.

The initial climb in was along a rugged goat path of a trail that quickly rose through the tree line (1000' vertical in 1/2mile) and terminated midway on a rocky face. At that point one turns and heads up, scrambling on fours up the scree for perhaps another 200 feet until you hit another goat track of a ledge skirting over the top of three slot canyons. Another 200 foot or so scramble up a chimney choked with deteriorating shale and you pop out in a likely looking alpine bowl on a long semi circular ridge rimming a drainage. Exhausted under heavy packs this looked a likely spot as any we'd seen- discovering sheep scat in the meadow proved the sheep had at least been here. We followed the ridge for another mile and cached our gear under a short ledge.

The weather had been deteriorating all day and now in late afternoon the wind screamed along at 50mph and carried a few drops of rain. Completely exposed to the brunt of the wind on the barren mountain was something to experience akin to sticking your head in the jet stream. As we picked our way back down the bowl I glanced across the drainage and detected movement through wind-teared eyes..."What is that? Do you see that movement?" I asked in a shout to be heard over the gale.

"I do...they're sheep", said my new partner- now beaming with excitement. Over the next fifteen minutes we watched transfixed as an entire band of sheep filled the adjacent bowl (on the lee side of the ridge) to escape the howling wind and began feeding there. Looks like sometimes despite meticulous planning its still hunting and we were doing alright. Not that I'm much of a believer in luck, but I do hope that what passes for it holds out for opening day when we hope to be in the drainage with a couple of likely rams in our sights.

1st Memorial Fishing Trip Report or....The Mysterious Island

2011-07-19T19:53:00.000-07:00

The alarm went off much earlier than I wanted it too that morning. I was still groggy from a late arrival after driving in to Valdez late the night before. The road down, while mostly devoid of summer traffic, was undergoing construction and what wasn't undergoing repair needed it badly. To top it off it rained all the way down too. I got my groggy bones out of bed, grabbed a quick shower and wandered down to the lobby in search of coffee. I got several stares as I placed my "Big Man Mug" under the caffeine spigot and let it roll- bypassing the Styrofoam shot glasses most of the other patrons had used. Sufficiently fueled I zipped my jacket and strolled out of the hotel into the Valdez harbor. Looking suspiciously at the sky with one scowling eye- I drank back a long slug of the hideous brew. It looked like an awful day for fishing.

I stopped by my rig and shouldered my pack with all my gear and checked the note in my pocket with the slip number written on it- and headed for the correct boat where hopefully my companions would be joining me. A few minutes later I arrived on time and checked in with the skipper of the boat. Today's shark charter would have 6 of us on a 28' boat- 4 fisherman, a deckhand, and the skipper. Colloquially called a "Six Pack" in these waters it was a pretty standard configuration albeit older and showing considerable wear and tear; room for 4 to fish from the back, a small head and cuddy cabin below forward, elevated con in the middle under a canvas top. This boat was named the Swifty and the two massive 300 horsepower outboards hanging off the back should be an indication that the boat was aptly named. Since I was the last to arrive on board I presented my fishing license to the captain who recorded my information and we were off to the fuel dock to take on fuel and more coffee.

The captain was a friendly enough sort, apparently to hear him tell it one of the foremost shark men in the Sound (more on that later) and as we motored through the "No Wake" zone out of the harbor gave us the standard safety speech and let us know that we would be making the run out to Hinchinbrook Island in pursuit of salmon sharks. The weather was looking rougher by the moment and I was happy to have new rain gear and a total lack of predisposition to seasickness. My companions for the trip were a couple of coworkers and friends, Gary and Dan, as well as Dan's longtime girlfriend Jenny. We all made ourselves more or less comfortable on the aft deck and as we drifted past the buoy the captain fired the starboard engine and pushed the throttles forward. Swiftly was apparently correctly named and as the captain planed out the boat we were streaking across the water past the hulking trawlers working the run of pink salmon in the bay.

Two and a half hours later after crossing a large chunk of the Gulf of Alaska we drifted to a standstill over some unknown underwater structure where the captain told us was a good spot to fish for sharks. According to the radio chatter on the marine set the boat moored a half mile west was none other than Larry Csonka, who was busy trying to catch sharks for his North to Alaska television program. We rigged two marine "big game" rods with huge Penn deep sea reels with steel leaders and dual hooks. The bait was a whole pink salmon-one hook through the gut and one through the head. Anything the size of a shark that hit this bait would be very likely to be secured onto either or both of the large circle hooks.

We ran the two rods off the aft and affixed proper weights to both and rigged the starboard one to run relatively deep and the port to run shallower to present a bait to sharks cruising at either depth. We quickly established a batting order for who would fight the first shark and began cruising slowly with the bait deployed. The skipper explained that sharks would normally hit a bait hard in the middle resulting in a sharp jerk to the rod and we should call out- allowing him to cut the engine. The shark would then apparently be satisfied that the initial strike had killed his target and then proceed to eat it- tail first and impale himself on the forward facing hooks. It sounded like a perfect plan.

With one exception. No one had informed the sharks that this was a participatory sport on their part.

After an hour of cruising- slowly pulling the bait- we stopped and readjusted, checked weights, and changed depths. The formerly enthusiastic and chatty captain was now somewhat crestfallen and oddly silent- driving the boat in a course and chain smoking cigarettes. The deckhand went below and fell asleep.

It started to rain.

Being "on deck" with Gary "at bat" I was not expecting any monster fish fighting action anytime soon so I went below decks and donned my rain gear and retrieved my camera and went above to study the shoreline of Hinchinbrook hoping to spot one of the islands fabled monstrous bears. The whisper thin beach rose sharply to thick maritime temperate rain forest, thick and dark and then continued steeply up into the low lying cloud bank with occasional rocky peaks sticking above. The rain and dark appearance of the island coupled with my knowledge of the bears lurking within gave the entire coast a feeling of Jules Verne's Mysterious Island. A recently marooned boat laying cracked open on the beach completed the picture.

It started to rain harder.

Another hour of trolling for the non-starter sharks and the captain called a meeting on the cramped deck. While the adage "A bad day fishing beats a good day working" is certainly true- it does however overlook the perspective of a chartered fishing captain. A boat full of paying clients getting skunked and soaked to the bone in the process was not good for business. With fuel at over $4 a gallon and expenses piling up a boat captain simply must return happy (well tipping) clients to the dock with whopping piles of fish to just stay financially afloat. And skunked fishermen don't tip. In this new era the number of charter boats in Valdez is half of last year and that is half of the year before. When charters cost $100 a day and fuel ran a $1.50 per gallon the captains had a booming business- now with limits tights, fuel sky high and costs astronomical- the price had risen to the point die hard fishermen who once might have chartered several times a season would now go once. The folks who might charter annually were now going every two or three years and the other folks who might try a once in a lifetime trip weren't going at all. The skipper was desperate for the grizzled and unhappy folks before him to reel something in.

"I know a spot, about 4 miles away where the tide line runs we can catch some huge halibut if you guys are willing to give up and sharks and go for flat fish" the captain proffered. I was not impressed but I decided that continuing to keep doing what we were was going to just be unproductive and I cast my vote- "I'm in." The rest of the folks quickly added their vote- anything was better than driving a boat in circles under a pouring raincloud with the only fish on the line a dead one used as bait. I was skeptical of the skipper's claim- it smelled of desperation but my own foul mood on this failing adventure occurring on the anniversary of my father's death may have colored my judgement. At least a little.

A few minutes under the Swifty's considerable power and we were there- anchored off the shore in deep water with a ripping current rushing under the boat. At precisely 2:05 the tide turned and the boat swung on its anchor and we dropped lines with generous chunks of salmon on circle hooks with three pound weights down to the bottom. Even the rain cloud that had drenched us for hours moved on to the west, leaving us a little sun. Within moments Dan had cried out, "Fish ON!" and just a few moments later had a thirty pound halibut next to the boat. It was hooked just barely and the skipper urged Dan to let it get off and escape- "That's a real little one for this spot," he said. "Ok", replied Dan (just a little defiantly I thought) and let his line go slack. The wriggling fish flipped his tail and disappeared in the black water. I was hoping that wasn't the only thing we caught.

Something that only happens once in great while at that moment began to happen. Like a mathematical equation that equals more than the sum of its parts, a planetary alignment, a magic trick the amazes even the magician- the current, the fish, the temperature, yeah even God Himself smiled on us and a wave of fish ran under our boat that defied imagination. While the skipper would certainly say the result was his knowledge and expertise, I'm not so sure (not to discount the skipper's skill) that it wasn't the benevolence of a higher power on a much needed occasion.

We caught fish.

Not just caught fish...miraculously caught huge fish. Gary cried out with a grunt, caught by surprise he managed a muffled "Fish on" but the screaming drag of his reel drowned out his call as a monster of a fish ran with his bait. I quickly reeled mine in to give him more space to fight his clearly giant fish. A well over six feet and powerfully built, Gary fought this fish for twenty minutes of huffing and sweating and a truly massive fish surfaced by the boat- the captain quickly harpooned the fish to anchor it to the boat and reached for the bang stick as the deckhand pulled it alongside. A swift motion and the power head contacted the fish just over the region of the brain- the .38 Special shell exploded and the massive fish went limp in the water. Fish of this size are never pulled live into the boat- their struggles could easily destroy equipment of injure shipmates. A power head made swift and humane work of killing the fish. Several gaffs were placed in the fish's giant jaw and it took three grown men to haul it over the side of the boat.

No sooner than we took photos and admired the size of the barn door than Dan cried out "Fish on!" and the scream of his drag reel carried over the water. Dan fought the fish while the deckhand and I wrestled Gary's massive fish into the fish hold. It was so large its tail had no choice but to hang out under the door. Dan landed his fish and the power head once again went to work and another fish was added to the hold. My rod gave a severe jerk and I began to fight another large fish as they hauled Dan's over the rail. A few minutes later I had it near the side and the captain (whose stock had risen considerably at this point) harpooned it and dropped the power head expertly on the fish's skull. The firing shell made a loud pop (much like a cardboard box being dropped from a height onto concrete) and the fish went satisfyingly limp. The bullet doesn't have to hit the brain as the most destructive force is the gas and shock of the power head essentially venting into the fishes body cavity. We hauled it up into the hold just as Dan took over fighting another fish for Jenny, who had exhausted herself fighting another fish.

I stepped back and contemplated what was happening...we had three large fish that any one would have been the pride of any boat on the water and then Gary hooked into another one! I took over reloading the power head after the captain had popped Jenny's fish and hurried over to harpoon Gary's second one. No sooner had I slipped it back into the rack than Dan called out for it again! The poor deckhand was pulling in fish right and left and had a hard time keeping up with all the fish hitting the boat. It was glorious. I reached out to take my rod as my second fish hammered it, bending the rigid rod nearly double. Thirty exhausting minutes later I had my second fish to the side and the harpoon was jabbed- the blow missed home and the fish ran for the depths a second time. My aching muscles screamed pulling a second hundred pounder up from the depths...the exhausted fish finally yielded to the exhausted fisherman and this time the harpoon struck home. The power head once again popped and another fish went into the hold after being wrestled aboard.

Jenny was fighting another huge fish and after a valiant effort yielded the rod to Dan who fought what would be a huge skate to the surface. We released it and the Dan's reel shrieked to life and an exhausted Jenny took over and held the fish for an exhausted Dan before he began reeling in his second fish. At this point we all had two fish (the daily limit) except Jenny whose reel came to life again- she wrestled a twenty five pounder aboard with the help of the deckhand. After raising fish hold door we saw there was simply not room for the fish in the crowded hold. "Oh heck, its just a baby compared to the others." she exclaimed, "just let it go!" The deckhand complied by placing the still wriggling and yet unharmed fish back into the water and what would have been the highlight of many of my trips slipped back happily into the dark water and headed for the bottom where it lived.

It was four o'clock and we had limited a boat of anglers with consistently large fish- simply unheard of these days. The skipper, smiling ear to ear- his bragging rights among the other skippers secured, helped the deckhand collect our gear and turned the boat toward home. Gary's monster would weigh in at the dock at 150.6 pounds and the aggregate weight of our seven fish would be just over 650lbs, an average of 92 pounds- each! Gary remained in Valdez overnight to pick up our fish from the processor- 303 lbs of processed filets. A winter's supply of fish for our families. It was incredibly gratifying to see the boys struggle up the ramps with two carts full of fish. I was thankful for the fish and a sea adventure story worthy of telling in remembrance of my Dad.

The 1st Memorial Fishing Trip

2011-07-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

As many of my regular readers are aware, today is the first anniversary of the death of my father. While it is a sad milestone, it is also one that I feel I need to remember in a special way. My father lived a life of no regrets- he was a consummate adventurer with a passion for machinery, motorcycles and the sea. In fact, I've often credited my own substantial wanderlust to his DNA as well as general fondness for things that generate torque and recoil. Undeterred by what others saw as limitation- my father pursued all sorts of things- never with the reckless abandon that marks the irresponsible man but rather a calculated risk taking meant to broaden his horizon and yield more experience from this life. I could tell all kinds of things about him- race cars, motorcycles, private pilot, mechanical genius, travels abroad, but this story is about the sea.

As a young man frustrated by college studies he signed up for the Navy, left the hills of East Tennessee and headed out to sea. Some of my favorite photographs of my father are from his Navy days- many years before I was born. They show a much younger man- exploring new places, showing off a new tattoo, fishing from the aft end of a Naval destroyer, swimming in the deep water while anchored in the middle of the Atlantic. His Navy days were something of a carefree life- full of adventure, a BSA 650 Lightning motorcycle, Mediterrean ports and my Mom if the picture albums do an adequate job of storytelling.

As a child, family vacations frequently took place near the ocean- Virginia Beach, Kure' Beach, Hilton Head, Destin, Hawaii, Puerto Valerta. If a vacation didn't involve the sea as far as my Dad was concerned- it was a waste of time. He frequently took deep sea fishing trips with coworkers and later as a company owner sponsored many fishing charters for his employees despite being located hours from the ocean. I also remember one rather humorous adventure that nearly involved my family relocating to Florida- I was only spared that horror by unusually low local wages and a monstrous hurricane that had my Mom packed in the car with my sister and I and a statement that it was leaving in five minutes whether he was in it or not!

So to honor my Dad's love of the sea and adventure, I've decided that on the anniversary of his passing I would mark the occasion by travelling to Valdez, where several companions and I have arranged to pursue some of the most exciting big game fishing Alaska has to offer- the Salmon Shark. By the time this is posted, we will have boarded the Swifty and will be venturing out into Prince William Sound after these wonderful creatures. I think my father would approve.

Photo from Wikipedia Commons

Wish us luck- story and photos to (hopefully) follow!

Atypical Results

2011-07-12T20:47:00.000-07:00

I've been doing a bit of reloading over the last couple of weeks and really practicing with my hunting rifle. Here's a series of photos that show some atypical results achieved one rainy and overcast day at the range.

Loading up...

Prone position...

5 shot group...

One happy camper! Look out sheep!

Hornady Lock-N-Load AP Review or....Rollin' Yer Own.

2011-07-03T14:41:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I was given the opportunity to review a new reloader from Hornady. While I've used many of Hornady's ammunition products over the years, reloading for rifle cartridges is something I'd never tried. With a couple of choice tags in my pocket for this fall's hunting season (including a coveted sheep tag!), I was delighted when my number came up to have the chance to review this reloader. Special thanks to the great folks at Outdoor Blogger Network for setting up these opportunities. As a note, while I don't normally do many gear reviews at all, this one is one of the rare ones where I've been provided the equipment by a manufacturer in exchange for a written review. Hornady provided the press and I purchased all of the ancillary equipment so it isn't like I don't have any "skin in the game" myself. As a note of apology, this review is pretty tardy by OBN's standards- all I can say is all those ancillary devices are a bit hard to come by here but some persistence and a couple of trips to Fairbanks and some back ordered mail order parts took care of it nicely (albeit slowly on my part). So with the introductories taken care of...on to the review.

In anticipation of doing the review, I did a bit of research and picked up a reloading manual so I could at least be familiar with the process ( I should have looked at the publishing date, more of that later). I had done a little reloading for pistol cartridges many years ago when I was an avid IDPA competitor so I was roughly familiar with the overall concept but I had my reservations about making ammunition that runs in the 65,000psi range rather than the much lower pressures of pistol ammunition. I needn't have been concerned, when I unboxed the press the first thing I noticed was a DVD lying right on top. So before burying into the packaging I actually did something rather rare for men in general and myself in particular- I watched the instructions....first.

While most of the attempts at video instruction manuals are usually little more than a spokesman referring a guy back to the manual for anything more complicated than opening the box; this one had a spokesman who showed me step by step how to set up the loader, for pistol cartridges. While the best video instruction I've seen to date I do wish they had included a segment on setting up for rifle dies, but that's more personal wish list than criticism. The instructions with the press and dies were more than adequate for the task. In my search for reloading accessories my wife came across a well loved but sturdy metal desk at a yard sale- $5 and it was in my van and destined to be my new loading bench. Setting up the bulk of the mechanicals was relatively simple requiring few tools other than a power drill, a couple of wrenches and some 5/16" hardware. All of the tooling required for working on the actual press itself (mainly hex keys) was thoughtfully included in the box.

With the press solidly in place I moved on to setting up to load my primary hunting rifle- a .300WSM. The reloading manual I had was apparently out of date since it had no .300WSM load data in it at all. While still relatively new I would have thought 10 years would have garnered it a spot in the load book but alas, in the Far North load books must move slowly from the shelves. Of to the Internet in search of data and I found it in abundance at most of the powder manufacturer's web sites. As a note of caution- I did find scads of data on Internet forums but I'll caution the reader that it's buyer beware. Some of those folks may be master reloaders with thousands of dollars in equipment and a lifetime of experience but I wouldn't count on it. They could just as easily be a "mall ninja" or "Internet B'wana" who just casually suggested that you overload your cartridge by 15% like they're a regular authority on the subject. So despite what you see, read or hear- I would avoid any load data not provided by a manufacturer of either bullets (Hornady, Speer, Barnes, Nosler, etc) or gunpowder (Alliant, Winchester, Hodgdon, etc) or some other entity providing professional services related to handloading- those companies have the labs and the expertise (and enough product liability) to ensure the data they publish is safe to use. I would approach published data with caution much less that provided by some anonymous person on the Internet.

So after you set up your press you'll need some other equipment. I chose Hornady's New Dimension rifle dies, a Hornady digital powder scale for measuring charges, and a digital caliper for measuring OAL. I also had to buy consumables- gunpowder, brass, primers and bullets- I chose Remington brass, Remington magnum rifle primers, Alliant's RL 17 gunpowder and Nosler's 150gr Ballistic Tip Hunting bullets. One thing I noticed is that the amount of variety available to the handloader is staggering- be very careful to choose components that are suitable to your cartridge and purpose. Other than my choice of bullet all the other components were chosen based on either cost or limited availability in my location. For my impending sheep hunt the 150gr Ballistic Tip is a very good choice. For general hunting of caribou, moose or bears I would have chosen something heavier and tougher than the relatively soft BT but sheep are neither comparatively large or tough. There are so many bullets on the market a person would have a hard time not finding a suitable projectile for any creature on earth.

With no trouble at all I degreased the dies, primer feed, and powder measure and assembled them on the press. While not the simplest task it is pretty straightforward, I had no difficulty setting the press to load specifically for my rifle- you just need to take your time and read (or watch) the instructions. My first loads were derived from the powder manufacturer's data and I took the maximum powder charge and reduced by 10%. and loaded to the minimum OAL to ensure functioning through my rifle. As a word of caution- be careful with OAL because cartridges that are too long can either contact the rifling in the barrel (raising pressure) or function poorly through the magazine. Guys that are really into loading play endlessly with seating depth in an attempt to influence accuracy- it works but should be approached with caution. After the first rounds worked fine, I incrementally increased the powder charge to something in the middle of min and max until I got the accuracy I was looking for.

American riflemen in general tend to be overly enamored with raw muzzle velocity but in my experience its not required. Most rifles shoot the "middling" load more accurately and its the rare rifle that shoots maximum loads really well. With my load I'm getting somewhere around 3250 fps and that's quite fast enough for my purposes considering the outstanding accuracy I got. A few more grains of powder would yield just north or 3350fps according to Alliant's data but it will be harder on my rifle, my shoulder, my wallet, less accurate and the sheep I hope to shoot will never know the difference.

