Eight More Miles

Thompson/Center Dimension Hands-On Rifle Review

2012-01-17T14:05:00.001-06:00

It's not often that I have the chance to shoot an unreleased, unannounced gun weeks before the general public knows about it, but that's exactly what happened to me in early December of 2011.

While on a deer hunt in Southwest Texas, I was given the opportunity to handle, fire, and hunt with the new Thompson/Center Dimension bolt action rifle in .308 caliber, introduced today at the 2012 SHOT Show in Las Vegas. Sadly, I wasn't allowed to take any photos on my hunt, but my experience with this gun is recounted below.

Looks aren't everything, but this rifle will definitely attract attention. There's really no other centerfire bolt action like it. At a glance, the overall silhouette approximates T/C's venerable Encore, with a pronounced pistol grip and a rounded, almost arched, stock. It has various shims and inserts that help you customize the Dimension's, well, dimensions -- affording the shooter an optimum length of pull. And a good-fitting gun is usually an accurate shooting one.

Speaking of accuracy, the barrel is completely free-floated, and in fact, can be swapped out with different caliber barrels (depending on length of action) in a matter of minutes, using a special tool that's included with the gun. Hell, you can even make it a right handed or left handed bolt. It's this sort of interchangeability (see: Encore) that is a hallmark of Thompson/Center, and it's nice to see they're bringing the modular gun concept well into the 21st Century.

My gun came pre-sighted with Nikon glass, and before taking the Dimension hunting, I fed it a few rounds of 150 grain Hornady Superformance at the 100-yard range. Ergonomically, the gun fit well and I was easily throwing inch-and-a-half groupings downrange. I was told the trigger is user-adjustable, and the pull felt crisp and light (but not too light). The action was smooth -- similar to the T/C Venture that rests in my gun case.

Back to the hunt. The rut was just coming in, and I was wanting to take a buck using rattling horns -- something that's common in Texas, but somewhat a mystery to this Midwestern boy. We walked many miles over my three day hunt, and I carried the Dimension all day long, and never once did it become heavy. The detachable box magazine was a nice touch, too.

Thanks to the popularity of the AR-15 platform, the shooting public no longer considers a black, "plastic" gun as inherently inferior to a traditional walnut-stocked bolt action. And in this sluggish economy, one gun with multiple barrel options is going to make a lot of sense to a lot of people. Priced at about $650 (with extra barrels at $250), it's also a gun that's within reach of most any hunter or shooter.

I never did find the buck I was looking for, but it sure was fun rattling in smaller bucks and hunting with a top-secret rifle. I give Thompson/Center a lot of credit for taking some chances and designing a rifle that is truly different than anything else on the market. I hope to put a new Dimension in my gun safe soon.

note: I was not paid or otherwise compensated by Thompson/Center for this review.

A Goose, and a Tease

2012-01-16T11:36:00.000-06:00

Jack and I tried our hand at shooting some Canadas yesterday. Thanks to the ridiculously warm weather we've been having (it's topped 60 the past two days), the geese weren't moving much. We were able to scratch a couple down nonetheless, and had a ton of fun in the process.

I'm on my way to Vegas for the SHOT Show for a week of fun (I say that in half jest). Anyhow, I might have some actual newsworthy, cutting edge product review in conjunction with the show -- just the type of thing you loyal viewers have come to expect from the Scampwalker newsroom (I say that in full jest).

Bon voyage!

The Glass Pointer

2012-01-09T12:00:00.000-06:00

As I wind down the 2011-2012 upland season, one sad fact is becoming more and more apparent, each and every time I hunt.

LuLu is injury prone.

First was her mishap with barbed wire up in Montana, on her first run since getting her from Nolan Huffman, my trainer. That accident came perilously close to severing her Achilles tendon, and sidelined her for part of the trip.

Second was the opening weekend of pheasant and quail season here in Kansas. She ran headlong over a cattle guard and fell in up to her chest at full speed. Although she narrowly escaped breaking bone or ligament, she received a deep tissue bruise and subsequent cellulitis, which necessitated an extended rest on the sidelines.

Over the past month or so, she's developed a nagging tail injury, and it's usually minutes into a hunt before her haunches are spattered in blood.

And yesterday -- on what is likely my last upland hunt of the season -- she decided to tangle with a porcupine after pointing the damned thing. All of my dogs have been stuck by these critters, but none as severely as LuLu. Some of the barbs (typically an inch-and-a-half long) are buried more than an inch in her nose. I was able to pull many of them, but the rest she's not letting me go near. Presently, she's at the vet getting them extracted (along with my hard-earned cash).

Amazingly, none of these injuries slowed her down. She's a gladiator-tough dog (even by bird dog standards) and I am happy and proud to hunt with her. But dang.

Not quite two years old, I'm hoping that I can chalk this up to a young dog learning the ropes. I can't afford a decade of this!

Update: Mrs. Scampwalker picked up Lu from the vet, and she is resting comfortably, sans 18 porcupine quills. Apparently there were several inside her gum and palate. I'd have never gotten them all on my own!

Tons of Water... Ducks Not So Much.

2012-01-01T16:15:00.000-06:00

Ed note: I've been a bit absent from the blog lately... thankfully, much of that time has been spent hunting and enjoying family. As a result, I've got a lot to talk about. Here goes the first post of 2012! Thanks to all of you for stopping by and paying attention to my little slice of the internet.

In mid-December, Jack and I met up with my dad for a duck hunting trips near Waldenburg, Arkansas. As luck would have it, most of Arkansas was pummeled by eight inches of rain in the previous week. That made for some tough hunting -- the birds were around, but standing water everywhere made for some tough hunting (not to mention that many of the best blinds were submerged. So from that perspective, the trip wasn't much of a success.

Thankfully, hunting success in the 21st century hunting is seldom measured by the quantity of critters shot. As I mentioned previously, this was a trip about bringing together family and creating memories. And on that accord, the trip did not disappoint.

We still managed to shoot a few birds. We jumped about 8,000 snow geese on a reservoir -- a spectacle that is completely indescribable. I'm not sure who's the proudest in this photo... Jack, his grandpa, or the guy taking the picture.

