Avoid the Hurt...Just Let 'em Go

A man goes to the doctor and says, "Doctor, my arm hurts when I do this. How do I get it to stop hurting?"

The doctor, in his infinite wisdom says,
"Well first off...don't do that!"

This has often been told as a joke in the past but there is a lesson to be learned, especially when it comes to wildlife. Most people are loving and caring individuals who want only the best things to happen, especially for animals they care about. Pets are the prime example. It is only natural for humans to feel this way.

This is a tricky subject, however, when it comes to wildlife, especially when caring for and looking after rehab animals. These are wild animals that are raised or nursed back to health for the purpose of being released back into the wild. What makes this a difficult subject is that people often forget that a life in the wild is likely to be harsh, difficult, cruel and in many cases far shorter than many people realize. Survival rates for most young animals is pitiful. It's sad but it's also reality.

So here's my best advice. If it's difficult for you to know the outcome of an individual animal after its release…dont ask. Or as my doctor would suggest...

         Don't do that! 


Don't dig for information you need not know if it's likely to cause you pain. Simply seek comfort in knowing that the best opportunity was given this animal and after its release, it lives and dies as it should...a wild and free spirit. And be happy that nature has given you a gift to behold even if only for a brief moment in time.

Last but not least...please never RESCUE any wild animals. Call a wildlife professional first, they will usually know the best course of action.  I have seen far too many animals that were unintentionally harmed because of good intentions.

Deacon - A Miracle Cub (Part 1)

The Fourth of July usually marks a time when freedoms are celebrated, for me 1999 marks a time for when a freedom was stolen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day was routine enough with the average American celebrating the birth of our nation with the usual lineup of indulgences… fireworks, fun and food. After all, can anything really be more American than that? What made this holiday weekend a little bit different for me was a call I received shortly before it's conclusion. A TWRA officer was trying to catch a cub that was ultimately destined for the bear center.

The following day I received notice that the officer was successful in his attempt and that I was to meet him that evening in a K-Mart parking lot in upper East Tennessee. After making preparations at the center I grabbed the standard capture equipment that was necessary to have on hand when handling a bear and loaded it in my jeep. I then proceeded to head north since it was about a two-hour drive to the rendezvous point. Given the fact it was late-evening on a Monday night in a town that boasts no more than a few thousand residents, it was a pretty desolate scene. All that awaited me when I arrived was a dark green agency pick-up in a now empty parking lot. This was a good thing since  transferring a black bear from one vehicle to another in the middle of a department store parking lot tends to attract a lot of attention. Its odd...you'd think people would have better things to see.

Here's the thing, when dealing with wild bear cubs events can and often do go wrong. Actually "wrong" may be slightly too harsh of a word, let's just say things often go unexpected. Such was the case that night in a now darkening parking lot.

The meet-up was routine enough. Myself and the officer exchanged pleasantries as he emerged from the cab of his truck and walked toward the back end of his pick-up. Within the bed contained the prize, a small 25-pound cub. He sat quietly, confined to a cage, anxiously awaiting the next move from his handlers. 

Deacon was a larger than expected cub for his presumed age.

His size actually surprised me. At that time of the year, early July, I expected an orphaned cub to come in somewhere in the 10 to 15 pound range, so size-wise he was extremely healthy looking. This also concerned me as well since we had to transfer him from the cage in the bed of pick-up truck to the pet carrier I had nestled in the back of my Jeep. Recently, I had observed a 15-pound cub turn into a whirling fury when Dr. Ramsey tried picking it up to administer a shot. The bear before us was almost twice as large and therefore probably twice the handful. The cage exchange wasn't shaping up to be an easy chore considering the meager capture equipment I had. The capture pole and heavy duty gloves looked paltry for the situation. Seemed like I also had to bring a "whole-lotta" determination into the equation.

I began preparing myself for what was about you be an intense, but hopefully short-lived wresting match with a black bear cub on the end of a catch-pole. If done right and done quickly the cage transfer would go relatively smoothly.

I prepped the pet carrier, donned the heavy-duty work gloves and grabbed the the catch-pole. The determination part was a bit hesitant to join me, not because I was afraid of tackling the task but rather because I was afraid of screwing it up. I guess you could say "Houdini thoughts" were fresh in my mind.

As I turned and prepared for battle the officer just smiled and approached the door of the cage. I can still hear his exact words, "Awe heck, you ain't gonna need that...just watch how it's done."

He leaned forward and opened the door. 