For the economics of reloading I've often wondered how the costs would break down. When I was loading for competitive pistol shooting (long ago) the break even curve was something like 3000 rounds annually- I sometimes shot more than that in a single week so the cost savings were well worth it (given my budget back then, required!). But as a hunter and rifleman, could I really make reloading pay off? Here is the break down that I made- a pound of powder, 100 Nosler bullets, 100 primers, 20 cases (reloaded 5 times each) costs $81.75*- that's enough to make 100 rounds of ammunition. That same load (150gr Nosler BT) in Federal's excellent Premium line will cost $37.99* per box or $189.95 per 100 rounds. That's a considerable savings- given those prices an initial investment of $500 could be recovered in under 500 rounds and that's using premium hunting bullets. The average hunter might not shoot 500 rounds in the life of his rifle, but he should- lead down range is a huge benefit to field accuracy and I've written on it frequently. While not a strict apples to oranges comparison a person could load less expensive bullets or perhaps load lighter charges or use cases more before discarding and generate even greater savings but the real benefit of reloading in my opinion is not economic (although in these tough times it doesn't hurt). But the bottom line is, when you're rolling your own ammunition you will shoot more and that's a very good thing for your chances of success in the field.

*- Prices per Midway USA's website, not including shipping.

Filet-O-Finger

2011-06-13T22:35:00.000-07:00

The summer is trundling along right on schedule up here in the North country, including the appearance of the Red Salmon in the Copper River. I've got to confess that fishing with a rod and reel doesn't really wind my crank most days, but dipnetting is a totally different matter. Something about dipnetting is so primal, so active- that it appeals to me greatly. I also love eating reds- so that draw is ever present there too.

So after a long work week keeping one eye on the ball and another on the Miles Lake Sonar charts, I decided on an impromptu trip with my son- his first dipnetting adventure. I decided on a backpack trip to test some new gear as well. We made our way through the town of Chitina and in the late evening we had our gear on and crossed the footbridge at O'Brien Creek. After a short distance I began to explore some of the side trails that led down to the river. These trails vary from the mildly dangerous to the fully technical- requiring descent and ascension gear to navigate to the waterline below- not my idea of a good time in my middle age. Every year I'm amazed at seeing several young men (always men oddly) in full mountaineering harness dangling precipitously off the rocks dipnet in hand over the cold boil of the Copper.

On our third attempt we found a trail that wound protected through the sparse forest and although steep, looked safe enough for an approach. At the bottom I was delighted to find a reverse eddy with a flat shelf to stand on with my son. I briefed him quickly on the protocol of what to do when we landed a fish and exactly what his responsibilities were. I assigned him the beginner task of clipping tail fins while I handled the heavy lifting. We sorted out our gear and settled in for a brief period of fishing.

BUMP! Within a few moments a red salmon had hit the net like a floating anvil and Evan whooped with delight as I pulled the 8 pound red from the water and placed him on the rocks near our processing gear. I showed him how to quickly and humanely kill the fish with a quick rap on the skull with an appropriate rock and then slip a knife into the gills to bleed it and preserve the meat. He then clipped the upper and lower tail fins to mark this fish as "personal use" and marked it on our tally sheet. I was pretty happy that he didn't shy away from the tasks although he declined to wield the knife on our subsequent fish. We were treated to a display as a river otter swam laps in our eddy, checking out the newcomers to his beach with a net full of fish- we hauled in our net until he left for fear of tangling him. After he departed for more private waters we fished for several more hours and then turned in for the night, exhausted with a full bag of fish.

The following morning we began the arduous pack back to the van. I normally haul out fish whole to prevent having to do the messy chore of filleting or gutting in the field. For me, fish are difficult to clean- slippery, hard to hold and generally requiring a lot of delicate cutting- its a task I prefer to do at home.

I was happy that I waited on this occasion.

Arriving home I set up a plastic table in the drive and got out the water hose and started about the filleting process. I was halfway complete and had a nice stack of red fillets on a cookie sheet when trouble began. The knife hung on a bone- one of the junctures of the ribs and spine and while on a smaller species of fish the knife would have easily sliced through on the large rooster the blade was stuck fast. I made the mistake one should never make while filleting- I applied more pressure. At the precise moment the rib severed the razor sharp tip accelerated and the slippery fish moved- placing my right index finger ( I hold the knife left handed) in its severing path.

I can't say it hurt immediately, it felt like pressure of something tugging on my fingernail. As I pulled my hand from the fish the fish blood and slime made assessing my injury somewhat difficult. As the tip rotated and the wound bled in earnest I knew I'd seriously goofed up. Rushing inside clutching a bloody and gore covered hand I held it under running water to cleanse the wound while I had Evan call "Dr. Mom" to come look and check out the damage. After she arrived a few minutes later I was in the van and bound for the local clinic with a "mostly" severed finger tip.

The doc met us in the parking lot and after fighting the urge to just pull the barely dangling piece off and send us on our way, we went inside and the prognosis was what I expected- there was no point sewing it back on. It was a small piece and the cut was on the bias, through the nail, missing bone but painfully large. It would be unlikely to reattach and upon further examination a scant millimeter of the dermis was holding it on. He remarked that this injury was something he saw quite a lot every summer as people are fishing constantly and then a brief moment of inattention with the blade. A second with a pair of surgical scissors and I was very awkwardly looking at a piece of my index finger lying in the tray. Finger severed, ego thoroughly bruised the doc asked me, "When was the date of your last tetanus shot?"

"I'm guessing that'll be today...", I replied sheepishly. Sometimes we teach our kids what to do. And sometimes we teach them what to don't.

Limited Equipment -Subsistence Hunting Pt 1.

2011-05-31T14:18:00.000-07:00

In the last couple of weeks, something unusual has happened- I’ve been watching television. In general, I’m not really a regular TV watcher but the last few weeks my Netflix account has had some interesting selections become available- namely History Channel’s extremely interesting series “Swamp People” and “Medicine Men Go Wild”. “Swamp People” deals with life in rural Louisiana swamp country, featuring particularly the commercial alligator hunting season and the people who work it. “Medicine Men Go Wild” follows a couple of British physicians as they travel the globe and study indigenous cultures’ medical and health practices- the particular episode I watched portrayed the Chuchki of Eastern Russia, very similar to Alaska’s Inupiat people.

What I found interesting about both shows is the relationship of their subjects to their environment and how both explored hunting cultures in the field. Of course, being the gun nut that I am I was amazed at the variety of weapons being utilized by these folks and just how pedestrian they were when compared to the armament of a typical Western sport hunter. I was also fascinated by the remarkable similarity to my own experiences within the indigenous and subsistence hunting community of rural Alaska.

The first example was the weapons utilized by the “swampers” of Lousiana- primarily a variety of inexpensive .22LRs in all action types. Given the condition of the weapons it’s apparent that gun care isn’t really a priority with most of them. The largest rifle I could identify was a .223 Mini 14 rifle wearing a fairly optimistic scope and much reference was made to the “Magnum” which referred not to some big brass bottled centerfire rifle, but rather the rather humble .22 Magnum. That’s hardly a hot number by any means when you consider the size and weight of a full grown American Alligator. I also noticed the ranges were remarkably short despite the on-camera chatter about marksmanship- most of the hooked alligators were shot at point blank range. Not to oversimplify that statement- keep in mind the alligator was often a violently moving target and the vital zone was a small area on the back of the skull, but talking of marksmanship at contact distance seems a bit odd. A few alligators were shot utilizing the Mini 14 and an unidentified bolt action at a range of perhaps 60 yards or so…again a rather close shot for a scoped centerfire rifle despite the target being small.

As a second example, the weapons utilized by the Chuchki were even more basic. Being located in remote Eastern Russia (surprisingly close and nearly identical in many ways to Western Alaska) the weapons had even less diversification. The indigenous hunters there survive on a diet primarily of fish and sea mammals with the odd caribou throw in for a bit of variety. Fascinatingly, one hunter described the villager’s rationale for using the spear (despite contrary government regulation) over the rifle to hunt walrus. A herd of walrus apparently spook and stampede easily at the sound of gunfire but not the silent efficiency of the spear. The film showed a rather graphic (for television at any rate) segment of a walrus kill using the spear and even I was rather amazed at the speed and efficiency the hunter possessed. After thinking a bit I was pretty convinced the guy had a fair handle on the anatomy of the walrus too- he struck behind the ribcage (far too aft in my mind) but drove the spear forward- penetrating the diaphragm, the lungs and the heart. Death of the huge mammal was remarkably quick. On the ocean much use of the harpoon was shown on both walrus and a gray whale- not as killing instruments but to affix large floats to prevent the animal's escape and tire them quickly so they could be safely approached and dispatched with a rifle. In pre-modern times the large plastic floats would instead be made of inflated seal skins and the steel points would have been bone but the concept remains unchanged and remarkably effective.

As to firearms utilized among the Chuchki, given their location in Russia, I was not surprised to see the single example being a Kalashnikov variant. I was however surprised to see the rifle being utilized for animals as large as walrus, caribou and to deliver the killing blow on a gray whale. Bear in mind the mild ballistics of the 7.62x39 round are about equivalent to the old American cartridge the .30-30 Winchester and these days it is often bashed among American sport hunters as being inadequate for such nominal critters as whitetail deer and black bear much less creatures that weigh in excess of 800 pounds. Although the show didn’t explicitly talk about it- the Chuchki live in an area that is well inside the ranges of both the Polar and Brown bears, hardly what we’d consider within the capability of the 7.62x39 round but the Chuchki remain apparently unconvinced.

Within the realm of my own experience, I’ve travelled within rural Alaska and the subsistence hunting community. The subsistence community is a mixture of Native subsistence hunters living in what you could consider a traditional community as well as non-Native “bush dwellers” who live at least a partially subsistence hunter/trapper lifestyle. Without a doubt the single most common rifle I’ve found in the Native communities is the Mini 14 in .223/ 5.56 NATO. In fact, in several villages the stainless Mini 14 was the only centerfire rifle I’ve seen. None of the rifles in those villages were equipped with a scope. In the typical village store the only rifle for sale was a Mini 14 equipped as well as 55gr FMJ ammunition being the only available cartridge. While that is certainly not a choice I would make, the meat racks in the village were full of caribou so apparently it works despite what I might think. Other weapons were almost exclusively 10/22 rifles and Remington 870 shotguns sold in those same village stores. Without exception every one I examined was battered beyond belief.

I’ve seen and heard a tremendous number of stories about those hunters and their marginal rifles and I've seen taken game that includes everything up to grizzly and polar bear. I remember seeing one picture of an 11 year old girl with her Dad’s Mini 14 and one very dead polar bear and I couldn’t help be think that my .375 might just be superfluous after all. I’d hate to think of the outcome if that’d gone wrong though since it was a single shot at 20 feet through the brain that did the trick. I don’t know what makes the smaller calibers so prevalent among the subsistence users but one thing is certain- they know how to make them work for them.

After some time among subsistenece hunters my thoughts on appropriate weapons has changed somewhat as has my view on the tactics of subsistence hunting. When one looks at the subsistence hunting community, it's more that weapons that make up the package that yields so much success. That'll be the topic for a different day however.

Next post: Habits and skills of the Subsistence hunter that sets them apart from a more typical “sport hunter”.

Vanishing....Tracking the Grizzly.

2011-05-20T19:31:00.000-07:00

Dear friends- sorry for the dearth of posting lately. You've caught me in the Arctic Spring and inside writing is the last place I want to be. I'm also mid stride in training for my fall sheep hunt and smack dab into spring bear season. Lots of stories but not much time to tell them yet. A sample follows.

The morning began just like any other- up early, shower, drive to work and get there before the crew arrives. Then check email, make a few notes, have my morning tag up and get the crew moving in the direction they're needed most. After the brief flurry of activity that accompanies my morning, I usually get a few minutes between crises and the routinely urgent to drink a cup of coffee and catch up on Facebook. I popped open the computer and took a long sip of the cheap swill that passes for coffee in my office these days and my eye was immediately drawn to a message from my good friend and frequent hunting partner, Bill. The message was brief but immediately got down to the point- "Shot a bear last night, lost it on the follow up. Need help. Went in thick alders. Let me know? Need a buddy I can trust."

Anybody who has ever followed a bear into the alders generally ranks it as one of their least favorite activities...ever. Bears will dive for the thickest piece of brush they can get to when frightened or wounded and ferreting one out is a long and tedious process not to mention that depending on the wound and the individual bear- can be quite dangerous as a bonus. Walking through alders can be exhausting, adding wet snow and an angry bear only compounds the problem. I was gratified that Bill had deemed me a trusted hand for such a task but I was apprehensive. I'd done this before and I can't say I enjoyed it. Not at all.

My hand was on my phone and in a moment had Bill on the line to nail down the details and make a plan. He'd spotted the bear late in the day, about an hour before sun down and made a stalk. He'd had some trouble wading the now melting river- ice clinging on the bottom, flowing water on top- and practically had to sprint a mile to catch up to the quick moving bear. The wind was blowing briskly and the bear was headed upstream searching for new grass and forbs on the now thawed riverbank. He'd given Bill an opportunity when he stopped abruptly to look at some unknown morsel on the ground. Bill weighed his options, leveled the rifle and fired three times emptying his weapon's magazine. The bear turned on his heel and leaped the twelve foot cut bank then vanished into the ten foot alders above.

Let me say up front, prior to any temptation for Monday morning quarterbacking, that Bill has killed and participated in killing more grizzly bears than any one I know outside of the professional hunting guide industry. He is also a first rate woodsman and hunter as well as an excellent shot. He reloaded the rifle and followed the bear to where it vanished. As he peered into the alder jungle he wisely considered his options- he was on the far side of a rapidly rising river, he was wet, it was getting dark and he potentially had a wounded bear in an alder thicket, and he was well outside of any community or even within cell phone range. Discretion being the better part of valor- he retreated until he could arrange for backup.

We discussed the situation that morning. The bear had been shot at sometime just before 11pm (about 1 hour before dark this time of year) and was really big. He was unsure of his shot based on the lack of blood or other signs on the small patch of bank the bear had been on just after the shooting had occurred. We decided the best course of action was to leave the bear until late afternoon in order to not pressure the animal and push him out- often wounded bears will hole up in brush and the blood loss (even from serious but non fatal wounds) will cause them to stiffen up. If I'm going to tangle with a bear in the tangles- I want him at every disadvantage I can get. The bear, if not seriously wounded, could have recovered and left the area by the time we got there.( Don't confuse that with a cavalier attitude about potential suffering- bears significantly injure each other all the time in the wild and frequently recover none the worse for wear- a shallow flesh wound would heal readily on a healthy bear). The bear if significantly wounded could also very well just bleed out and expire quietly. On the northern face of the drainage under the brush there was still two to three feet of dense snow- tracking a wounded animal should be a relatively straightforward process in those conditions.

We travelled to the river ford late that afternoon and donned waders for the trip across the river. The days bright sun and warm temperatures had caused a rise in water level since the day prior- a few more days of this and the ice would go out altogether. We trudged about half a mile through the ankle deep slush- ice particles suspended in water before we got to the first flowing channel. As we entered the icy stream a genuine item of concern became apparent- the increased current began to overcome the meager traction of our waders on the bottom ice and push us downstream! After several harrowing moments we came to a spot where the white bottom turned black, a gravel bar, and we made it safely across. We crossed several such channels, one about a hundred yards wide before we got to the far bank, it had taken two exhausting hours.

After a brief rest and shedding all of our loose gear we had came to the spot the bear had entered the brush. On the twelve foot bank the fleeing bear had touched down one time and left a well defined rear track as he sprang for the safety of the alders. By contrast, as we struggled up the bank we left what looked like a buffalo trail of overturned stones and dislodged debris. On top we had no trouble locating the bear's trail, the bear was large and in his haste to escape had left a path through the snow and alders a blind man could have followed. We were stripped down to t-shirts and pants, no jackets, no packs, no slings on our rifles- nothing to catch on the crazy shaped trunks and branches. While it would have been relatively easy to just noisily plow ahead from one track to the next, following up a bear requires a little more finesse. Each time the bear touched down he left a print, we looked at it for signs of blood or hair, the considerable distance between the tracks was looked over as well- was there blood, feces or hair there too? All the while one of us was scanning the limited visibility for signs of the bear and looking for broken trees that marked its path of travel. We didn't speak so we wouldn't alert the bear or mask the brief seconds of cracking branches as it fled or charged.

We also had to be cognisant of each other, to not cross the muzzles of our rifles over each other as we wove our way in and out of the trees and post holed through the snow. We were a long way from civilization here- an accidental rifle shot was as bad a prospect as a bear mauling. I normally hunt alpine country with long vistas and limitless views carrying a rifle with a loaded magazine and an empty chamber. Here it was different- occasionally Bill and I would drift about 20 yards apart and completely lose sight of each other- there was no limitless vista, a bear could be on us in the matter of seconds if it were in here and so inclined. In the gloom it was chamber loaded, safety on, finger alongside the trigger guard, thumb immediately behind the safety- ready to unleash the rifle's power in a moments notice.

The yards passed painfully but after an hour of tense but steady ascension up the drainage the alders gave way to cottonwood and the dense growth opened up a bit. Our anxiety level backed off a tick as well. We quietly discussed the spoor we'd been following for the last hour- no blood, no hair, no feces. The bear never stopped and sat down to lick a wound. I was feeling better that we weren't sharing our immediate real estate with a marginally wounded and angry bear. Bears have a tendency to not be good bleeders, particularly in the fall when thick layers of pre-hibernation fat clog wounds and prevent blood trails. But this was a spring bear, lean in his post hibernation condition; there would be little sub-cutaneous fat to clog the wound and there would be little fat between the internal organs so even on a bear this large the bullet should have left both an entrance and an exit wound.

A bear with a lung shot will only go so far before his lungs fill with blood and he coughs some up- the bright crimson and pink froth of a bleeding lung would have been unmistakable on the white snow. Likewise, a gut shot bear's tract will fill with blood and trigger a bowel spasm- leaving a large bloody stool in his path. A bear with a muscular wound will generally stop once he feels he's not in immediate danger and lick and gnaw at his wound, leaving fur and sometimes bloody saliva on the ground. We saw none of those things. Amateur ballisticians like to talk about the concept of "overkill", but when you're prowling the alders with a big fanged animal "not dead enough" is a much bigger problem than "too dead."

We pursued for another half mile up the drainage, steadily climbing until at last the cottonwood gave way to bare rock and clay of the alpine tundra. The bear's tracks were now predictable and evenly spaced as he plodded on up the canyon to the summit and beyond. It was with some disappointment and no small amount of relief as we turned and headed back off the mountain in the fading light. We measured a front track in a barely thawed patch of clay- nine and a half inches across the front pad- an extreme specimen in the Interior, likely squaring over nine feet. They just don't get much bigger up here. The famed Frank Glaser shot a ten footer about 8 miles to the north of this drainage, in the early 1900s when the country was much wilder. In the modern era any Interior bear over 8 foot was a trophy to be prized.

As we arrived back at the swelling river, I rolled my waders and attached them to the outside of my pack. We had a mile of river and slush to cross to get back to the truck and I would rather get cold, wet feet than fall into this churning cauldron due to bad footing on the clumsy waders. As we entered the first stream and the ice cold water topped my boots and ran down to my toes, the tedium of the past several hours drained away. Bill looked back and said, "I'm just as happy that big guy got away clean, what a magnificent animal." I agreed, the loss of such a grand animal was disappointing but to know that he was running wild and unencumbered by a improperly placed bullet was a relief. We'd likely never see him again. To know what had Bill's shots flying wide that night- whether a scope out of alignment, extreme fatigue and heaving chest or whether the master hunter succumbed to "buck fever" I'll likely never know.

But I can't help but feel a little bit happy that it happened just the way it did.

Do Bears...?

2011-05-07T23:46:00.000-07:00

Why yes, yes they do.

Osama Bin Laden- Dead.

2011-05-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

For those of you living under a rock.

Osama Bin Laden was killed in ground action with U.S. Special Operations forces, who then took custody of his body for identification.

The mastermind of the 9/11 attack was killed by an American rifleman.

I've got to say that I find his death by gunfire strangely gratifying in this age of Predator drones and cruise missiles- killed eyeball to eyeball by a warrior.

Good Show Fellas.

Guided Bear Hunting- A Primer

2011-04-23T20:22:00.000-07:00

I received some correspondence a few days ago that asked about bear hunting- specifically for folks who aren't Alaska residents and who aren't U.S. Citizens. The fish and game laws in Alaska are somewhat peculiar in that regard so I'll give it my best go, of course the usual disclaimer of "use at own risk" and "contact an expert" prior to using this information applies. To point out, I am not a guide nor do I have any financial ties to any outfitter or guide service so the net benefit to me is zero. Much of the information I've presented comes from talking to numerous guides, both in and out of the field.

Alaska Fish and Game categorize folks looking to hunt in Alaska into three categories, they are:
Residents- folks who reside, work, play and otherwise make Alaska their permanent home, have done that for at least 12 months, and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. For the record on this- I am a resident.

Non-Residents- are folks who make their permanent home somewhere other than Alaska but are citizens of the United States. Being a non-resident has nothing to do with where you've been living- for instance an out-of-state worker can be in Alaska for 12 months but if they make their permanent home in another state, they're a non-resident. Many folks try this angle every year and ADFG make multiple citations in that regard.

Non-Resident Alien- are people who live outside Alaska and are not citizens of the United States. These would be considered the "International crowd". My blog has a substantial readership outside of the U.S. and most of those folks reading this will fall into this category.