Aside from teaching Jack the finer points on waterfowl hunting, Gramps also exposed Jack to "Austrian cuisine," a staple of blind and boat back when I was a kid. Vienna sausages. The look on Jack's face pretty much tells you what he thought of this delicacy.

The guy who really organized this whole outing was Dan, a close hunting buddy that I met when I lived in Texas. We literally met in the middle of nowhere on a quail lease some 15 years ago -- and we've been tight ever since. He brought his dad and son as well.

Dan also brought his two labs, and we were thankful to have them. Primarily upland dogs, water work was foreign to them at the beginning of the trip, but by the end of it they were regularly making some outstanding retrieves for us.

It was the first three generation trip, but I suspect it won't be the last.

Road Photo Friday: Now THAT'S a Dog Trailer

2011-12-16T06:23:00.000-06:00

I snapped this a few weeks ago at a DIY car wash in Del Rio, Texas. In case you don't have the patience to count, that's a 32-hole rig, folks.

We were going to stop to chat them up, but they were just pulling out as I snapped this. I don't know if they were hauling bird dogs or hounds (Del Rio isn't known as a quail mecca, especially this year). The dually that was dragging this monstrosity had Idaho plates. Judging from the looks of the driver and passenger, they were houndsmen (let the hate mail begin).

I Am A Duck Hunter.

2011-12-07T18:22:00.001-06:00

This is Adam, my great grandfather. He emigrated to the United States in the mid 1880s from a small town near Worms, Germany. He and his burgeoning family moved to Nebraska in 1884, and after a lot of hardscrabble work, he became the first podiatrist in the Cornhusker State. That's our family's claim to fame. But everytime I see this photo, I see something different than a foot doctor. I am reminded that this hunting thing isn't just a passing hobby of mine. It is literally in my blood.

The photo was taken a century ago, when photos were a time consuming, expensive production. Take a close look. What did he wear? His hunting coat, rubber waders, cap, and a badass moustache. Hunting -- and family -- obviously defined this man.

This is Lee, Robert, Donald, Richard, Leopold, and Bill. Robert was my grandfather - Gramps - and these were his brothers, the progeny of Adam (there were 13 in all). It was taken in Nebraska at the height of World War Two, and this Band of Brothers, not yet called up for duty on the front lines, were busy shooting a meal for their families. Somehow, I think it might be safer being a nazi facing triple-A than a mallard dodging the fusillade of gunfire from this battery of A5's and Winchester 1897's.

This is my dad, Reg, probably taken around 1947. In this photo, I see myself (always been a dead-ringer for the 'ol man) and my son (mostly through the enthusiasm in which he's holding the gun and enjoying himself outdoors).

So there's no doubt I come by this avocation naturally. But while my whole family slogged through the oxbows and sandbars of Nebraska's Platte River, I gravitated to upland pursuits. Not sure how that happened.

It doesn't really matter. Next week, my dad -- and my son -- will converge on Waldenburg, Arkansas for a duck hunt. I am blessed with some awesome hunting opportunities every season, but I can't help but circle this one on the calendar as the most anticipated.

I was never lucky enough to hunt with my own Gramps -- I was in college on his last duck hunt, but was told he showed up in a traditional 1940s necktie and hunting coat. No matter. Those men, and other family members, will be close to us this next week, as we tell stories, uphold traditions, and indoctrinate the young ones. As it should be.

I am one fortunate man. I suspect we all have a similar story. Here's to the hunting man.

Kansas Upland 2011: Don't Bother

2011-11-24T18:02:00.001-06:00

I've hunted the Midwest a lot of years. I'm a prairie kid, and it's what I do. Good years, bad years, they've all been more or less productive. I've had a lot of dogs, and I relish hunting where you never quite know if you're going to jump a big squawking rooster or a covey of panicked quail. If you've never been to Kansas, you really owe it to yourself to come sometime.

Just not this year.

You, like me, would be sorely disappointed. I hunted opening weekend, followed by Thursday through Sunday of the following week, and the results were miserable. Typically, you can find the mixed bag anywhere in the state. This year though, the KDWP said the best concentration of birds would be in the northwestern quarter of the state. That's where everyone went, in-state and out-of-state hunters, so there was more of the Orange Army than I'd ever seen.

And fewer birds. Opening weekend, usually a shoe-in for a limit by noon, brought five hunters just two -TWO- pheasants over the weekend. I was undeterred, and had a buddy come up from Mississippi, who normally hunts quail (even more fried than Kansas this year) in Texas. We had nine dogs who knew the drill, and we had four productive points in four days. We didn't see a lot of hens, or birds flushing wild, or crafty grizzled birds giving our pointy dogs the slip. Nope, we didn't see shit.

I have never had a less productive hunt.

KDWP's follow-up report is less rosy, but in a Department of Tourism sort of way (don't get me started).

And here I am, with two youngsters -- an eleven year old son looking to blast whatever flies -- and a young pointer who needs as many birds as possible to refine her.

Cold wet spring, add a hot dry summer, season it with bird-killing hail. It all adds up to nothing.

My Life As A Turkey: You Must Watch This.

2011-11-16T19:56:00.001-06:00

If you're a hunter, nature lover, or motion photography buff, do yourself a favor and watch the magnificent PBS documentary, "My Life As A Turkey." It's some of the best TV I've seen in years.

Hell, come to think of it, if you're NOT a lover of nature, you owe it to yourself even more to watch this, so you can understand why the rest of us are obsessed with the natural world.

Disclosure. I'm not a TV guy, and I had no idea this was on the tube. I'm in a motel room in Hays, Kansas by myself, scouting birds for a buddy who's arriving tomorrow. Sitting on the bed, eating Long John Silver's (don't judge), flipping through the boob tube. And turkeys - wild turkeys - are on PBS. Cool, I'll watch that for 30 seconds or so.

And for the next 40 minutes (I caught it late), I was mesmerized. The storyline isn't new - man bonds with animals, learns much about them, learns more about himself and the human condition. But holy hell was it well done.

