So Far from Perfect

Every once in a while I scroll through my Facebook feed and I look back on old posts and I can’t help but smile seeing some of my past adventures and accomplishments. I truly am blessed. But it is not the whole story. In fact, it’s a fairly distorted one. I am so far from perfect it’s quite numbing sometimes. Don’t believe me? Just ask my wife.

Rarely do I ever post about my failures and frustrations which are simply too numerous to recall. Troubles are always lurking just below the surface... financial, professional, moral, health, teenage boys... you name it, I suffered, and will continue to suffer, through it until the day I die. And you know what? I welcome it. 

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I am wanting to struggle but I realize I am human and it is a constant part of our life. It is what makes us stronger. In actuality, a truly strong person is not someone who stands tall in times of plenty but someone who pulls it together and holds firm in times of famine and weakness, so these trials and tribulations serve a great purpose.

Anyway, I heard a story over the weekend that really hit home and put this whole “life” situation in perspective. Someone recounted how they were going through a severe bout of depression and during their struggle they drove to the top of Sandia Crest. As they gazed upon a seemingly bleak and brown landscape below, they noticed a thin thread of brilliant greenery and color in the valley below. This, of course, was the Rio Grande River in all it’s glory. And then it dawned on him that that beautiful and brilliant “oasis” was the lowest point in the valley. Oh the irony.

Sometimes it takes those low points in life for us to see the beauty that is not only before us but within us. Remember, holidays are quite often very difficult times for many people and they are often seen as low points in someone’s life. Here’s to hoping each and everyone of you find the beauty and your strength within.

Homeward Bound

The call of “home” is strong in many individuals. Just like you and I have that place

that is near and dear to us, a place we call “home”.... so too do bears.



I recently had the pleasure of retelling a story of one of my favorite bears. It was a small cub I had nicknamed Houdini who had escaped from the bear center (ABR) back in the day when the center was mostly a mere “fence in the woods.” To make matters worse, the cub had a surgically repaired hind leg that needed copious amounts of rest. Her shaved lower half plainly told the story of her recent misfortune. (Houdini's Story)

Upon her escape, one would think that after the bear had acquired her freedom, she would hunker down in the immediate area since her leg was probably still very sore and there were ample amounts of food for the taking. Add to the fact that since she had eluded my grasp, I was trying to lure her back with some extremely tempting treats. It mattered not that the tasty morsels were at the back of a few small traps designed to reclaim the lost bear. Needless to say, I was going to give her every scrumptious reason to stay in the area.

A few days passed, then a week, then a few weeks, which soon turned into a month, then two. I had to face the facts... she was gone.

But where did she go?

A few days later I knew exactly where.

Kim Delozier, head biologist of Great Smoky Mountain National Park, called and asked me if I recognized a bear with a shaved back-end at Chimneys picnic area...the EXACT SAME PLACE he had trapped the cub a few months earlier.

Houdini had gone home.

Given the fact that she was a six-month old cub, had a severely broken back leg, AND had traveled 22 air miles (heaven knows how many actual miles she traveled), this was not only a remarkable feat but it showed just how strong the homing instinct is in black bears, regardless of the bear’s age. Also, anyone that has ever trapped and moved bears can rightfully attest that they usually "show back up." In other words, they like to be “home”.


Now to the lesson...

As past curator for the ABR, I was often asked about the release of cubs and why we don’t try keeping some cubs together, especially if they “made friends” while at the center. The answer was simple in my mind but I finally realized it might not be so simple to someone on the outside, who didn't have quite as much bear experience. The answer was simple... I cared too much for their survival.

You see, bears, other than time with "mom" are not social animals. While at the bear center, the bears are sometimes forced to socialize due to the cramped quarters, they have no other choice. Some don’t even do that and they remain solitary throughout their stay. Most, however, tolerate each other and soon hang out together. Here is where it gets tricky and people wonder why we don’t release cubs together.

We always try to release the bears near where they came from, in other words, we try to release them as close to their “home” as possible. This way, they don’t wander so much. When they wander, they put themselves more at risk, not just from encountering other bears but from exposing themselves to people and other dangers. Crossing roads, stumbling through neighborhoods, and encountering numerous other obstacles all increases the bear’s chance of NOT surviving. Therefore, if a bear is taken to a foreign area and released just so he or she could be with another bear, there is a really good chance the two will soon split up and the bear that is released far from home may begin their long-distance travels. As you could imagine...this is NOT good.

So if two bears became “friends” at the bear center and are separated upon release  because they come from two different areas, it’s not because we don’t care about them, rather, it’s because we care too much for them. We always want to give our bears the best possible chance of surviving. Anyway...they are just glad to finally be HOME.

The Smarter Society

Have We Really Advanced?