Residency is a tricky issue and I highly suggest you go to the Alaska Dept. of Fish and Game website to read the rules on this matter. You may be asking yourself, "But Hodgeman- why does it matter?". Well matter is does since the fee structure and guide requirements differ for each one. In fact, in many units there are separate seasons, drawing tags, and harvest allocation for resident and non-resident hunters. Since this particular post is to be thought of as a primer, and was specifically requested for bears, I'll attempt to stick to that. I won't try to discuss the various seasons and limits for each unit- since Alaska is so large, with such a diverse number of creatures and environments- the seasons and limits vary widely. Please consult ADFG for more information on the area you particularly want to hunt.

For the specifics-
Black Bears, are found nearly everywhere in the state and can be hunted by residents and non-residents without a guide. Non resident aliens however must hire a registered guide to hunt black bears with- in fact, non-resident aliens must hire a guide to hunt any big game animal in Alaska. Alaska has a strict licensing requirement on hunting guides and while there are a few dolts who slip through the cracks, the majority are hard working and knowledgeable folks who are there to help you get your game and get home in one piece.

While black bear hunting is, in itself, a relatively safe pursuit given that black bears are generally not "fighters" and tend to run off to die after being shot- the environment they're found in can be subject to the worst Mother Nature has to offer. Other, more germane areas that house bears require unique methods to effectively hunt bears with (such as calling or baiting) that it often is beyond the skill set or time allotment for many out of area hunters. Prices for guided black bear hunts vary widely throughout the state and many outfitters don't offer them at all. The most common method of guided black bear hunting is via ocean going vessels hunting the densely wooded coastal temperate rain forests. This is a great way to hunt in relative comfort- living shipboard and ferrying out to hunt each day. As a bonus the fresh caught seafood served by many outfitters is a treat in itself. A quick check of pricing on the Internet shows an average of about $5000 U.S. for a guided, vessel based hunt on Prince William Sound/ Katchemak Bay, bear in mind that the geographic area of Alaska will have substantial price variations and any maritime based adventure will be subjected to fuel price increases.

Brown/ Grizzly Bears, truly fall into the category of dangerous game. Only residents can hunt these without a guide and both non-residents and non-resident aliens require a fully guided hunt for these creatures. As an aside- the bears generally referred to as Brown Bears are coastal specimens and eat a diet with a lot salmon in it. With nearly unlimited protein and short hibernation periods (some island residing boars do not hibernate at all) they can grow to truly massive (and fearsome) proportions. Grizzly bears on the other hand reside in Interior areas and live a much harsher existence- they eat a poorer diet, have longer hibernation periods and, as a result, are usually much smaller.
While a coastal bear can reach proportions of incredible size, an "8 foot" 500 pound Interior grizzly is a very nice bear indeed. As a word of caution- the Interior grizzly has a much more dangerous reputation than the coastal bears, their harsh conditions and sparse environment make them more aggressive overall than their coastal dwelling counterparts. Many bear hunters rank a fair chase Interior Grizzly hunt as one of the more exciting types of hunting here given the bear's sulkiness and the wide terrain. Aside from diet, attitude and resulting size- these are genetically only one species of bear. Much like a slight built Finn and a hulking Samoan are both genetically humans, they can be very different in appearance.

For the guided hunter these hunts are often the most expensive and frustrating experience of their sporting life. Many (wealthy) hunters may return several seasons to harvest that true "10-footer" after repeatedly unsuccessful trips. A quick check on the Internet shows that coastal bears command a higher price overall - about $20,000 U.S. on average for a 15 day hunt while Interior grizzlies are somewhat less expensive. Hunting brown bears is an often unsuccessful hunt, even using a guide with tremendous experience. As a large apex predator their densities run extremely low, the animals are reclusive and true trophy specimens somewhat more so. Many frustrated sportsmen may spend an entire 15 day hunt in a great location and never see a single bear.

For further consideration:
For the non resident or non resident alien who may have never been to Alaska, it is important to rely on and work with your guide and his staff to make your hunt pleasant. I can confess I've never been on a guided hunt but I know and am friends with many guides and often hear the guide's version of unsatisfactory hunts. You're paying your guide for his knowledge and expertise- USE IT. Ask his opinion about everything you can possibly think about- right down to what kind of boots to wear. Your guide will spend more days in the field than many sportsmen hunt in a decade and he's seen people show up with any and every kind of equipment imaginable. Many reputable guides will literally provide everything you need except the clothes on your back and most will be very forthcoming about what they are going to provide and what they expect you to show up with. Remember-this is what these guys do for a living. If you show up to camp prepared, with some experience in the field, can follow his directions, and are willing to work hard for your animal you will be a delight to your guide and the entire hunt stands a much better chance of success.

When it comes to importing firearms into the U.S., I've often heard visiting non-resident aliens bemoan the laborious process of getting a firearm into the United States. I have no personal experience with such matters but I bet your guide has...ask him. While obtaining a rifle in the U.S. is as easy as it gets anywhere in the world as a resident, I've heard getting one in from another country is rather a pain. I would ask your guide to provide advice if you have a special rifle you want to use and just flat ask him to loan or rent you one if you don't. It's a good idea, particularly if you're hunting brown bears- it is unlikely many European hunters would have an appropriate rifle for such a beast just lying about. Many African rifles will have the right ballistics for bears but African hunting is generally dry and easy on guns- Alaska hunting is usually a wet nightmare. If you have a wonderful old Hollands it simply may be too valuable to bring here.

For the non-resident flying in from the Lower 48, transporting your rifle as luggage on your flight up is a piece of cake. I've done it often enough that its now routine for me. The Anchorage and Fairbanks airports have a streamlined process since there are so many firearms in transit here but your local airport may not- it would be advisable to check prior to your departure to see what they have in place. As a final note on firearms- it is not unusual for a guide to ban handguns in his camp and its his prerogative to do so. I carry a handgun when I don't expect to see a bear and that isn't when I'm bear hunting. Many guides are reluctant to have a camp full of tenderfoots sleeping with pistols under their pillows. I don't blame them. If your guide says handguns are not allowed- leave it at home, they are frequently nothing but dead weight on a hunt anyway.

Prior to choosing a guide it would pay to check around with some of his past clients, many will provide referrals upon request and I would be suspicious of one who wouldn't. Given the popularity of hunting forums on the Internet, I would certainly search out everything I could find on a guide prior to booking an expensive and, frankly, dangerous hunt with him. I would also suggest that you use good logic when sorting such unsolicited referrals because it is quite possible for a guide to work his tail off, do everything right and a client leave empty handed and unhappy through no fault of the guide's. Many guides will be forthcoming about such hunts and after meeting some guided hunters in the field it is a wonder that as many harvest game as they do. Unfortunately, bear hunting is often the ultimate expression of ego-maniacs who care little about hunting but want a "10-footer" for the office lobby to show his prowess. I would be leery of that person in any endeavor.

Which hunt would I choose? Frankly if I were a non-resident alien (or perhaps a non-resident) looking to experience Alaska hunting for the first time I would without hesitation go for black bears from a vessel. Moderate cost, high success rates, world class fishing and outstanding scenery are a wonderful experience no matter the outcome. Even as a resident, many hunters choose these vessel based hunts as a "hunting vacation" if you will. If I were someone with experience hunting in the American West or in other mountainous terrain I would most likely pursue Interior Grizzly as a secondary species with either a caribou or moose hunt. In fact, most resident hunters pursue bears as a secondary objective to other game- I know I do. The hunting is often the same and many outfitters offer grizzlies and other predators at a moderate cost when attached to another hunt. For an outfitter primarily guiding moose hunters, a grizzly in their area may negatively effect the moose population and if they can sell you a trophy fee to bang a griz off your moose's gut pile the next morning its a real win/win as far as they're concerned. In regards to brown bear hunting, given the low chances of success, the considerable (!) expense, and the relative misery (think 15 days of rain and wind) of many coastal brown bear hunts it would take a very big itch for me to want to scratch it with that hunt.

Good hunting to you!

Petroglyphs and Gratitude

2011-04-21T23:27:00.000-07:00

I just noticed that the hit counter on my blog crept up there past the 10,000 mark. Given that some well known blogs generate that many or more hits in a single day; that may seem a bit underwhelming at first read but I'm awed beyond belief that a mere handful of you folks would take the time to read any of my ramblings- much less 10,000 times. Along the way I've made several friends, maybe yet unmet and distant, but people I still call friends anyway.

I don't post nearly as often as many bloggers do and what I say perhaps isn't nearly as profound. I started this endeavor (and continue it, by the way) as a solely therapeutic pastime. Something to keep the mind and the heart and the will engaged on those long, cold nights and to share something precious and fundamental to me with the rest of the world. I don't do this for commerce or salary but for the pure joy of doing it. You see, my professional life entails a fair bit of writing- technical things mainly. Things about widgets and gizmos doing this and that in certain sequences and how the planet will counter-rotate if it doesn't happen in the prescribed Archimedian way. Things about risk analysis and economic profit and systems engineering. Things given to soulless, driven men who dissect and analyze and pontificate on- in order to chart a course and accelerate a plan.

Things without personality. Things without passion.

I fell somewhat headlong into that gig by dint of being something of a technical geek with a head for engineering and science, a background in construction and industry as well as having a small modicum of talent for crafting sentences together to form coherent thought- a witty nerd if you will. I had enjoyed creative writing in my college career and even had a Literature professor push me to devoid myself of all that silly engineering crap and pursue a rewarding career in writing, even though she thought I had a written voice that sounded like Billy Graham with an attitude problem. I didn't take her advice (at least not yet) but I managed to publish a couple of items along the way (among much unpublished garbage I'll add). A few years ago I turned back to more creative writing as a way to vent the content of my soul and soothe the aching and pondering that middle age brings to those paying attention as life blazes past.

Perhaps I share that need to vent, maybe along with just loving to tell a good story, with those primitive folks whose dabbling on the cave walls show the bison and deer, fish and mammoth that made up their daily sustenance. Without written word, their arcane sketching show how they viewed themselves relating to their world. Hunter and hunted, predator and prey, death and life- clearly portrayed even a millenia later. Maybe I am affected with that same need- a modern man scratching out digital petroglyphs to leave some kind of mark that said, "I was here and I ate the caribou."

When I first started publishing this blog, I thought to myself-"If more than a half dozen people ever bother to read it then I will be doing OK." That bar was passed a long time ago. I have to convey a debt of gratitude to all of you who take the time to read this out of the endless content the digital age provides. Everytime I receive some bit of correspondence or comment about something I've typed- I get excited. A petroglyph seen and understood, a sand painting comprehended, a campfire tale that was remembered. Excited to be involved in the creative flow of ideas and information and ...thoughts.

Thoughts on the Great Outdoors.

Thank You,
Hodgeman

Photo Credit- Uknown. Google Images.

Specialization is for Insects...

2011-04-18T01:07:00.000-07:00

I realize the gunwriting business and much of the hunting and shooting industry revolves around a certain amount of "Walter Mitty-ism" but the climate of late is bordering on the ridiculous. The lynchpin event that resulted in the Robert Heinlen quote that serves well as a title was the fact I worked for Backcountry Hunters and Anglers at the Fairbanks Outdoors Show as well as attended a local gun show over the same weekend.

I knew better...really, I did.

The older I become (and possibly the more cantankerous) the more I realize that specialization is a genre that really takes little talent. It is a much more arduous a task to make something good for many things than to make something excellent for a very narrow window of use. Case in point with rifle design- I looked at rifles that were tailor made for all sorts of uses, sheep hunting ultralights in wee speedy calibers, varmint rifles that weighed 13 pounds in even more wee and speedy calibers, heavy game rifles that fired cartridges the size of cigars, super magnums that fired standard bullets at impossible speeds- but few rifles that I'd consider just good general purpose rifles.

In the years gone by, most of the generally available rifles were what could call general purpose but of late even the term "general purpose rifle" has resulted in some rather esoteric designs that baffle the imagination. Consider that the basic design of rifles has changed very little since the work of Mauser, Whelen, and Browning (the profusion of cartridges notwithstanding- I don't generally consider cartridge variations progress). So what does constitute a "general purpose rifle" and just what is it good for. Col Cooper made a stab at it in his "Scout Rifle" design and I owned one for a few years and did some good work with it. I found few faults with it other than ferocious price but it isn't what I really consider the sole example of general purpose. To begin the idea one must establish just what the instrument is for- too many items find their way into our inventories as answers to questions we never asked.

What's it for? Obviously a general purpose rifle is not intended to shoot the most specialized of targets, in the hunting world that would constitute the largest and smallest specimens- prairie dogs and elephants. On the target range it would preclude the most specialized disciplines- I'd have a hard time calling benchrest or biathalon rifle "general purpose" by any stretch of the imagination. We could readily say that a general purpose rifle ought to weigh something less than eight or nine pounds fully equipped to maintain its status as conveniently portable and it should come chambered in a cartridge that is powerful enough to cleanly take the general run of game on the continent the user is located on.

For North America that would be things like deer, elk, moose, black bears, caribou, sheep, goats and the like at most common hunting ranges- say to 300 yards. Most people shoot poorly at even less than that and I consider any shot further to become a specialized endeavor. It would be hard to beat the 30-06 cartridge and any of the similar chamberings (.308, .270, .280, 7x57, 8x57, etc.) for that kind of shooting. Cooper also included combat in his list of things a general purpose rifle ought to be equipped for and while I have no personal desire to see combat I can only agree that historically the rifle has been used in that role extensively. Given that the majority of the world's armies fire massive amounts of underpowered ammunition at each other, I would gladly take my rifle over any of the current offering of assault carbines if it came right down to killing other people. In summary, I would suggest we leave the varmint cartridges, most of the magnums and the "medium and large" bores out of the question. A .338 Winchester Magnum is a great cartridge in its place but I can't say I'd consider it that useful as a general purpose round and consider the .223/22-250 class of cartridges in much the same light.

I think the general purpose rifle ought to be bolt action. I dislike the automatics immensely for a variety of reasons and its hard to think of the single shot or double rifles as "general purpose" given some of the parameters. Most people can be taught the operation of the bolt rifle in an afternoon- to include stripping down the bolt and maintaining the weapon, even the relatively uninitiated. I must confess I find the autoloading rifle out of place in the hunting field despite their growing popularity here and while I've spent a good deal of time with one on the range it is certainly not a favored action of mine. As a military arm the autoloader tends to have more moving parts and be more difficult to teach the manual of arms on than a good bolt action ever was. As the world's armies largely abandon marksmanship for "fire superiority" (whatever that means) I can only guess that means if you can't shoot well you should just shoot a lot. A serious rifleman only needs a few rounds to accomplish what needs doing. In the wars of the past the thought of going head to head with a platoon of crack riflemen filled field commanders with dread- ie. the Boers, the American Colonials, and the Jaeger regiments are some of the more obvious examples. Today's wars tend to have troops spraying a lot of ammunition and killing each other with high explosives instead.

The general purpose rifle then is a bolt action weighing a nominal 8.5 pounds and chambered for a "standard" cartridge. I believe we all shoot better with a telescopic sight and for something to be called "general purpose" I think a fixed 4x is more than sufficient for nearly any field shooting one might do (generalized or otherwise) and although I don't like variables personally I wouldn't be opposed to a low powered variable of the 1-5x or 2-7x class with objective lenses of less than 36mm. I do think the scope and mounts should be rugged enough to withstand the rigors of field use- the failures of over sized and powerful target scopes in the hunting fields are legendary. I won't mind iron sights on a rifle but I really think these days they're something of an anachronism. Most factory iron sights are little more than ornamentation and I'm usually delighted if a rifle is equipped with decent sights but if its not- so what, a fixed 4x will be generally more accurate, just as quick and just as robust. I know folks wring their hands about scope failures but I've hunted with scopes a lot under rigorous circumstance and have had exactly one failure in the field.

So in review we have a rifle that looks and sounds very much ordinary- a .30-06 (or similar) bolt action rifle weighing 8.5 pounds (give or take) with a decent 4x scope. Almost any manufacturer of bolt action rifles is going to produce such a piece and in the fiercely competitive firearms market the price will often be held in check by competition. Since this type of rifle has been popular for decades the used market is bursting with excellent buys as well on these rifles as their owners abandon them for pieces with more flash and pizazz- probably to their chagrin. The market is flooded with much more specialized pieces but they could be looked at as things more inferior than this one- it will readily accomplish 99% of anything you're apt to need a rifle for- bragging at the hardware store excluded. The manufacturers and the gun press would like you to believe that you need a battery of rifles- one perfected for each individual species you might hunt. While such an endeavor might be fun for the end user and profitable for the maker- it is wholly unrequired.

Becoming a Mountain Animal, A Photo Journal.

2011-04-13T17:33:00.000-07:00

Here is the northern approach trail- a strong wind storm had drifted the trail in several feet deep in places. From this point the climb is 2900' vertical.

Half mile of post-holing across the relatively exposed flats leading to the slope- exhausting for me and the dog.

At the foot of the slope the trail starts its climb behind the lee of the mountain. Soft spots in the collapsing snow made footing unpredictable.

About a mile in- the trail to the summit diverges from the brush lined path and starts up the exposed west side. Bands of brush on the slope holding deep drifts had to be navigated around. Some of these were over ten feet deep and impassable.

At the edge of the ridge the trail turns sharply up and south at this massive pile of rock. From this point on the climb is an exposed knife edge ridge and devoid of any vegetation taller than a couple of inches due to the prevailing wind. I was happy for Primaloft jacket in my pack at this point.

After many minutes of scrambling up the ice slickened rock, the view behind gives some idea of the elevation gained in the climb. Too much exposed rock for crampons and not enough bare rock traction for comfort.

A view to the south shows the storm thats blowing in- this storm would dump several inches of snow prior to nightfall and pack vicious winds at this altitude.

Pressing to the summit across the barren landscape. Note the wind loaded east slope- that cornice is 20' deep and will last for several weeks to come.

The approach across the summit plateau is a walk on an other-worldly landscape of bare rock and snow. The snow covered Granites in the background is where my sheep hunt will take place.

The summit cairn. Finally, after 2 hours 15 mins of hard hiking with a loaded pack.

Happy for a summit break. A little water, some trail mix and a racing descent to beat the storm blowing in from the south.

Training Day

2011-04-02T18:36:00.000-07:00

I must apologize for the dearth of posting lately as I've been very busy at work and the after work hours are consumed with family time and training for my upcoming sheep hunt.

I thought I'd share a little of my plan for sheep training. Besides eating right and usual exercises, training for sheep hunting contains a few items that I'm doing to give myself a leg up on the unique demands that mountain hunting dishes out. So in addition to routine cardio (jogging, walking, skiing) and strength training (core exercises, weight training) I'm including some new things in my routine.

First, you simply must get oriented to a vertical environment. Sheep live in rugged terrain where they can feel safe from predators with their incredible ability to run, leap and cavort up nearly sheer cliffs. Sheep respond to danger by putting vertical distance between themselves and perceived threats. That means you'll be climbing...a lot of climbing. After speaking with an acquaintance of mine who guides for sheep, it is apparent that mere cardiovascular fitness isn't enough. He reports that even experienced marathoners quickly tire if they tend to spend most of their time on flat land. The muscles required for running or jogging on flat land are not the same as those required to negotiate a 45 degree slope. He refers to the fitness required as being in "sheep shape" and insists that his hunters spend some time preparing in vertical environments, even in the office building stairwell if no mountains are available!

Even though I don't require a guide- I feel that is good advice and have incorporated my favorite fleigberg in my training regimen a couple of days a week. Training so far has been up the gentler north trail- a 2800 foot vertical climb over about a mile. The longer and much more rugged southern route would be suicidal with the snow and ice cover we still have on the ground. As spring arrives and the snow dissipates, I'll work in the steeper face and find a few other mountains to climb as well. With the arrival of full summer- the training regimen will be backpacking into the hunt area, climbing the mountains and looking for that toad sheep I'm looking to bag on opening day.

Second, sheep hunting often requires carrying crushing loads, for miles. A moose hunter may move a huge load of meat from the field, but few moose hunters hunt very far from motorized transportation and the terrain tends to be more forgiving as well. At this point my base load of sheep hunting equipment weighs just shy of 60 pounds...that's pre-sheep. Many sheep hunters report loads of well over 100 pounds after they harvest and bone out an animal among two hunters. Frequently if hunters are solo or carrying a lot of heavy gear they have to start the time consuming and laborious process of ferrying- splitting the load into two or three segments and having to transport their harvest and gear in relays. Every mountain will climbed and every mile walked- twice or more. Ferrying a load of moose meat a mile or so through the forest is one thing, ferrying 150 pounds 20 miles through the mountains is another thing entirely. The stories of heavy laden sheep hunters burning equipment or quickly establishing caches and abandoning some of their gear are legendary here. Every year some bear will root out and destroy several hundreds (or even thousands) of dollars worth of unattended equipment the hunter simply couldn't carry any farther. There is even at least one legend of a custom Sako rifle left under a rock pile the hunter never came back for. No wonder the diehard sheep hunters spend incredible amounts of cash buying the lightest and most exotic gear available.