Like WIDE open.

My first instinct was to lunge forward toward the door in a effort to block or catch what was soon-to-be coming out. Dam...those Houdini thoughts were strong! My biggest wonder today is if I'll ever find out what will happen if I one day succeed in catching an escaping bear with my bare hands. At that point, if I ever do, I guess I will begin calling them my "bear" hands. 

Anyway, my feigned motioning was all for naught. Almost immediately, the cub sprang to his feet, made two dashing leaps towards the officer and jumped into his awaiting arms. The officer then casually walked over, cradled bear in tow, and placed the cub in the pet carrier, securing the door when he was through. Though he said not a single word I was certain I could hear him smiling.

That's when he finally turned to me and said, "This ain't no regular bear cub son."

I imagine my stunned, dangling-jaw look, snapped the realization into the officer that an explanation might be warranted. So in an attempt to get me to close my slack jaw he went on to explain. "We picked this cub up near Deacon Rd. He's been hanging around a cabin up there...we reckon they've been feedin' him and realized they couldn't keep him no more. You can see he's a pretty tame little bear."

Though my face no longer showed it, I was still stunned. What was I to do with a tame bear? The bear center's mission was to rehabilitate and release "wild" orphaned bear cubs. I was being handed a bear that in all likelihood couldn't be released?

A minute or so later the officer was shaking my hand and thanking me for taking the cub. I watched as he drove off, within moments his dark-green agency truck disappeared into the night.

It was just me and "Deacon" as he would soon be named, alone in a darkened parking lot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before long I was heading home, which of course meant I was also heading back to the bear center. My mind was racing the entire time. I had to figure out what we were going to do with this bear. The one thing that kept breaking my concentration on the bear's predicament just so happened to be the bear himself. Strangely enough he was making some noise in the now blackened recess of the pet carrier. No, he wasn't crying or vocalizing in any intentional way, rather he was sleeping. And he was making noise as he slept, a distinct and discomforting wheeze, almost as if he was straining to breathe.

Arriving close to midnight back at the center, I placed the carrier down in the maintenance building, made sure he had enough food and water, and called it a night. I was hoping a good night's sleep would yield some clarity as to how we were to handle our new bear.

Sleep didn't help. Morning came and I still had no idea what I was going to do with this bear. Oh well, the least I could do until we figured it out was make sure he was well taken care of and had plenty of food and water.

As I peered in on Deacon the following morning I couldn't help but feel sorry for the little guy. Heaven knows how he came into the hands of the people that were caring for him, but here he was barely six months old and already orphaned twice. And wheezing to boot.

And then he coughed.

I have never in my life heard a bear cough. It was plain to hear and even though I was not a skilled bear doctor it was also easy to realize something just wasn't right!

Though he was extremely healthy looking he sounded awful, so before I even attempted to feed him that morning the first thing I did was make arrangements with Dr. Ramsey at the U.T. Veterinary School. My hope was that they would give Deacon a complete exam to find out what was wrong with him. Once again, he was going for a ride in the back of my jeep.

A full diagnostic examination was performed.

I arrived at the Vet school shortly after lunch and they immediately took him in. They wanted to run full diagnostics on him so he was going to be there a few hours. This gave me time to make a few calls to consult with others who could help me decide what we were going to do with him. The Board members I contacted agreed there was little we could do with a cub that was so far habituated. It would simply be too risky to release a larger bear that already considered humans as a reliable source for food. If Deacon was willing to jump in the arms of an officer he just met the day before who knows what would happen if he encountered another person at close range. Needless to say, it's almost certain it wouldn't be good.

My next call was to Walter Cook, the TWRA Captive Animal Coordinator. He agreed the bear never should have come to the center in the first place. Thankfully though, he realized the predicament and offered a solution more palatable than the obvious...he suggested we try to find the bear a permanent home. Maybe, just maybe, if fortune was on our side we could find the bear a home and spare him his life. The call with Walter went smoother than expected, however, the call from the Vet clinic did not. Dr. Ramsey advised me to come on in and he'd tell me what they had found.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The news was grim.

The veterinarians performed all sorts of diagnostics and everything was pointing to the same grim conclusion. Deacon suffered from a severe case of aspiration pneumonia. When I told Dr. Ramsey the background information of how and where the cub was found he said it all made sense. You see, aspiration pneumonia is a situation where the lungs are filled with fluid and the animal not only has a hard time breathing, but has a hard time fighting the infection due to its debilitating effects. A primary cause of this in young animals is improper bottle feeding. In other words, the bear was forced a bottle and more than likely held improperly thus resulting in milk getting into his lungs. This almost assured that the wildlife officer's hunch was correct, someone had been raising him by hand all along.