I began my day running into a high-end luxury spa in Taos, New Mexico. Trust me it was not my intended choice of destinations but sometimes urgency from the bowel region dictates your immediate course of action. My apologies but that was the most polite way I could say “bathroom break”. Anyway, my pitstop found me in a restroom like no other I had ever been. The decor oozed of luxury while the amenities exuded sophistication. In fact, I had a little trouble figuring out what was the actual sink versus what was artwork. I was relieved for the second time when an ornate stone orifice sprung forth with a steady stream of warm water when I magically waved my hand in front of it. Lucky guess on my part. As I exited the resort I briefly conversed with a hurried parking lot attendee who disdainfully reminded me that my diesel pickup up truck made it difficult for the vast array of luxury cars to get by. I dismissed his foul mood, hopped in my burdensome diesel, and bothered him no more.

My day continued.

My next destination, and what I truly came for, was the Taos Pueblo. I don’t mean the village where all the native Pueblo Indians live, I mean the actual building, the one that has been occupied by the same family’s for over 1000 years. The oldest continuously occupied residence in North America. As the Taos people recall, the one that has stood standing since time immemorial. My tour guide was beaming with pride and had a great big smile as she reminded us that everything around here has stood since time immemorial. Her happiness and excitement were contagious.

Beyond the condo-like Pueblo, there were a few other structures, mostly single residences. Off in the corner lie the remains of the old church, mostly outlines of a foundation, a place where 350 women and children were massacred in an invasion centuries ago, all marked by wooden crosses within the foundation’s perimeter. And then there was the new church, the newest building in the historic Pueblo area. It was built a few short years ago in 1850. No wonder it looked pristine.

Scattered about the grounds, usually adjacent to living quarters, were small adobe ovens. It is where most of the cooking is done on feast days, events that apparently occur quite often for the people here are always celebrating life. In fact, as I looked around I noticed that all of the structures were made of adobe, a simple combination of mud and straw. I was instructed that once or twice a year everyone recoats their house to build back up what the rains have washed away. This is what gives the structures the thick solid look. They also provide shade in the summer and warmth in the winter.

As I was talking to my still-smiling tour guide I noticed one of the residents slowly walking to a nearby stream to retrieve water. I was informed that the residents still drink the water straight from the stream, it is one of the few places where the water remains pure, cold, and plentiful. She reminded me that the village not only had no plumbing, they had no electricity. We were truly standing in a time forgotten.

And then I took a seat on a worn and weathered bench.

In the span of an hour I saw two divergent worlds. One, a world where time has stood still. Where the complexities of life and the advancements of the new world were available but politely declined. Where life was not only quiet but simple. A place where people were not only content, but truly happy.

Then there was the other world. Sadly, my world. A place where time never slows, rather it speeds. Where advances were not only adopted but soon brushed aside for newer advances. Rather than helping to make life simpler, they made life more complex. A place where people are rarely content, and never truly happy.

As I sat and watched the people before me, smiling as they went about their business, I couldn't help but wonder who was truly the more advanced society. To me, it was a no brainer, for the greatest advancement of all is being able to make time stand still. A place where time itself is immemorial.

Hello Bear!

 

It was late winter 1999 and the bear center had a couple of neonatal cubs that needed fostering to wild mother bears. We had already successfully fostered the cub’s sibling the week before so we were eager to get this cub united with a new mom. It wasn’t going to be long. A female had been located the day before within Great Smoky Mountain National Park and she appeared to be in prime condition having recently given birth to a few cubs of her own. She looked as if she would do just fine. The opportunity seemed perfect so the arrangements were made with the University of Tennessee bear researchers.

The next day, the hike to the den was nothing spectacular from a difficulty standpoint. In fact, it was rather simple and uneventful. It was only about a mile down a well-traveled trail and maybe thirty yards off the beaten path. What always made me smile seeing a den like this was how close by folks often walk to a sleeping bear. I have no doubt hundreds, if not thousands, passed within a stone’s throw of this mother and her cubs and none were the wiser.

The den itself was a typical bear den for the Smokies, made from the remnants of a monarch of a tree. This den, however, was not located up high within the bole of the tree, for the tree itself was long gone. What remained was a behemoth of a stump and a tangle of sturdy deep-reaching roots. I imagine in no time at all, upon finding the remnants on the tree, mom had excavated a nice comfy cavity in the loosely packed soil beneath. The freshly mounded dirt at the entrance of her den still smelled of raw earth and quite honestly, it smelled heavenly.

It would be a few minutes as the two lead researchers, Frank and Don, made careful preparations. Cub in hand, I waited patiently a short distance away for them to sedate the mother. Hibernating bears, though a little groggy at first are still a formidable animal. Common sense also tells us it’s never a good idea for a rousing mother bear to hear a bawling cub nearby by. I couldn’t help but imagine it would get the adrenaline rushing in both the mother bear and the crazy stupid human holding the cub (Me!).