Given the weight burdens that are foreign territory to all but the hardest core backpackers and professional meat packers- getting experience moving across the mountainous terrain with a load is paramount to success. In the light of that, my sheep guide compadre' suggests starting in the spring by hiking with a pack containing increasing amounts of weight throughout the summer. In this endeavor it is very possible to give yourself a training injury that will set you back weeks if you don't go slow and build up to the loads that you'll start your hunt with. At this point my pack weight is 35 pounds- essentially my day hunting gear and some extra "training ballast" thrown for good measure.

Another future suggestion is what my friend calls, "The Liquid Mistress". Simply a freighter pack frame with a 5-8 gallon water jug strapped on. At roughly 8 pounds per gallon it doesn't take much water to add up to tremendous weight quickly. You simply add more water as your regimen proceeds. A partially full container also has the added benefit of being a dynamic load- the water will slosh around as you move, requiring your muscles to constantly correct with each step. Since moving downhill is much harder than moving up (at least for me), the ability to simply pour out some water at the top to lighten the load before descending is a good thing if you tire quicker than expected or feel like you strained a muscle or joint.

Getting use to moving with a heavy, dynamic load in steep terrain is essential to staying safe in sheep country. A sprain or fracture will often scrub the hunt entirely and may cause you to abandon valuable equipment while you hobble your way out to civilization. More seriously a minor sprain or injury can also be a lynch pin in the chain of events leading to a catastrophic fall. Often the companions of severely injured hunters report to the rescue team that the hunter was injured minorly a day or two before and chose to continue the hunt with limited mobility. Staying healthy, agile and on your feet is vitally important on hunts like this.

In order to do the training required to achieve the level of fitness required, staying healthy during that training is important as well. Old injuries (particularly those to the back or joints) must be proactively managed so they don't flare up and leave you in worse shape than before. Personally speaking, given my history of an old and significant back injury, I'm seeing a health professional every week who monitors my progress and looks for signs that my old injury isn't coming back to haunt me. Given my exuberance for this hunt I could easily over train and be in bad shape by opening day. That would be a shame. For anyone preparing for a rugged hunt like this I can't stress enough not to overlook a local health professional or even a sports trainer to keep you on track.

In the photo- departure for a training hike up the mountain in the background. Despite the fact I was dressed lightly for the 22F temperature and light snow, I was sweated through the merino wool shirt and fleece vest by the time I made the summit.

Mountaintop Mobile Home

2011-03-13T20:26:00.000-07:00

After a brief review of my current battery of tents, I discovered I had nothing suitable for a backpack hunt into the DCUA for my upcoming sheep hunt. My tents were either made for base camping in winter, too lightweight to deal with the unpredictable weather at altitude during that time of year or just too heavy to think about lugging 20 miles in and 1.5 mile up.

I started numerous conversations with sheep hunters and mined them for all the data I could find out. My experience with that area is generally looking at it from 40 miles away during moose season and thinking -"I glad I'm not up there right now..." Most of the savvy sheep hands I spoke with reported that a season without a big storm is very unusual and most picked 4 season mountaineering tents accordingly. I even spoke with one hunter who was blown clear out of the Brooks Range and spent two days rolled up in his hopelessly collapsed 3 season ultralight tent- day three and hypothermic, he hit his rescue transponder. His advice- "Your tent is your make or break piece of gear between a hunt turning into an inconvenient adventure or a life threatening event. Choose accordingly."
I looked through a variety of websites and talked to several folks with experience in the mountains and one maker kept popping up- Bibler. A visit to the mountaineering store yielded a selection of Bibler tents and the two man Fitzroy looked the most appropriate for my needs. Weighing 6lb 6oz for the body and poles the vestibule and a handful of aluminum stakes brings it to just under 8 pounds. Very doable for two hunters to split between them Striking a deep discount on an off season deal, I brought my new mobile home back to the cave.

The tent is made of a single layer of "Todd Tex" and follows the current trend of "waterproof and breathable" fabrics. Frankly, I'm deeply suspicious of such claims and if I weren't looking for the lightest bomb shelter I could find I'd have never thought twice about one. The solemn endorsement of a number of experienced mountain hunters counted for a lot as well. The tent is rated for wind speeds that border on ludicrous and snowfalls of 24" at 32F- that's a heavy wet snow that would crush most any tent. I don't think it will be any better in summer than any of dozens of other tents and due to condensation issues inherent with single wall design may even be worse- but all indications are when the weather gets crazy, this is the bunker to be in.

After bringing it home I managed to carve out an evening on the weekend to throw the tent on the pulk and pull it a few miles with some other camp gear for a trial run during winter conditions. Impressive is all I can say. The fabric is textured and taut as a snare drum when pitched. I'm betting that properly staked and guyed out this thing won't even rattle in a stout wind, much less come apart.

The fit is better than some two man mountaineering tents I looked at. Most seemed to accommodate two hunters only if they're willing to spoon and forget about keeping any gear with you. This one will take two hunters without undue familiarity but the gear will have to go into the vestibule.

Here it is prior to staking and bunkering with snow near the summit of Bart Mountain.

Cold Hard Cash...Cold Hard Reality.

2011-03-09T21:27:00.000-08:00

I got a comment from a reader the other day and while the correspondence is something I so dearly enjoy; this reader took me to task over an apparent connundrum in my personal philosophy regarding finance and outdoor gear. I have made multiple statements on my blog over the past couple of years regarding what I refer to as "my innate thriftiness" or in other words being cheap. I also haven't done much in the way of gear reviews but those that I've done featured items that my reader thought a guy with "innate thriftiness" wouldn't own. Or at least have paid for. While I see his point that a guy that doesn't like spending money probably wouldn't spend $3000 on a single rifle, I believe he's failed to read between the lines on most of my posts to see a couple of (at least to me) very plain things I believe regarding spending one's hard earned cash on outdoor gear.

So I thought I'd write an actual post about it with the disclaimer that this is my opinion only. I'm not your investment counselor for goodness sake, I'm a blogger that lives just this side of Timbuktoo.

So here are four of my thoughts on buying outdoor gear.

1. You can buy quality once, or you can buy crap... a lot of it.

The best advice for outdoorsfolks that I have is to have a very good, very high quality, very basic set of gear. You don't need a mountain of stuff to have fun and be successful in the outdoors. I have friends that have garages that look like the innards of a Bass Pro Shop...and they haven't seen a critter in the field in a long, long time.

That said, the equipment you do buy- go ahead and buy some really decent stuff. One thing I painfully learned is that cheap gear tends to leave you in the lurch when it hurts the worst. Some of the things that you shouldn't skimp on are items related to your survival- tents, sleeping bags, rain gear, stuff that keeps you from developing hypothermia is a really good place to spend money.

As a word of advice- top shelf gear is expensive and generally a slow mover. In the cut-throat world of retail that means slow movers are frequently on sale. My "excessive" rifle was purchased new-in-the-box from the gun shop at something like 50% off MSRP, a staggering number when you consider the MSRP is $3300. It takes the profit off a lot of small sales to make up that kind of loss for a store. Its also a lot of money sitting in inventory if its not moving. Also, time your purchases to coincide with that equipments off season- ie. skis in spring and tents in winter for a better shot at deep discount.

When you're buying the good stuff...never, ever, ever pay retail.

2. 99% of everything in the sporting goods mega mall or mail order clearance house you DO NOT NEED in order to be successful in the field.

Really folks- you don't need a two stroke margarita mixer... you may want one but don't confuse that with need. My biggest beef with the outdoors industry is that they are constantly parading trinkets that have no genuine usefullness other than what they have developed for you, answering questions that you never asked.
I really wish they'd spend their time doing something more useful- like making rain gear that doesn't leak.

3. If you're paying interest on your gear you ought to be hunting more money, not critters.

Nothing stimeys a good time like having the bills follow you home from a great hunting adventure. Given what the average U.S. household pays in credit card interest you can buy a really nice rifle every so often if you were to pay in cash and use that interest money at the hook and bullet store instead of sending it to some huge finance empire. You might try the time proven "Borrow and Barter" method for gear you don't have and really can't afford at the moment- I once got the use of a brand new ATV for a weekend this way. If you use this method, do be a good sport and return your borrowed item in excellent condition. I returned the ATV spotlessly clean, full of gas, and with a fresh caribou quarter given in appreciation to boot. I'll be welcomed if I ever have need to borrow it again.

Online internet forums with other hunters are a great place to swap items you no longer need for things you currently want. Buyer beware but some good old fashoined gear swappin' can really help stretch a hunter's budget. In this tough economy I'm regularly seeing folks bartering and trading goods on the internet forum I frequent and generally its a win-win for all parties involved.

4. With the BIG stuff its usually cheaper to rent.

A coworker of mine was a real halibut angler and was incensed when the price of a full day halibut charter went north of $100 (those were the days!) and decided to beat all the rip off charter companies at their own game.

Signing on the dotted line yielded him the payment book on a 25' Bayliner ($40000) and trailer. What he didn't realize is that new sea going boats are best thought of as a "blank canvas" rather than "finished art" and another $20,000 later he actually had boat he could put in the water and possibly fish from. On his maiden voyage he also ran into another snag- his 1/2 ton pickup gave up pulling a 3/4 ton boat just about the top of Moose Pass leaving much of its transmission behind. A new and appropriately sized 3/4 ton truck ($35,000) fixed that ill.

So my acquaintance was then perilously close to $100,000 in debt for a natty new fishing boat and truck to pull it with. He figures he's paying about $4000 a day to go fishing now and last I talked to him he's working so much overtime to try to keep up with the payment he doesn't have so much time to fish....

So remember this acronym when it comes to boats...

Break
Out
Another
Thousand

That daily rate might just be a bargain.

Chuitna Mine...time to write a letter to the Governor.

2011-03-09T17:07:00.000-08:00

Click Here!

...and the Winner Is.

2011-02-26T00:46:00.000-08:00

ME!

In the Great Alaska Meat Lottery I've managed to draw not one, but two choice tags.

First is the DM697 tag- a cow moose from Alaska's famed 20A GMU. There is nothing tastier than cow moose and GMU 20A has a pile of them running around. This hunt runs until October 31 so meat loss is non existent and access across the muskeg is a non-issue.

And up next is a tag I've coveted for years.... DS203. Early season Dall Sheep in the Delta Controlled Use Area. This is a restricted hunt, meaning no wheelers and no pack animals. Just a big pack and the heel-toe express back into the mountains. A sheep hunter's dream come true so let the training begin now. This is a hard tag to draw and the area IS my backyard...

More to come!

Keeping my Fingers Crossed for the Alaska Meat Lottery

2011-02-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is perhaps the most anticipated day of the year up here, at least among the sporting community at any rate. Tomorrow is the scheduled date that all of the State draw tags are announced. Anticipation is such that, at least the last couple of years, the server crashed from all the queries it received. Several outdoor forums have been plagued by posters eaten with pre-announcement jitters and anticipation.

Although I'm one of the guilty, I haven't been very fortunate in the past. In fact, every year I joke about my "voluntary donation" to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game in the hopes of drawing some of the more coveted tags. Several of my friends have drawn such tags and I've gotten to participate in the hunt- but always as supporting cast, never as the primary shooter.

Always the eternal optimist I even "doubled down" and applied for multiple tags for the same species (you are allowed three choices per species). ADFG even publishes a listing of your chances based on last year's draw and when I looked at it, it wasn't pretty. In fact, several of the tags I applied for have such a low percentage chance of draw that they qualify as "The Alaska Meat Lottery" more than a hunting permit.

The tags I applied for are:

3 Moose (two choice areas and one cow tag)
3 Bison (two in my community and one remote)
3 Dall Sheep (all walk-in hunts)
2 Mountain Goat (another walk in)
2 Caribou (one close in and one remote)
3 Brown Bears (one on Kodiak, two on other islands)

Not to be misunderstood, as a resident I can hunt all of these (except Bison) on a normal harvest tag- just not in the choice areas these tags are good for.

So friends... wish me luck on the draw tomorrow!

Scope Selection...The View from Here, A History.

2011-02-08T23:44:00.000-08:00

Its no surprise to my readers that I have some very strong opinions on a variety of shooting implements and among those I hold the strongest opinions on are telescopic sights. I genuinely think this is one area of the shooting sports where we, as a group, are regressing rather progressing. Using our fabulous technology to deliver cotton candy rather than something substantial for the field hunter. Endless numbers of variable power scopes abound in the marketplace while the fixed power scope is only offered by a few manufacturers these days, if you discount the cheap junk models from the good stuff the number of good fixed powers gets perilously thin. Every time I see some hunter with a ponderous looking telescope perched on top of a rifle I can't help but chuckle, given the path I have been on.

I didn't form my opinion about scopes haphazardly, or even briefly; but rather over a lifetime in the shooting sports. When I put my first telescopic sight on a rifle I was in college. I had grown up shooting the often miserable buckhorn sights found on most of the .22s and .30-30s of my youth- really a relic from a much older time of black powder rifles. My field performance was satisfactory in the big woods though and on the target range I had a solid understanding of the fundamentals so I got by. I had shot a friend's target rifle with a good aperture sight and while I shot phenomenally with it, I wouldn't be satisfied until I had a scope sight.

O'Connor had affected my mind while I eagerly read his articles waiting on the barber as a child.

That first scope sight was a used affair purchased from another friend in dire need of beer money for a hot date. In college, I believe we were all in dire need of money for most things and while I typically eschewed beer, my ammo budget was overwhelming my meager wages while also paying for school. I think it cost me something on the order of a precious $20 bill and I want to say it was a Tasco but the exact make escapes me now. What I do know is that it was a fixed 4x with decent optics and while I would turn my (snobbish) nose up at it today; when I mounted it to my autoloading .22 my shooting went from good to unbelievable. Among my peers I immediately overshadowed Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone with my prowess. Certainly we were a bunch of neophytes but as they say- "In the land of the blind- the one eyed man is King!"

And it felt good to be King.

Sometime around my junior year of college I had been working more and making more and, conversely, going to school less and less- I scraped together enough for my first bolt action rifle in .30-06. Feeling somewhat cash flush from a great construction season I decided I must mount it with a telescopic sight and according to the masses, that scope simply had to be a variable. My shots were typically short but I liked the ability to turn that scope up on the range and stack bullet on top of bullet. Never mind that my actual hunting suffered- hampered by a much too large, much too dim, and much too imprecise scope in the dark oak woods. I still felt like the King, but it was short lived. After about 60 rounds that low end variable failed to hold zero and I replaced it with another just like it. I was King but a hard headed one apparently.

Fast forward many years and many scopes later, I was outfitting a new rifle with a scope- a variable of course- and I decided I must have one of the new "BDC" type reticules. Something to make holdover easier on those long distance shots. Never mind that I never shot past 300 yards and my .308 was perfectly capable of shooting point of aim to that distance- marketing hype is a powerful force in the shooting game. After mounting the scope and reading the reticule instructions I began to realize that this scope was certainly a fiddly thing, requiring much calculating and much adjusting to make the BDC feature work correctly. Little did I know that the following year that scope would cost me two animals.

That following year I was roaming the tundra when I happened on a small band of caribou across a small lake. I dropped to prone after being spotted and began the routine of bracketing my selected animal with the appropriate crosshair and then trying to make the mental calculations to select the correct power ring setting to calibrate the crosshair... needless to say the nervous caribou weren't in the mood to watch my fidgety motions and started to move farther away, forcing me to readjust my aiming solution and scope setting until at last they were far out of range for my .308. Later, after trailing the animals I learned the initial shot was a mere 150 yards. Although it looked farther because of the intervening water it was an easy shot to make with irons, much less a scope sighted rifle. The simple thing would have been to put the crosshair on the vitals and squeeze the trigger.

The following month had me trailing a wolf with the same rifle- trying to get a solution dialed in while he moved away at around 250 yards. Tired of fooling with the scope I turned it up to 10x and started shooting. After the second miss he turned on the afterburner and disappeared over the far ridge in bounding leaps. I think I stopped shooting when the magazine ran dry. Frustration!

That was enough for me.

I devoured everything I could read on scopes, I had flubbed two relatively easy shots with a top shelf variable scope on a rifle of known MOA accuracy. I was a good shot and I knew it- a lifetime of hunting and dead critters coupled with targets littered with tight clusters of .308 diameter holes gave proof to that. My wildly successful hunting with my .22 (also topped with a variable) gave me pause. Except for the time spent on the target range, that scope never left 2.5x. I also noticed that despite my scope's impeccable pedigree- the point of impact moved as I changed power settings. I was head shooting piles of rabbits and grouse at the time and noticed that the more I dialed up the power, the more I missed. At 2.5x at 50 yards the rabbit was as good as in the pot. At 8x there was a very good chance he'd bound off with nothing more severe than a haircut and a bad case of fright.

The following year I was outfitting another rifle with a scope- this one a .300 Magnum, flat shooting and powerful. Remembering the fiascoes of the previous season's fiddling with that BDC scope I resisted temptation to put that rather expensive scope on my new tack driving .300. I went and did something that my shooting companions outright scoffed at- I put a simple fixed 4x of good quality on that rifle. I admit that I chose the 4x based on other merits, mainly weight, as I wanted the lightest and most compact scope on my new "sheep gun" I could get. Testing my options, the heavier scope ruined the balance of such a light rifle and a foray through 5000 vertical feet has anyone wanting to drop any ounce they reasonably could. The recoil on that rifle was also something fierce and I found I could mount the 4x (without the attendant power ring) much farther forward and eliminate the chance of (another) crescent shape scar over my right eyebrow. The habit of crawling the stock is something I've never been able to break despite being hit by several eyepieces and I find that I must mount to the scope as far forward as possible in order to get away from it. A couple of rifles I simply couldn't get away from and I sold the whole works as soon as I was able.

I also noticed afterward that my field shooting improved. My rifle went from "manual focus" to "point and click". I zeroed the rifle for a 200 yard zero and at any distance out to 300 yards I simply assumed whatever position I wanted to shoot from and without appreciable delay, hit the target. Not only was I shooting great groups from the bench (a practice I was soon to abandon), my field shooting was superb- quick and accurate hits from field positions to beyond the distance I would even think of shooting game. I hunted with that 4x for three years until a nasty spill on a rock face ruptured the gas seal mid-season; hopelessly fogged it was sent back for repair. A quick visit to "Wilderness Hook and Bullet" resulted in a single fixed power on the shelf- a 6x. It was quickly mounted on the rifle and accounted for two animals later that season.

After those incidences my variable power scopes have all but disappeared from my safe, particularly on field rifles- replaced with fixed powers in appropriate magnifications for the rifle and tasks it needs to perform. My hunting .22 now wears a 2.5x- trim and light and perfectly deadly on small game to the limits of the .22LR and beyond. My .308 wears the 4x- now good as new and perfectly suited to the range and game afforded by the mild Winchester cartridge. My .300 still wears that 6x- an outstanding combination for mountain and tundra hunting. My 30-30 still wears open sights as I can't bring myself to ruin the lines of a lever gun with an abomination of a scope in its days of semi retirement.

So there is the tale- 25 plus years in the making, coming full circle back to where I started.

And happy about it.

Trying Something New or...Eating My Own Words on My Birthday.

2011-02-06T18:43:00.000-08:00

I've written in print and long held the belief that I am, at my very core, a rifleman. I love hunting with rifles and have since I was wee tot, armed and dangerous with a Crossman pellet rifle. Not that I don't enjoy the odd handgun or shotgun- I just don't use them much in the field. For me handguns and shotguns are primarily defensive tools in the war on crime or pure entertainment in the shooting sports. Or, in the case of shotguns, either the tool of elitist bird hunters with big dollars to spend pursuing little game or dirt poor "one gun homesteaders" equally adept at buckshotting deer or poaching roving bunnies; generally in their vegetable garden.

I've long held the belief that the proper arm of the serious hunter is the rifle.

Not that my exposure to shotguns has been limited- a couple of my treasured possessions include inter-war Winchesters (M12 and M37) that I received hand me down through my family. I've had the various "riot-gun" short barrelled shotguns living in the closet and occasionally carried for bear protection. My survival kit in the bush contains a compact .410 gauge and a handful of shells. But as a primary hunting implement my exposure to shotguns has been very limited. Last fall I killed a rabbit with my M37 20 gauge and I have to admit it was one of the few living things I'd shot with a shotgun in well over a decade.

So it came as a real surprise when my wife dropped me off at the big city hook and bullet store with instructions to "go buy yourself something that goes 'BANG' for your birthday", that I wandered over to the shotgun counter after fondling a goodly selection of wonderful rifles. I looked for another .22 and...blah. I've had a stable full of nice .22s. I looked at a grip of high power rifles and while I nearly pinged on one of the new Winchester .375s...but, ah, not really. My current .300 is proving adept at anything I want to shoot with a high powered rifle to date. So with some degree trepidation I made my way to the shotguns.