Thankfully Dr. Ramsey caught it in time and was prescribing meds to combat the infection. We loaded the sedated cub into my Jeep for a third time. What he said as I was preparing to hop in the drivers seat completely caught me off guard...

"Hey Daryl, try not to let it bother you but don't be surprised if he doesn't make it through the night."

With that he closed my door.

(To be continued...)

An Elk Hunt of Unimaginable Bounty

This may come as a surprise to some but I am a hunter, always have been, always will be. For those of you that know me, you know that I have a long-standing and deeply-rooted passion for hunting. I am not a trophy hunter yet I have collected countless "trophies". In my eyes all the animals I pursue regardless of age or size are worthy of that title. Throughout my hunting career, which started as a young tag-a-long accompanying my Dad and brother on bitter cold days in Western New York, the joy of the "hunt" has never been about the individual animals I pursue but rather the friendships that are forged, the memories that are created, the countless lessons in nature that are learned and yes, the wonderful bounties of fresh meat that are occasionally bestowed. If I did not enjoy eating and sharing the game I obtain I would not pursue my quarry with bow in hand, but alas, I not only eat meat, I love meat. I also prefer and am quite keen on knowing where and how my table fare is obtained. But truth be told, I would not be upset if I never kill another animal for that brief moment in time is undoubtedly the worst part of the entire adventure. Having said that, I am so very thankful and appreciative for each and every animal that the heavens and Mother Nature provide. If they continue to shine down on me and bless me, I hope each year they see to it that my freezers are full with nature's persistent and wonderful bounty.

If the thought of reading a hunting story is not for you, then please stop here. If however, you understand that hunting is a fact of life and an ever-present way, whether it be a grizzly pursuing a bison, a lynx a snowshoe hare, or a man pursuing an elk...then I hope you enjoy.

------------------------------------------

I rarely, if ever, hunt alone but sometimes the situation dictates the need. A mid-winter move from Tennessee to New Mexico not only resulted in the desertion of familiar territory but it also caused me to abandon to all my hunting partners as well. So this year, not only was I going on my first-ever elk hunt, I was going to have to go it alone.

My New Mexico elk adventure started out when I was drawn for a late-September archery hunt on the western half of the Santa Fe National Forest. The hunt area borders the famous Vallez caldera which is a renown elk calving ground in the summertime and the land of giant amorous bulls in the fall.

My pre-scouted "elky" looking place.

The caldera doesn't disappoint. I've witnessed a cow and calf herd of almost 1,000 strong in mid-summer, and considering I was hunting in the mountains just outside the caldera I was pretty excited about my upcoming hunt. To improve my chances I did a bit of scouting a few weeks prior to my hunt and found a couple of good "elky-looking" places but other than that, I stayed out of the area. I would put the boots to the ground during my nine-day archery adventure. Having never hunted in the Rockies before and being drawn for one of the most beautiful areas known to man, success was already assured even if no elk were in my cards.

The hunt started on a Thursday morning and given the fact that I didn't know exactly where I was going, I arrived at my meagerly scouted area shortly before daybreak. In other words, I needed the sun to serve as my guide. My plan was simple...hike, listen and pursue.

Logging road leading to the summit.

I couldn't have asked for a better start.

I didn't even finish getting the Jeep door open and I was overwhelmed by a symphony of bugles raining down from the fields above. I quickly grabbed my gear and struck out on a logging road trying to get into the heavier cover at the base of the mountain. It didn't take me long to get settled-in with a glorious view of a wide forested draw. For the next few hours I listened to dozens of bugles and watched as two raghorn bulls and a herd bull, sauntered up the drainage I was glassing. They were all heading to higher ground. I backed out, hit the logging road again and continued to follow its path up the backside of the mountain. I had to get ahead of them.

The peak before me was just over 9,000 feet and not only is it a gorgeous mixed-conifer forest broken by beautiful stark-white stands of aspen but it also just so happens to yield an amazing view of the southern Rockies. Since I didn't have a specific date or time with any particular bull I made sure to take my time and drink in the sights.

