Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 1)

Ol' Blue…

I have a fifteen year-old Jeep Wrangler that I adore. Not many folks know this but I call him Ol' Blue when it's just me an' him up on the mountain. Though he has countless nicks and dings his deep navy blue body still shines bright when given enough attention. I don't know, maybe I'm looking at him through rose-colored, or should I say iris-colored, glasses but we have a connection that runs pretty deep.

The thing I love most about Ol' Blue is that he never lets me down and thus, I can't help but be reminded of my dad. He's tremendously reliable and simply put, he's a comfort to me. Things breakdown on him all the time but I do whatever I can to keep him running. Though he's routinely serviced, he creeks and moans and strains when climbing even the slightest of hills. There is also the occasional drip or leak from the underside that sometimes leaves conspicuous stains in increasingly awkward places. He's even been known to run out of gas every once in a while. And talk about dirty? My gosh! I have been embarrassed more than once by his uncouth visage. Needless to say, even with all these little quirks and issues, I love my Dad so very much and the crazy thing is I find much of these exact same characteristics in Ol' Blue.

As you can imagine, I can't help but love BOTH of them to death. So when my dad wants to come visit, for a turkey hunting excursion, I'll bend over backwards to accommodate him. And one such adventure plum wore me out.

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

The Preparations

Though I have hunted with my dad for the better part of my life, my move from New York to Tennessee made our turkey hunting adventures much more choreographed. We missed a few years here and there but when we could, we'd schedule a week-long excursion, and since my dad was retired, it usually meant a hunting trip to Tennessee. This also meant my oldest brother Bob could tag-a-long from his adopted state of Georgia. This worked out for the best anyway since we all found the hunting in Tennessee to be much better than anywhere else.

I was thrilled a few years ago when planning our spring turkey hunt, my dad asked if he could bring along his two best friends, Frank and Charlie.  It had been quite a while since I had turkey hunted with either one of them so I was more than looking forward to reliving our younger days. Given that all three of my soon-to-be guests were in their 70s and still eager to go stomping through the woods chasing long beards would simply add to the nostalgia of the reunion. Needless to say, I was going to make sure all three had the time of their life.

In preparation for the hunt I put in quite a bit of leg work. I knew my guests were getting up there in age so I had to keep their walking to a minimum. Not only did I secure multiple farms to hunt, I scouted each farm to confirm there were a decent number of birds present. And hearing those pre-season early-mornin’ gobbles in almost every location was giving me a great sense of anticipation.

My main farm, a lease I held in Lynchburg, was the most promising of all. It sits in Moore County, Tennessee, the epicenter of southeastern turkey hunting. It is the epitome of textbook turkey country. Its rolling oak-hickory hardwood hills are intermittently broken by cow pastures, over-grown fields, and clear-running streams. The lease is a long abandoned dairy farm consisting of three lush valleys, a hardwood plateau, and a network of logging roads, just ripe for old men with ATVs. The farm is also landlocked. Its only access through a century-and-a-half-old cemetery undoubtedly guarded by the resolute spirits of civil war soldiers.

The owner of the farm, Royce, still lives on the property. He and his wife reside in a tiny well-kept house where the chimney smoke never wanes and the woodpile never dwindles. A few days prior to my dad’s arrival I paid Royce a visit. In his slow deliberate southern speak he assured me that every morning, "gobbles rain down" from the surrounding ridges. All was well with the preparations.

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

The Anticipated Arrival

The rattling window panes and the rippling in my dog's water bowl tipped me off to their approach. One would think, or at least hope, that three elderly but eager gentleman could ride together in a super-sized pickup truck for a relaxing turkey trip down south. Nope. I should have known better.

It turns out only Frank and Charlie could fit their hunting gear into Charlie's full-Size Chevy Silverado. My dad had to bring his minivan separate which, by the way, was also was packed from floor to ceiling. Did I mention that each vehicle was pulling a trailer as well? Three tricked-out, full-size ATVs were loaded in pull-behind trailers, each ATV jampacked with overflowing gear bags mind you. I've seen U.S. Army infantry units prepped to be shipped overseas packed lighter...Yep, these boys were bringing it!