Mother bears, though asleep, can wake relatively quickly.

Needless to say momma went down quietly and Frank and Don begin their work. Their first order of business was to extract the female’s natural cubs and hand them to us so we could collect measurements and apply our secret solution to the cubs, also known as Vicks VapoRub (the reasoning for that process is described in a different blog.) Interestingly enough, cub data wasn’t of utmost importance. When it came to the primary study, one of the key aspects of their research was to collect information to learn more about den selection. This included taking measurements both inside and outside the den. The end goal of this research was simply to find out what makes for a good bear den.

The cool thing with this particular den was that it actually had two different entrances, one in the front and a less conspicuous smaller entrance in the back. I guess given the proximity of the den to the hiking trail, if the bear wanted a way to make a hasty retreat should she need it, she could simply scoot out the back. Fortunately the hole in the rear of the den was just large enough for the second researcher, Don, to crawl into, but just barely. His job was to replace the radio collar that was on the female’s neck since its battery life was just about up. This was an ideal situation since with two people working together to collect the information and replace the collar, it was only going to take half the amount of time had only one person been able to crawl inside the den.

Enter the importance of communication!

 

A typical day doing bear den work.

 

As we stood outside, the view was quite comical with only Frank’s legs from the knee down protruding from the den entrance. Don was in a similar position on the opposite side of the tree. Their bodies looked like two human tent spikes staking in the tree stump. What was fascinating to think about however, was that between the two of them lie a 200+ pound black bear momma quietly sleeping away with the help of a little bit of drug. Regardless of the certainty of the drug concoction, it had to be a pretty intense time.

 

That was when it happened.

 

There were three of us standing there with cubs in hand and before we knew what happened, there were four of us.

 

Frank had appeared in the blink of an eye.

 

Not only was he looking a little bit white but he was wild-eyed with multiple leaves stuck in his hair. It honestly looked as if he saw a ghost!

 

“What happened down there?” We asked excitedly.

 

“Mom’s waking up!”

 

In a mad scramble to help Don who was still down there we heard giggles that assured us he was okay.

 

Remember that part about communication?

 

Since Frank and Don were on opposite ends of the den with a bear in between, they couldn’t see what each other was doing. As Frank was measuring the height of the middle interior of the den, he was pretty much lying right up against the bear. As Frank looked up to record the measurement, momma bear also lifted her head and stared directly into Frank’s eyes.

 

Hello Bear!!!

 

It was then that Frank, using his abdominal muscles only, made a hasty retreat in 0.23 seconds flat. A feat even Usain Bolt would be proud of! What Frank didn’t know, was that it was Don that lifted her head to remove the collar…hence the giggles. 

As we laughed about the situation, I could only imagine what was going through Frank’s mind the moment that sequence occurred…nose to nose with an unhappy momma bear in the confines of her den. All I can say is I am glad it wasn't me!

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To hear more "Bear Tales," and other wonderful bear adventures join Daryl Ratajczak as he recounts some of his favorite bear stories from his career as a wildlife biologist. The best thing...you can participate from the comfort of your own home! Register for his webinar titled, "Bear Tales" by sending an email to: wildlifeforyoutraining@gmail.com

 

A portion of the proceeds will be donated to the Appalachian Bear Rescue in Tennessee to care for orphaned and injured cubs from the Smokies and surrounding areas.

 

Registration and seat availability is first-come-first-served.

 

 

 

 

 

The Call of the Den

Her head turned upward, still gazing forward toward the crest of the mountain before her.

 

 

The most perfect of snowflakes settled on the tip of her moist, sensitive nose. Lasting but a moment, the ice crystal quickly liquified and was immediately inhaled. It carried with it a subtle reminder that caused her to pause, she turned to look downward toward the darkening hollow but the stark bitter wind that was now rushing up the steep unforgiving slope reminded her it was not worth her effort to turn back to scavenge what was remaining of the deer carcass that lay frozen in the valley below. Mostly bone and hide, she had feasted on its meager offerings the night before, licking clean the last remaining remnants of muscle and sinew. It was literally the icing on the cake, her last savory and somewhat nourishing meal before her body's clock wound down. Soon she would lay within the tight but comfortable confines of the mighty chestnut oak. 

While rooting for acorn weeks before, she had found the den site nestled high on the rocky ledge. The tree stood steadfast for centuries less than a hundred feet below the summit. The bastketball-sized opening revealed to her a hollow only slightly bigger than her curled up frame. That was all she needed. Pleased with its accommodations she decided it was there she would spend the winter. So she continued her search for food. The den would wait.