Nearing the peak, I was quite thrilled to stumble upon a herd of about twenty wild horses. Truth be told I about dropped a load in my pants when I first encountered the mustangs. I was pushing through a small stand of Gambel oak, which only grow chest-high, and I began to catch a whiff of something rank. Having worked with some not-so-pleasant smelling large carnivores in the past my immediate thought was bear. Had the huge dark-brown figure coming at me not whinnied when it did, I'm certain I would have been spending the rest of the day airing out my backside. Though the thrill of the sights could have entertained me for the remainder of the day, elk hunting beckoned.

The bugles continued nonstop throughout the morning and into the warming afternoon. One bull in particular kept his serenade going about a quarter of a mile down the ridge from where I sat. Being this was day one of my first-ever elk hunt, I truly had no clue what to do. I spent my entire life chasing white-tails and longbeards east of the Mississippi. I needed help and I wasn't ashamed to admit it.

Chest-high thickets made for great cover.

Amazingly enough I had strong cell service so I began texting a few friends who are experienced elk hunters and asked them quite literally, "How the hell do you hunt these things?" Both of them agreed on the tactic and advised that if I go in, go in aggressive... "just don't let him see or smell you". Somehow I am pretty confident I could've figured that one out on my own. Anyhow, their advice was solid. They wanted me to go in and taunt the bull into looking for love or looking for a fight.

Needless to say, I headed directly towards the love-sick bull. I kept myself shielded by seeking cover in an aspen thicket, making "a-whole-messa" noise as I went. After a short struggle through the brush I heard him bugle about a hundred yards out so I eased as close to the edge as I possibly could without being seen. I was still a good twenty yards tucked into thicket. Since I knew he heard me walking, instead of challenging him I decided to entice him. I simply did two soft cow calls and waited. Next thing I know I hear an elephant walking towards me.

I couldn't see him but I knew he was close. The best way for me to describe the next ten seconds in time is for you to relive the scene in your mind from Jurassic Park when the T-Rex roars from a few feet away and you feel your insides come unglued.

His bugle shook me to the core. I could hear his high-pitched squeal reverberating in his chest as he began to lurch forward. Within a few seconds I spotted his outline coming through the edge of the thicket in which I stood...and he was a monster.

At first I couldn't get a glimpse of his entire body but I remember two distinct features, his rack had points going everywhere, even sprouting junk from his main frame, and his deep dark-chocolate brown fur that reminded me of a woolly mammoth. Heck, he looked every bit as big as one.

He started walking the edge of the aspens only twenty yards away. I drew back on him trying to find a clear opening. I stopped him with a doe bleat in the best area possible, which still wasn't good. And yes, I said doe bleat. Some of my eastern habits are hard to break. I think I even rolled my eyes as soon as I realized what I did. It didn't matter it was effective in stopping him.

I could see his head, the line of his back, and his rump, but unfortunately there were a few four-foot tall aspen in front much of his body. I knew exactly where his chest cavity was but I had an extremely narrow window between the aspen. I let an arrow fly.

Somehow...I missed.

My only guess is a deflection from the aspen. Last I saw of him he was headed somewhere towards southern Colorado.

I was thoroughly disgusted with myself not for missing the shot but for risking the shot. I was actually quite relieved it was a clean miss. It was now about two in the afternoon so I decided to start hiking back towards the jeep. A storm system was moving-in in a few hours so I felt it wise not to get stuck on top of the mountain in a thunderstorm.

Elk wallows lined the entire drainage.

On my slow and easy walk back I ended up in an amazing draw that had over a dozen elk wallows, numerous rubs and countless piles of poop, all of the "elk-en" kind. Once again, the bugles erupted and I watched four decent-size bulls head up the far side of the draw away from me. They did not appear to have winded me, they were simply heading the other way. I decided to call it a day and hopefully let the area settle down. It was my hope the looming rains would wash away all my scent and cleanse the woods. Tomorrow, I would get a fresh start.

The next morning called for me to get an earlier start since I was now armed with a better idea of where to go. This time, I stepped out of my jeep about an hour before sunrise. My goal was to make it to the top of the mountain right at first light.  The one thing that disheartened me, however, was that there was no symphony of bugles awaiting me that morning. I only heard one distant bull on the far side of the valley. Trying to keep upbeat I huffed it up the mountain to get to the peak where I ran into the mustangs the day before. I got there just in time to watch the most glorious sunrise.

The summit was both beautiful and refreshing.

