Caleb Kills a Coues

A full morning of hunting turned up nothing but does and fawns - not to mention a gorgeous sunrise in spectacular country.  We were hunting our way back to the truck which we had left a few miles away and a few hours ago when we swung onto one last ridge to check a northern exposure.  As we were working our way through the oak and manzanita Caleb whispers, "I see a coyote!"  My immediate thought was that if Caleb saw a coyote he should feed it a copper wrapped breakfast of lead but I figured I should double check before I said anything.  With a little help from Caleb and my 10X glasses I located the coyote, which happened to be a deer, and buck at that.  

"Its a deer, and its a buck."  

"Really?  How many antlers does it have?"  

"Two."  

"Do you think it would be a good first buck?"

We might only have one day to hunt, and more people are joining us in the evening, which invariably complicates things... Plus, this is your first deer hunt ever.

"I think it would be a hell of a first buck.  Get ready to shoot."

By this time the buck is getting self conscious after being on display at about 100 yards, and is starting to look side to side, surveying his options for a stage exit.  Caleb drops to the kneeling position, elbow tucked against the inside of his knee.  The buck is concealed by a solitary manzanita bush.

"Which direction is he going to go?"

"Left, I think.  No, Right.  Ok shoot now!"

The rifle reports somewhere in my peripheries but I am staring intently at the buck through the glasses.  The echo of solid hit returns as I watch the buck collapse and fall over backwards, legs stretched momentarily heavenward before constricting with spasms in the throes of death.

"Nice [really nice] shot!"

Prayers of thanksgiving and a blessing for the meat preceded the photo shoot and then a rather arduous pack-out back to camp.  Another successful hunt and another addict-hunter joins the fraternity.  I love hunting Coues deer!

Quail Opener

The Phoenix Valley is a "hot spot" for Gambel's quail, and considering that this bastard summer heat has yet to give up the ghost and make way for fall, that is a pun most certainly intended.  My brother in law Johnny came to town for a brief visit this past weekend to interview for graduate school, but we took advantage of the opportunity and grabbed the shotguns and a three day license for him and headed out to a new spot I had been pondering.

The heat was already radiating through the semi-riparian area when we arrived.  Although I was prepared for a hot hunt, I was still surprised at how quickly my brow was laced with sweat which stung my eyes and permeated my shirt.  I was also surprised by the thrilling sound of flushing quail much sooner than I expected; we were scarcely 100 yards from the truck.  Not one to miss an opportunity I swung on the nearest bird and watched it crumple in the air after the shotgun's report.  Trying to find a sustained lead I shot at a second bird only to realize too late that my lead had been short and the bird was unscathed.  As I mentally scolded myself another bird flushed, the head feather and darker colors identified it as a cock bird.  Instinctively I snapped the shot and the bird collided with the earth in front of me and that was that.  I wiped my brow with a grin, thinking "Damn this heat, but thank God for quail season."

The day progressed, and the quail were on fire, not to mention everything else in the ephemeral wash system that we were walking.  My shooting gradually worsened as I worked through the better part of two boxes of shells, but Johnny shot quite well and displayed conservative wisdom on avoiding the longer shots over thick cover that I seem to possess no self control for abstaining from.  The two of us brought a total of 15 birds to hand, and with a few unfortunate cripples we had collected our limits and concluded the quail opener.

Saturday found us back in the same spot and a few hours earlier than the day before, but we could already tell that it was going to be even hotter than our previous hunt.  We swung out wider to avoid some other hunters and encountered even larger coveys than the opener produced, but already these birds were acting jumpy, almost like the educated birds of late season hunts.  They were flushing a hundred yards or more in front of us, and the only shooting we had was over singles that flushed after the covey had already disappeared.    This afforded us the opportunity to shoulder our guns a little less and talk a little more, which was a welcome change.  It was good to catch up and enjoy a long overdue conversation that the field seems uniquely suited to offer.  With four birds in the vests we called it a day around noon and headed back home.

One of the best parts of hunting with family is sharing the harvest with family afterwards.  We prepared the quail in a kabob style by wrapping the filleted meat with a little cream cheese in a strip of bacon.  Hard on the arteries but oh-so-good for the heart!  I am so thankful to be able to share these kinds of experiences with friends and family, to take a morning and bring from field to table such a wonderful fare.