I looked around the counter and thought of some of the great blogs I follow- notably Holly and Hanks adventures with duck hunting that make it sound like a wonderful hunt- not at all like the elitist picture I carried in my head from a childhood in the sticks. After talking to the counter man, and ascertaining whether he truly carried any knowledge about his wares (he did- avid waterfowler, upland gunner and published author on both subjects to boot) I asked his opinion on what would be a good grade shotgun for a beginning shotgunner with a modest budget to spend.

"What kind of shotguns have you shot previously", he queried.

"I've shot a Model 12 quite a bit,"I responded.

"No pump gun will really interest you then- you've already got about the best example ever made..." he replied. My hat size increased by two.

"What about a double?" I asked tentatively. Visions of traipsing across the fields with a dandy side by side looking for grouse dressed like an English sportsman danced in my head.

"On your budget you can buy just enough double to make you mad." he said, crushing the fantasy before it really got started. "Alaska gunning is just darn hard on guns, I take it you're a hunter and not just some fanciful collector. Really poor doubles and just that...poor."

The vision died on the vine. Nah, I've read in sporting magazines about some of the wonderful doubles and their manufacture...and the prices that exceed those of my current vehicles combined with that of my first home. I couldn't imagine dropping several mortgage payments for an "entry level" double shotgun to drag around in the muck up here. A really affordable double looked like more trouble than it was worth in the long run. I needed something a little more...well let's just say practical.

He turned his back and looked through the impressive display that ran 25 feet and was stacked 8 deep with shotguns. "Here, this might do the trick," he declared and handed me a very businesslike matte black and synthetic number. "That's a Benelli M2, it ain't pretty but its a real workhorse of a semi-auto in 12 gauge. Light enough for upland work for a guy your size and equally at home in a duck blind or goose pit. It's limited to 3" shells unlike the more expensive model but if you can't kill stuff with a 3" you probably need another hobby. We've marked them down to move them and make space for next year's inventory. It's likely the best gun I've got that'll fit into your budget."

I hefted the gun a few times. It was light and pointed well for me. I flipped over the price tag and looked at the series of mark downs with a bottom figure that fit right into my price range with a little room to spare. I racked open the bolt and peered inside. The Italians know a thing or two about machine manufacturing I thought as I noticed the absence of tool marks on the guns innards. The latest trend in American guns tends to be sloppy machining and finishing, while not really something that may effect functioning it shows a distressing lack of attention to detail for something intended to last generations. In fact, my ancient Winchester had so much handwork that the company could no longer afford to sell them. The result is that even in advanced age it works like it did when it was new. The Benelli gun was certainly appeared well made.

"I'm guessing that'll do fine... where's the paperwork?" I replied.

So dear readers, shotgunning pointers and suggestions are welcome as I'm looking to endeavor to learn this sport of aerial gunnery over the summer and entertain you with stories of hunting waterfowl and upland game here in the north country.

Recruiting Our Next Generation (and our current one too)

2011-01-14T21:43:00.000-08:00

The other day I was reading one of my favorite blogs, Al Rasch's The Rasch Outdoor Chronicles, and came across this little gem- Safeguarding the Future of Hunting and Fishing. I highly recommend everybody just follow the link and read some of Al's work and educate yourself on the state of the hunting and fishing population today. I particularly like the words, "And it is time we cut the crap and did something."

I love Al's direct approach to the problem of the shrinking opportunity for new hunters into the sport and; rather than digress into a bunch of mamby-pamby hand wringing a lot of folks who have to bring us bad news participate in- Al jumps right in and give several practical steps that the reader can implement with a little good-old-fashioned effort.

In my middle age I find myself drawn more into the role of teacher or mentor more and more- not that I'm some great expert hunter. I'm just a guy who likes the outdoors, loves the chase, likes things that go 'BANG' and occasionally I like to write about it. I've been able to take several new hunters into the field in the last few years and I find that hunting with these folks is incredibly satisfying. When I first started inviting some of the new folks hunting, the reaction I got from some fellow hunters was downright disheartening. I was met with complaint and accusation about stealing spots (which I find laughable as heck up here in AK), being burdened with inexperienced folks, being hindered in the chase, even endangering myself and others.

Nonsense.

So I found myself hunting with new hunters more and more and my former companions less and less and downright enjoying it. So rather than try to add to Al's work (which needs nothing added) I'd like to give some random thoughts that I've had about introducing new hunters in the field.

When hunting with inexperienced hunters, I find myself going slower and focusing on fundamentals. We often stop to look at sign and examine tracks and scat and I often find myself teaching about the habitat or the quarry or other animals we might see. I also find myself focusing on fundamentals and the fundamentals are what gets your game. By focusing on the fundamentals of habitat and habit I'm convinced when I'm hunting with newbies I'm getting far more opportunities than I might otherwise think. I believe as we get more experience the less we consciously "hunt" and instead we just go out by rote- repeating what worked for us before and the critters might just have a different plan.

I also highly suggest that you prep a new hunter before spending time with them in the field. Teach some field basics- like clothing and gear they'll need to bring to be comfortable, what to expect if you do happen to harvest something and how you'll care for that meat you might get. I also suggest you develop a hunting plan and go over it in detail with them- where, what, how, what to do in an emergency. I find that new hunters are more comfortable in the field if they've been given a few simple lessons prior so they feel they'll know what to expect. I generally suggest a hunter's education course for everyone and in many states it will be a requirement for younger folks prior to purchasing a hunting license. I also suggest that you not suggest watching hunting television or videos- they tend to portray an image that is fantastical rather than reality and overemphasize the kill over the entire experience of hunting.

For a new hunter that isn't really experienced with firearms I suggest sticking to one rifle- yours. You can always let them borrow it for a shot and you'll avoid some potential heartache/headache by having a total greenhorn packing a smokepole around you. I also like to spend a couple of range sessions with them if they plan on harvesting game so I can observe and explain gun handling rules. I've seen enough abysmally bad gun handling in my day to not want to see more of it- particularly in my camp. For shotguns hunters, I'd suggest going for a few rounds of skeet or sporting clays with your new recruit prior to heading into the field. Believe it or not, I've found many curious "pre-hunters" prefer not to shoot game at all but are quite intrigued by tagging along with you to watch and participate as you shoot game. My best hunting partner (now relocated to Texas) seldom carried a rifle and never a tag- he was an enthusiastic outdoorsman and world class field hand but he had no desire to shoot game himself. He loved the chase more than anyone else I ever met however and was a first rate packer. As much as it sounds like heresy, I'm not so sure the act of pulling the trigger defines the bulk of the hunting experience.

Make sure your new recruit is properly outfitted- particularly if that recruit is a child. Nothing bothers me more than to see a hunter complaining about taking his child because they "whine" and then see that child is decked out in the best bargain bin Wally World gear they could find. Rule of thumb when dealing with the inexperienced- make sure their gear is the equal (or superior) to your own and pay attention to the weather. When the new hunter (especially a child) gets cold and wet the hunt stops being much fun. A little judicious gear help and a small stash of loaner articles can go a long way toward keeping your recruit comfortable.

Above all when dealing with a new hunter in the field- whether you're on their first expedition for big game or a local squirrel hunt- use patience. I think back at my experience in learning to hunt and I can only imagine the stress I placed on my father and grandfather but they exhibited patience in dealing with me and its something I strive to exhibit with those I teach.

Those are some of my thoughts for dealing with new hunters in the field in a direct manner. In a few days I'll try to post some things I think we can all do to portray hunting as a positive experience and assist recruiting new hunters in an indirect way.

An Alaskan Debacle...

2011-01-04T22:17:00.000-08:00

Well my gentle readers, I've been tracking an emerging Alaskan debacle for some time up here. I've hoped that common sense would prevail and it may yet but I thought this might be an opportune time to share with you folks some of the Far North Craziness that's going on currently.

It all centers around a non-descript river on the west side of Cook Inlet called the Chuitna. Its a meandering little thing and virtually unknown in wider circles, not famous like the mighty Yukon, or the fertile Copper, or even the Susitna. But the little river supports a diverse number of critters and is home to all five of the Pacific species of salmon as well as Dolly Varden. It drains some 25 miles in its final form to dump into Cook Inlet.

Its what lies under that drainage that is causing all the ruckus. Coal.

I grew up in coal mine country so I know a thing or two about coal mines and the toll it exacts on the environment. I've seen first hand what "mountain top removal" and "strip mine" look like from on the ground. I also understand something of the politics of energy extraction and have also seen first hand some of the human costs involved in the mining industry. I understand that our nation needs energy and people need jobs and good jobs in many areas are hard to find. In areas where many mines operate a good job is as rare as hen's teeth. But what PacRim Company that holds the lease on this region is proposing to do is bordering on the unthinkable.

What the proposal calls for is the complete removal of the Chuitna watershed in one massive open pit mine. Not only will the Chuitna all but be consumed, it will alter the water table level for a region of some 30 square miles- or about the actual size of a medium US city. And to add insult to the injury they include in the proposal that they will remediate the entire area back to its original condition. That's akin (as one of my friends wrote in an op-ed piece) to disassembling a 6 layer wedding cake, moving it to another room and reassembling it...with a single spoon.

Some numbers and illustrations for you guys to wrap your noggin' around.

The mine would operate for a proposed 25 years and each of those years would see roughly 12 million metric tons of coal removed. That equates to a hole that's 100 yards wide, 100 feet deep and 10.6 miles long...every single year for the life of the mine. I don't know about you folks, but that's one big hole. How a company proposes to remediate this area one quarter of a century in the future remains to be seen and an estimate of what that remediation would cost and how long it might take have not been released but its safe to say that the remediation effort could well exceed the profit from the entire enterprise if inflation and energy prices continue to increase at their current pace. I've got to wonder if the PacRim company even intends to follow through on its remediation effort and won't just belly-up after the last of the coal is sold and burden the taxpayers with this kind of operation.

As you can tell, I've got something of a burr under my saddle about this whole thing and here's why. First of all you'll destroy an entire watershed with a questionable plan of remediation. That watershed contains salmon and salmon streams are protected as the Holy Grail of land use in Alaska. It is a crime to ride an ATV through ANY salmon bearing stream and next year felt soled waders are verboten so my fellow anglers won't transmit wee beasties between healthy and diseased fish stocks. Alaskans tend to take fish serious. Real Serious. Apparently though, if you have the bankroll of a mining corporation you can grease enough palms to get DNR to write you a permit for tearing the whole thing out...as long as you promise to put it back.

My second big qualm (in a fit of nationalist fervor) is that the coal mined there isn't going to be bound for the good-ole US of A to help us in our energy needs. Nope- its all bound for Asian markets, primarily China. In China it will likely be stuffed into a power plant Western engineers and authorities would have regulated out of existence in the 1950s. So while we all like to think "green" we'll be slitting our own throats by encouraging foreign nations to burn cheap coal in a cheap power plant. Heck, CO2 emissions stop at their border don't they? While we like to think about clean energy, green energy, and alternative energy- we'd be supplying a nation that's demonstrated little environmental consciousness with 25 years worth of black energy.

My third and perhaps biggest fear with this endeavor is that we are about to set a precedent. A precedent that allows a private company to invade our wilderness areas, rape its treasures and essentially take the money and run; all in the name of "best use" and "energy stewardship". In the future, any company could make a case to destroy any wilderness area they deem necessary as long as they promise to make it all better in the end. So I think in the long run without citizens intervention, the Chinese will get the coal, PacRim will get the money, a handful of folks might get a job, and all of us will be left with one big hole in the ground.

A scar where a river once was.

Chuit River Watershed Lands Unsuitable Petition
AK Dept of Natural Resources
550 W 7th av suite 920Anch, AK 99502
or email to russell.kirkham@alaska.gov

http://www.obviouslaw.org/

The Littlbug Stove

2011-01-02T20:00:00.000-08:00

My wife, being of the practical sort, is always on the lookout for gear that she thinks I'll enjoy. More than anyone, she knows my bent toward items that are simple, practical, and effective. On our skiing trips earlier in the season I was quite frustrated by our canister gas stove. In my experience, utilizing these stoves in temperatures below freezing is a trying feat. Even using the suggested "winter mix" of propane and isobutane I got spotty burner performance and short canister life as the propane vaporized and burned at temps the isobutane didn't- leaving a half full canister of butane. Useless below zero. I also have a sordid history with liquid fuel stoves. All the models I've used have been finicky, prone to failure and impossible to adjust.

So this year my wife surprised me with an item I must confess I never knew existed. Something called the Little Bug (http://littlbug.com/index.htm). 4 pieces of die cut stainless steel that fit together in a remarkably simple design and breakdown into a very small semi circular package. Not meant to be a stand alone stove- you must add fuel and that fuel is something literally growing on trees. The LittleBug is powered by a handful of dry twigs and branches placed in the bottom of its burn area. After unwrapping and examining this thing I was sure I would like it. Just quirky enough to be enjoyable and very practical for the uses I have.

On a ski trip on New Year's Day we stopped for a quick rest break and gave the stove a try. I assembled it in all of 20 seconds and another minute beneath a black spruce yielded a handful of dead dry fuel. I stuck to branches that were easily breakable by hand- say no larger than 1/2" in diameter. No tools were required to either gather fuel or assemble the stove. My wife struck a spark and ignited the tinder and in a moment placed the stove over the tinder pile and added fuel. A few seconds later we placed a 1 liter pot of water on the stove and I (being the nerd) looked at my watch to check the time. 3 minutes later we had a liter of water at a roiling boil, much faster than my canister stove is capable of heating 1/2 that amount of water at these temperatures.

We made our tea and hot chocolate and enjoyed the remaining warmth from the stove. As the fuel burned out we simply rolled the stove off of the fire and cooled it on the snow. It was cool to the touch in less than a minute and broke down quickly into its included stow stack.

Some real pros to this stove is that fuel is available pretty much anywhere below the tree line and I was surprised at how fast and efficient the stove was compare to cooking over an open cook fire. I was also surprised at the lack of smoke compared to open fires. I believe the heat building up within the confines of the stove and beneath the cook pot yields a much cleaner burn than in the open atmosphere. I've done a fair bit of cooking over an open fire and over a backpacking stove and I've got to say this combines the best of both worlds. The stove is also very lightweight and compact for easy transport- there is even a smaller version for lightweight backpacking. I'm not sure how locales where fires are not permitted will treat the Little Bug but up here for my cold weather trips with our ready supplies of dry black spruce it is nearly ideal.

I don't think this stove is a good choice for my high altitude trips because there simply is no fuel up there to burn and I don't consider adding an alcohol burner to be a weight or complexity savings over my existing canister stove. But for my trips through the boreal forest I couldn't ask for anything better.

Walking the Dog

2010-12-29T18:19:00.000-08:00

The day broke clear and not quite as cold and it promised to be a good day to get myself and the pup out of the house for a good long walk. I bundled into my gear, grabbed a few odds and ends, and headed out the door. The morning was dead still and the temperature hovered at about 0F. The trail into the wood line was a nice walkable packed "float" left by the snowmachine traffic. As I walked along I looked for tracks- a marten here, a squirrel there, lynx over there, a fox following the treaded pattern left by the snowmachines as they're apt to do.

As we trudged along puffing great geysers of steam with the dog sticking his head in the snow to sniff out unseen things underneath, my mind began to wander and ruminate on thoughts that had been circling for a while.

How is it in this age of more environmental consciousness than ever before can we have so many people apparently unconscious of the actual environment? If you're confused about my last statement, rest assured I was too- but I'll explain my thought process. While the whole world economy trembles and shakes on its foundations built upon cheap energy and more emerging nations compete for that energy we've entered a point in which people who care about the environment are exploring alternative methods of energy and doing things like driving hybrids and buying fridges that have the energy star on the door and all that. Let me say up front I think those are some good things but I wonder if the trend is carried on because its, well, trendy or whether these folks actually care for the environment. Or, oddly enough, even know a thing about the environment. Nothing irks me more than someone without a clue rattling on about science they know little to nothing about or taking a social stance that will apparently have no effect on themselves at all.

As an example- Southern California celebrities prattling on about wearing fur. Rest assured if I resided in SoCal; fur wouldn't have a spot in my wardrobe. All it takes is a solid month of -40F and a borrowed beaver hat to change your mind about fur forever. I think beaver hides look good on beavers and I also think they make a rather good looking and warm hat. I also think my ears look good on my head where God put 'em so when the weather gets cold the beaver hat goes on my head.

While admittedly I live in a bit different setting than most folks, I do communicate outside of my frozen domain pretty regularly and I'm always amazed that folks simply don't know how the natural world works. I don't get too worked up when it's a barely adult urbanite who's driving a Prius and is yakking on about saving the environment without a clue as to what that might even mean. I'll cut the person some slack- their idea of my natural environment is something so alien to their everyday existence that they can't exactly be expected to know any better. Other folks, however, completely surprise me. People that you'd think would know better. But even here in this wilderness setting the disconnect between man and his environment is getting larger and among people you'd think would have some basic knowledge of things beyond the front door.

For example:

I ran into a man not long back out in the low land north of the house the other day, we stopped and chatted a few moments and he talked about trapping foxes there but was dismayed that there weren't any fox tracks around. Well, there were scads of fox tracks around and when I pointed them out he declared that they were just "little dogs" not foxes. I pointed out the nearly straight line of the feet at the trot and showed him a dog track for comparison as well. Alas, my new found companion still didn't think it a good place to trap foxes. At this point I gave up because I'm pretty sure he's never seen a fox and I don't have much hope he ever will. I'm not even sure he'd know what to do with one on the off hand chance he succeeds.

Or my caribou hunting companion- (a very successful hunter I'll add) with decades of experience- who was telling me ad nauseum that blueberry picking was over for the year and how he'd missed it and on and on. He had only been wading through loaded blueberry bushes up to his knees for well over an hour. I was in the lead and every so often I'd reach a hand down and strip off a handful of the plump purple orbs and gobble them down. I now really wonder what he thought I was eating up there? He finally broke down in a surprising fit of humility and asked what a blueberry bush looked like for future reference. I replied with a purple stained hand (and chin!)- "You're a standing on one..."

Or the group of hikers I met earlier this year on the backside of Rainbow Mountain looking like something of a mix between and REI catalog and an AARP advertisement excitedly showing me the mountain goat. Only issue is that Rainbow is three hundred miles from the nearest range of mountain goats. A perplexed Dall sheep ram sat there some several hundred yards above wondering when the party would break up and move on. When I explained the animal was a 1/2 curl Dall ram I was met with large stares of unbelief. I heard one of the hikers exclaim to another as they hiked away..."...stupid yokel."

So here I am reflecting on things again and wonder how so many of us, who have such a love of the outdoors, know so little about what we love? How many of us who love to hunt and fish and explore the habitat of the natural world get involved in the politics and science of land management? Because those decisions are being made by people who very likely know much less about it than you do. Its my opinion that the outdoorsman of old- that wizened creature (think George Sears or Charlie Ren) of the wilderness just isn't around much anymore and when they are around our current land managers just aren't talking to them very much. He's been replaced by weekend warriors who can quote the ballistic table of the entire Remington ammunition line and people with a wall of trophy heads who couldn't likely name a mere handful of trees or plants at rifle point.

For shame...

A Real Cold Snap

2010-12-16T21:53:00.000-08:00

After a mild fall it appears winter is back with a vengeance. Yesterday was in the -40Fs. This morning's temperature was a robust -54F. Needless to say that's cold in anybody's book. Vehicles frequently fail to start even when plugged in. Running equipment just stops operating in its tracks. Snow squeaks underfoot and ice groans on the lakes and rivers. Wildlife hunkers down and the world becomes a very still and silent place in the deep boreal forest. Even the driven actions of modern people turn from commerce and industry to that of warmth and survival.

The night sky is so crystalline clear it looks like you can stir the heavens with a curiously extended hand.

One of the things that makes this place such a special and endearing spot to live.

For folks who have never experienced really deep cold, rest assured that the world fundamentally changes at 86 degrees below the freezing point of water.

Hodgeman's Thoughts on Sarah Palin...

2010-12-10T23:51:00.000-08:00

Ok, by now all of my readers have likely seen the above video of Sarah Palin hunting caribou. While I generally avoid politics in my blog I think all my readers can agree that Sarah- love her or hate her- is one of the most polarizing voices in American culture currently. Full length video of her shooting at a caribou has set off something of a firestorm with anti-hunters, pro-hunters and the rest looking to get a lick in. I've heard from several of my readers asking my opinion on the subject and I've read a few other pundits and bloggers giving us their take, both pro and con. I've actually hunted in the Alaska GMU 26 near where these critters were seen. I've also actually hunted caribou which is something most of my Lower 48 readers have not done. As a disclaimer, I have not watched the actual show and I'll try to keep my opinions out of the realm of the political and into the actual hunting events.

So by popular request I'll give you Hodgeman's take on Sarah vs. Caribou.

