Anticipation

10 weeks from now, Dad, Dean and I hop a flight into Spokane, drive through Coeur D'Alene up into northwest Montana's Koontenai National Forest, to hunt birds with Tim Linehan. As all hunters know, proper anticipation is key to a memorable trip.

The plan is to hunt three days, going after ruffed, blue and spruce grouse in the hills around the Yaak River. Maybe throw in a little fly fishing in the afternoon if the hunting gods bless us with an early limit.

On the way out, I hope to meet up with a few of my old Marines in Coeur D'Alene and have a beer and tell some war stories.

These are the good old days, indeed. Sing it, Carly.

Pawleys 2014

Man. Had a blast at Pawleys this year. Took the boat out, Bud caught a fish with Jackson, went crabbing, great weather. Awesome time. This is what it is all about.

Attention to Orders

ATTENTION TO ORDERS

FOR WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION: owing to conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the line of fire, The Order of the Purple Target is hereby awarded to WILLIAM PORTER BEAN in recognition of his selfless service in pursuit of South Dakota wild pheasant.

On the afternoon of Saturday, November 16, 2013, with complete and utter disregard for his own safety, PRIVATE BEAN occupied an extraordinarily exposed and vulnerable blocking position in the dangerous southeast corner of Field #3, in order to ensure that no fleeing pheasant escaped unscathed. In the face of overwhelming incoming fire, much if not all of it being of a "friendly" nature, which was directed at several low-flying fowl, BEAN held his exposed position despite suffering grievous and painful wounds to the head and neck. The gallant and selfless efforts of BEAN contributed to total victory over the pheasants of Field #3, and bring great credit to himself, the City of Spartanburg, and our United States of America.

Given under my hand, this the 16th day of November, in the 2013th year of our Lord, and of the 237th year of our United States

In the City of Glenham, South Dakota
Stephen F. Shaw, Commanding

SoDak Redux

Back to the hinterlands of South Dakota in pursuit of the wily Pheasant..





We flocked back this year to our stomping grounds of 2010 - this time, Dad and I, Will and Bill and Jason Palmer, and a few other folks to round out the group. Alas we missed the jovial input of Dan O'Neal, but much fun was had by all.



These are wide open lands - the dogs ran the birds up as we walked abreast through chest-high sorghum and 8-foot corn. As ususal, the flankers got plenty of action as the birds poured out ahead of the beaters.

Not as many birds this year as the last time, and although the weather was much warmer I actually think I preferred the late-season hunt a bit more. The weather made it challenging, but all the fields had been cleared and we got more open shots and views. Not much to see in 8-foot stands of corn other than ... more corn. But all in all, this is a pretty fun way to spend your days, riding around in the back of a truck and jumping out to pen the birds in the field, or sitting around the fire pit late into the evening, BS'ing and drinking beer.

Pier Fishing at Pawleys

We got out on the Pawley's Island pier a few times last week, and Jack enjoyed getting to sit up on the bench and help Bud man the rods. Nothing biting on our bait, but a young boy a few yards down landed a nice sized ray, probably two feet wide or more. Jack got to touch it before they threw it back - he reported that it was "slimy - and flapping its flippers." Indeed it was.

Sam enjoyed the outing as well, while Jack passed the time fishing by filling Bud's ear with endless "conversation" - I swear, this kid can really spin a tall tale. At one point as we were walking back, Jack said: "Daddy, Bud didn't catch any fish." To which I faithfully replied, "Son, that's what fishing is all about sometimes." Puzzled and looking as if I didn't hear him correctly the first time, Jack said, more emphatically: "Daddy - Bud DIDN'T catch any fish!"

Sigh. The naivete of youth.

***********

Pawley's Pier, August 8, 2013.

She's Alive! ALIVE!!!

The Whaler Lives:

The Tax Evader stalks osprey and gators in re-maiden cruise following the 2011 renovation efforts:

Dad and Pete took her out to the Black River and Sandy Island on Tuesday, and on Wednesday Dad and I ran down Jericho Creek to Georgetown, and back up the Waccamaw to Hagley Landing. No issues, runs like a top, new seats are imminently more comfortable and moving the gas cans up helped fore-aft balance and opened up room in the back for a cooler and other storage.

Still some work to do to get everything ready to fish, but all in all it was very nice to see her running out over all of that black water. 

*** Update ***

Sid and Alex made it out on the Evader too - cruising the Waccacaw in style:

Some video footage of Jericho Creek headed down to Georgetown:

Finger on the Kill Button

Dad and I took to the hills this weekend - his 60th birthday is coming up, and I lined up a half-day grouse
hunt in the mountains of western NC to help celebrate. We had to leave poor Dean at home due to some logistical hurdles, but with Kim at the NCAFP conference at the Grove Park, Dad and I took off to Weaverville NC to meet up with our guide from Curtis Wright Outfitters.

Grouse hunting reminds me a lot of combat – it is exhausting, you rarely see what you are shooting at, you often come home empty-handed, and it is a helluva good time. (NB: Words of wisdom from my former commander: “Actually, it's a lot of fun to fight. You know, it's a hell of a hoot. It's fun to shoot some people. I'll be right upfront with you, I like brawling." General James N. Mattis, USMC).

From handling a weapon, you get an innate familiarity with its functioning. Under stress and through intense training, it becomes a literal extension of your very self. The Marine Corps also has a way of distilling various things down to their core attribute - for example, the safety selector switch on the M16A2 service rifle. Safe. Semi. Burst. Simple enough to just call it the "Selector Switch" or something like that, but the drill intructors in the Marine Corps insist on calling it the "Kill Button." It makes sense, when you think about it, and it subtly reinforces the idea that is what a weapon is for, and nothing less, in case less attentive recruits begin to forget where it is pointed.

There were times I recall from Iraq that I went from “finger straight and off the trigger, weapon on safe” to 4.5 pounds of pressure on a five pound trigger, sights on the target, with the weapon on "Kill." It wasn’t something I had to think about, it just happened. I wasn't ever even aware of the shift from safe to fire - rather, as the immediate stress subsided I caught myself sighting down the barrel of a rifle with set to “fire.” Before long, and well before we deployed, I had put enough rounds out in training that I would just walk around with my thumb perched on the selector switch, so as not to have to look for it when the time came.

Walking the hills outside Weaverville NC with Dad brought this thought flooding back. For the first two or three flushes, we never even saw the bird - just had the dog lock up and heard him fly, maybe we even imagined a slight glimpse of brown on brown hurtling through the hardwoods. After a late trailing shot on the second bird (mostly to save face) I relocated my second finger to that little round button on the right side of the trigger guard on the Remington 870 LW 20 ga. Kept the first finger straight, ready to acquire the trigger, and the second finger poised on the kill button. Nothing less would work, these hills were so steep and the birds were so fast.

We never got a bird, although we had a few more flushes. It would have been nice to have Dean - the guide's dog kept taking off down the mountain after deer or some other such animal. But hell - a nice December day on the mountain with Dad, you hardly need to actually get a bird.

Happy Birthday Dad. Thanks for hunting with me all these years.