Fortunately I had arranged a couple of campers down at the Lynchburg lease for our stay. This would eliminate about three hours of driving each day, and given the payload, would save about 8,000 gallons in gas. Now if only I had rented a couple of storage sheds as well.

Needless to say, the first night spent at my house sitting around the dinner table catching up with my dad, Frank and Charlie already made the trip worthwhile for me. It was going to be one helluva a great week.


Up next...Gettin' Started!

 

Dad, Frank, and Charlie (DFC)

I would not be the person I am today without the people I look up to. There are scores of individuals I try to emulate, a few I even idolize. When it comes to hunting, however, I yearn to be one of three. And it matters not which, for all three are one. They have hunted together since the early 1960's, well over fifty years, and their stories and lessons about the outdoors truly shaped me. Quite frankly, looking back at the things they taught my brother and I, it's a wonder we are still alive.

And if you were to ask me if my outdoor mentors are great hunters from a killing standpoint, my honest answer would be no. Heck, if I relied on them for food to eat I would've been dead long ago. Truth be told, they're not good killers. Heck, I'd even classify them as bad, really bad. But I care not for they are superb hunters. Their lessons and stories are priceless, especially to a young impressionable boy who hung on their every word, who would later find out that most of their teachings would be debunked by science and all-around common sense.

But if there's one thing the three have taught me, it is that hunting is NOT about the killing. It is about the friendships that are forged and the time spent together in the field that is the greatest trophy one can acquire. For that reason, these three are the greatest hunters I have ever known.

Those three amigos go by the name of Dad, Frank, and Charlie.

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

The Characters

The Three Amigos...Dad (on right), Frank (in middle) and Charlie (on left).
 

Dad is self-explanatory. His real name is Robert but most of his friends call him Bob. Once in a while Frank will call him "Bubba" because of his boorish antics but all I have ever known him as is "dad" so that's what I shall call him. He truly is the one responsible for my being and if you don't understand that, well, it may be time for some basic biology classes, or health, or gym, or wherever that lesson took place. Anyway, other than being responsible for my birth, he truly was the one that made me love and appreciate the outdoors. Dad was a mechanic at the General Mills cereal factory in Buffalo, NY, for over forty-five years. This meant he often worked six, sometimes seven, days a week, but his vacations were spent taking his four kids camping, hunting and fishing. In all honesty, throughout my childhood, those outdoor adventures were the greatest few weeks of every year and because of them, I dedicated my life to living those vacations. Hence, I am now a wildlife biologist living my "outdoor" dream.

Charlie is my dad's best friend, actually one of two. My Dad met Charlie in 1962 in a small archery shop in downtown Buffalo. Actually it was in the basement of Teddy Cichocki's place. You have to understand in the early 1960s archery was an obscure and unhip past-time, especially in a blue-collar factory town on Lake Erie. The two hit it off pretty quickly and they began hunting together soon afterward. At first they bounced around different areas in Western New York but in the late 1960s Charlie bought a small plot of land adjacent to Bully Hill State Forest and put a fixer-upper trailer on it. "Charlie's cabin" would soon become the cornerstone of my hunting career and the place where childhood dreams were born.

Frank is the other best friend. Dad met Frank a little later in the early 70’s or as best as either of them can remember. This friendship however, was born through an involuntary relationship at first. You see Frank worked with Dad at General Mills. Back then they worked in the warehouse in what was aptly called the "loading gang". Dad was the one that introduced Frank to Charlie, once again through the common thread of hunting. I smile thinking of what today's connotation of "gang" means for that is what these three would truly become.

Without a doubt there have been many other friends these three have hung with…Mike, Ronnie, Don, Tadpole, Kofka, and Chipper, just to name a few. But all of those have come and gone, mostly on good terms, some not so much. But these three have stuck together through thick and thin and for that I am thankful.

And in case you're wondering, though their hunting days are fewer and farther between, they're still getting around even if it is at a much slower pace. Dad, Frank and Charlie share a cup of coffee almost daily and I have no doubt their stories take them to the woods and to Charlie's cabin more so now than in their prime.

These are the adventures of Dad, Frank, and Charlie...