Much ado has been made of Chuck Heath (Sarah's father) operating the bolt on the rifle repeatedly. While certainly not good practice its not something I'm going to get wrapped over the axle about. As a hunter I fully expect folks to be able to operate their own rifle. As a Dad I know that sometimes you let your kids stop growing at age 8 whether they're 18, 28 or 48. Chalk this up to ambivalence on my part. I'm pretty sure that Mrs. Palin knows how to operate a bolt action rifle whether her Dad is working the bolt or not. I'm more concerned by multiple hands on the rifle and not having negligent discharges and the friend handing the "hot" rifle to Sarah is pretty poor form all the way around.

I also heard quite the hullabaloo regarding the number of times the caribou was fired on and missed. I am fully aware that scopes get knocked ajar and lose zero. It's happened to me in the past and it could happen to any of us in the future. Murphy is all of our hunting partners, like it or not. I'm more concerned that once the plan wasn't working they just kept shooting...and shooting...and shooting. Her form in the video is actually pretty good- not the usual "all over the place" jitters you see with new hunters so she should have been able to call her shots and say- "Give me the other rifle...this one's screwed."

She also asked at one point about the recoil of the rifle. Not that worrying about recoil is at all unusual mind you. I've shot with grown men who worry excessively about recoil at pretty mild levels without it effecting their field performance. What it does show is that she's using an unfamiliar rifle and that's bad. I think hunters should be practicing with their hunting rifle all year long and get to know it like your best friend including dry fire. Someone just taking a rifle from someone and shooting at game is poor form in my opinion although a lot of folks might disagree. Someone with as much field experience as she says she has ought to be hauling out their own beloved smokepole and they know how much it kicks.

One of the bright spots on the clip is the fact she's using a rest for all of the shots. The mantra is "If you can get closer, get closer. If you can get steadier, get steadier." Seeing her use a rest is good form. A real amateur would be blazing away from offhand. I've taught several dozen folks to shoot at this point in my life, I've been a Range Officer, a trainer, and a national level shooting competitor. I just don't get the sense that Mrs. Palin is a total amateur with a gun. I also don't think she's a frequent shooter either but would rather put her in the category- "casual shooter." I totally agree with Jack over at the Locavore Hunter that she shoots like someone who's done a fair bit of plinking with an autoloading .22 LR and very little of much else.

Also much has been said of the fact the caribou appear to be skylined for much (if not all) of the shooting and that's a no-no. Shooting at an animal on the skyline is bad form. Period. I've been on the ground in Unit 26, which is pretty much most of the Arctic Coastal Plain or commonly "The North Slope". I can see how skylined animals are extremely common there since the ground is the flattest I've ever walked. Not at all like the rolling prairies of the Great Plains or the great plateaus of the Southwest. One of my friends in an online posting wrote, "Unless the animal is standing in a hole, its on the skyline up there." True enough but shooting at the skyline is just bad form anywhere. What doesn't come through on the camera is truly how flat the land is and that the hunters could possibly see for an extremely long distance beyond the animal. The camera does strange things turning a three dimensional world into a flat image so its possible the act wasn't in fact as dangerous as it appeared to be but shooting at a skylined critter is a bad deal whether you're in the crowded East Coast woods or the vast empty of the Slope.

Bottom line for me is that Sarah had a successful hunt but I don't think she has nearly the field experience she claims unless much of that experience is following around other hunters in her family and basically doing what she's told. I don't think the clip is remarkably bad as I've seen much, much worse but I certainly wouldn't be calling her a huntress in the class of some of the ones I follow the blogs of- ie. Holly, Kari, Emily, among others. I didn't see the video but I've heard that the family, including Sarah, did a rather good job of recovering the meat from the field and that's a really good deal. Rolling up your sleeves for field dressing and butchering chores is a thumbs up in Hodgeman's book.

Some of the noise I've heard from other pundits is so simply nonsensical I'll address those in brief.

"The meat from this hunt cost $147 per pound." Anyone who thinks hunting big game is an economical way of obtaining meat is an absolute fool. I know Sarah gives a little speech about filling the freezer but that shouldn't be taken to mean that its less expensive than purchasing beef. Anyone whose serious about hunting knows that once you factor in costs, equipment and time- hunting is a pretty expensive way to get meat. I wager if you factored in what she could have been making on the lecture circuit that week, $147 is a pretty low estimate. Successful hunting takes time, equipment and in most of the country- money for travel and logistics. Unless you're potting critters in your backyard with a borrowed air rifle your hunting is going to cost something.

I've also heard much about the behavior of the caribou implying that the animals not running at the sound of gunfire is evidence the event was somewhat staged. The behavior of the caribou is pretty well in line with what I've observed in the field. The chief problem in caribou hunting is finding the animals at all. Once found, approaching the animals is pretty easy. Caribou are not especially wary animals, not generally given to flight until you approach within wolf range. The band of caribou I fired on earlier this year did not flee until we approached on foot to recover the two we shot. Animals in more populated districts tend to move off at the sound of gunfire and internal combustion engines, but caribou in the wilderness will often just stand and look at you while you shoot at them.

After reading this post I realize that this sounds like a defense of Sarah Palin- its not. I feel a bit of transparency is in order on the author's part. I am not a fan of Sarah and I've been a constituent. I've been affected by her policies in ways that are good and bad. I would have loved to have torn into the video with a vengeance and made some hay out of it to further my own personal political view.

But I can't.

When I see the video I see an Alaskan family out harvesting game in Alaska, spending quality time in the field, making some real mistakes, and enjoying some of the real bounty that Alaska has to offer. Sure the actual hunt may be something of a sideshow given the presence of the camera crew and Mrs. Palin's affection for media publicity. But the hunt itself is something my family has done, my friend's families have done and its somewhat representative of Alaska hunting that I love so much. So I can only say- "Congratulations Sarah...nice 'bou."

Apologetics

2010-12-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

Its winter again and the weather has me inside looking out at the dark and cold world. Its the time of year when on quiet nights (and most of them are) I can sit and think and wait for the aurora to show itself. Often I read and occasionally write and frequently I'll ponder. In a somewhat unusual move for me, I did pick up a copy of a sporting magazine the other day in the grocery store. I thought it would make good "light" reading for times when I didn't feel introspective enough to ponder or feel mentally engaged enough for a book. One of the themes I noticed over and over in the magazine was a topic that, for lack of better terminology, I'll call "apologetics". Apologetics is generally used in theological circles more than sporting ones but since the definition is "a defense in an argument or debate of long standing". I believe it will nicely describe the situation.

One of the things I noticed appeared frequently is a discussion of sportsman's dollars being funneled for habitat conservation and funding of state wildlife department's and a calculation of the amount of revenue sporting endeavors have on local economies. It also spoke rather glowingly of hunters being a dominant force for population control and game management activities of all sorts. You all know the arguments. You've read them countless times over and over. Dollars. Game Management. Habitat Management. Not that these things aren't true or that its not even a valid argument in the defense of hunting. Its not that its not important. Its darn important in fact.

But it doesn't move me.

I don't arise early and take my rifle and set off to do my part to manage a herd of wildlife. I don't keep tally in my checkbook of how many dollars I spend (too many!) engaged in hunting and fishing activities so I can figure out on an annual basis what my economic impact might have been. I don't shoot wolves or bears for "predator control" and the notion that I'm a dominant force in regulating game populations frightens me more than just a little.

I don't go afield to do any of these things.

The "Husky" Mystery...

2010-12-09T22:09:00.000-08:00

Occasionally one stumbles across a memory that is simply too good not to share. These memories tend to lodge themselves in the rear crevasses of the mind and wait there for a good opportunity to present themselves. As I sat here this evening struggling with writer's block and a trying to think of a topic to explore, the memory burst forth from the dim and dusty recess of Hodgeman's mind and voila'! Problem solved.

Way back in the days when I was a "cheechako" in Alaska, one of the first friends I made was a fellow by the name of Tom. Tom had been in Alaska for a number of years and had homesteaded a property some miles in the Bush and eventually feeling the desire to leave hard work coupled with abject poverty he moved into the city to get a job. Tom and I became fast friends and he taught me a lot of things about life in Alaska during our time in Anchorage. During a dinner gathering one evening with our families the (inevitable around me) topic of hunting and guns came up.

Feeling the urge to show off his prized smokepole he went to a back room and brought back one of the most ill kept weapons I've ever seen. Not exactly what I expected a seasoned veteran of the Bush to be toting- a Husqvarna 640 in .270 Winchester. He was quite proud of the rifle despite it showing lots of age and "character marks" on the worn bluing and stock. "This here rifle I bought in '85 in Fairbanks...I took this, 4 boxes of ammo, an axe, a wall tent, and a kitten and got dropped off in Skwentna to start my homestead...", he replied. I sat there examining the rifle and wondered somewhat foolishly if he had eaten the kitten when the first winter hit somewhat mystified why he'd take such a thing as a kitten for serious homesteading.

After I examined the rifle a little more closely the kitten made more sense than that particular rifle did.

The rifle had started life in the era of post WWII at Fabrique Nationale in Belgium in the late 40s as a commercial Mauser 98 action and then sent to the enterprising Swedes at Husqvarna to turn into a whole rifle. Those were the days when the wheels of America's economic engine were chugging robustly and war savaged Europe was still reeling from collapse as Hitler's armies vanished and left smoke in their wake. That much European handwork is largely unaffordable today but in those destitute times these were destined to be "budget" rifles- a lower priced competitor to the big name American manufacturers. That was also before the Swedes determined that relying on one of your bigger competitors for something so basic as an action was bad for business if that business is making rifles.

This particular rifle, however, was destined to be sent to the American market and chambered in .270 Winchester, a cartridge at the very apex of its popularity in the early 50s. The "Husky" somehow wandered into Fairbanks, Alaska in the 70s oil boom and was sold in the 80s oil bust by a pipeline worker looking for a plane ticket home. It was bought by a very inexperienced drifter named Tom, who had a homestead claim in Skwentna that the ink was as wet on as he was behind the ears.

Fifteen years later he talked to me about hunting with the rifle, feeding his family and using the rifle for protection on the trail. I checked the action (smooth as glass, meticulous Swedes and Bavarians), admired the hand knurling on the sight plane of the receiver rings (reduces glare) and hoisted the old cannon and looked through the rear sight and noticed a major problem.

"Hey Tom," I asked, "Did you know you're missing your front site?"

"My what?", he replied quizzically.

"Your front sight blade. See this groove...you're supposed to have a sight blade with a bead sitting in there. You place the bead in the rear sight's notch for windage and elevation control. Surely the rifle had one." I pontificated. I had lots of experience shooting with open sights and felt very proud of my knowledge about such items.

"Nope, never recall having one of those," he replied earnestly as if all rifles had optional front sight blades.

At this point I felt like perhaps my leg was being significantly pulled by my new friend and he was showing off some pawn shop pickup prank to his cheechako friend while his "real" gun, perhaps a Model 70 Winchester or Remington 700 in a real "Alaska Cartridge" like a .338 Win Mag resided back in the closet somewhere. Feeling a little smug I replied a little sarcastically,"But did you ever kill anything with it?"

"Oh not much," came his response in total honesty," Just a moose or two every year (that's about 25 total in 15 years), a few caribou, a dozen black bears and one really pissed off grizzly."

I sat there dumbfounded now that I realized Tom was entirely serious. I had thought while I planned my Alaska move (fueled by everything I could read on the subject in the sporting press in those early Internet days) that all real Alaska rifles had to have a .338 bore or bigger or it would bounce off a bear and a .300 Win Mag was "OK" for ladies and coyotes as long as they were backed up by a real man toting a real man's gun. A real Alaska woman shot a .338 like a man though- on account of local ammo supplies consisting of nothing but .338 shells. Having to have your hubby or boyfriend import your weakling rifle ammo was supposedly considered "high maintenance". Now I was confronted by a man who'd raised a family on meat provided by what amounted to a surplus Mauser in a pipsqueak cartridge missing half of its sighting equipment...apparently a man who never knew better to boot. "How the heck did you ever hit anything with this thing?" I asked in total shock.

His reply was as deadpan as the rest of his conversation..." Well, moose are pretty big if you can get pretty close...."

Author's note- the rifle depicted in the photograph is not the rifle spoken of in the article. Picture the rifle in the photo after being drug behind a log truck for several miles... you get the point. The photo is one I retrieved from Google- Husky 640s being so common around the house and all... I give photo credit to whoever took it but it wasn't me.

Winter Weather, the Odd November

2010-12-05T09:03:00.000-08:00

I realize I haven't posted anything in a couple of weeks. Its because we have been digging out from some of the worst weather I've seen in Alaska in a long time. Our odd winter started when our snow season was delayed by a long warm fall, which is quite unusual in the Interior. We usually go from early September to the deep freeze in late September. Not this year- persistent warm weather and a lack of snow had us all wondering if Al Gore just might be right after all...

By the first week of November we had only a scant covering of snow and temperatures still in the teens. It was still quite warm by mid November with some more snowfall but nothing like we usually have. As a reference point; I've seen Halloween at -30F and Thanksgiving temperatures of -20F are generally expected here. The week prior to Thanksgiving week we saw some below zero weather and things looked to be tracking colder when we got a weather alert from the good folks at NOAA. The forecast was something unbelievable- rain. I'm quite used to seeing my last rain in September.

As a reference for my more tropical readers, Alaskans prefer the cold dry winters the Interior is known for. It may be -20F and snow everywhere but the snow doesn't adhere to anything- even itself. Some of the finest powder you'll find anywhere. Roads are clear and walkways easily shoveled with a minimal amount of ice. A rainstorm where the air 33F and everything on the ground is below zero is a recipe for disaster.

The rain began to fall Thanksgiving week on a Monday afternoon and by Wednesday everything was coated with 2" of hard glaze ice. Road travel was dangerous and many families cancelled Thanksgiving travel. The ice had another expected result- power lines fell and we saw outages across the Interior. Trees fell and blocked roads and trails of all types interrupting ground travel and private aviation just stopped. To add insult to our injuries, immediately following our ice storm (which set all kinds of odd weather records by the way) our temperatures plunged into the -30Fs and stayed there for a week.

Brrr.

Hard Water Skiing

2010-11-22T17:58:00.001-08:00

The moon shone full and bright while the ice fog rolled onto the far shore. The fog rolling out like a parting curtain revealing the conductor centered in the stage overlooking the orchestra.

The snow was thin this year, thin snow and thick ice, a reverse of most places. The thin snow gave little drag to the ski that slid across the surface and each kick resulted in a long, effortless glide in the still hard air. Swish and pause and swish and pause. A metronome keeping time of an almost effortless velocity.

The miles glide by in the cooling air. The skier alone on the hard water lake, silent except for the pops and groans of the contracting ice. Pops and booms that sound like muffled artillery under the snow and reverberate under his feet, the hard water lake like a tympani drum as the temperature drops and the ice expands.

The coyotes join the symphony. The sound of auroral silence, the rhythmic swish of skis, the boom and pop of muffled ice now united with a choral arrangement of howls and yips from the distant song dogs. Singing songs of hunger or success, celebration or loneliness.

Their song's secret hidden in the dark spruce forest as the skier heads for home.

Something New.

2010-11-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

I've got to admit I was skeptical about trying the clothing prior to my last hunt. As I've written in the past, I'm a pretty dedicated wool, canvas, and leather kinda guy when it comes to outdoor clothing- you know stuff that will hold up to a fire or a sharp rock. I also fully recognize that some of these polymer miracle fabrics do offer the user performance enhancing perks but I'm not running a race, I'm on a hunting trip. As my friends at Empire Canvas say- "I measure things in seasons, not kilometers." So fully cognizant of my historical position on such matters as long chain polymers and "wonderflage", my friend and sometimes hunting partner pushed me toward a product made by a company called Sporthill.

Image from Sporthill's website.

My friend is not only a cross country skier and biathlon shooter (which is his likely introduction to the stuff) but an accomplished mountain hunter as well. I fully realize that my traditional garb is not particularly water friendly. At the time we were planning a vessel based hunt in rainy and wet Southeast Alaska coastal mountains. So it was with some trepidation that I dropped the (considerable) coin to purchase a set of the Sporthill "Expedition Camo" pants and jacket to try on a couple of hunts. After some field use I can report the following impressions.

First off is that I'm ambivalent on the camo- but I'm ambivalent about any camo including this one. Although I thought this stuff looked awfully dark, photos of me with a caribou I'd taken shows that it blends in fine. If not to the eye then by the result. I don't expect to wear it to town or the office however and I kinda wish they made it in different earth tone shades. This stuff is seriously comfortable and I'm sure I'll get some more of the skiing clothing to use for winter skiing around town. Heck I might just start skiing in head to toe camo given my natural thriftiness (usually called "cheap" by my spouse). I wouldn't be the first in town to do so.

Second is the lack of ridiculous claims put out by the maker. The only two claims they make is that the fabric is made from some of the most hydrophobic yarn on the market and the weave is tight enough to be windproof to 35 MPH. Its not supposed to be waterproof- only exceptionally fast drying after water exposure. I tested that claim after I crossed the Gulkana river with a hole that exceeded my hip boot height (just love it when that happens) and managed to soak the pants pretty thoroughly. I shook them out and put them back on and in a half hour they were basically dry to the touch from wind and body heat. I also hunted in a stiff breeze that hovered near freezing most of the following day without feeling any ill effects of the wind which was nice. It was refreshing to not be disappointed in ridiculous claims like "waterproof and breathable" which is something of two lies for the price of one in my experience.

Third is the comfort and quiet factor. These things wear like my pajamas. Total freedom of movement and noiseless on brush. This is perhaps my favorite attribute about these things- the most comfortable clothes I currently own. This is where the company shows its competitive skiing roots (they also make Olympic uniforms for various winter activities for those of you going next time). Not that I'm a serious athlete but as an avid recreational XC skier these guys would make some excellent ski gear for most conditions. I can easily see how you could be sweating hard, moving the moisture to the surface, and evaporating it off very quickly. As soon as we get some decent snow base I'm going to check that out.

Now for the bad. This stuff is a niche second line product made by an already niche company and it shows in the cost. I paid something on the order of $250 in Fairbanks for the set and thats a nice chunk off retail if you check their website. Thats a lot of coin for a single task item of clothing unless my advancing age and "natural thriftiness" are showing through again. Although comparable to what hunting clothing from other manufacturers costs, I'm not impressed with their pricing structure either. Maybe it is my natural thriftiness but for those of you with disposable income and hunting in wet and cool weather you might consider Sporthill on your short list. If you're a warm weather hunter in arid climates I'd pass- these things would be too warm.

The biggest negative to me is that this fabric is very heat sensitive. Not only will exposure to a campfire be detrimental but a trip through the clothes dryer will be as well. I guess you don't get something for nothing.

Hitting the Ground

2010-11-01T21:30:00.000-07:00

Allow me to draw you into a scenario a little bit. You've been hunting the Alaskan wilderness for a couple of days now in the early season of mid-August. You're at least a day or so from the nearest road and at least a day from anything that resembles civilization. Its unseasonably hot in the low 60s and maybe hitting a high of 70 at solar noon. The bugs are not too bad this year which means they won't drain a small dog in less time than it took you to read this far into the narrative but you're not going to sleep in the open either. Otherwise you seriously contemplate DEET poisoning as a possibility.

You look into the binos that have chaffed your neck for two straight days and there, just ambling out of the treeline is what you've been looking for- an honest 50" moose at a reasonable distance to launch a stalk. You launch your bid and a half hour later culminate your efforts in the silence between the thunder and the echo. Your comrades (and I do hope you have some along given what a bull moose weighs) pose for photographs with you and your marvelous hard won trophy but little do you realize that deep within that mountain of animal protein a complex biological chain reaction has just started taking place. The timer was tripped the moment this magnificent creature hit the ground and you have no idea how much sand is in the hourglass. Your next efforts in the field will not stop the sand but your actions can slow down the trickle of the grains allowing you to harvest all of this meat and get it safely home to grace your table and fill your freezer.

First things first- by all means pose for those photographs but please keep them tasteful, respectful and don't dally around about it. Once the eye glazes on the animal the photo will look bad- trust me on this. I could digress into a mini-tirade about trophy photo do's and don'ts at this point but I'll pass since we have more important matters to attend to.

That animal lying there is still at approximately the same temperature he was when he was alive and like all mammals has a whole host of wee beasties living inside him. Just because your well aimed bullet ended the bull's life doesn't mean those wee beasties were harmed in the slightest. In warm weather the stomach will start to distend as the flora of the gut continue to thrive upon your quarry's last meal and produce gas as a result. Now that your quarry is no longer farting subconsciously- that gas is building up pressure. Nothing is more difficult and fraught with potential disaster for meat care like attempting to field dress a bigger critter with a drum taught distended gut. So while your buddy puts away the camera, don your gloves and get out the gut hook before its really unpleasant. A lot of folks attempt to put off this step because it really is unpleasant but waiting will not make it more so and the "field dressing fairy" is away on other business. So please- using any method you find convenient, gut that critter.