Exhausted from the climb I sat on a chair-sized boulder near the crest of the mountain. Before me was a very steep 500-foot drop choked with locust and a few small aspen but otherwise, it was a breathtaking view yet again. I managed to get my water bottle out of the side of my pack to quench my growing thirst. I had to try to cool down. It was only in the upper 50s but I was already sweaty from the ascent.

Low and behold a cow elk called about eighty yards behind me in the forest. Yes, I was totally OK with shooting a cow if a shot presented itself. After all my mission was meat, and cows ate just as well. Unfortunately, I was totally unprepared for an elk to announce its presence where I was sitting so I quickly shed my pack, unstrapped my bow from the sling, and grabbed an arrow from my still fastened quiver. I hopped over the boulder and moved about ten yards towards the still-darkened forest to get in better positions for a shot.

I did two soft cow calls. What happened next? A dang bull bugled from behind me coming from the cliff side!

He was literally coming up the drop-off only ten yards from where I just dropped my pack.  When he finally crested I saw that he was a younger bull, probably a 4x4, but it mattered not to me. The problem was I was anticipating the cow coming in from the other direction and did not imagine one would possibly come from up the cliff. So there I was, smack dab in the wide open not a single tree or bush within ten yards of my backside, as I watched him slowly amble towards me at a distance of only thirty yards.

At twenty-five yards is head briefly disappeared behind a Douglas fir, so I drew back and held steady. Needless to say when his head cleared the fir-tree he saw a big fat guy kneeling in the wide open just over twenty yards away. He immediately stopped and stared at it me. I was at full draw, problem was, his vitals were now behind the Douglas fir.

Ever get in a stare down with a deer? Try that with a bull elk at full draw. It was grueling. It felt like ten minutes even though the stare down may have lasted only a minute or so. Regardless, my arm was turning to jello. I began to shake trying to hold steady at full draw. May arm even jerked forward once almost releasing the arrow.

When he finally stepped out, I could barely hold my arms steady. I put the pin at the base of his chest and hit the release, mainly to relieve the pressure in my arm. I watched in dismay as my arrow flew low and appeared to pass just beneath his heaving chest. Unlike his granddaddy, when this guy ran, he decided to head somewhere towards the Oklahoma panhandle.

Oklahoma, that-a-way.

I was frustrated and dismayed for having missed again. Some guys go for years and years without ever getting within bow range of an elk and here I was having two close-in shots, both missing their mark. I kept playing the shot over and over in my head and couldn't believe my misfortune. I couldn't find blood nor my arrow, mostly because it probably shot over the cliff and into the canyon below. I then walked in the direction he ran, yes, that's Oklahoma, and much to my surprise I found a tiny drop of blood. All I could think was that the arrow grazed him as it passed beneath his chest. I felt sick knowing I possibly knicked him. There was no way I could live with myself without trying to look for him. Needless to say I spent the next three hours hiking up and down the most vile, steep, locust thicket anyone has ever seen. I found countless game trails but not a single other drop of blood, and of course no elk. It was less than twenty-four hours into my first elk hunt and I was already 0-2 at  twenty-five yards and less. I was pretty frustrated and disheartened. I even texted one of my hunting partners and told them of my misfortunes and that I was giving up. Apparently elk hunting wasn't for me.

As expected they gave me their best version of a pep talk. Of course it wasn't the flowery kind, rather it was the "Geez Louise...it there any place in New Mexico you haven't buggered up...go there" kind. It was well-deserved and desperately needed. I told them my only option was west, towards Arizona.

So I decided to go for a hike.

I followed the same ridge line from the day before where I missed the woolly-mammoth-of-a-bull. Sure enough, there were three or four bulls working the deep canyons below. Besides the beautiful sounds of their beckoning squeals, I would occasionally catch a glimpse of their shadowy forms moving through the scattered and oh-so-distant Ponderosa pines. Problem was, I was looking down on them...far down on them. I was dreading not the dissent but rather the inevitable climb back up. I was still exhausted from my morning search on the cliff from hell. Anyway, if I shot a bull down there, there was no way I was getting it out easily. But then I asked myself, "How often do you go elk hunting?" So down I went.

For two hours I played cat and mouse with three different bulls that were intent on dodging me. They not only won, I'm quite sure I heard laughing in their squeals as they sauntered further and further away, apparently heading to Mexico. The ascent back up the mountain was simply the elk's revenge, undoubtedly they deserved it.

Finally, on the "right" side of the mountain and almost out of gas, I sat down and drank the last of my water. I was beat. Climbing nonstop at over 9,000 feet kind of wears on an old man's body. It was now 2:00 p.m. so I figured I would just rest up a bit and take a slow hike back to my awaiting Jeep.