The Cursed Spoon

Time For a Change…

I have been blessed by the heavens like no other. From the moment I could walk and talk I knew exactly what I wanted to do in life. My dad instilled in me the love of the outdoors that became the essence of who I am. For that reason, I breathe, eat, and live thinking about wildlife and Mother Nature's glorious ways. Though knowing exactly what you want to do in life seems like a trivial blessing, it is not, for it eliminates wander and waste of time. Yet given my life's clear direction I have wasted more time than I ever could justify. And for that, I am embarrassed.

You see, things have always come easy for me. My greatest achievements have more or less been handed to me. Lifelong friends have always teased me about my proverbial "silver spoon". One that I never did truly appreciate. Until now.

Looking back on my career I had major milestones that I couldn't be more thankful for. Without a doubt they are a sense of pride but in thoughtful reflection I deserved none of them. Take for example the start of my career. I dove in head first working with black bears for a small nonprofit just outside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The Appalachian Bear Center, in Townsend Tennessee, gave me my first break yet all I had in hand was a piece of paper that said I studied wildlife biology for four years. I had a scant bit of real-life wildlife experience, none of which was with bears. Go figure. I am not sure why they hired me but I am forever grateful for the Center for putting their blind faith in me, and blind is what it truly was.

Next came my opportunities with the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency.  You could say even my initial hiring was a blessing. When I applied, there was a glitch with the mandatory testing requirement so they had to accept my application as is, sans the testing. I literally walked into the agency and was immediately hired on as a Wildlife Manager. It's disheartening and somewhat embarrassing for me these days advising recent college graduates that excelled throughout their schooling yet can not even gain standing to be interviewed by the agency.

Next came my appointment as the Big Game Program Coordinator where I oversaw the state's deer, bear and elk programs. I was offered that position pretty much because no one else wanted it. In other words, there was a lean talent pool. You could say I came in just at the right time. My limited bear experience was just barely enough to tip scales and I was promoted to a statewide program manager.

And if that wasn't enough, it was long after that I was promoted to the Chief of Wildlife and Forestry for the state of Tennessee. This was a complete and utter fluke. I put my name in the hat simply to gain interview experience. My plan was to seriously consider that position in another ten years after I gained quite a bit more experience. At the time of the hiring, there were extremely well-qualified candidates. In fact, reading the resumes, mine should have been the first one thrown in the trash. Instead, the Director was looking for young blood. Someone who could talk to people and lead the agency in a new direction. That was me. Needless to say it created a lot of ill-will from a few that were passed over and I completely understand their disappointment. It should have been them. Again, it was fortuitous timing on my part but it was mostly the work of the "spoon".

With the Chief position my oversight then extended to include all forms of wildlife whether it be furred or feathered. A daunting task at first but I soon I realized I actually didn't have to do much, all I had to do was let our incredible folks in the field do what they do best. And they did it well. For the agency and the folks in the field, I am truly grateful.

Needless to say, all throughout my career I kept finding myself in a position I neither deserved nor imagined. And what did I do? Nothing...I wasted my time. Don't get me wrong, I worked hard, and did what I was supposed to do and I accomplished many "tasks". But unfortunately that's all it was...tasks and hard work. Sometimes too hard even since it came at the expense of my family. Unfortunately, long days often equates to missed opportunities.

So why was all this hard work a waste of time? It is because I never achieved my goal of making a difference. Making the natural world and all it's inhabitants a better place. So what good then have I really done?

Most people in the world get up, do their job, and go home. For them that is who they are and that is who they want to be. That is fine for them. Unfortunately that is who I was...but it is not who I am.

I want to be the one responsible for change. Positive change. Gandhi-like change but in an Aldo Leopold-esque fashion. Hell, I'd even be happy to one day be likened to Roosevelt or Pinchot. For they not only left their mark on the world, they left their mark on the lives of everyone who came after them. And it isn't just my children and grand children but YOUR children and grandchildren. They are touched by great men like that as well, often unknowingly. That is of course if you ever step foot outside, especially in a National Park or on other public lands.

Do I dream big? Hell yeah I do. I never new of anyone that dreamed of making it somewhat close to the summit.

Will I be successful?  That has yet to be determined. But one thing I know, if your reading this, I'm that much further along in my quest to make a difference, for the unspoken word is never heard.

