Creek Fishing at IOP

Jack and Caroline and I took the 'Vader out into the creeks behind Isle of Palms marina today. I even let Caroline drive the boat a little bit:

These kids are starting to act like pros even in the span of just a week. At least they sure do like to think they know what they're doing. Actually I give Jack the credit for pointing out the potential honey hole on this trip. 

A little bit of cut shrimp and a Elsa and Spiderman fishing rod we're all we needed to hook up on a couple black drum that were keeper size. We hooked a total of five but only landed to because our tackle was a little too light for the fight that was in these guys.

Laid out and dredged in Bisquick and Old Bay, they fried up pretty durn tasty.

Fishing at Hamilton Lake

Good day with Jack and Sam, chucking crickets out for bream on light tackle. 

Boating with Bud

We got the Evader out on the waters around Eye Oh Pee this week, total of 4 trips in 7 days. The new trim motor wiring ensured no adventures were delayed by mechanical malfuncitons (as was the case over the Fourth of July week). The kids did great and Jack was a terrific First Mate.

Here are some highlights:

Learning to Gambel

I am headed out to Vegas today. And you know what they say: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But this one particular part of the trip I feel compelled to write about.

I am out here not to gamble - no, a much more noble cause colors my travels this weekend. First off, and the primary reason for the trip, is a time-honored tradition among fighting men that has passed down through the millennia: a reunion of war-brothers. 10 years ago this fall, the men of 1/5 left Iraq for the last time, following their third consecutive deployment to that "restive" nation. OIF I (which I missed): The Invasion. OIF II: Fallujah 1. OIF: The Battle of Ramadi. I made two of the three - many of my guys, particularly those who enlisted just prior to 9/11, had the distinct honor to make all three trips.

So now, 10 years late, a lot slower and a little fatter and not nearly as mean, we are all getting together in our old Marine Corps Ball haunts, a week after all of the active duty guys have rolled through for Ball season. Vegas calls, and nearly 140 of our own alumni are answering that call, to reassemble and reminisce over scotch, cigars, and warm hazy memories of the finest days of our young lives, and the finest of us that did not return. Best men I've ever known. Best job I ever had.

But that is not the real purpose of this blog post - it is only the platform for a small one-day aside. I got a really sweet "value add" opportunity for this trip though: i found an outfitter that guides out Henderson NV, and booked an upland bird hunt once I figured out that none of the other officers were bringing their spouses. I thought at first we were going t be hunting chukar in the rocky rimrock of the surrounding mountains, perhaps out to the East Mojave near Invapah. Instead, it looks like we are going to be chasing Gambel's Quail, a bird I know nothing about but that sounds interesting all the same.

I hear they are small and fast, but not as small and maybe faster than their bobwhite cousins. All wild birds, out in the arid rocky arroyo's of eastern Nevada, just west of the Arizona border. The guide is picking me up at my hotel at 4am, which will no doubt consume most of Saturday in more productive fashion than would sitting around and drinking all day. Here is an excerpt from the little upland anthology I am reading currently:

The dog, on the other hand, has never experienced an environment remotely like this one. . . .[But] the dog does what every pore of his being is meant to do; he is relentless in his pursuit of a species of quail that he has never experienced before this trip, to the exclusion of numerous other bird species he's never seen before either, but pays no mind to. I find no shortage of marvel in this. He finds them and almost flips over himself slamming to a point. They don’t hold for a second, of course, but start running in a loose, directional flock, flowing around cholla and prickly pear and acacia like a school of fish around dock pilings, coming together again and heading for the nastiest cover they can find. Spindly head feathers bobbling as they run. He moves after them, maintaining something of a vector/point as he goes and I have no choice but to do much the same in pursuit. Quail running. Dog running, freezing, pointing, running again. Human trying to keep up. The whole thing seems comical and about as far from the stereotypical, “classic upland” experience as one can get. But being attached to stereotypes isn’t the least bit productive here, whether you’re talking about putting a few Gambel’s in the bag, or a number of other things. 

Lenny is picking me up in the truck at 4am tomorrow, and we are heading out to the Nevada / Arizona line for a one-day hunt. I've got the 870, most of the kit I need here in the hotel room. Flight out was a breeze. We had a good little get together with everyone tonight, not too much to drink and I haven't even touched the poker tables. Doesn't matter - I'm ready to Gambel.

 

 

Book Review: Daniel Boone, et al.