And while you're gutting that critter do take all care not to rupture things you might find in there- namely the colon, bladder, and the ever expanding stomachs- you don't want any of this stuff on your plate. If you've been practicing your marksmanship and field skills properly the lungs will have been shredded as possibly is the heart. What that means is that you should have an enormous amount of blood in the carcass rolling about. Don't get freaked out but don't dawdle and get that hot blood out of the carcass right after the organs. As an aside, once you dress out a couple of critters that have been gut shot and determine that you'll have a mixture of blood, gastric juices, food matter and (God forbid) fecal material floating around in your carcass you will for darn sure practice your marksmanship in the off-season. This is where the phrase clean comes in but more on that later.

If all that came off right you will have a carcass minus the entrails but still wearing its fur and head. Back on Grampa's farm this is usually where the tractor or the pickup comes rolling up and you load the critter in the truck in the late October frost. But this isn't Grampa's farm- it's the backcountry of Alaska and Grampa's truck isn't coming. That marvelous fur coat your critter is wearing is keeping all that heat in the muscle tissue where a whole host of other wee beasties is starting the process of decay. Those wee beasties are also reproducing and the only way to stop them is cooling and the next step in that process is to get that fur jacket off.

There is more than one way to skin a moose but all of them entail a lot of moving big pieces, heavy lifting and awkward cutting so be careful. I like to take a tarp to spread out on the ground by the animal to lie pieces on and ensure meat doesn't fall on the ground. A real savvy hand can use the moose's own hide to this effect but a $9.00 tarp will work better. With a smaller animal you may be able to hang them whole for the skinning process but moose are too big and caribou tend to live on open tundra devoid of large trees so you'll work on one side, flip, then repeat. Another word about cleanliness- try to keep hair off the meat. Not only is loose hair stuck to meat a real pain when you butcher- it is also generally filthy given what animals will roll in and stomp in during the course of the day. Don't get freaked out by it but do make an effort to prevent it.

After several minutes ( OK a half hour or more) of this you'll have a side stripped clear of hide. Gather up some game bags (also called quarter bags some places) and get them ready. They should be clean and freshly laundered and prepared to have meat placed inside them. Bloodstained is a good sign they've been here before and are thus "experienced" but dirt covered is not. Remove the leg below the knee joint and cut of the quarter at the ball socket on the rear and shoulder on the front. Given the temperature you've undoubtedly attracted a number of flies and other insects by this point. Prior to bagging, spray the meat down liberally with a citric acid solution produced for such a purpose. This does a few things- it changes the PH of the meat's surface and retards bacteria growth, it slows or stops fly larvae development and it promotes "crusting" (that protective layer that forms on meat as the outer layer of meat dehydrates and the proteins leach out. This hardens into a layer on the surface. With a treated quarter placed in a clean bag then you should hang it up to promote airflow around it. Alternatively, place it upon brush so that air flows under it.

By the time you do this for four quarters on a bull moose, you'll certainly be aching and ready to take any shortcut you can. Don't fall prey to such temptations as you'll be rewarded for diligence later. A lot of folks will start boning out the neck and ribs at this point but I'd suggest not. Boned out meat has a lot of cuts and each cut is a potential place that foreign bacteria enters the tissue and promotes spoilage. A ribcage on bone can last several days under some pretty harsh conditions before spoilage sets in but a bag of boned out meat might not make the next sunrise before its turned. Not only that but meat attached to a boned structure (despite weighing more) carries and transports easier than a heavy bag of formless meat that's as impossible to strap down as a water balloon. If you bone out anything the neck meat should go into the "burger bag" where all the odds and ends pieces go but keep them as large as possible. On caribou I generally prefer to haul out the neck whole- a lot of the neck meat is simply wasted if boned out in the field.

So after several hours of backbreaking labor you should have (hung on a pole) 4 quarters, 2 ribcages, a neck, a burger bag, and a bag containing your tenderloins and backstraps hung on the meatpole. The savvy hunter will break camp and depart for civilization immediately but certain circumstances may prevent this (such as air taxi pickup). Rotate the meat in the bags to help promote even crusting and examine the meat at least twice a day and while you're at it- hit it with citric acid solution again for good measure. If it's very warm you might have reconsidered your shot but in case of hot weather submerging your meat in a creek while sealed in a plastic bag may be your only option. Be careful as waterlogged meat is ponderously heavy and very prone to spoilage. Your meat cache should also be protected from sun and rain while getting good airflow. Keep the meat dry.

So the basic rules are clean, cool and dry (where have you heard that before). Some additional thoughts are:

Cool the meat as quickly as possible, on cool weather hunts this is usually no serious problem but during warm weather the core temperatures of large pieces of meat can remain dangerously high for hours; promoting bacteria growth and early spoilage.

Keep the meat from freezing on cold weather hunts. Meat that has frozen in the field will be tougher than the boots on your feet. Those wee beasties working the meat to spoilage are also working it to tenderness. In the beef industry its known as aging but a deep freeze the first night brings it to a halt- particularly in small pieces or meat off the bone. A large quarter can sustain substantial low temperatures without freezing for a surprising amount of time. This process is known as cold rendering. It is something to avoid.

Keep the meat out of the sun. Direct sunlight can heat up the meat and prevent cooling.

Keep meat in the air. I once saw a photograph of a couple of float hunters who had ingeniously wrapped their meat in a blue tarp to keep it dry and I'm sure it worked great to that end. It also kept it a warm, moist mess and spoilage set in the first day. Do what you can to promote airflow around all the pieces. If you use heavy bags you may want to use cool and bug free periods (like during a good breeze) to remove the bag and let the wind blow directly on the quarters.

Use good game bags. I like heavy canvas bags that are durable and will stand up to sharp bones and heavy loads. Draw backs are sheer weight and size. A popular brand of lightweight game bag sold here tends to explode on contacts with pretty much anything and has a weave so generous that even the Jenny Craig flies can get through to work their heinous craft. These should be avoided at all cost unless you have a preference for dirty, maggoty meat. A new, lightweight synthetic gamebag is on the market that may proved the best of the breed for foot hunters but I haven't tried them yet.

Don't be afraid to pass an opportunity if the conditions aren't right. I passed on several caribou this year during some unusually hot and buggy weather. It would have made getting the meat out of the field precarious at best. I waited for a breezy day that hovered at freezing and was rewarded with perfect conditions to harvest my caribou without worry about spoilage or insects. The reward of taking an animal is the meat you carry home and to waste it is shameful in deed and may be criminal in certain jurisdictions.

So there you have an overview of field care of game meat. For a more detailed discussion I'd like to point you to my friend Larry Bartlett's excellent video- Project Bloodtrail as well as some of his other work that deals with proper field care of game meat in a wilderness setting.

Making Meat

2010-10-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

The caribou appeared unexpectedly on the adjacent ridge and I eased forward into a prone position. Bill raised his hat in the air slowly and began to wave it ever so slightly. I tightened the grip on the forend and slid my hand toward the front until the hasty sling went taught. I was locked in and found the middle bull in the 6X scope. The crosshairs were moving more than I liked; I was breathing heavily after wading the river and sprinting up the reverse side of this slope in an effort to intercept the small band of caribou. I focused on the bull and took up slack in the trigger...

The adventure had began a couple of days prior. Hunting season had been in full swing for a few weeks and although I had spent considerable time afield and even saw several acceptable animals, the weather was simply too warm for decent hunting. An unseasonably hot fall in the Interior had rendered the animals sluggish and clinging to the higher peaks and meadows. Several acquaintances had been successful in the early season only to have their success turn into a hellish race against heat and bugs to prevent their hard earned meat from spoiling. Game wardens had been citing large numbers of people for wanton waste when they returned from long trips with quantities of spoiled and inedible meat. Just the previous weekend, Evan and I had battled gnats and biting flies in the Tangle Lake district and stalked a small band of caribou. We gave up on a serious pursuit when the temperature passed the 80 degree mark by midday. The weather forecast had record highs for several days in a row and higher than normal temperatures were forecast for the near future.

I was contemplating the coming weekend on Wednesday when my friend and frequent hunting partner Bill stopped in my office. "This is the weekend", he declared,"get your gear together and we'll pick you up on Friday. Plan to be back on Sunday night. I'll fill you in later." With that brief phrase he spun and left the office on some other unknowable errand. You see, Bill is an unusually successful and frequent hunter who's been in these parts for a long time now. I generally find it wise counsel to listen to his advice when it comes to harvesting game. The office door hadn't even shut by the time I was dialing the phone to tell my wife that I was going hunting for the final weekend of the early season caribou hunt.

Friday came and after work I had my gear all packed for a warm weather hunt. Bill and another hunter stopped by and we chatted briefly as we loaded my gear into the truck.

"Where we going?" I queried.

"Dickey Lake... and better bring your winter gear." was the reply.

I felt a little odd packing my winter gear into a duffel when the outdoor temperature was a balmy 60F, but Bill reads millibar charts the way some folks read the morning paper so I reasoned I had better comply. I replaced my lighter weight sleeping bag with my heavier winter one in the bed of the pickup. I also noticed Bill had wrangled three ATVs for the trip. As much as I like hunting from foot and dislike ATVs for hunting in general the area we were going had a number of factors. One, the Dickey Lake trail was 18 miles long- much too far to backpack and recover an animal the size of a caribou. And two, the Dickey Lake trail was a BLM managed trail system where the trail itself was well maintained and off trail travel strictly prohibited. There would be no galloping across the tundra on machinery chasing caribou; the machines were simply efficient workhorses to haul our camp and ourselves in and hopefully our quarry out.

As we travelled southward toward the trailhead I noticed the faintest change in the weather and by the time we reached Summit Lake the wind was blowing a steady 50 miles per hour. The dry silt riverbed of the Delta River was simply a thick brown cloud of airborne dirt. Bill explained that the weather was going to undergo a significant change over the weekend as two pressure systems collided and fought for dominance over our high hunting ground. Bill explained he was confident despite the weather service's starry eyed description of higher temps and clear skies. As we pulled into the Paxson Lodge for a late supper the wind in the lower elevations was reasonable. We queried other patrons of the lodge ( an odd collection of sourdoughs and visiting sportsmen), some of whom had just returned from Dickey Lake. Their report wasn't encouraging- high winds, whitecaps, airborne dust and worst of all, no caribou.

"We'll camp down at the airstrip and head up early in the morning." declared Bill, "No sense in fighting back there on quads in a windstorm."

We made a quick camp behind some windrows adjacent to the dirt airstrip that passes for Paxson International Airport. I could already tell the air temperature had dropped significantly as I wiggled my way into my bag. I placed a wool hat and a couple of other layers next to the bag in case I needed them for additional warmth during the night. Little did I know that by dawn I would be wearing all of them.

When the early false dawn arrived and the urgency of a full bladder overwhelmed the desire to stay in my warm cocoon, I was surprised at how much the temperature had dropped. I ran my hand over the interior of the tent wall in the pre-dawn gloom lit by an amazingly bright full moon and was surprised when my hand contacted hoar frost. Our collective breath had condensed and frozen on the interior of the tent, a condition frequently encountered in winter camping. I hadn't expected it this morning. Outside the tent and urologically relieved, I made a quick cup of coffee in my Jetboil while I waited for my companions to wake. The thermometer on my GPS showed 15F. Bill was delighted when he emerged from the tent.

We broke camp by the setting moon and headed for the high country and our waiting trailhead. As we unloaded the quads Bill explained that the high pressure system had generated a high altitude windstorm, cleared the upper atmosphere and dropped temperatures dramatically. The cold temperatures would push the caribou to lower elevations during the night (conveniently lit by a huge moon) where we would find them herded up into larger groups and not the singles, doubles and triples we had been seeing for weeks. He replied that this would be the triggering event for the rut, during which the animals would assemble into vast herds, fight for dominance, mate and begin the winter migration in a few weeks.

At the trailhead the day broke clear. Stark blue sky and an odd absence of wind for the high mountains and unbelievably cold for September- even in the Arctic mountains! As I sat warming my machine I briefly scanned the mountain face to the west, I was surprised when as the sun climbed into the sky I saw not one or two- but a gathering of forty caribou! A good omen to be sure. Over the next several hours we saw several bands of caribou on the Swede Lake flats as we motored to the Gulkana River ford. We crossed the river and continued to the northwest, gaining elevation as we did. The going was slow as we picked our way up the rocky trail with the machines. The sub freezing temperatures yielded a trail surface that was hard as concrete but with numerous ruts and boulders protruding from the early season thrashing it had received.

Upon arrival at Dickey Lake we ate our lunch at a protected gravel bar where the lake becomes the headwaters of the Gulkana. After I finished up, I climbed the ridge behind me to glass the wide plateau to the north to look for signs of caribou. I was surprised to find the plateau (that the hunters last night had declared a "desolate wasteland of wind") had become sunny, albeit cold, high tundra plain teeming with dozens caribou! My companions joined me a few minutes later and we began to count herds and watch as the bulls started competing for dominance. The older bulls were already corralling their harems while the younger ones tried to make inroads into the action behind the backs of the larger bulls.

We had expected to have to venture onto the plain on foot and that the resulting harvest would require a long pack back to the trail of several miles. I was surprised when on the far side of the lake a young bull cut a band of four cows from an old bull's harem and lead them straight into the water and began swimming for a point of land some mile away. He was trailed by a slightly younger bull as well. We made a hasty plan to don hip boots, ford the shallow river and make a sprint for the ridgeline apex some three quarters of a mile north east from our location. With any luck we would beat the caribou to the ridge top adjacent the point and ambush them as they emerged from the water. We decided that we should try for only two animals since that would be a lot of heavy packing over the rough terrain; even though we had a total of four tags among us.

After several minutes of fording, hard hiking up inclines and sprinting through meadows and small valleys we arrived at our destination. We planned to split up and take several points along the ridgeline to intercept the small band of animals because they had arrived at the shore before we had made the observation point and were no longer visible. We had just started to separate when Chad made a quite hiss. I turned and he was pointing at a line of six caribou glistening in the sun with wet coats as they climbed the adjacent ridge. We assembled slowly on the ridge top and watched as the animals, oblivious to our presence, moved single file down a well worn game trail along the top of the adjacent ridge. Their path would bring them to about 250 yards from our position.

I moved slowly into prone position and concentrated on the larger bull currently in position number 3. The smaller bull brought up the rear in position number 5 with a cow right behind him. I had the first shot and Chad would back me up. Typical protocol on a meat hunt would be a primary shooter (who was typically meatless for the season- that's me) shoot first and he would be backed up by a secondary shooter to quickly anchor any animal badly hit. Mass uncontrolled shooting in these situations had often stuck unlucky hunters with more meat than they needed or, even worse, with more than they could legally tag. Chad had scored on a moose just a week earlier and he gladly handed over "designated hitter" status to me. I placed the animal in the scope as Bill slowly displayed his hat and created a small amount of movement. Following a reflex wired deep into the ungulate brain- the caribou stopped dead in their tracks and faced us broadside. Target angle just doesn't get any better.

I placed the crosshairs just behind the shoulder and took up the trigger. BOOM! My .300 thundered from the ridgetop but the animal gave no visible indication of a hit. I don't recall hearing the report of the bullet striking home either but a brief second later, Chad (who believed I had made a clean miss) fired his .338 as I cycled a live round into the chamber and the bull went spinning and thrashing over the edge of the ridge and out of view. Bill called his shot as a solid hit through his binoculars and cried out, "Mike, take the second bull!"

I swiveled the gun 20 yards to the north where the younger bull was still standing stationary but tense on the game trail. I concentrated on the crosshairs and anchored my left elbow solidly into the alluvial gravel. The adrenaline dump of seeing our quarry so suddenly had rendered my muscles rock hard and I didn't realize the muzzle braked .338 being fired 10 feet to my left side had rendered my near side ear a ringing mess. I was focused so intently on the bull I don't recall feeling the sear break or the rifle even go off. My position was wonderfully stationary and I remember a feeling of extreme confidence even though the distance was pushing my limit for field shooting. BOOM! My .300 rang out again and I cycled the action from the shoulder to have a fresh cartridge ready. I distinctly remember hearing the sound of bullet striking flesh.

When I found the bull again in the scope, his rear quarters had collapsed and his neck arched downward over his locked front legs. I knew he was hit well but I kept the crosshairs resting on his shoulder, ready to fire a second time and immobilize him should he regain his feet. Bill, again watching through his powerful binoculars declared,"Don't shoot him again! He's hit very hard!" As if to add punctuation to his words still hanging in the thin mountain air, the bull fell over and was stone still.

We quickly reloaded our weapons, checked the safeties and made our approach. The shooting had only lasted 3 or 4 seconds and was decisive in both nature and execution. We had achieved our goal of two bulls without undue shooting or wounded animals escaping. We found the first bull just a few feet over the far side of the ridge in a slight defilade. He was still struggling ever so slightly although hit fatally. Probably entirely unnecessarily, Bill humanely dispatched him with a point blank shot to the spine. The tenacity of these animals is simply amazing; when we field dressed him we found that my first shot had drilled through both front shoulders and destroyed the lungs and Chad's second shot had ruptured his aorta and destroyed any remaining lung tissue. That he moved at all is testimony to the incredible toughness and tenacity the Alaska wilderness breeds into these animals. We then proceeded just 20 yards further down the trail and found the second bull in a heap- he had died nearly instantly from a textbook perfect double lung and heart shot.

We had made our meat for the winter. Now the real work would begin. We camped that night on the gravel bar after 7 long hours of field dressing, quartering and heavy packing from that ridgtop.

We didn't realize it but it would snow heavily that night and the remaining caribou would vanish by morning.

Getting High or....What the devil is a Fleigberg?

2010-09-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

I stopped for a moment to rest on what passed for the trail up the scree slope. The trail started somewhere far below and to the east and at the highway as a jeep trail and had become somewhat smaller and less used as the altitude climbed- now it was a barely discernible goat track headed up the steep slope with innumerable switchbacks. We had met a couple of other hikers who had turned back several hundred vertical feet ago- too steep to continue they said. I fancy myself a rather passable hand at wilderness navigation and I had totally lost this thin trail several times over the last half hour- not that it made much difference; the only real way was up and all the terrain appeared universally steep. I adjusted my pack straps and stowed my sweaty hat in a pack pocket and dug in- making vertical progress a mere six inches per step.

We had been climbing this local terrain feature (known as "Donelly Dome") for about an hour and a half and by my dead reckoning we were about 300 vertical feet from the summit. We had set out to climb this loaf of rock but had found the usual access route up the northern edge closed due to Army training. I knew the location of the southern access route, or at least the beginnings of it, from our rabbit and birding forays in the area but we had never climbed it. I had seen other climbers perched there like mountain goats from the valley floor below but the route looked too steep to encourage a casual climb. I had always used the northern route which followed a much gentler ridge edge that was entirely due to the formation of this peculiar loaf of rock.

Donelly Dome is what geologists call a "fleigberg" or roughly translated into non-geologist parlance- a mountain overridden by ice. At some point in earth's distant past an ice age occurred and a massive glacier had scraped and plodded its way down the Delta river valley, making mountains into molehills and leaving the ground up debris smoothed out on a large valley floor between the Alaska and Granite Mountain Ranges. That debris is called "alluvial till" and most of it is the consistency of sand or small chips of granite to give you some idea of the destructive power of a glacier. But for some reason when the ice sheet contacted the feature that would become Donelly Dome the sheet split in two- sending rivers of ice down the Delta river valley to the west and the Jarvis Creek drainage to the east and no small amount of ice up over the top, like a round stone barely submerged in a rushing trout brook. No one really knows why the irresistible force of a mile deep river of ice spared whatever geologic feature lies beneath this mountain.

The resulting formation was a huge rounded dome standing quite alone in the middle of an alluvial plain with a trailing edge that tapered gently back to the valley floor over some three miles. The leading edge of this dome was a rounded feature that was uniformly steep (approaching 45-50 degrees) to a summit that was not quite a couple of acres in size. I had been up the trailing edge trail to the north which was much longer but only approaches 30 degrees in a couple of spots. The south access starts at about 1000ft above sea level and climbs to 3910 feet in just over 1/2 mile horizontal distance. Any steeper and one would need to use technical climbing gear- this was about as steep as "walk ups" tend to get.

This particular trail seemed to switchback from rock formation to rock formation as it climbed steeply up the face. The entire south face of the dome is littered with what geologists term "erratics"- giant pieces of rock that the forming glacier had deposited in this unlikely place when it receded. Car and house sized chunks of granite haphazardly strewn about like a toddler's Legos on a set or stairs. The trail seemed to track to these boulders and I didn't complain- the uphill side of the giant rocks offered the only horizontal space to rest on the entire mountain face. Evan named one such feature "The Crack"- a house sized square boulder with a near perfect notched cut right through the middle. It was easy to imagine a Native hunter or perhaps an early explorer crouched away, out of the fierce wind, using the perch as a look out for the carribou and moose that roamed the brushier and fertile river flats that stretched for miles beyond.