Yeah...many folks believe I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, some even resent it. To me, it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. All I know is it's about time I start putting that spoon to work.

It's time I make a difference.

 

The Cougar's Dinner Table

We caught our breath as we crested the mountain. Knowing the locals nicknamed this place the "middle hill" I was simply grateful we weren't on what they called the "highest hill." Even though I was exhausted from the climb there was an extra bounce in my step. We were close. We knew we were in Max's backyard.

Max's home, the rugged Southern Rocky mountains.

Max is a large male cougar making his living in the rugged Rocky Mountains. Days earlier, data sent from his radio-collar revealed a cluster of locations where we now stood, a good sign that he made a recent kill. Our goal was to find that kill and gather even more information so we could gain a better understanding of the cat's behavioral relationship to large scale fire. Yes, even in today's advanced society the intricacies of nature's interconnectedness, or "nature's web" as some like to call it, are grossly misunderstood.

Art took the lead finding the kill. He had already confirmed with his tracking equipment that the cat was not on site. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. He informed me that should the carcass still have meat, the cat would probably still be in the general vicinity. Thus, he concluded the kill had been completely consumed. He figured Max had already moved out of the area and was once again on the prowl.

Having visited dozens of kill sites it didn't take Art long to find what he was looking for...the scattered remains of an adult cow elk. Scattered was an understatement.

It was my first visit to a cougar kill site and I must admit I was experiencing an unsolicited reverence. I had studied and managed megafauna my entire life but I was particularly fond of large carnivores, bears mostly. I had nothing against cougars, in fact, I was quite enthralled with them given their standing as an apex predator. However, being a wildlife biologist in Tennessee for almost twenty years, my cougar experience was relegated to books, videos, and my long-ago studies. At the time of my southeast residency, my adopted state simply did not have free-ranging cougars though many have argued. Needless to say, walking up to a confirmed kill site for the first time was truly a humbling experience.

The fetor of death hit me first. It was musty and deep. Organic even. Strangely it wasn't offensive. At least to me it wasn't. I have been around enough dead animals in my life to know when something smells putrid. This was none of that. The smell was inspiriting, undoubtedly stemming from the basic understanding that in death comes life. It is a concept few understand and even fewer accept. So instead of wreaking like a dead rotting elk, to me, it smelled like an invigorated and fattened cat.

A carpet of elk hair marked the site.

The site itself was quite large, defined primarily by the scattering of remains. And unfortunately Art was correct, nearly the entire elk carcass had been consumed. All that remained was a 20-ft diameter carpet of hair and scant skeletal remains consisting of the skull, spinal cord, and a few ribs. This was definitely one fat and happy cat, at least for the time being.

Art immediately went to work. A wildlife biologist's job is absolutely the best job in the world but it is not without its mundane chores, data collection being one of them. I asked if he needed any help but like a good student he declined for consistency in data collection is critical in scientific analysis. As he collected coordinates, vegetation types, distances to ambush cover, and a whole host of other variables, I simply reflected, only interrupting my thoughts to snap a few pictures.

My thoughts once again drifted to Max. Not so much wondering where he was in the present but rather contemplating his recent past. Having recently killed a bull elk this past fall I was quite aware of the sheer size of its most recent prey. Whereas I had the benefit of a bow equipped with razor-sharp broadheads, Max simply had his jaws, claws, and sheer will to bring down the elk. A truly impressive feat by any animal's standards. Ironically, however, what I thought about most was why cougars and other large carnivores get a bad rap and are reviled and feared by so many.

Is it because of the size of their prey?

Think about it. Animals eat animals all the time. Shrews, weasels, foxes, skunks, raccoons, hawks, owls, eagles, you name it, are all ruthless killers when their stomach beckons. Why is it then that human tolerance for predators wanes with size? There has to be some evolutionary fear built in. Is it because of the fact that man was probably on the menu of the largest predators not too long ago. But why now? In all our comforts and luxuries and modern day advancements we maintain an evolutionary grudge. It's funny, of all the animals I study, the species that stumps me most is the one in which I am a member. See how my mind wanders?



The joy of data collection.