It was interesting, beautiful, funny, and sad, often all at once. The cinematography was extraordinary - so much so that I'm waiting for the inevitable follow-up "The Making of Turkey Man."

Whatever. It's must see TV for the outdoor set, and it'll certainly make me think about that rooster or bob that I'm fixing to draw a bead on tomorrow. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.

p.s. As I grabbed the link for the series, I see that the PBS site has crashed. I'm guessing it's because of the interest in this program.

What I'm Listening To: Fall 2011

2011-11-15T18:47:00.000-06:00

Looking for some new tunes on those road trips to nowhere this fall? Look no further. Here's my latest installment of Scampwalker-approved music.

The Damn Quails - Down The Hatch
I've been muttering this band's name longer than the band itself has existed, and I'll admit that it's their moniker that originally caught my eye. Fronted by the singer/songwriter duo of Gabriel Marshall and Byron White, The Damn Quails prove once again that Oklahoma is an epicenter of more than just earthquakes -- some of the genre's best music emanates from the Red Dirt State. Their debut album combines beautiful harmonies, rootsy melodies, and smart lyrics. In an era where record producers can either make or break a young band, it seems that Quails co-producer Mike McClure can do no wrong in turning out honest americana music, and help from Joe Hardy (ZZ Top, Steve Earle, and the Replacements) can't hurt either. Sadly, I have no idea if these cats are bird hunters. Nevertheless, here's hoping The Damn Quails' covey rise continues.

Stoney LaRue - Velvet
If you're a longtime Stoney frat boy fan looking for songs that are a natural follow-up to "Oklahoma Breakdown," you're probably going to be disappointed. There aren't a lot of boot-stomping tunes on Velvet, LaRue's first studio album in six years, but that doesn't mean it isn't brilliant in its own right. Velvet is a compilation of warm, mystical, and gentle rhythms blended with what are easily LaRue's deepest, most thoughtful lyrics to date. I find myself queing up this album on a cool fall night with a fire in the hearth and a whiskey glass close by.

Jason Boland & The Stragglers - Rancho Alto
Yet another Oklahoman to make the list, Jason Boland is an unapologetic, hopelessly romantic country music purist. Since his Pearl Snaps debut in 2009, he's put out a string of reliable honky-tonk country, and Rancho Alto is no different. Adorned with wailing pedal steel and fiddle, it's chock full of songs about hard drinking, hard times, and hard luck. There's nothing particularly new or ground-breaking on the album, but maybe that's the point. In a world where "modern country" implies white country boy rappers and poseur cowboys that wear more eyeliner than my wife, a tall shot of Boland is just the ticket. And if you've never seen these boys live, drop everything and report to your nearest honky-tonk.

Reckless Kelly - Good Luck And True Love
Although it's probably coincidence, Good Luck and True Love is an apt name for RK's 9th album. For one, they've pretty much severed all ties with conventional record companies -- Good Luck! -- and they've doubled-down on their committment to producing and promoting their unique sound on their own -- and if that ain't True Love for their craft, then I don't know what is. The album is vintage RK, full of catchy hooks, solid harmonies, and skilled playing. While mostly mid-tempo tunes that are more country than rock, the crunchier RK makes an appearance on "She Likes Money, He Likes Love." And once again, Willy Braun proves that no one can write a road song like him, with "Hit The Ground Runnin'" closing out the album. It's a collection of songs that will easily work its way into your head.

Robert Earl Keen - Ready For Confetti
I want to love this album, I really do. And while it contains some enjoyable tracks, Ready for Confetti is not ready for prime time. The title track is as corny as it sounds, with a calypso-infused beat that comes across as inanely ersatz, as does the Buffett-like aping of "Waves on the Ocean." "The Road Goes On and On," a purported response to Toby Keith's ripping off of a Keen classic, feels petty and juvenile. And in "Top Down," Robert Earl sounds like a woozy, bleating, injured goat. Admittedly, Mr. Keen has never had a soothing voice, but his stories normally more than make up for his sonic deficiencies. Don't get me wrong, there are some great tracks on this album. "I Gotta Go" ranks among one of the finer tunes of his deep catalog, and his cover of Todd Snider's "Play a Train Song" sounds like it was written for him. Even so, I find myself skipping through the majority of tracks on this one. Here's hoping Robert Earl just hit a pothole in the road that hopefully extends long into the future.

Finding Lost Dogs: A Low-Tech Approach

2011-11-07T07:00:00.000-06:00

First of all, don't freak out. I don't have a lost dog.

The 21st century has blessed us with many high-tech ways to help reunite us with wayward dogs, from GPS tracking collars to implanted microchips to smartphones that allow us to receive calls from good samaritans who might've found a lost dog and pulled a number from a collar.

Recently, Chad Love over at Field & Stream's Man's Best Friend blog talked about the importance of putting the right information on an ID tag, in which he borrowed some sage advice from Steve Snell, owner of Gun Dog Supply.

It reminded me that I also have a rather 19th-century technique of finding a lost dog: a wanted poster. After losing a dog two years ago in Montana, it struck me that we had no photos or other ways to quickly inform people that we had a dog missing.

I believe that the large majority of folks will keep an eye out for a missing dog if they know about one. I also happen to think that the sooner you can get the word out to nearby gas stations, cafes, motels, and post offices, the more likely it is that someone's going to stumble across your missing hunting buddy.

I've printed out these flyers for all three of my pups and have them (along with a thumbdrive carrying digital versions) stashed in my truck. There's room to put specific information on the poster, and I've printed them in color, for more accurate identification. I put my two phone numbers (anonymized in this online version, of course) as a tear-off along the bottom. I figure a rancher might see my dog while driving along a country road, and they'll be more likely to at least report the sighting to me if they have my number close at hand.

God willing, I'll never have to use them, but I feel better knowing I've got them.

If you want to download the template in Word format for free, I've posted it here.

Road Photo Friday: No Bears Were Harmed During the Making of This Photo

2011-11-04T08:45:00.002-05:00

Numerous BEERS, however, were. Have a good weekend, everyone.