She did well in preparing her body. Her rich, jet-black coat was in pristine condition bundling in a thick, luxurious layer of fat she had accumulated over the last three months. Gorging herself on the mountain's rich bounty of mast, she nearly doubled in size securing the fate of her pending cubs. Once again, she proved she would make a strong and fit mother. Time would soon reveal how many cubs she would bear, no matter the number, she was ready.

And the den called.

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The above scene repeats itself countless times throughout most of North America as black bears prepare for a long winter's nap. What many folks don't realize, however, is that black bears don't really hibernate, at least not in the sense of a true hibernator. Unlike woodchucks and other true hibernators that go into a coma-like state, bears pretty much just go into a deep sleep. In fact, they are so good at sleeping some people call them "nature's super sleepers."

If you want to learn more about the amazing world of black bear hibernation, join black bear specialist Daryl Ratajczak on an intriguing and fun adventure into a bears den. "Nature's Super Sleepers" is an interactive Webinar you can enjoy from the comforts of your own home. Join in on Tuesday, September 26th at 8:00 pm and learn what goes on physically to a bear's body that to this day, still stumps the medical world. For more information or to register for the class ($15) send an email inquiry to wildlifeforyoutraining@gmail.com.


Photos by Bob Howdeshell at: http://www.bobhowdeshell.com/

 

Science in a Connected World

The lines between real science and popular science have been blurred. In today's world of lightning fast advancements the vision needs focus soon.

It amazes me the information at my fingertips. With the click of a button or the tap of a screen I can find out how many olfactory sensors are within the lining of a bear's nose just as easily as I can find out the final score of the Yankee's double-header. The wealth of information within my reach is both powerful and satisfying. Yet equal to my amazement is my deep and unsettling concern.

In times past, it was relatively safe to assume that most information provided to the public en masse was fairly trustworthy. This is because before the advancement of electronic media, it took both time and expense to publish materials for widespread consumption. Anecdotal information and tomfoolery were not worth the expense to seek publication. Why spend hard-earned money if what you have to say is unproven or simply meant as a joke?

Now enter the World Wide Web and the age of information sharing. A place where people can not only dream of being anything they want they can become anything they want. Wiith simple keystrokes of their computer, they can capture their beliefs on any given topic and have an audience with anyone willing to listen or read. This is an absolutely wonderful platform for the arts where expression and creativity are the ultimate goal. This freedom to be heard, however, oftentimes has dreadful consequences for the sciences, a world in which scientific rigors are the sculpting tool necessary for accuracy of information.

You see, the sciences are founded on the scientific method. It includes making an observation, forming a hypothesis and making a prediction, then testing that prediction based on scientific experimentation, the results of which validate or invalidate your hypothesis. This process is how all the sciences advance, including biology, chemistry, physics, geology, psychology, and many more. In simplest form it is about finding the truth. It is a rigorous and beautiful process that requires peer review to make sure corners aren't cut and results can be duplicated. In no short order, it is what has built and shaped societies and everything we know about the natural world. Now enter my concern.

Within the last few years, science has become increasingly diluted because of this unregulated platform we call electronic media. On that platform beliefs and hypotheses have been promoted as fact without ever having been tested and have been filtered out to the general public. Don't get me wrong, the scientific method is alive and well and as strong as ever within the world of academia but it is being overwhelmed by "Hollywood-like" approaches where salesmanship and pictures often trump proven scientific results. None more so than in the world of wildlife biology.

I will give you a prime example. The public, by and large, loves wildlife. For some reason, most people believe that it is beneficial to feed wildlife yet countless research studies demonstrate the negative consequences of supplementally feeding wildlife. In fact, very few if any scientific studies suggest supplemental feeding is beneficial to the long-term health of wildlife populations. Then why does this feeding myth abound? Simple… someone put out food for an animal and saw how it helped that one individual animal. Their observation then suddenly jumped to fact that artificial feeding is beneficial to wildlife without ever having tested all the variables. Absent were the latent effects that were not readily observed. Impacts to other species, increase in capacity for disease transmission, changes in carrying capacity, and altered natural behavior are rarely viewed by the untrained eye.

Even worse is when unproven or detrimental actions are found to be profitable because they are soon marketed as scientifically-based. The proverbial "I saw it on TV or I read it on the internet so it must be true" conundrum. Yes, the advent and spread of fake news goes far beyond the political world.

Fortunately, any trained professional or critical thinker can see through the false claims but therein lies the problem. The overwhelming majority of the public doesn't fall in either of those categories, therefore, unproven claims are now becoming the leading "science." This worries me. Now in our prospective fields, discoveries no longer simply have to be revealed, they have to compete with and refute "popular science." Not an easy task in the ultra-rich world of marketing and media. It is no longer a desire to promote the most accurate information, it is simply who has the best pictures or story to tell regardless of its accuracy.