And then a dadgum elk bugled to my left.

Once again I dropped my pack, grabbed my bow, and knocked an arrow. I scurried about thirty yards closer to the bugle and sat down at the base of an old burn-scarred tree. It was wide open on this side of the hill so I was worried about my cover and lack of a face shield, so I improvised. I rubbed my hand on the charred bark of the Ponderosa pine and voilà... instant face paint.

He bugled again… 

And then another bull bugled.

And then another bull bugled.

The burn-scar proved to be the favorite haunt for the bulls.

There were three just around the corner of the ridge from where I sat. I actually pulled out my phone so I could record the bugling since they were so close. Heck if I couldn't hit them at least I'd be able to listen to them.

As I was playing with my phone a cow stepped out at about fifty yards. Sure enough a good bull followed her. He was much closer… only at about thirty yards. I was about to put the phone down and begin setting up to get a shot when the second bull bugled much closer to me than I expected. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was about twenty-five yards away but coming towards me... fast! He was a beautiful 6x6.

The heavens were shining on me that moment. There was no way it could've worked out any better. The massive bull walked a game trail and passed ten yards in front of me, not a stitch of cover between me and him, and he never even saw me draw back. I did my infamous doe bleat and stopped him broadside at just under ten yards. I watched my arrow sink completely in him center-line of his chest just behind the shoulder. There was no second guessing the shot placement. As he ran off I said my customary prayer for a quick and clean kill. My prayers were answered. He was dead within eighty yards and well within thirty seconds.

This elk too had a final destination, but it is one I chose rather than him, for he will end up not just in my freezer, but in the freezers and bellies of numerous friends who helped me along the away. But most of all he ends up in my mind for me to cherish and always remember. I thank the numerous folks who helped me along my incredible journey, but mostly I thank the heavens and Mother Nature for the wondrous bounties they so often provide. Without a doubt the bounty goes far beyond what a freezer could possibly store.

The Rendezvous Missed

For over 30 years I have looked forward to the turning of the leaves, not for the reason that the pigskins (footballs) begin to fly, but rather for the arrows. Yes, archery season has arrived. 

I have long been an archer. It is part of who I am. I thank my dad from the bottom of my heart for instilling in me not just the talents required of the craft, but for the passion and ethics that accompany it. Without a doubt my love of nature has been fortified through my love of archery hunting and equally, my love of hunting has been strengthened by my love of nature. Because of this mutualistic bond this time of year brings great joy and peace to me upon its arrival but the reasoning is about far more than just hunting.

Looking back on past seasons, the one and only consistent highlight was always the rendezvous. It was that special time when I met up with the people with whom I shared my times afield. You see, I am what you call a social outdoorsman. My greatest joy comes not from me taking an animal or experiencing a new untrammeled day but rather from the sharing of those moments with others, especially with those who share in my enthusiasm and love for the outdoors. They often turn an ordinary trip into the outdoors into a life-remembering adventure. I do not deny the fact that there are amazing moments that occur when one is alone but moments like those are often magnified when it is shared with others. It is also a certainty that the likelihood of those moments occurring are greatly increased when one is in the company of others. 

I have countless lifelong memories of others experiencing the joys of nature, whether it be the emotions that poured when someone took their first-ever animal or simply the company they offered when they experienced nature in a way few others ever get to behold. 

I have been privy to a young man taking his first deer in honor of his granddad who passed away earlier that day (Making Papaw Proud). I stood beside my brother on an otherwise routine day watching in awe as a rattlesnake devoured a gray squirrel in one fluid but slow-motioned gulp. I smiled in delight as I watched my 80-year old dad shake uncontrollably as an unwary doe presented him with a shot and while my son prayed and thanked the heavens above for the bounty that was provided. Pride and thankfulness has welled like never before when close friends captured some of their greatest moments simply because their special memories are now locked in my vault of special memories as well.

I bring this up because I am about to experience my first ever Western hunt and I meet it with mixed emotions. I am about to set off into a wilderness I have dreamed of entering ever since I was a young child. Wandering in a land full of elk, bears, cougars, and bighorns is truly something for everyone to behold. But at this moment I do it alone. Distance, finances, and all-too-often busy schedules dictate there will be no rendezvous with others this year. Though I am excited to head off into the woods part of me will be missing the camaraderie I have grown to love. And heck, that company sure would come in handy if ever I am so blessed to knock down an elk, for my bounty would also be theirs.