Guest Post: My First Pheasant

2011-10-30T19:42:00.000-05:00

I had been pheasant hunting several times before, all being unsuccessful. But then my dad and I got an offer for a youth pheasant hunt on a game preserve near Lawrence. I had been looking forward to it for quite a while. Finally though, the time came. We drove down there, met the other two kids, and then got ready for a round of warm-up trap. I am proud to say I only missed one. (Several of my shots were from port arms, too.)

After that, we started walking through some milo, and a few birds got up. However, I didn’t have good shots on them. Sometime near the end, on the very last milo strip, a perfect bird got up, moving slowly into the wind. I shouldered my gun and brought that bird to the ground. Later, I cleaned the bird all by myself. In fact, it is on the smoker right now for dinner tonight. I had a super amount of fun and hope to do it again, this time a wild bird over one of my own dogs.

Bird Dogs, Coyotes, and Bears... Oh My!

2011-10-25T05:59:00.000-05:00

As a longtime bird hunter, I'm used to seeing coyotes from afar -- glimpsing, really, as these prairie predators aren't much for human interaction. That perception changed this weekend.

Saturday morning, Jack and I decided to chase some prairie chickens in the Flint Hills -- mainly as an excuse to get out and exercise LuLu and Vegas. We were about a half-mile into our first walk, and the dogs were running a hundred yards or so out in front. As we crested a hill, I was taking in the peaceful sunrise.

"Dad, what's that?!?" my son Jack exclaimed, with a bit of fright in his voice. And for good reason. Up ahead, there was a coyote in full sprint just ten feet behind an oblivious LuLu, and closing fast. Equally as troubling was the second 'yote closing in on my young pointer 50 yards ahead of her.

Instinctively, I hollered and fired a round into the air. I called LuLu in, and once she realized what was happening, she obediently started coming in to me. I was closing the distance as I broke my gun and dropped in another 7 1/2 (only then did I realize this load wasn't ideal coyote medicine).

"Rack a shell, Jack!"

By this time, the devil dogs had stopped their active pursuit, but at 70 yards away, they were obviously not interested in leaving. I aimed a few inches over the lead coyote and pulled the trigger, peppering his ass with birdshot. That finally persuaded the duo to move on.

Close call! What's even more interesting is that I got an email from Dan, my Minnesota grouse hunting buddy, with a similar story on the very same day:

...Got out to the "island" where the birds are and was walking up to that huge lone poplar tree and noticed a bunch of dirt at the base. About that same instant Mocha ran up and with both feet at the top of the mound went from 60 mi hour to a dead stop. I was about 15 feet away when a very large black bear head appeared.

I have to tell you it is a bit unnerving staring a black bear in the eye from 15 feet away when all you have is a double barrel full of 7.5 bird shot. I have seen a fair number of bear in the woods over the years but usually it is a view of their butt going the other way running from the dogs and in those instances it is just a cool sight of nature to see. Seeing one raise its head when it potentially feels cornered in its own den by dogs, was a completely different feeling.

I had a few seconds when I actually considered what the odds were if the bear charged the dog, and the dog runs back to me? Do I shoot my son's dog and hope the bear stops for her or do I risk trying to shoot a bear with bird shot? Thankfully we were able to back out of there quickly and the bear stayed put.

Next time I go across that slough I'm going to let you ponter guys get a little ahead of me before we reach the island!

Anyone else out there have any close calls with dangerous, toothy critters? Any advice? I used to carry a couple rounds of buckshot in my vest, but I took them out several seasons ago (accidentally chambering one on a bobwhite quail is not pretty). I think I'm putting them back in my inventory.

Be careful out there, everyone.

Montana Dog Report: The Kids Are Alright

2011-10-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

Our most recent trip to Montana stands out for a lot of reasons, but chief among them is the good dog work we had among our motley crew of 2 pointers, 3 setters, 2 shorthairs and a visla. All did respectably well, and most did remarkably so.

We won't soon forget Sage's nice 250-yard casts and authoritative points -- all from a middle-aged setter that ought to be a lot more hampered by a chronic ankle inflammation than he is. Vegas -- my seven-year-old shorthair that I'd about given up on -- decided to do her best all-age impression and point a covey of Huns at 200 yards, remaining rock-solid when they flushed just out of gun range.

But as far as I'm concerned, the trip belonged to the youngsters. Our first day in Montana, I picked up LuLu, my 18-month old Phantom Kennels pointer. You may remember that I dropped her off with trainer Nolan Huffman back in early June. Since that time, she was under Nolan's expert tutelage all summer and early fall at his Lewistown kennel.

For her first hunt, we ran her on some native prairie bordered by wheat stubble that had produced for us in previous years. While she didn't make game, she handled beautifully and ran with style and aggressiveness.

Apparently too aggressively. That evening, as we were putting dogs on the chain gang, LuLu came out of the trailer unable to put any weight on her rear left leg. Shit. We brought her into the cabin and discovered a 3/4 inch-long (and nearly as deep) gash in the fleshy part of her leg near her achilles tendon, most likely from a barbed wire fence. It was a scant quarter inch from possibly severing the tendon -- easily ending her hunting season and perhaps her career. As it was, she was done for at least a day or so of recuperation.

The other youngster on our journey was Finn, Wes' nine-month-old Berg Brothers setter. I raved about this rascal months ago, and after hunting with him in Montana, I have no reason to change my opinion. He runs confidently, points with a high tail, and seems to enjoy every aspect of the game. There were a couple bird bumps and a heavy-jawed chomp or two, but that's not meant as a criticism. I had to continually remind myself that this dog was seeing his first birds and indeed the first autumn of his life. He's going to be a winner.

When it finally came time to put LuLu on the ground again, she was ready, and so was I. We had decided to hunt abandoned homestead (or "hunstead" as Ben O. Williams and fanboy Jon calls them) surrounded by grass and wheat. Tasty stuff.

With little wind and nearly 65 degrees, conditions weren't ideal. LuLu charged onward anyhow, happy to be on the ground again. I admired her muscular frame and cracking tail gliding effortlessly through the golden grass ahead of me.