Mass communication is a wonderful thing. But communication without the ability to filter truth from falsehoods is not communication at all. It is simply static and wasted effort and I for one would like to see science return to what it once was, a tool for advancing our ever-growing body of knowledge.

 

 

Life Lessons Through Crawdads

Their wide-eyed, slack-jawed, teary-eyed stare told the story. They were faced with a difficult decision that was about to teach them a life lesson about life itself.

My boys and I spent the better part of the morning walking along a clear, cold-runnin' creek in Western New York. One would think the highlight of our backwoods adventure was the beautiful velvet 10-point we caught sneaking along in the waters' edge but it wasn't. Instead, our prized possession ambled lazily about on the bottom of a faded ol' blue beach pail, the kind with the cheap white plastic handle. Inside its keep scurried about two dozen of Mother Nature's finest looking crawdads, or crayfish as those northern folk like to call 'em.

The mornin' was spent teachin' the boys to catch crawdads. It only took but a few tries for my nine-year old son Jarret to get the catchin' technique down, red solo cups serving as our instruments of capture. Once he realized their first move is always a straight shot backwards, he anticipated well and positioned the red plastic trap perfectly. Of course those elusive ones that skirted the cup and brushed his hand or his foot caused him to start, but I didn't care, the smile on his face and giggle in his voice assured me he was in no danger.

Ryan, my six-year-old, was a totally different story. He was tryin' to rewrite my age-old crawdad catchin' instructions. He couldn't quite figure out why you couldn't just reach down and grab them where they set. Though he tried with all his might, he just couldn't get close enough to grab ahold of one. When they shot clear of his five-fingered claw, he wasn't near as startled by the mini-lobsters as his older brother but that was simply because he wasn't taught to be afraid of them. I was thankful for that but after awhile I finally convinced him to let the cup do the catchin'.

Needless to say the mornin' was glorious and before long the midday sun was reminding us that grandma would soon have lunch waiting for the boys. I looked down to see the boys' tally. Though they had initially started keeping track of who caught more it was soon apparent that Jarret was going to win that contest. Fortunately Ryan bested him in the biggest crawdad category so each boy was beaming from ear to ear. That's when I dropped the bomb on them.

I didn't even think twice before giving the order. We had to hike back up to the main road and start heading home so I wasn't about to lug a big ol' pail full of water. My simple words were, "All right boys… dump'em out."

You would think I just sold the boys to the neighbors for an ice cold coke.

Both boys stood in shock not believin' what they just heard.

"What d'ya mean dump 'em out? We just caught them!" was my son's exasperated cry.

I then explain how we needed to get home but my words fell on deaf ears for they could not understand why they couldn't just keep them. And thus began the lesson.

When I had finished explaining how Mother Nature created the perfect system, and that animals were not meant as an instrument of play but rather of respect or nourishment, I left the boys with two options.

One...we could relieve the bucket of its contents and return the crawdads to their watery crevices knowing full well we could enjoy yet another day pursuing our clawed quarry.

Or two... they become dinner.

The boys desire to take them home to "play with," at the creatures expense no less, was simply not an option. Life is simply too valuable to disregard no matter the size of the creature, save insects, of course...you can always squash those biting bothersome kind.

Needless to say, grandma wasn't too happy her good cooking pot smelt of creek water, but the crawdads sure made for a fine fare that evenin'. And yes, even the six-year-old was sucking the meat from the tiny but tasty tails.

I was ever so thankful for that long ago creekside lesson because it was one that instilled a reverence in my boys. Whether it be from the pull of a trigger or the setting of a hook, they now understand they are staking a claim to an animal's life and that need not ever be taken lightly.

If only more folks learnt lessons from crawdads.

 

 

Eclipse

If it takes an eclipse...

...for faces to turn skyward and gasp in admiration and awe at the beauty Nature bestows, then so be it.

My eclipse happens daily. As the sun swallows the moon awaiting its moment to burst forth in wondrous glory, so too does the overlooked and misshapen chrysalis. Its resultant beauty far outlasting a mere few moments, for nature is my ever-present eclipse.

Each morning I gaze upon the high peaks of the Sangre de Cristos as she tightly embraces the sun's streaming rays finally relenting when the celestial body rises beyond her steadfast grasp. Hours later, that same glowing body assumes a new dance partner far to the west, teasingly caressing the delicate folds of the Sandia's warm granite face. I view the splendid dance routinely. She is my eclipse.