Here's to hoping the mountain brings comfort and provides.

Bear Food 101 - Acornology

As professionals in a particular field we often take for granted that people always know what we are talking about. Although I try to be cognizant of my audience I too sometimes fall into this trap. A wonderful follower of mine reminded me that not all people were aware of the importance of the "hard mast" crop to wildlife, in particular, bears. Hence, the lesson to explain the importance of bear food begins.

"Mast" is a technical term used by biologists to refer to the available fruit and nut crop for wild animals. Occasionally they refer to the summer berry crop (e.g. blueberry, blackberries, huckleberries, etc.) as soft mast but mostly we use the term in reference to hard mast, the fall "nut" crop. This is the food crop that drives many species simply because it is their main source of food that gets them through winter. Let me explain further why hard mast is so important.

Wild food crops occasionally fail. Whether it be from drought, excessive rain, or possibly even insect infestation, uncharacteristic events can wreak havoc on food production. When this occurs in the summer time and the berry, or soft mast, crop is impacted, there are usually secondary foods the animals can fall back on. Bears being omnivores can and will eat anything, including green leafy plants, insects and carrion (dead animals). These food items, though not necessarily nutritious or overly abundant can usually sustain them and are found throughout the summer. Now let's skip forward two seasons and look at our coldest and most difficult season to survive...winter.

Winter time is a period of famine. There are no succulent sprouts or new plants growing, most lie dormant and leafless in their winter slumber. When the temperature drops, insect life is almost non-existent, with most insect life-forms lying dormant deep under ground. Amphibians and reptiles also seek refuge deep beneath the snow layer. Their ability as cold-blooded animals to drop their body temperature allows them to lie dormant for long periods of time.

Birds fly south in the winter, not to escape the cold but to follow the food. After all we use bird feathers, also known as down, to keep warm so migration is simply a matter of finding enough food to eat. This leaves mammals getting stuck between a rock and a hard place. They must figure out a way to survive the long, cold, barren "food-less" season known as winter. Since this blog is about bears, we will focus on their strategy for surviving winter.

As you know, bears sleep through winter. There is a whole other blog I could write about how bears are not true hibernators like other animals, but rather super-hibernators, but that lesson will be told another time. Just think of bears going to bed and falling into a deep sleep (not hibernation) as the days begin to chill. Their restful slumber not stirring for about four months until the sun begins to warm the outside air once again. In order to do this and survive, the bears MUST fatten up. Since they're not going to be eating for months on end, the bodies will need to rely on their fat reserves. This makes those fat reserves absolutely essential for the bears survival, which brings us back around to the food discussion.

The fall is the critical time period in which bears rely to build those fat reserves, hence, they need a highly nutritious, high-caloric food item that will build up layers upon layers of fat. And voila...nature provides that for them in the form of nuts. Without natures bounty of hard mast (nuts), bears would have a difficult time surviving the winter.

Is a nut is a nut is a nut?

White oak leaf

Not necessarily. Although almost all nuts are edible it doesn't mean all nuts are palatable. Bears like all animals have preferred tastes and the acorn, a fruiting-body product of oak trees, is definitely their food of choice.

There are two main kinds of oak trees, those that are classified as white oaks and those that are classified as red oaks. The two groups are relatively easy to tell apart simply by looking at the leaves. Although there is great variation among the leaves of oak trees most have a uniform "oak-leaf" look to them. Generally speaking, if the lobes on the oak leaf are rounded it belongs to the white oak group. If the lobes are pointed then it goes into the red oak category. This is where it gets interesting, I swear.

Red oak leaf

Acorns are packed with protein, fats, and carbohydrates...the perfect energy food for pretty much all wildlife. Besides being a great source of nourishment they taste pretty good except for one thing, tannins.

Tannins, are nature's natural food preservative, they delay rotting and keep the nut viable and fresh while it lies motionless on the ground in anticipation of germination. Sometimes, this may take six months or more. Now imagine placing your lunchtime snack on the ground and coming back six months later and finding it as fresh as when you first placed it there...pretty freaking impressive don't ya' think? So tannins are pretty awesome...except for one thing. They taste awful. They turn a naturally sweet tasting acorn into a bitter tasting bite, the higher the level of tannins, the more bitter the nut.