Art broke the silence first by commenting on how little of the carcass remained. He mentioned that normally he would extract a tooth from the carcass so he could send it to a lab for aging purposes. And that's when I decided to make myself useful. Having aged thousands of deer that was one thing I was pretty good at. All I had to do was find the lower jaw. A quick examination of the teeth would give us a rough idea of the age of the elk.

At 10+ years of age, she was an old cow elk.

I eventually found the jaw against a stump about six feet from where the skull lay. It was literally picked clean making aging fairly simple. The process involves looking at the amount of wear on the molars to determine the age of the animal. It's not exact, but it gets you close.

This one was easy...old, very old.

Her teeth were literally worn down to the gums. And since a cow elk's life span is generally in the 10-14 year age range, I estimated her age to be at a minimum ten years old.

Was she on a downward decline? Was this why Max took her? We will never know but we have always been taught that large predators keep herds healthy by preying on the old, the young, and the weak. Art assured me, however, that he has seen animals in their prime fall victim to a cat's hunger pangs, especially when the pangs emanate from within the gut of an adult male lion. We both agreed though that opportunism was the driving force behind their feeding preferences so it still stood to reason that the weakest and slowest animals generally offered the most opportunity. So If there's ever a reason to be thankful for predators, it is for giving us the fleet of foot ungulates like deer, elk, and antelope. Had early man killed off all predators, who knows, we could be living in a world dominated by cows. And what fun would that be?

Alas, the data collection was done. Time to stop day dreaming and prepare for the hike back. Fortunately, the trek back to the vehicles would be much easier, at least on the lungs. But before we left, I paid tribute once more to the scene before me. I briefly thought of taking a small piece of the carcass to remind me of this wonderfully unique and inspiring experience but I need not, for tokens are not necessary.

I now carry that experience eternally and for that I am grateful.
 

On the Trail of the Cougar

An immense valley stood before us. It's endless grasses forming a formidable expanse between us and the cougar's kill site. It's no wonder the Spaniards nicknamed this place the "great valley". Sensing the wet mushiness of what lay head, I wasn't considering this place to be so 'great', especially since I only donned ankle high boots. The melt from the snowpack kept the entire valley moist and the meandering tributaries of the river that cut a swath through the heart of it were bound to be colder and deeper than usual. Oh well...at least it was a beautiful day, I was bound dry quickly.

Recent snows turned the floor of the valley into mush.

Art and I were about to strike out across the valley. Our destination, a potential kill site from Max, a large male cougar that resides deep within the forests of the Southern Rockies. Art is the graduate student tasked with gathering the field data and as my luck would have it, he's about six foot four and all leg. Keeping up with him on the trail was going to be a chore. In all actuality, it mattered not what my hiking partner looked like, I'd come up with some lame excuse for being slow. I guess being fat and out-of-shape is simply the excuse I always try to avoid.

The trek begins...

Having to walk across the grassy expanse to start the day wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. If you selected your footsteps carefully and aimed for the mounded tufts of Arizona fescue you could reasonably prevent sinkage. But alas, some sections were just too liquidy or the grass simply too sparse it wasn't long before both feet had been completely submerged. Fortunately for me it wasn't nearly as cold as I anticipated and I knew that although it was bothersome, the "wetness" would dry quickly. For one thing that is not only comforting, but reliable at high altitude, is that radiant heat on a warm sunny day dries things in a very short period of time. But then came the river, a meandering pesky little river at that, and it was smack dab in the middle of the grass valley we were crossing.

The river seemed so small...until we needed to cross it.

It is barely visible from a distance. In fact, from the road it looks like a big ol' black hair that has fallen on a large blank green sheet of paper. It's noticeable but not overwhelming. That is of course until you have to cross it.

The water feature itself is a typical southwestern river, barely wide enough to actually call it a river yet wider than your best jump in most places, hence the word "pesky". No worries though, upon finally fording the main channel and its multiple tributaries meant my boots could finally catch a break and begin their drying process.

What thrilled me most though upon on each crossing was the sheer number of trout that darted from each and every shadowy undercut. I took a mental note for when the fisherman in me begins to grow restless. And as romantic as it would have been to glimpse the native cutthroats flashing about in this high sacred place, wisdom told me that the non-native rainbows now dominated most of its current stretches. Alas, man and his infinite wisdom.