Yet, my gaze is not always heavenly. My eclipse sometime occurs with a downward glance. The desiccated formations of a recently vanished mud puddle are often beyond description and hidden to the untrained eye. Their magnificence only lasting until Mother earth is moistened once again from above. And then the toadstool becomes my eclipse. I am thankful so few recognize these events for it keeps the incessant crowd at bay.

I see my eclipse when I close my eyes. The mere thought of her complexity and beauty is more grand than any celestial offerings. Simply knowing that she is out there, always at my fingertips, not only provides comfort but hope as well, not needing to wait decades for another chance to see her.

My eclipse is truly amazing in her wondrous beauty and I am fortunate and ever so thankful I get to see her every single day.

While the masses wait for 2024, I think I shall go for a walk and experience my eclipse today.

The Mighty Bighorn

 

 

I stood motionless, afraid to even blink let alone breathe.

 

His bulbous eye focused on the off-colored rock sitting before him. His 220-pound frame was sleek and well-defined but nothing compared to what it would be in a few months when he bulked up to begin defending his right to breed. The Rocky Mountain bighorn ram standing before me was already a fine specimen, he was soon going to be a fierce competitor as well. Imagining the thunderous clap resounding from his mighty horns as he beat down his rivals, I had little doubt he would maintain his bloodline this coming breeding season.

So went my first encounter with New Mexico's largest wild sheep. You can imagine my surprise as I learned about this majestic animal and its struggle to maintain a foothold in the rocky and wild places it calls home. As an invited member to a big horn sheep management meeting, my first priority was to gather as much information about the animal as possible. As a wildlife biologist, I have managed numerous species of big game animals, but this was going to be my first foray with bighorns, therefore, I was quite content letting the experts lead the discussion.

Much to my surprise I learned that big horn sheep were a staple in the diet of prehistoric peoples along sections of the Rio Grande gorge in Northern New Mexico. In fact, archaeological records indicate it was the second most utilized large animal behind only mule deer.  Not anymore.

Gone from almost half of their historic range in New Mexico, big horns are struggling against altered and fragmented habitats that leave their populations isolated and more prone to catastrophic events. High on their list of worries is being decimated by diseases that are not naturally known to bighorn populations. Respiratory diseases, especially Pneumonia, are associated with most bighorn die-offs. These tragic events usually occur when wild sheep come in contact with domestic sheep or goats. Unfortunately, all it takes is for one stray lovesick ram to come in contact with a domestic animal. When contact or even close proximity occurs, he can pick up a bacteria that is foreign and fatal to his system. When he eventually returns to the wild herd the entire flock can become infected and it usually spells disaster for the whole population. It may not kill every animal but it may drop their numbers to a point in which they can never recover. Sadly, it has happened all over the west where major die-offs have been reported throughout the bighorn range.

I was relieved to hear however, that there is hope. Thanks to the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish some newly established bighorn populations are gaining a foothold in areas that have been void of sheep for generations. Cochiti Canyon on the Santa Fe National Forest is one such place where the mighty rams once again roam. The recent fires from Los Conchas have left a smorgasbord of food for the sheep while the sheer walls of the canyon provide escape cover for the sure-footed animals. The nearby Dome wilderness also provides sanctuary for the animals should they seek additional solitude. And lest we forget Bandalier National Monument which sits idly by waiting for the return of the majestic bighorn.

These re-establish populations however are still at risk. Feral goats and sheep sometimes wander the forest. One chance encounter with them could be disastrous to the entire wild herd. We need people to be vigilant. We need them to make sure their sheep do not escape and to report any sightings of feral goats and sheep anywhere on the Jemez or Espanola districts of Santa Fe NF. The sheep's existence on the forest depends on it. Without the help of the citizens of New Mexico and those that love all things wild, the thunderous clap of bighorn rams declaring their dominance may never again be heard by future generations. I for one, want my child to see and hear this magnificent animal.

Huntin' Advice from a Tattered Book

People are like books…you never know what they’re about until you open them up and see what’s inside.

People often pass over tattered, worn-out, rough-looking books, yet, within those dog-eared, coffee-stained pages are some of the best stories ever written. Sadly, not only do they often go unread, they usually fade from history as if they never existed. The same goes for people.

I have long held the belief that some of the purest souls and best thinkers are people we often pass by. They are folks that have some of the roughest edges, hence, few ever take the time to “read” them and discover what’s inside. I just so happened to stumble upon one of those “books” in the hunting world. He goes by the name of DH which I’m hoping has something to do with little league baseball, but for some reason I doubt it. Although I’m fairly certain he ain’t the purest soul in the world, he does have a great mind, for he has the mind of a hunter. Not the high-tech, half-spoiled, millennial hunter who quite often wants everything handed to him, but rather the mind of the animal he pursues. That my friends, is one of the rarest, sharpest and most interesting minds you can ever find.