Fortunately there's a distinction between the two oak groups. Trees in the white oak group produce acorns over the course of a single year. Since they're putting out acorns annually, they're tannin level is quite low. Each year there's a new crop of acorns so the nuts don't have to stay viable for long periods of time on the ground. Because of their low level of tannins, they taste really really good. All animals, especially bears, love them. So an acorn-producing white oak tree is a gold mine for attracting wildlife.

Red oak trees on the other hand have a two-year acorn maturation process. Since their bounty comes along less frequently than the white oaks it's more advantageous for them to produce an acorn that lasts a whole lot longer on the ground. Hence, they contain a much higher level of tannin. When an acorn from a red oak tree first falls to the ground it's not very tasty but the longer it sits, the more the tannic acid dissipates and the sweeter the acorn gets.

So think about how wonderfully clever Mother Nature is. She creates acorns, a bounty of high energy, power-packed tasty morsels that fall from the trees right before the leanest and harshest time of the year. And to boot, she devised a way for those same energy bites to be available all winter long should an animal need them or be fortunate enough to find them. And yes, come spring, if the red oak bounty was good, there will be sweet tasting acorns awaiting the bears upon their emergence from their long winter's slumber. On the flip side, if the oaks fail to produce a large bounty of acorns in any given year, the animals are stressed and nature begins its selection process keeping only the strongest. Hence goes the extreme importance of the mighty acorn.

Now when you hear biologists talk about the "mast crop driving bear populations," you'll hopefully have a better understanding of what exactly they're talking about.

A Gentleman Named John

I don't write much about people, it's because quite frankly I prefer four-legged creatures over the two-legged kind. This morning however, I read a few words that inspired me to ponder about a gentleman I know. And when I'm inspired I tend to write. 

The fact that I use the word "gentleman" to describe this man may take some people aback for I have heard him described as a gawd-awful egotistical ornery-son-of-a-bitch, and that quite frankly is putting it politely. He is often known as a braggadocio but truth be told if I shared in only half his adventures I would have led a life made for the movies. In other words, he's the kind of guy made for hot days, rocking chairs and ice-cold lemonade.

He is a rugged individual, one whose body was hardened from a life of riding broncos and bulls and chasing his life pursuits. Whether it be in the towering oxygen-scarce high peaks of the west or the frigid lung-searing plains of Canada, it seems this cowboy has traversed them all. Unfortunately his body is now reminding him of all the fun he once had.

He is a skilled and tested outdoorsman who has a passion for hunting and fishing. And he will be quick to remind you he never "harvests" an animal. He kills them and eats them... and they're mighty fine on the palate to boot. When there's a family in need, he will go out and get them food, legally of course. He is a firm believer of the saying, "If you teach a man to fish," and believes this of hunting as well for he quite readily shares his bounty. As you can imagine, he cares nothing about antlers or trophies for if he did his house would be cluttered for his kills are too numerous to count.

He is a man of good heart and fine soul though he will be quick to deny it...well maybe not, but that's part of who he is. His penchant for the bottle in his younger days caused many to run afoul with him but he cares not for those are always the first to cast the stones. Never do they see his strong belief in God or his service to the homeless which he goes about without fanfare. He enjoys youth sports and makes it a point to highlight kids when they rise above the standard game-playing, iPhone-worshipping model of today's millennial's. 

But most of what this gentleman is is a writer. He is a true talent not because of the many awards that adorn the walls of his studio for far more awards are piled up in dust-covered boxes on his floor. They are appreciated but often meaningless, in a good sort-of-way, in his deeply-worn eyes.

He is a writer because that is what drives him. It entertains him and gives his life purpose. It is witnessed in his words. Oftentimes people can't discern when he's telling the truth or when he's spinning a tale, a true sign of a great storyteller. Ask him about his exploits with world-famous people in a far reaching corners of the continent or about how his camp was under siege from one of those "sasqautchy" animals and he will spin two tales that leave you believing both. Fortunately I have seen pictures of when he ran with Loretta Lynn's gang but I am not yet buying his big foot tale, though it still captivates me.

Now I only follow my friend on Facebook. He posts regularly of his daily life happenings in his unique southern gentlemen-like style. If'n yer not yet fumilyerized wuth it, ya' aint gunna fint'it easy readin'.

Did I mention the man has won countless writing awards?

This finally brings me to the reason of my inspiration. I posted a blog the other day and received numerous comments from followers on Facebook. Though I appreciate them all, one comment in particular stood out. It said...

"Well rit, just wun riter to nuther."

I have never been so honored. Thank you John.