Dove Hunt, Nevada Style

I had the opportunity to visit my wife's hometown of Reno, Nevada over the Labor Day holiday and catch a quick day hunt for Mourning Dove. Reminiscent of my former years hunting dove after class in high school in northeast Nevada, this isn't your typical dove hunt composed of chairs and coffee sitting on the edge of fresh harvested grain fields taking sporting pass shots at flights of the those little dive bomber aerial acrobats. No, this is walking roads and jumping springs, waiting for dove to alight and then stalking them praying they don't flush out of range. Spot and Stalk dove hunting... This method is born out of necessity, because like clock work, August 31st closes with a freezing night and September first comes having already said farewell to the great dove flights of the summer just past. When trying to explain this method to people from other areas they typically respond with the quizzical dumbfounded look - "Why all that effort? They're just dove!"

  
Just dove? Like its just September? Like its just nearly hunting season? Like its just getting frigid cold in the morning causing elk to sing, the leaves to change, and my blood to boil? Yes they are just dove. And its just hunting.  Its hard to reduce any activity that takes me into the field with a gun in hand and dog at side.  I guess hunting is in my blood - what can I do?  My compadres Joe and Mike, who are also the proud owners of a couple late November Coues deer tags, make for fine field partners, and though our shooting was mutually horrible, we were able to bag nearly a full limit between the three of us.

This is Bandit, and while he looks like a cow-dog, don't be deceived - this is one hard hunting, dove retrieving bird dog!  He made several (10 or more?) retrieves on our 24 bird day.  Not only that, but he has a great humility that is all but absent from the more traditional breeds of pointers and gun dogs.  He'll gladly bring a dust feathery dove to hand where most breeds would simply sit and look at the bird with disdain.  This was my first meeting with Bandit, and it was a privilege to hunt with him!

 

Our other four legged companion was Britt, a liver on white tenacious little Springer.  Britt and I have a history that goes back a good while, I was there when her owner  Mike picked her out from among her litter mates, and I had the privilege to watch a great deal of her training.  She does well on dove, but its the hill partridge, or Chukar, that she absolutely excels on.  Unfortunately, Chukar season will open in Nevada while I am in Arizona this year, and I shall have to stave off the withdrawals on some Gambels quail and glassing for Coues deer.  I suppose there are worse things in life!

The flush 

The swing 

 

Look at Britt's expression as both gun reports yield no bird!

Another miss! 

 

Western Nevada 

 

Los Scantalopes!

 

The best seat in the truck

The Bears Win Again

I think I'm almost done removing all of the thorns from my legs and arms.  I dived headfirst into some of the thickest country this state has to offer yesterday, and my body has the wounds to prove it.  But once again there is no meat in the freezer, no hide to be fleshed, and no skull to be boiled.  I spent all of this past week trying to memorize the topographic map of the area I wanted to hike into, to the point where I see elevation contours before I fall asleep.  I charted a course into my GPS, calculated the elevation difference I would have to recover, even set out certain points that I wanted to stop and glass from.  The main destination was a beautiful box canyon that I was absolutely certain would be perfect for spotting and shooting a bear from as it was a perfect travel corridor from water and cover to an abundance of food: Manzanita, Juniper, Choke, Elder and even wild rasberries, not to mention budding acorns on the Oaks, a few succulent Prickly Pears, and ultimately an apple orchard!  But for all of my homework and studying I failed to actually figure out how deep the canyon was.

Love is in the Air

Upon arrival it was much deeper than I had expected, probably 1000-1500 vertical feet, and straight down.  This presented a unique challenge for glassing, as I was simply too scared to lean off a cliff and look into that chasm.  Back to still hunting I guess!

Treasures to be Found

As I began my decent towards the mouth of the canyon I was serenaded by eager bull elk - this is a sound that I've come to cherish.  Its both eerie and beautiful, and is the quintessential noise of wild places.   I ended up bumping into a small herd of elk, with raghorns acting like top dogs gathering a harem of pre-estrus cows, which will be stolen by the bigger herd bulls in a few weeks as the cows come into estrus.  I cow called to them and had a lot of fun as they meandered back and forth in front of me from 70 to 30 yards trying to figure out what was going on.

Cliffs and Canyons

I bumped what is quite possibly the biggest Coues deer buck I've ever seen - at a mere 15 yards.  The tell-tale (no pun intended) white flag went up and he trotted off.  Either he knew I didn't have my bow or the pine country deer just don't flush as hard as the Sky Island variety.  I began to ponder my choice of weapon for the day (i.e. my rifle) but I knew that was a fruitless endeavor and reminded myself that I was just holding out for the opportunity to hunt with my friends and father later in November - that this was the right choice, and that I was after bears.  Back to bear hunting!