Somewhat abruptly we topped out on the mountain and walked slowly to the summit marker as a cool wind hit us from the north west. We had been shielded from the wind while climbing the sun beaten south eastern face and had worked up quite a sweat. It only took a few minutes in the stiff breeze to dry that perspiration and give us a chill so we broke out a light jackets to offer some degree of protection and took some photographs. Our intrepid canine companion found a couple of milk bones among the usual cairns and sundry mementos that often mark the summits of visited mountains and ate them with delight. I felt quite fortunate since we had neglected to bring along a dog snack and had only brought a few items for ourselves.

We explored over the rock strewn summit for perhaps a half hour. The ground was covered in short lichens and several species of low bush berries- the wind was too fierce here for anything to grow very tall and anything over an inch tall seemed wildly formed by the prevailing winds. Rocks that the retreating glacier had left behind were scattered about- granite, bowling ball size pieces of pure white quartz, flint, and all kinds of other mineralized debris. We climbed over boulder piles that housed enormous colonies of arctic ground squirrels and another that had a colony of collared pikas- fascinating creatures that build hay barns among the rocks for a winter food supply. We also stumbled upon what appeared to be an old, small bear's den that foxes had taken over and turned into a home of sorts- I hope they aren't disappointed if the grizzly returns to his denning site for another winter!

After a few more minutes of lingering at the summit we turned and headed back down the trail. I dreaded the climb down as I believe more climbers and hikers are injured or killed on the descent than the ascent. When tired muscles and sloppy reflexes make holding back gravity more difficult. On the climb each foot of vertical was a hard won and laborious process but the descent was effortless- controlling the rate of that descent however was not. I had made the climb down the more gently slope north trail in long bounding leaps at a jog in a mere 20 minutes. Here, just fighting the sliding effect of the loose scree required intense concentration with every step.

It took well over an hour to descend the southern face. Exhausted and wind burned, we turned the jeep toward home.

Fall...an Alaskan Photo Essay.

2010-09-07T17:02:00.001-07:00

Shooting Dad's Old Gun

2010-08-22T00:29:00.000-07:00

Up here fall is fast approaching with our first hard frost last night and a couple of chevrons of geese flying overhead this afternoon. I spent the bulk of the day tidying up the garage and moving things into our small barn for the winter. After supper, my son began to pester me about going moose hunting but work duties and general exhaustion made me grimace at the thought of dealing with a moose should we be so fortunate to shoot one. Being the on call guy meant I really needed to stay somewhat close to work in case the routine emergency popped up.

"I'm just too tired," came my excuse.

"I want to go out," my son countered," how about rabbit and grouse hunting instead."

We had been meaning to explore a promising area that was recovering from a burn some ten-odd years ago and now looked like prime habitat, complete with a jeep trail that wound several miles from the highway back toward some long forgotten mining claim. A rabbit or a couple of grouse sounded good, especially since me friend Hubert had been blogging about his Italian recipes for rabbit. I quickly began to pack a few items in the jeep for a short jaunt down the road. I threw a couple of jackets in the back and a water bottle and went to choose a gun.

My usual small game weapon of choice has been the .22 rifle for a lot of years now- clean, quiet and efficient to 50 yards and maybe a bit beyond with the right shot its a proven performer for me. But I was feeling slightly melancholy as I peered into the overstuffed cabinet. As many of you may be aware, my father passed away recently and my recently roomy weapon locker now contained the family artifacts and was much fuller than usual. My son crowded in beside me to retrieve his .22 carbine and looked inside at the array of guns he isn't use to seeing.

"Why don't you take Papaw's gun?", queried my son.

"I don't know...might.", I replied. Feelings of grief began to swell up from somewhere deep inside. Looking in there at the pieces that I remembered from childhood when I first began to hunt as a kid about my son's age brought back a flood of memories- my father's "Invincible" Winchester Model 12, a Marlin saddle gun, several others and finally the Model 37 in 20 gauge. I had associated so many of these things for so long with my childhood home and my father that it seemed wrong when I began packing them for the long trip north. In his final days at the hospital he was quite explicit that I was to take the guns to Alaska to use on hunting adventures there with Evan. He had been trying to get me to take them on for several years prior whenever I visited but I always came up with one excuse or another- baggage fees, inclimate weather, guns too small for Alaska critters, and so on. But it looked like I wasn't going to get out of it anymore as his condition worsened. Finally the day came when I had to crate them up for the trip to Alaska.

So with a feeling of melancholy I reached past the .22s and rested my hand in the Model 37. An early model built sometime prior to World War II, the best we figured since these guns were produced without serial numbers, it had the distinction of being the first single shot shotgun produced with a steel frame (as opposed to ductile iron) that resulted in a single barrel gun of incredible lightness and minimal dimensions in the smaller gauges. This example had been purchased by my great grandfather and it performed farm duty and eventually went to my grandfather who also used it on farm duty. I still remember as a small child looking up from the front seat of his pickup and seeing the gun hanging there in the gun rack on the back window. The gun rode there so long the bluing wore off the bottom of the receiver near the hinge point until my Dad inherited it upon his passing and gave it an easier life. I had shot the gun a fair amount as a kid but don't remember my Dad shooting it very much- he had inherited "The Invincible" Winchester from my Great Uncle and he preferred it for everything. I only recall him messing with the 20 gauge much later in life to rid the house of woodpeckers and the occasional groundhog. The booming of the shotgun was out of place in my Dad's newly suburban home (the houses seemed to fill in the gaps). I told him that the noise would eventually piss off the peasantry to which he replied, "I don't care- the woodpeckers are tearing up MY house."

I took the gun and broke the action open- amazing that after eighty plus years the action and ejector gave a positive "click" as the gun snapped open. I tried out the partially shrouded hammer and tested the drop safety- perfect. Shouldering the gun a few times I was quite amazed- they don't make them like this anymore. Modern single barrel guns seem to be made as budget conscious as possible and are clunky to a fault, but not this thing. The trim receiver and light barrel gave this gun an airy feeling that's hard to describe- but I was well sure that I was handling an artifact from a time when gunmaking was considered an art. Any gun, regardless of price, was made of walnut and steel and meant to last generations in those days. I reached back into the cabinet and rummaged around long enough to find a partial box of Remington game loads in sixes. Heck- they probably were dated to when Nixon was in the White House but I'd give them a whirl anyway.

Still feeling a bit melancholy I rounded up my son and soon we were bouncing down the jeep trail looking for a wide spot to pull off and walk. A couple of miles in we rounded out on top of a pressure ridge that had wide firm gravelled spots in the tundra and we pulled out to start our hunt. We walked quietly up the trail looking for rabbits on the edge. Within the thick brushy areas we'd never see a rabbit but in the twilight one can frequently see them on the edges of roads and trails. A quarter mile in I spotted a rabbit some 50 yards ahead. I motioned for my son to sneak forward and take him with the rifle. He just shook his head and pointed back at me.

I checked the action to make sure I had slid one of the antique shells home and quietly made my approach. It had been a long time since I had killed anything with a shotgun so I was really quite unsure how close I'd need to get to make a decisive shot. I didn't remember what the gun was choked to (if it even says at all). At about 25 yards the hare stood on his hind legs with his ears erect- I was busted! I was sure the rabbit was going to bolt and as I shouldered the gun the snowshoe turned and took a single hop headed for the safety of the alders mere feet away.

The trim little twenty pointed like an old friend and simultaneously a magic wand. In one fluid motion of shoulder, cock and fire the hare was caught mid leap and rolled slightly up the trail in much less time than it took you to read this sentence. He kicked once and was still.
They really don't make them like this anymore.

No Explanation Required....

2010-08-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

This ranks up there with the "Butt Out" tool... but I'd probably try the bacon.

Perfect Practice makes Perfect- Part 2

2010-08-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

In my previous effort I decried the declining state of field marksmanship among Americans but I feel some apologetic words are in order. One, America remains one of the last places on this spinning orb that an average man can go out and for an average weeks' wages, purchase himself a high powered rifle and cartridges and then take that rifle hunting for a large game animal with a minimal amount of government intrusion. I think that is a very good thing. Two, the declining state of riflecraft in America is notable because we have the masses out in the fields shooting game.

While I don't pretend to know many European hunters, the few that I've met in Alaska seem to be a very serious sort of rifleman indeed. A couple of Germans and an Austrian in particular were quite savvy and their guide reported them excellent marksmen and wonderful field hunters. But, I'd wager those gentlemen were the exception to the rule and a random cross section of Europeans would likely have as equally bad field marksmanship as Americans- if not worse. It seems that Europeans have many more restrictions and provisos on the purchase and shooting of high powered rifles than Americans have and the men who pursue hunting there must be very dedicated indeed. When a rifle subjects you to the level of hassle and expense the average European endures to own a smokepole, I'd wager a weekend warrior you are not.

But, take heart- the average American for a few shekels in ammunition and some spare hours of time can regain that status of marksman that our frontier heritage suggests. When we talk field shooting, we need to define what we mean and for me that means at variable targets at unknown ranges from a variety of positions. It's the positions I want to refer to today and for a more exhaustive volume I'll refer the reader to Cooper's Art of the Rifle for a detailed discussion of the various field positions (as opposed to the competitive rifle positions). A survey of hunters shows that many have simply rudimentary skills in shooting the rifle from any position but standing or benched and virtually no one uses a shooting sling of either the formal or hasty type. Indeed a quick search of shooting catalogs shows a lack of slings that are acceptable for field shooting. So here is a run down of the field positions from the least to the most stable.

Offhand- sometimes referred to as standing is simply raising the rifle and shooting it while standing erect on two feet. This is frequently used in the hunting field and almost no one does it well. It is my least favorite position because of its inherent instability- the body being a collection of bones and joints and muscles held in balance by a wonderful bio mechanical mechanism. In short the offhand shooter will notice their crosshairs wobble in all manner of directions after the briefest of moments holding the rifle on target. In the ye olde days a lot of shooting occurred from offhand but the reader will remember that shooting a black powder piece or lever action woods rifle the shooting typically occurred at very short range and frankly the meat hunters of yesteryear missed... a lot if their journals are to be believed. Standing is useful if intervening foliage is high or an animal stands suddenly from very close range (snap shooting). I'm not inclined to attempt offhand at more than 100 paces and even then if a rest is handy I'll use it. Folks tend to hold their trigger side elbow too low to the side which fails to seat the butt of the rifle in the shoulder pocket. On the African scene the PHs tote a system of shooting sticks to help the sportsman fire from offhand with tripod support since the grass tends to obscure the shot from other positions. I've played around with shooting sticks but I've found them a bother in North America since I don't employ someone to carry them for me. I carry enough stuff already.

Kneeling- reportedly the favorite of none other than Teddy Roosevelt but we must avoid the "stained glass" approach and realize that while Teddy was a conservationist and sportsman of the highest order- he was in real life a mediocre shot with terrible vision. On his African safari he typically shot from rock throwing range and still littered the bush with wounded animals. Within my realm of experience, I don't find this any more stable than offhand. Although the left elbow is supported, I don't find that its particularly useful with a shooting sling. I would only rate this useful for a sportsman attempting a quick shot under something- say low hanging tree branches or such. I believe that kneeling became standard practice within marshal environments where things shot back, shrapnel filled the air and your comrades behind you could very well be shooting over your head from standing position. As a hunting position I can honestly report to never having shot anything from kneeling and that isn't expected to change anytime soon.

Sitting- the classic position of the mountain hunter is likely my favorite and one every western hunter should practice exhaustively. With you posterior on the ground, legs spread about 90 degrees and knees bent so the thighs or shins contact the triceps you can get remarkably stable in a hurry while the elevation allows you to shoot over sagebrush and tundra alike. The position also allows for a lot of elevation adjustment making it perfect for the mountains. Pitfalls are folks trying to rest the elbows on the knees but the joint on joint contact makes for a slippery platform. Since the left elbow (assuming a right handed shooter) is resting on something solid its perfect for the shooting sling. A good shot with experience in sitting can make some remarkable shots and gives up very little to a neophyte on a benchrest. This was reportedly Jack O'Connor's favorite position and he extolled its virtues in print frequently. If I could only choose a single position to shoot from the rest of my life- this would be it.

Prone- lying flat on the stomach with the legs spread well apart, both elbows planted solidly on the ground this is the most stable of the field positions. Its pitfalls are that its slow to assume and slow to discontinue but the hunter tucked into this position can rival a benchrest with a little practice. Intervening vegetation can be a serious hindrance since any vegetation up close will obscure the target completely. Since the elbows are supported, a shooting sling can be very effectively employed and a roving hunter who carries a day pack can use this as sort of front rest for exceptional accuracy. I've used this position from rock outcroppings above arctic valleys to devastating effect and routinely shoot sub-MOA groups on targets and can ring steel gongs to well beyond 300 yards-much farther than a shot at an animal can be justified. This should be practiced every time you go to the range. The average mountain hunter may be able to employ it perhaps 1 time in 5 but most experienced hands will take a 250 yard shot prone over a 75 yard shot offhand every time.

There are a lot of other positions that have been written about but most are an adaptation of one of these four such as the "jackass" positions and frankly too numerous to discuss in detail since the pros and cons of the original position tend to apply to the "jackass" as well. Many had their origins within the military community such as the rice paddy prone or Hawkin's Fist and are of limited scope to the hunter. A hunter who rarely fires from rice paddies or from behind battlements and foxholes or the like, that they aren't worth more than a passing mention. The exception I'll make is "jackass prone" which is frequently executed when hunting from vehicles (or ATVs and snowmachines for that matter) and often seen at gravel pits and other informal shooting ranges nationwide. The common position is the hunter spread out over the hood of a vehicle with the rifle supported by both hands and both elbows firmly planted on the hood's surface. The waist is bent to accommodate the height of the vehicle and the feet are firmly planted on the ground and spread as far as possible. My only advice is to ensure that the piece's muzzle is well above the painted surface since the muzzle blast of a magnum is generally sufficient to peel paint. Don't ask how I know.

The shooting sling is a poorly understood device and while formal rifle competition has pretty much solidified what the shooting sling is, this is of little consequence to the hunter. For the hunter the sling is used to carry the rifle and then to "loop up" for extra stability whenever the position allows for the left elbow to be supported (again, right handed shooter). A study of the "hasty sling" is greatly recommended. In positions where the left elbow is not supported the sling does no good whatsoever. It amuses me greatly when in the sporting press we see some great Bwana attempting to look "professional" while looped up in a sling while standing offhand! The largest hindrance to the shooting sling is the slings themselves- a cursory look at rifle accessory catalogs have slings of every persuasion- mostly unsuitable. The shooting sling should be of an inelastic material, materials that stretch, so vogue in use today, are largely useless since its tension within the sling is the mechanism you use to promote stability. I also prefer slings be of uniform width- the "cobra" type slings are not exactly idea for the purpose. My favorite is an adjustable sling of canvas or nylon, about 1 1/4" wide with rugged swivels.

A 150 yard group from sitting without a sling- 3 and 1/8" or just slightly more than 2 MOA. Adequate for all but the smallest animals at long range.

A group fired from the same position with the same rifle and ammunition... this time with a hasty sling. 1 and 3/8" or slightly less than 1 MOA- very good shooting from a field position and just about the limits of the rifle from a benchrest. This is adequate for any field shooting you might do.

How much difference does the sling make? About 50% decrease in group size which means a 200% increase in stability. Remember the hunter's mantra: If you can get closer-get closer. If you can get more stable- get more stable. The intelligent hunter will commonly practice assuming these positions even in non range settings (with an empty piece or drill rifle if you've got one) at home several times per week. In the hunting field is not the time to be fidgeting trying to figure out a sling adjustment or which leg points which way. I'm also an advocate of living with your rifle on a frequent basis. Work the action. Practice engaging and disengaging the safety. Work the bolt. Dry fire (again with an EMPTY piece observing all directional constraints) so that the break of the trigger is well known. Incidentally, I've never known a shooter with extensive dry fire practice to develop a flinch or have a negligent discharge. I've known numerous shooters have negligent discharges by this point who seldom handle their rifle outside of hunting season. I've often heard the adage that familiarlty breeds contempt but I'm not sure it applies to rifles. Many hunters fail in the field every year simply because they aren't familiar with the basic mechanism of their rifle. An intimate familiarity with your rifle and a developed repertoire of field positions will put you at the top of your class among fellow hunters.

Good luck and good hunting!

Perfect Practice makes Perfect- Part 1

2010-08-14T14:28:00.000-07:00

We've all heard the old adage that practice makes perfect but nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is that perfect practice makes perfect and nothing else. Imperfect practice does nothing except solidify bad habits and instill a false sense of confidence in shaky abilities. Being a person interested in the shooting sports, I've noticed a few things regarding practice and some critical elements that I think we're missing very badly in the 21st century. African PHs (professional hunters) and Alaska guides share many things in common and one of them is the opinion that clients tend to overestimate their shooting ability by factor of (at least) ten. Both have gotten used to the practice of consoling a client who's shooting poorly by saying that "the light is different down (or up) here... you'll get used to it." Both have also gotten quite terrified of letting a new client shoot much past bayonet range until the client has proven himself a competent hand with a rifle and the pre-hunt ritual of "rifle zeroing" conducted under the pretense of calibrating rifle scopes after shipping is as much for checking to see if the client is "calibrated" as for the stated purpose. Sad to say but the American sportsman these days is largely a pathetic example of field marksmanship.

Why would this be? The American sportsman at the turn of the previous century was a marvel to the sporting world with good aperture sights, early scopes and smokeless ammunition. Those early adventurers to Africa and Alaska were often men who spent considerable time afield with a rifle in their hand as well as men with more than a passing interest in riflery. The reputation of the Yankee marksman soared. These days a visiting sportsman is assumed a clod until proven otherwise.

I believe one of the reasons for this radical shift in field shooting ability is the way the typical hunter approaches rifle practice. These days we tend to fixate on mechanical accuracy and I see a lot of shooters firing little bitty group after little bitty group from a shooting bench without ever checking to see what they're capable of from a field position- that is assuming they even know how to get in a field position! Unless you drag a shooting bench to the hunting field (and indeed the shooting rail in a treestand or a hotchkiss is just that) that is a form of practice that has little value beyond confirming that your scope and rifle are roughly in alignment. I actively advocate the idea that once you install a scope on a rifle, choose a load, and get the two to shoot into alignment; that you never shoot that rifle off of a bench again. Rifle ranges frequently frustrate this in that shooting from anywhere but the bench is frowned upon if not outright prohibited. Given that so many of us are now urban dwellers forced into static ranges- that may have a lot to do with our collectively abysmal field shooting.

For those of you with appropriate access to vast wilderness or exceptional real estate here is an exercise to try out with a partner and it can be great fun, Take a standard paper plate (about 8" dia.) and staple it to a cardboard box (do not give it a center or 'bullseye"-animals are not so equipped) in front of a proper backstop but avoid a well cleared shooting lane. Start with a zeroed rifle, three rounds in the magazine and empty chamber, and whatever accoutrement's you typically hunt with. For myself that means a windbreaker or rain coat and a loaded day pack but only take what you routinely carry in the field. Start with your back to the target and start jogging on the go signal away from your target and toward your partner. Your partner (his back to you from well beyond the maximum shooting line) sounds a signal at some random interval of time (about 10 seconds is a good place to start) upon which you turn, take whatever field position is appropriate for the distance and terrain and fire three rounds into the plate as fast as you can accurately place them. You can make it more challenging by having your partner sound a second signal after 10 seconds (more or less) to cease fire- after all, animals won't give you all day to make the shot! The goal is to simulate a target that appears at an unknown range with intervening vegetation under physical stress and time constraints. Sounds a little like hunting doesn't it?

After running this drill a few times in a row you'll see why the shooting bench is totally unlike anything you'll encounter in the field. I ran this a few times this morning with my son acting as my partner- on my first run, the range wound up being 130 yards (measured later via GPS) and I scored 2 of 3 hits from standing. Standing is the worst position imaginable by the way but I was forced due to a large clump of willow between me and the target that prevented even kneeling. On my second run, I fired from prone on a small rise at 180 yards. Prone is wonderful if intervening vegetation and terrain allow and I scored 3/3. My last run was stopped at 270 yards and I fired from prone position again but this time using my day pack as a rest and scored 2/3. Its amazing how much your breathing affects your accuracy (particularly prone) but its common in mountain hunting to shoot when out of breath so mountain hunters best be familiar with the phenomenon.

For those of you unaccustomed to this type of shooting, be prepared to have the old ego bruised a bit. I considered that a very good performance but from the bench I could have fired much smaller groups and fired with more accuracy. But the purpose of the exercise was to practice field shooting- not see the limits of mechanical accuracy that my rifle is capable of.

Once you get the idea you can run this scenario with endless variation but one of my favorites is an unbleached paper plate on a brown cardboard box- have your partner affix it off center to make it more realistic of hitting a kill zone on a similar colored background.

Good luck and good hunting!