Not long ago, I sat down with DH and asked him about chasing white-tails. Without a doubt he knows more about deer huntin’ strategies than I will ever know. Thankfully, he was more than happy to impart some of his wisdom and before long I was deep into his book, eager to read the next chapter. Recently though, I e-mailed him about a problem I seem to have every season…getting busted by the one deer I am truly after. I asked DH for advice on how to handle this situation and here is what he wrote. It’s simply too good to even edit. (Well…maybe, just a little!)

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Advice from DH….

(Straight from his e-mail)

Ideas and philosophies in the world of whitetail hunting are as abundant as the very deer we hunt. Myths and legends of do’s and don’t’s span back to our grandfathers and are passed on to us. After all, Grandpa said it, so it must be true! The tales told by old-timers were not always true no matter how well-intentioned they were. Remember, they didn't have the info or the free time we have today and deer were a heckuva lot more scarce back then.

I wasn't raised in a huntin’ family and it wasn't until my stepdad took me at ten years old did I know what I had been missing. He was a hunter of the 80's. Looking back now he was like most guys then. He didn't know the first thing about hunting by today's standards and just about everything he taught me was udder horse crap save for two things, how to pull the trigger and that deer like white oaks acorns. Knowing those two things is all you need to know if you just want to "kill deer," but I wanted more.

Keep in mind, info on deer huntin’ in the mid-90s in middle Tennessee was hard to come by. Most guys were in the same frame of mind.... if it's brown, it's down. It wasn't until I was old enough to get out of this area and visit other states that things started to click. Low and behold I found other parts of the world where the state wasn't so liberal with its bag limit and people didn’t kill the first thing they saw. They spent more time watching and learning the animal than shooting the first one that got within range. That’s how I ended up learnin’.

In today's world, information is at our fingertips and there’s plenty of deer to watch and learn from so we can begin to knock down some of the wive’s tales of yesterday. One of those tales is the old saying "Well I shot and missed… I guess I scared him off for good." This is rarely the case with whitetails.

Listen...I've messed up on plenty of mature bucks, sometimes numerous times, and still wound up knocking them down. You do this through persistence, understanding the behavior of the animal, not psyching yourself out of it (that's the hard one), and of course, a little luck. I fell victim to all of the above when I was young.

But back to what we are talking about…killin’ that deer we buggered up.

I remember exactly where I was the day this myth got busted for me. I had made friends with a guy my age from Kentucky. One day while at his house admiring a 150-inch 9-point on his wall, I asked him to tell me the story about that deer. He laughed and said, “Yea, I shot him in the leg three weeks before I killed him… outta the same tree stand too.” My jaw dropped! What? How did it not scare him off? How could such a mature deer be so stupid? He then proceeded to tell me his story.

That story was told to me somewhere about 1998 and never will I forget it. I was guilty of doing something we all do. I was giving animals human qualities like thinking ahead and reasoning skills. A perfect example of this is with turkey hunters. Every year I hear guys say, "Yea that ol’ bird is call shy." Think about it. Like turkeys have the ability to think it out and say, “Oh hell no! Not today buddy. I know you’re a person.” I don’t believe this one bit. After all we are dealing with an animal with a brain the size of a nickel. All that's in that turkey brain of his are survival skills God pre-programmed such as eat, breed, fly up to sleep, and question everything, because everything is about to eat you.

It's the same with deer. Once we take away the human qualities we have given them, we actually see them for what they really are. And here’s what I think…it's is in my non-expert opinion that it’s really hard to run a deer completely off. It is, however, very easy to turn them completely nocturnal. After all, God made them mostly nocturnal anyway.

A good example is a deer I was hunting a few years back. I found him in the summer on a mineral lick and he was nothing to get excited about, especially in July. But then, in August out of nowhere, he took off. When all was said and done he was definitely a shooter. As soon as the acorns were dropping the hunt was on.

My first encounter was October the 7^th. About 7:30 in the morning, he followed a nice three-year old out the ridge, feeding as they made their way to me. They got to within 30 yards and the younger of the two turned and started going below me. Trying to read the body language of the big deer while watching the next move of the smaller deer left me with a decision to make. All I had was a quartering away shot and it was going to be a stiff one at that. He had his head down feeding and was calm so I put the pin in between his last rib and his flank and touched it off. He bolted tail down like I had gigged him good. The other deer just stood there bewildered.

When I got down, much to my dismay, I only found blood on one fetching. I had pulled my shot four measly inches. But four inches on a deer quartering that hard meant I had only grazed his neck. Talk about a let down. All that work for nothing.