Then all hell broke loose. Before she could wheel to a stop, a partridge took flight a few feet from her. And another. And then a dozen. All told, some 75 Hungarian partridge, sounding like a massive creaking, squeaking jet engine erupted from the farmstead. I simply stood there, in stunned disbelief.

Thankfully, I had enough wits about me to track their flight, and five separate coveys put down within a few hundred yards of where we were standing.

We spent the rest of the afternoon chasing those birds, getting points on all five coveys -- many from LuLu -- as well as a nice retrieve or two from her. I think she's going to be a special dog.

Montana Recap

2011-10-19T18:15:00.000-05:00

Greetings loyal readers... and my apologies for not being so loyal to the blog. It's not that I haven't wanted to write or that I don't have anything to write, I just haven't found the time to write it.

Thankfully, much of that busyness is hunting induced. Barely the middle of October, and I've managed to witness my dogs point prairie chickens, pheasants, bobwhites, woodcock, ruffed grouse (as much as any dog can get a point on those bastards), Hungarian partridge, sharptail grouse, and an errant sage grouse in three states. Combine my hunting pursuits with being a (more-or-less) productive father, husband, and societal contributor -- well, something had had to give.

Apologies aside, I'm back from our annual Montana trek, and it was one for the ages. Advance bird reports were tepid at best, so we really didn't know what to expect. Boy, were we pleasantly surprised. The weather, the dogs, and the birds all conspired to give us ten full days of exceptional hunting. In fact, I can't think of a single field we walked that we didn't move gamebirds.

So why'd we fare so well? A few thoughts.

The weather was perfect. Most of the state was suffering under dry, 80-degree weather and as soon as we crossed the Montana border, it rained more than an inch in 24 hours. The rain left after that and we were treated to lows in the 30s and highs in the low 60s for the rest of the trip. Scenting conditions soared and we could afford to run our dogs the full day.

Our timing was perfect. Guides, trainers, and biologists we talked to reported seeing fewer than normal birds in September. That's partially because of the heat and lack of rain, but it's also because the area we hunted had a late hatch (thanks to a very wet and cool spring). Conventional wisdom holds that young birds don't give off much scent. By the second week in October, the birds had a chance to grow -- even though we took a lot of young birds with immature plumage.

We know the area. It's the fourth year now that we've spent at least part of our trip in this part of the state. And not unlike home, the more you hunt it, the better you know it. We've got a nice list of honey holes, and we're more adept at quickly identifying what sort of terrain attracts those prairie birds, which means it's easier for us to find new hotspots. And there's so damned much public land that you don't want to get into the habit of doing more driving than hunting. Montana is a BIG state.

Of course, the birds were only a small part of the fun. The scenery was simply stunning -- God used the whole color palette when he made Montana. We marveled at the precociousness of some new pups and the determination of our senior dogs. We met some new friends and caught up with old friends. And like any hunting trip, we ate well, drank well, and slept well.

I'll have a more thorough report in the coming days... just as soon as I catch up at home and at work!

Hi From the Backseat.

2011-10-06T00:09:00.000-05:00

I'm two hours into a 20 hour trip to Montana. I'm not a night person, so Jon and Wes are manning things til 4am or so, and then I'm pilot.

So much to look forward to... Friends, scenery, and old haunts. But I'm most jazzed about seeing LuLu in action. Nolan says she's ready to go, and I believe him 100 percent. But I'm still nervous. Sort of like seeing your kid for the first Christmas after a semester at college, I suppose.

Here goes. G'nite.

Oh, and I'm writing this on an iPad. Thanks, Mr. Jobs. 'Cept I can't figure out how to add a photo.

Road Photo Friday: Eat Your Heart Out, Clark Griswold

2011-09-30T09:41:00.000-05:00

Behold, faithful readers, the world's largest ball of sisal twine, located in Cawker City, Kansas, which is very close to nowhere.

Image of 2nd largest ball of twine

The Indoctrination Is Complete.

2011-09-13T22:04:00.000-05:00

Man, do I love the first week in September.

The Dove Opener -- as has been well documented by my blogging peers -- is upon us. I've been too busy to write about it -- and it hasn't been the ridulous dove orgy that our whitewing trip in Texas that is was last fall. But this one was as good, if not better. Dad and son, the coaching, the cameraderie, the time together. Lots of gunpowder spent (funpowder, as Jack aptly named it), and plenty of birds to show for it.

It's also football season, though, and Jack experienced his first Big Red game last Saturday. And while There Is No Place Like Nebraska, this was an early, nonconference tune up -- like dove hunting. The big birds, and the B1G teams still lie ahead.

But all is right in Scampwalkerville. He's asking me about hunting and Huskers, and how I reconcile the two on a September, October, or November Saturday afternoon. And after 30 years of chasing the same sirens, I have no answer.

But if that's all my son is worried about, I think things are going to be just fine.

The Hunchback of Dice Lane

2011-08-30T05:52:00.000-05:00

Creepy! But I shouldn't be afraid, right?

I'm really not. But Dottie's lime-sized post-injection lump is a tad gross. It's the first time I've had a dog with an allergic reaction from a normal battery of shots. It's actually gone down since I snapped this photo last night, and a call to the vet confirmed my armchair research that it's generally harmless, if not ugly. For what it's worth, Dot doesn't seem to notice.

Anyone else have a dog that's experienced this kind of reaction?

Hunting Buddies

2011-08-23T20:40:00.000-05:00

As the season slowly, yet inexorably draws near, I find myself looking forward to so many things. Endless roads leading to spots both favorite and unexplored, and the small towns that punctuate the countryside. Shouldering a gun and making an impossible shot - or not. And witnessing fine dog work and the incomparable feeling that I get when my focus and predatorial instinct become one with the animal locked on point at my feet.

But without hunting buddies, the experience just wouldn't be as fulfilling. Part of what has always drawn me to upland hunting is the social experience -- it's not a solitary sport, unlike most other outdoor pursuits that require stillness (not my forte) while freezing one's ass off (also not my forte).