And hunt bears I did- several hours and miles worth.  I set up to call on the edge of a beautiful saddle connecting the main slope to an isolated table.  Nothing.  Well, about a 100 angry wood peckers and mocking birds, and one doe.  But no bears.  I hiked across the table to a spring I had marked on the GPS, only to find it was quite dry.  The dessicated tracks of game in the cemented mud everywhere told me that this was quite the gathering at one point.

Cliff Dwellings

A quick bite to eat and a vantage point to glass from yielded up some ancient cliff dwellings across the canyon.  What an amazing time that must have been, I tried to imagine life amongst the cliffs; young children laughing and old women preparing food in the handmade pottery, smoke in the ovens and venison cooking, all speculation at best - I am no historian.  It was almost haunting looking a the broken remains of the dwellings, isolated and known to only to intrepid enthusiasts and bumbling bear hunters like me.

The rest of the day was uneventful, if that can be said of any time spent in this glorious country.  After a long and brutal hike back to the truck I thought that this might have been a rather gracious act of God that I didn't kill a bear, for a could hardly carry myself the last few hundred yards to the truck.  A long and pensive drive home back to the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the world wrapped up another successful hunt for Arizona black bears.      

There are Six Elk Here, This Raghorn was the Largest

Impromptu Rifle Rest

The Macroscopic

And the Microscopic

Looking Southwest into the 'Box' Canyon I wanted to get to

Looking Southeast From the Canyon

Don't tread on me! 

Bears in the Pears?

Caleb with his fox

Apparently the black bears in Arizona move down into lower elevations during the summer months to take advantage of the ripening fruit that adorns the prickly pear cactus in the foothills.  This idiosyncratic behavior of Arizona bruins makes for quite the hunting opportunity - assuming of course, that you can actually find them.

Gray Fox

We braved the blazing furnace that makes Arizona a premier destination for people with poor circulation but just couldn't turn up any bears.  We glassed the morning and set a couple stands for calling, where my buddy Caleb took his first varmint ever, a gray fox!

Badlands 4500, Manfroto Tripod, Ruger M77 in .243 Win.

The fox came charging in at about the 5 second mark, and Caleb had to shoot from the hip in self-defense when the little beast appeared at a few short feet.  Congratulations on your first kill! This will be the first of many more I'm sure.

Unfortunately the local bears didn't share the foxes enthusiasm for our calls, and the remainder of the day was rather uneventful.  We posted up for a little napping action under an unreasonably sparsely vegetated mesquite tree, hoping to take advantage of some shade that just wasn't there.  That afternoon and evening found us sitting several more stands and calling - to no avail.

The Mogollon Rim can be seen on the Horizon

I opted to switch game plans and head for the higher (and cooler) country in hopes of turning up a boar in the mountains.   There was considerably more bear sign, but the country was brutal, too thick for any glassing.  I tried my hand at still-hunting, the way I had learned to pursue mule deer growing up.  I was able to slip in on some bull elk, but the bears eluded me still.

I made one stand and at about the twenty minute mark I called in my first bobcat!  Unfortunately by the time I realized my fine accomplishment the cat had me pegged and was 180 degrees and full throttle away into the thick.  Oh well.

Lots of game spotted for two days of hunting.  Here's a breakdown of the sightings:

6 Coues whitetailed deer

3 bull elk

2 gray fox

1 mule deer

1 bobcat

0 bears

But I can't complain.  I got to hunt bear for my first time, and I got to see some amazing country and spend some quality time with friends.  All the makings of a successful hunt.

Epic pose for the self timer and a tribute to Captain Morgan!

Range Day

That Tight Group in the Upper Right: .270 Everything Else: .243

Tres hombres, tres rifles...

.243 Winchester

.270 Remington

.300 Win. Mag.

Sweltering Heat at the Rio Salado Sportsman's Club

Lots of shots fired led us to one conclusion: anything within 100 yards is dead three times over.  Well no kidding right?  Welcome to rifle hunting! It's different knowing that my sphere of influence extends a few hundred yards in every direction, as opposed to a fraction of that distance with archery. But at the same time, there's something very satisfying knowing that I can reach out and tip something over across a canyon.

A Hunter in the Making

Punched Primers on Once Shot Brass - Federal Classic for Remington .270

Polished Brass Looking Beautiful

Separated by Stamp & Ready for Reloading