Jack told me on the phone today that while at Nana's house, he was getting to read one of my favorite
childhood books, the Landmark Series classic Daniel Boone: The Opening of the Wilderness. Jack relayed excitedly that Daniel Boone had killed a panther at the ripe age of ten, as if to intimate that he himself might accomplish such a feat in just a handful of years.

I grew up reading these books of American folklore, cover to cover and back again, often under the light of a flashlight concealed beneath my bedspread. While most other's childhood evenings may have consisted of "good night, ma" and "good night, john-boy," mine certainly most often consisted of "Stephen, turn your light out" and "just one more chapter, mom."

One of my favorites was the story of General George Armstrong Custer. to find out later that he was something of a buffoon does nothing to diminish his place in the history of my childhood. I read that book seven times in the Third Grade alone.

Happy Birthday Pookie Face

Dean the Dog officially turned 8 years old today. It's been quite a journey since that fateful trip down to Harker's Island to pick him up one October day. He's a good dog, and he's not at all jealous that he shares his birthday with his younger, prettier sibling, who turned 5 herself today.

There were plenty of snack treats for the ol' Deando, and a couple choice photographs. Doc even got him a special bone, which he sat patiently for while wagging his tail.

 He even got a little bit of Sister's cake, too..

Patinas

I've gotten to the point - middle age, I guess -  where I really appreciate having things in my life that stick around for a while. I've got a wife I'll be beside for another 40 or 50 years, God willing and the lightning don't strike. My dog is eight years old and coming into his prime (which means he can still keep up with me on a hunt, but no longer bounces around the house like a pogo stick on methamphetamine if he doesn't get a walk in). I've been shooting the same Remington 870 Wingmaster LW Magnum in 20 gauge for about the last 25 years or so, and had my Benelli SBE for at least 15. My truck just hit 185,000 miles and is still going strong, for so long as I can keep my eyes on the road.

I also have this collection of little rugrats, bright-eyed and starting to come out of the dew of babyhood into a life of adventure and exploration. They love rock-hopping and romping in the woods, and I bet Jack asks me to go hunting before too long. But they are still a work in progress, many years yet to go before they hump it up the Black Mountain Crest Trail or the Teton Traverse. They have a ways to go to begin to develop the patina that age and hard work bring.

Some things start to show their wear in a neat way, and then they end up with a lot of good stories to tell. I guess you could say that about people too, but with them you take the good with the bad if you know what I mean. It's nice to go down to the gear closet, in the middle of summer when hunting season is still just an embryo of a hope, and think about the miles I've got under my belt.

As to gear, I got these McAlister upland pants with waxed cotton facing in 2007 (McAlister is now defunct, unfortunately). Hunted them for three hard days in the woods of north-central Wisconsin chasing grouse and timberdoodles, and they got broke in real quick. They've hunted South Dakota in a few feet of snow, and in balmier times, the heat of South Carolina in the early fall, and the rocky slopes on Montana's Kootenai NF (as shown below). They've got a bit of blood, a little gun oil, and a few good coats of sweat in em now (can't wash the waxed cotton, so you just hose em off). They are due for a re-proofing, but are still going strong. I wouldn't wear 'em on a date, but they'll go just about anywhere else.

The only drawback in the McAlister pants is the thin poplin fabric in the seat, which has a few noticeable holes from crossing wire fences, and which show up quite well with white boxers. So I have some extra fabric that I'm going to take into Mama-san and see if she can jerry-rig up a reinforced seat for me. Shouldn't be quite as hot as the Filson Double Hunting Pants, but a similar level of protection in the high wear areas. I'll let you know how it turns out.

I've also got this old Army jacket from the early 70s. It was dad's first "ski jacket" back when he was courting my mom (He missed the boat to the South China Sea, went I-A for 90 days in 1969 but they never called his draft  number). Still, a cool piece of kit that has worn in well, and makes a good coat for when you want to get out and get dirty a little bit. The GI poly/cotton mix launders up nicely. Probably has some good stories to tell from before Mom and Dad got married, not that I want to know the particulars.

Dad bought these boots (pictured above) from Cabela's, probably in the early 90s. I stole them at some point after I got out of the Marines and have hunted in them since. They are broken in nice, the leather with a little mink oil will turn away the dew, and I didn't have to pay for them. Dad finally noticed on our last trip that I was wearing his old boots, and laughed. I don't think its that funny - they are good boots. No sense in getting a new pair.