Whether it's the Patton-like strategy sessions before assaulting a field, or the debates over dog breeds or shotgun shell payloads, or the tendencies of the fairer sex, or the inside jokes, or the merciless teasing, or the slap-happy humor in a small-town bar or around a campfire -- they are are all a part of the experience for me. I suspect most uplanders are drawn to the sport for similar reasons.

There's a strange dynamic at play, too -- almost socialistic -- among upland hunting companions. Dogs, trucks, guns, ammo, trailers, training, food, whiskey -- even fleabag motel rooms are shared for the common good. And unlike the current experiment that's taking place in Washington, this model of "shared sacrifice" seems to work pretty well in the fields and forests. I guess that's probably because you and you alone can choose your hunting buddies.

These fraternal bonds are borne of shared passion, hard work, and a common experience. And given time, the friendships go far beyond the field. The photo of Jon and Wes posing proudly behind a limit of roosters was one of the first times we had hunted together, five years ago. Since then, I've stood with Jon at his wedding and Wes has literally given me the shirt off his back when I split my chin open (long story).

Dan and Terry were with me the day I had to put down my first-ever pointer, and they helped me through it like no one else ever could. Through open-heart surgeries, job changes, and only God knows what else, we've been there for one another.

I've been blessed with a great group of friends I've met in countless ways, but none are as close as the ones that I call my hunting buddies.

And when all is said and done, that's why I cannot wait for September to get here.

Closing Out Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It Week

2011-08-22T21:25:00.000-05:00

Lest you think I'm a quitter, the Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It Week went swimmingly... I just got worn out from documenting things (any blogger gets this).

Anyhow, from one Saturday through the next Sunday, we succeeded. I ate a ton of venison salami sandwiches for lunch, some homegrown canteloupe for breakfast, and a ton of tasty stuff for dinner. I failed a couple times -- a work lunch necessitated some Chinese food, and a visit to see the Kansas City T-Bones meant hot dogs from God knows where.

Here are a few of the dishes we had... the photographer (me) got lazy as we moved on.

First was homemade pasta (above) with melted brie, 'maters, basil, and garlic. A staple of summer, I pine for this. And like me, my bro, and my dad, I made this with my kids. It's a tradition... one I hope they pass on to their kiddoes. We have a pasta machine, but I tend to like it cut wide and rustica with a simple pizza cutter.

We also had corned venison, thanks to Hank Shaw's absolutely terrific corned venison recipe. If y'all have a tough old roast of a forgotten critter, this is the recipe you need to do. With homegrown fried okra. The corn is local, but not not mine. We grew some, but it tasted like paste on a stalk.

There was Mexican night of course, with jalapeno cheddar grilled sausage in homemade tortillas. We made some frijoles, which were not from 'round these parts, but damn tasty nonetheless. And they WERE from Lubbock, Mrs. Scampwalker's hometown, so it still seemed appropriate. Avacado? Yeah, ya busted me.

The piece de resistance was Hungarian partridge, Andalusian style. My love of Spanish food is well documented, and this mixture of roasted onions, sweet raisins, and tart vinegar was spot-on. Paired with saffron rice and a tomato and olive salad, I almost felt like I was back in Iberia.

So I'm calling it a success. Was it tough? Not really. That's the way the Scampwalkers roll -- we don't typically eat shit from a box, bag, or can. Was it pure? Not entirely. Until Kansas is hospitable to olives, avacadoes, and (decent) red wine, then I'm still going to seek foodstuffs elsewhere. Was I completely satisfied? Yes and no. Loved the bounty and satisfaction of what I worked to eat. But I'll never get over a craving for a good marbled feedlot-raised beefsteak, and I don't intend to build a gristmill for my own flour. And Mrs. S. says a whiskey still ain't happening.

But it beats hamburger helper and Bud Light anyday, Clark.

Proof In Concept: GoPro HD Camera on Dog

2011-08-11T10:48:00.000-05:00

I've seen others do this, and now that the weather's cooled down a bit, I was able to do some of my own field testing recently. Here's a movie of a GoPro HD Hero in a waterproof housing mounted on Vegas. I used the neoprene harness from an old Garmin DC 20 dog tracker -- works pretty slick.

As you'll see, it's a little Blair Witch Project-ish, but I'm really excited about the possibilities as a dog picks up scent, slows down, and goes on point. I think the viewing angle is wide enough that I'm going to get some pretty sweet covey rises, and maybe some retrieves, too. Combined with myself wearing one, we could have some pretty fun videos this fall.

KCCE Week, Day 3: Trout a la Papa

2011-08-10T10:40:00.000-05:00

Day Three of Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week featured the fruits of our most recent trip. Last week, we met Mrs. Scampwalker's dad and his wife in South Fork, Colorado, along with the cousins. It was a great time, and part of the fun included some trout fishing in mountain lakes. The action wasn't furious -- it was pretty warm and we surmised the trout were deep -- but it was still productive.

We wound up with a decent sized school of rainbow, cutthroat, and brown trout, and the recipe we used came straight from my father in law, known as Papa by the kids. Here's Trout a la Papa:

Splay out cleaned trout onto an oiled rack of the Big Chief smoker, and let it smoke (I use apple wood chips) for one pan (about 45 minutes or so). While they're smoking, melt 3-4 tablespoons of butter in a large, ovenproof pan. Saute a clove or two of garlic until soft, add enough white wine to cover the bottom of the pan, and juice from half a lemon. When the trout are done smoking, remove the skin and discard. Gently place the trout in the pan and roast in a 325 degree oven for 15 or 20 minutes. Serve whole and spoon wine and butter sauce over the top.

The trout were accompanied by the Homesick Texan's phenomenal Tex-Mex squash casserole -- Jack loathes squash, and even he likes this. A couple of homegrown tomatoes with feta cheese and balsamic vinegar rounded out the meal.

For breakfast, it was canteloupe from the garden, and leftover grilled pizza, and a Missouri peach for a mid-afternoon snack.

So far, so good!

Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week: Day 2

2011-08-09T06:16:00.000-05:00

Tuesday featured that American culinary classic, the BLT. Ours was made with home-cured, applewood-smoked bacon (the pork provided by the local Bichelmeyer Meats), homegrown 'maters, and freshly-baked bread.

Breakfast was a bowl of homegrown canteloupe and lunch brought a venison salami sandwich and a homemade dill pickle.

**note: no bird dogs were harmed during the making of this sandwich.

It's Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week... Day 1

2011-08-07T21:07:00.000-05:00

We're going to try something different here at Casa Scampwalker this week. We love to hunt, fish, garden, and eat the bounty. This week, we're going to try to do it exclusively. Here are the three simple rules:

Eat food that we've shot, caught, or grown -- three meals a day for a week.
If using food/ingredients that do not fall under rule #1, eat foods produced locally/regionally.
If using food/ingredients that do not fall under rules #1 or #2, they should be as close to their raw, unprocessed state as possible.

Why do such a thing? We're not on some health kick -- we've always tried to stay away from unprocessed, pre-produced foods. That's not only because we think it's a healthier way to live, but also because we really enjoy cooking. We're certainly not making some statement against Big Farm agriculture or anything -- we realize that's a necessary part of the American food chain (not to mention the economy here in the Midwest). We're just sort of curious if it can be done. And plus, I've got to make some room in the deep freeze for some new critters!

Tonight's menu (decidedly and uncharacteristically vegetarian):

Grilled pizzas with fresh mozzarella and homegrown garden vegetables (sauteed eggplant, carmelized onion, cherry tomatoes, and fresh basil.
Garden fresh gazpacho, using Jose Andres' spectacular recipe.
For dessert, the beautiful Mrs. S. baked a bing cherry pie. Not local, but from fresh cherries and a homemade crust.

Pretty terriffic, if I do say so myself.

Folks, until you get to read about what I shoot, you get to learn about what I cook. Such is life in August in the Midwest.

That is all.

Road Photo Friday: Video Edition

2011-08-05T08:30:00.000-05:00

What happens after a week of chasing Montana huns and you find yourself back at the motel, tired and slap happy?

You try to chug a 24-ounce Budweiser, of course.

James Beard's Scorpion Jalapeno Relish

2011-07-29T16:13:00.000-05:00

It's summer, it's beastly hot, and finally - finally - the tomato plants have started bearing fruit. Like lots. Earlier this morning, my countertop was literally covered with them -- celebrities, early girls, lemon boys, cherokee purples, and jet stars. They're all wonderful fresh, but we knew there was no way we'd be able to eat them all before they went bad.

What to do? Go to the Scampwalker family archives and can some scorpion jalapeno relish, created by the legendary James Beard. And this cooked relish/salsa befits the great chef, back before chefs were celebrities.

Some 30 years ago, I remember my own dad toiling away in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes, peppers, and onions by the potful. I was only passively interested in its creation (much like my own kids this very day). But when it was done? No finer concoction has ever adorned a tortilla chip.

Back when I was a kid, I can remember popping a jar open during a Cornhusker football game on a snowy Saturday afternoon, and nothing brought back memories of a distant summer more vividly. I recall eating it on the back of a tailgate for lunch on a pheasant hunting trip. And I fondly remember fishing trips on Nebraska's Merritt Reservoir where my dad, my brother, and I -- along with our guide turned close friend -- ate scorpion and tortilla chips and drank gin and tonics (the aptly-dubbed "champagne cruise") while routinely reeling in six-pound walleye. This salsa is memories.

And despite it's menacing name, it's not particularly hot. It's sweet, with a nice acidic tang, and a mild kick. The recipe, below, was given to me by my dad. I can't seem to find any history on it, nor the cookbook it came from anywhere on the internet (a rarity these days). My adaptation is below.

5 pounds ripe tomatoes
2 medium onions
1 cup sliced jalapenos, most seeds and veins removed
2 bell peppers
2-3 coarsely chopped garlic cloves
1 cup apple cider vinegar
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon chile powder
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

Coarsely chop the tomatoes and onions, and cook in a large pot over medium heat for about 10 minutes. Then add the rest of the ingredients, and cook until the peppers and onions are softened a bit, but not mush. Don't cover the pot -- you want some of the liquid to cook off.

You can eat it fresh at this point, or if you want to can it, use standard waterbath canning techniques, using pint jars with about a quarter inch headspace, and simmer for 15 minutes.

It was my first attempt at waterbath canning, and so far, so good -- the seals are all tight and I can look forward to the taste of summer all year long. Thanks, Pop.

The Un-Chained Chain Gang

2011-07-19T21:13:00.001-05:00

Like the rest of upland nation, I'm biding my time in the sweltering heat, counting down the days before the bird season starts. Please don't get me wrong -- I love the summer, and I'm now old enough to realize that wishing time away isn't in my long-term best interests.

So I've occupied myself with the summer garden and various chores around the house that have been delayed. But a guy like me needs a project that'll add to my enjoyment in the field. Last year, I built a custom dog box (which continues to be a very successful project, I might add).

This summer, I think I've built a better chain gang. For those of you unaware, the chain gang is a useful tool if you've got a bunch of bird dogs in your care. Trainers use it so an entire pack of dogs can observe others being trained. For me, they make a lot of sense when you're airing, watering, and feeding a string of dogs.

Last year in Montana, we had six dogs, and every night at feeding time, we hammered six stakes into the often-hard ground. After two weeks on the road, it got a bit old. This year, we'll have eight dogs.

The chain gang lets you hammer just two stakes -- one at each end -- and you hook up a dog every six feet on 18-inch drop chains. It gives the dogs plenty of room to stretch out, drink and eat, do their business, all while not tangling (literally or figuratively) with one another.

After a lot of internet reading, discussions with buddies, and scores of visits to various hardware stores, I came up with a pretty handy system that I think will suit my needs well.

Instead of using chain, Jack and I chose a vinyl-coated 3/16 inch stainless steel cable. Mine was rated at 3,700 pounds minimum breaking strength, so I don't think that'll be an issue. Having it coated keeps it cleaner and less likely to corrode or unravel.