My next camera pull, however, showed something amazing. He was back…sporting a four-inch muzzy gash on the side of his neck. Even with a near-fatal scare, he was programmed not to leave his territory. On October the 14^th he went home with me. And yes, I shot him from the same stand as the week before. That proved to me that deer aren’t likely to abandon an area, especially one they call their own.

The second time I shouldn't have killed a deer but did was one that would turn out to be a real special deer to me although I didn't know it at the time. I had this deer come by me twice the year before. The first time I saw him I laughed at him while he paced a woven wire fence trying to figure out how to cross it. Once again this shows their brains aren’t deep thinkers like us. Needless to say, he wasn't too smart but his rack was unique and had potential so I wanted to see what he’d become.

The second encounter with him was when he came by me one evening in late December while bow hunting and I thought, “Well you've got it made now ol’ boy I will see you next year.” And I did. I found him in the same area. This time he had blossomed.

He still had the long brow tines and six point frame, but he had matured, gained mass, and was carrying a lot of trash. Twelve unique points altogether. I hunted him hard and wanted him bad. On October the 16^th, right at last light I got my shot. Unfortunately, I dropped my arm and hit him low. I thought he was heart shot until he stopped and started blowing at me. That's when I knew I had screwed the pooch. After that he vanished I couldn't buy a picture of him all through the rut. I was sick.

Then one day in December I shifted my camera slightly and there he was. Did I mention I run a lot of cameras? Anyway, on December 20^th at 3:30 in the afternoon, I catch antlers coming through a thicket. He stops behind a tree and makes me hold on him for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally stepped out I put two more holes in him. I was low again expecting him to react to the string. He didn't. Strike two.



DH must know a little somethin'
about deer huntin'.

The next year, in August, my dad has heart surgery. Driving every day to St. Thomas was a chore and knowing I needed a break, my dad says. “Why don't you go see if your deer showed up.” That’s all I needed to hear. I had waited all summer to see him. Sure enough I found him and this year he was an 8-point with even more trash. It took me until November 12^th that year but I got one in him and finally made it count.

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All I have written above explains how you should never give up on any deer during the season. So how about giving up on a deer the same day he busts you? Don’t do that either! Remember, persistence…and of course, a little luck.

A Golden Rule of deer hunting is if you find a deer you want, it doesn't matter how regular he is, you have to be prepared to hunt him four consecutive days to have a legitimate chance at seeing him. After missing out on the weekend on one particular deer I wanted, I knew I had to take off of work on Monday because that's what responsible adults do…at least during deer season. I explained to my boss in great detail what was at hand and told him about the Golden Rule and he completely understood the severity of the situation.

That Sunday night while sitting at home thinking about my deer and where he might be in the morning my phone rings. It's my girlfriend that lives an hour away. She convinces me I should come see her against my better judgement. Deer and turkeys aren’t the only thing with small brains sometimes.

Anyway, I hop in the truck to go meet her and when I see her I explain I have a hot deer I’m after and I have to get up by 3:30 the next morning. Well guess who doesn't wake up until daylight after taking off work?!? I jump up, grab my things, and drive an hour home, the whole time thinking if I could kick my own ass I would. I run in, grab a shower, and head off to my hunting spot.

At 7:30 I enter the edge of the woods near my stand and immediately spook two deer. Right before they bolt, I identify a doe and the buck I've been waiting for. All my effort was blown to pieces and smashed to bits by the temptations of a woman and a small bit of lazy on my part. I was horrified. I thought to myself, “Go ahead and get in your stand you dumbass. It's over now. The doe ran one way and the buck went the other.”

So I climbed up and immediately called my buddy on the phone. I told him the story and he just laughed at me and said encouraging stuff like, “Well... you should've known a girl would screw you over.” At that point I wanted to wrap my bow rope around my neck and swan dive from the tree stand. Then out of nowhere, I catch movement on the ridge in front of me while I'm still on the phone. I told him to hang on a sec, I have a deer walking, and I need to glass. Dadgummit it's him!! 

Exactly one hour later he came back to the exact spot I spooked him. I killed him there on the spot. After all that, if I had of got mad and went home he wouldn't be on my wall right now. Persistence and of course, a little luck.

So the moral of the story is deer are like people. Each one is as different as you and I. They all react differently to situations, but we should never give them human qualities. They don't have the ability to think like we do. They only react to things like pressure and react the way they are programmed to do.

Why do you think these deer reacted so calmly to being shot and scared off? Simple… I do not hunt like most people. I do not pressure my spots. I hunt clean. I don't let deer see me climb in or out of my stand, even if it means sitting an hour after dark. And most of all, I do not go into their safe zones. I believe it makes all the difference in the world. Those deer that were shot never associated humans with what happened to them. And the one I ran off from his doe was just a rut crazed spaz with better stuff to worry about. Kinda like I was the night before.