 

The climb...

It took about 45 minutes to cross the wet grassy expanse and reach tree line. As glad as I was to be walking on firmer ground, I knew things were about to get tougher. We paused for a moment while Art checked his equipment.

A mile up the drainage to the kill site. At least that's what his GPS said.

His other piece of equipment, a radio antenna and receiver, suggested Max was nowhere to be found, at least not in this drainage. It was both disappointing and reassuring all in the same breath. So upward we climbed.

The Southern Rocky Mountains...one of the most beautiful places on earth.

The first half-mile or so wasn't too bad. Art only paused twice to let me catch up. The gradient was enough to make my lungs strain but not enough to make them burn. That burning sensation was sure to come later.

At one pit stop early in the climb, Art mentioned the abundance of obsidian. My focus on the hike blinded my sense of awareness and I hadn't even noticed. Upon rousing me from my walkers' trance, I noticed the black shards at my feet and marveled at the abundance of the smooth shiny rocks. Art then assured me that had we gone one more drainage over I would truly marvel at the site, for it was nicknamed obsidian valley for a reason.

The next peak held Max's kill site.

The mountain was predominantly Ponderosa pine and a bit of mixed conifer, the only difference was that the lower reaches were untouched by a massive fire a decade prior. After about thirty minutes into the climb we crested the hill and there it was before me, in all its glory...another freaking hill, this one taller and steeper than the one we just summited.

Sigh.

"Please don't tell me the kill site is on top of there?" was my immediate question.

Art's facial expression said it all. I immediately began apologizing and told him I would "meet him up there" but he would have none of it. He said we had all day. I didn't have the heart to tell him I just might need it.

So did I mention burning lungs?

Notice the elk poop!

The last 200 yards of the climb was a good bit of rock climbing, like the don't-lose-your-footing kind. Besides that, I was sucking wind...big time. And I was fast and furious with the excuses, altitude always being my fall back. If I was lucky, Art wouldn't notice the extra thirty pounds of fat I was carrying.

At long last we summited. And I rested.

The landscape here was much different than a few hundred feet below. Most trees were scorched, with nary a live branch. It would have appeared that this lunarscape would be desolate and devoid of life, that is of course until you looked down. The amount of elk scat scattered about the hillside was almost unfathomable. If one were to stumble on a deadfall you would almost assuredly land in a fresh pile. Heck, even some of the deadfalls had fresh deposits on them. Whatever it was about this mountain it sure attracted the elk. It's no wonder Max dined here frequently.

Now to find his dinner table.

Dinner Date with a Cougar

I was invited to a meal with one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever laid eyes on, actually two of them to be exact. But alas... they were both dinner date no shows. Either that or they split as soon as they saw me coming. And if you don't think my mind was awash with painful memories from high school and college, you obviously don't know me very well. Those memories are hard to shake. But today's no show, although a bit of a let-down, had some inkling of relief mixed in, for these were no standard dinner dates. They were not the dates many young men dream of, no...they were real-deal cougars. They were fine specimens of Puma concolor, also known as mountain lions or panthers.



My dream date!

The date itself was arranged by a friend of mine who is a cougar specialist in the Southern Rockies. He  has been tracking the large cats for a number of years trying to measure their response to large-scale fires. One would think it's quite intuitive. Vegetation patterns change in response to disturbance, ungulates follow the changing food sources, and hence the cats follow suit and go wherever their prey goes. Unfortunately assumptions usually lead us astray so it's always good to verify what's really go on out there. Looking at detailed data and seeing how every trophic level reacts to the change will ultimately allow wildlife managers to better predict response to catastrophic fire.

As impressive as this sounds, this is just but one of the many potential products that may come from this project. There are other facets being investigated as well, one of which is kleotoparasitism from bears. This is simply a fancy word for the act of a bear stealing a cougar's meal after he has killed it. Thus, the need to set up trail cameras over fresh cougar kill sites.

Needless to say I was just happy to be along for the ride. Our mission for the day was to locate two recent cougar kill sites and collect some of that much needed data.

Let me first start by explaining that finding a cougar kill site is not as easy as my pen makes it out to be. These cats are smart. Not only do they ambush large ungulates, mostly mule deer and elk, from concealed ambush points, they then often drag their kill to a concealed location where they bury the carcass for consumption. Total consumption may take few days or in some instances with an extremely large carcass, a few weeks. This latter "burial" place is usually called a cache site. And yes, a large male cougar can drag a 700 pound adult elk to a more secure site if need be, a true testament to the brute strength and fierce determination of these predators.

What makes finding these kill and cache sites even remotely possible is technology. If not for having cats with radio-collars, finding fresh-kills would be akin to finding a needle in a haystack. As an apex predator, they are simply few and far between. Fortunately, however, these tracking devices change the game.

Whenever possible, cougars are captured and fitted with radio collars. What is remarkable is that today's collars are equipped with extraordinary features that truly benefit both cat and researcher. One of those features is capturing a GPS coordinate at timed intervals. For this particular study, the collar records a data point every three hours. If the data shows a cluster of GPS coordinates within the same 150 meter area it is assumed the lion made a kill and is on or near the cache site. And when the data creates a cluster, the real work begins. Never knowing when this clustering is likely to occur, the biologist and their team must stand at the ready.

It just so happened to be my luck that our subject, a large male cougar that I will call "Max", created a cluster in the heart of a pretty rugged area and it was up to me and Art, a grad student, to investigate.

Fine....it was truly up to Art. I was just a tag-a-long, but little did I care. I was going to visit my first-ever cougar kill site!

Up next...Tracking Max's Kill

Nature beckons company...

Mother Nature is perfect in every way. She is the epitome of extremes. Her grand design allows her to be peaceful and serene, lying disguised as a motionless pond awaiting the first ripple of life as a new day dawns. Yet in a blink, she can also be violent and eruptive, uprooting a majestic oak from its staunch and steadfast earthen hold. She can be compassionately harsh, beautifully grotesque, piercingly quiet, and inconsequentially grand. She sometimes offers everything but reveals nothing. She is a canvas awaiting paint, allowing each and every person to make whatever masterpiece their imaginations and dreams desire.

Is it any wonder why she calls out to so many?

I am drawn to her.

I listen to her invitations.

She calls to me daily but like her gamut of extremes, her solicitations appeal to me in various ways.

Sometimes she invites just me and me alone, yet sometimes I can’t help but show her off to the masses.

Don’t get me wrong, Mother Nature has bestowed upon me many wonderfully lonesome memories that I alone will cherish. As a young boy, no one else can even begin to understand the significance of seeing that snowy owl perched on a snag in the midst of a desolate swamp and watching in wonderment as she flew off in graceful yet stunning silence. And yes, that single experience helped shape who I am today. I wanted… no… I needed to learn more about this “nature”.

As rewarding as those solitary moments are, when it comes to Mother Nature, more often than not, I want to share her. There are not enough fingers and toes of my closest kin to count how many times I have seen or experienced something wonderful from her and thought to myself, “If only _________ could see this now.”

To me, it seems as if my humble soul is not worthy enough to be the sole benefactor of Nature’s beauty. Why is it that I should be the only one blessed by her glory? This is why, if I have the option to share her gifts, I plan on taking those closest to me so I can bestow upon them those same favors.

Such was the case a few years ago.

Though my outdoor exploits predominantly don’t involve the report of a gun to conclude my experience, I had the opportunity to introduce the agency’s newest employee to his first ever Tennessee-style turkey hunt. Did I have a good farm where I knew there were birds. Yep. Could I have gone there alone to improve my odds of coaxing in the potentially call-wary gobblers? Probably. Did I make the right choice by bringing “Joe” along to feel the hallowed reverberations as the two long-beards strutted and announced their dominance to my decoys? Absolutely.

To say I enjoy experiencing Mother Nature with someone else is an understatement. There is something magical about sharing her splendor with another soul. It’s akin to writing a book where the reader can not only empathize with the words, but they can be washed away in that experience with the simple closing of their eyes.

I hope to continue to share those experiences, whether or not it’s on a hunt or after summiting a tall lonely mountain that’s been on my “to do” list. Oh well, after a long day on the trail in the heat and sweat, I often times find myself aromatically putrid. Hey, you know what? ….I guess I sometimes have a lot in common with that "nature" girl I love.