There are some distinct advantages in using cable. First of all, it's significantly cheaper. I got mine for 49 cents a foot at a big-box store, and comparable chain came in at two to four times that much. Cable is also much lighter, and in my opinion, easier to manage and less likely to tangle. Finally, most chain links are just about the perfect size for a dog nail to get caught in... not fun.

Back to the chain (er, cable) gang. I made two four-dog sections that can be combined, something (but hardly the only thing) I learned from my buddy Steve Snell, who knows a thing or two about bird dogs. I made a loop at one end using a quarter-inch aluminum ferrule. I agonized over the best way to attach the ferrules and stops -- a good swaging tool will run you over a hundred dollars, and I couldn't justify that.

So as a lark, I just pounded the ferrule semi-flat on a concrete slab. It seems to work just fine... I looped it through a hook on my backyard deck, and I can support my 180-pound frame from it. I also dropped 50 pounds worth of cinderblock from a height of two feet, and neither ferrule nor stop budged.

Three feet from the terminating loop I hammered in two stops, about an inch apart. I connect my drop leads in between these stops. I added three more sets of stops six feet apart, and then added another terminating loop three feet from the last stop. You can make as many of these main lines as you have dogs, and only use what you need.

A word about cutting cable. It's not easy to make a clean cut. I tried a bolt cutter (just kinda smashed everything) and a hacksaw (did the job, but took a long time and was an uneven cut). This was my perfect excuse to buy a Dremel, a power tool I've always wanted. Outfitted with a cutting wheel, it made quick work of things.

Each drop line -- the line that connects the dog to the main line -- consists of roughly an 18-inch long piece of cable terminated in loops, and I looped a brass snap swivel into each loop. That way, it pivots and swivels on the main line, meaning no tangles.

Best of all, the whole 8-dog rig easily winds onto a standard extension cord spool. Jack and I can deploy or stow the whole setup in just a couple of minutes. The whole shebang cost me around $80, hardware included (minus the dremel).

The dogs -- Dottie, Vegas, and Ariel the visiting Boston Terrier seemed happy with the setup. I'm looking forward to using it this fall.

Update on LuLu

2011-07-11T12:24:00.000-05:00

I've been exchanging emails with my trainer, Nolan Huffman, and he reports that LuLu is taking to formal training very well. So much though that he claims she's his "star pupil." I'm sure he says that to all his clients, but I'm going to take it as good news nonetheless.

Nolan tells me that LuLu is the easiest pointer he's ever trained. Being a brittany guy, I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not! She's apparently loving her time chasing wild Montana birds, and I'd by lying if I said I wasn't more than a bit jealous of my dog - an odd feeling to be sure.

"I have been working with her on hunting to me instead of me to her," Nolan writes. That sounds like an enthusiastic pointer to me.

I miss the girl, and I do miss being a part of her training. But I also know that I made the right decision to send her to a pro. I freely admit that I don't come close to Nolan's knowledge, patience, and focus when it comes to bird dogs. I also don't have quick access to open land -- nor the time to do it right (I used to remember when summers were laid back affairs -- when did that change??).

And to add insult to injury, it was 84 degrees this morning at 5:45 A.M., and it shows no sign of letting up. Who can effectively train in that??

My hat's off to you if you're a DIY trainer - I wish I could be, and maybe someday I will be. But for now, sending LuLu off to college seems like the right thing to do.

Road Photo Friday: Thanks, But I'll Pass.

2011-07-08T08:13:00.000-05:00

As seen in a Belizean grocery store.

Summer Reading: Steve Earle's I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive

2011-06-30T06:09:00.000-05:00

I don't read a lot of books in my spare time. Whereas my wife can devour a full length novel in a matter of hours, it generally takes something pretty compelling to draw me in and hold my interest (perhaps that's a refined way of saying I have a short attention span).

Either way, that wasn't an issue with I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive, the first full-length novel by hardcore troubadour Steve Earle. Clocking in at 256 pages, it's not an intimidating tome, but you'll find yourself wishing it was a lot longer as you delve into it.

It's a quirky story that takes place in 1963 on the seamy side of San Antonio. The story's protagonist is Doc Ebersole, a morphine-addled doctor that supports his habit by performing flophouse abortions. He's haunted by the ghost of Hank Williams, aided by a young illegal Mexican immigrant with strange powers, and pursued by a priest that may not always be doing the Lord's work. Still with me?

It does require a certain suspension of disbelief by the reader, but it's pretty easy to get sucked in by Earle's writing and storytelling. And it's almost physically painful to read his description of Doc's self-destructive addiction -- demons that Earle fought firsthand for a number of years.

The novel -- along with his new album of the same title -- mark a strong resurgence of this talented artist. I had grown tired of his leftist screeds and these efforts are a welcome departure. Both were composed during a time in which the 56-year-old Earle lost his father, and it shows. Throughout the novel and the album, he thoughtfully grapples with death, yet both writing and recording are ultimately about redemption.

The book feels like it probably should have gone on a little longer -- the end seems a bit forced -- but it's a fun read nonetheless. "Wrestling a novel to the ground was about 100 times harder than I expected," Earle told the L.A. Times. "In the middle of it, I swore I'd never do it again. But now that it's done, I've got another idea."

We're waiting, Mr. Earle.

Back From Paradise

2011-06-23T09:15:00.000-05:00

Pardon my absence from the blogosphere, but I've got good reason. Mrs. Scampwalker and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary recently in Belize. And what a terrific place it is. The people are friendly, the weather is sunny, and the scenery is exceedingly beautiful.

We based out of the Xanadu Resort on Ambergris Caye. They were excellent accommodations, and Ambergris was developed, yet still had a rustic charm. The tallest building on the island was two stories, so it's definitely less glitzy and obnoxious than many Caribbean destinations.

We ate fresh seafood nonstop -- including spiny lobster, which had just come into season.

We also swam with the seafood, including these rather sizeable (yet ostensibly harmless) nurse sharks. The Belize Barrier Reef is about a mile off the coast of Ambergris Caye, and at 185 miles long, it's the second largest reef in the world. And that makes for some truly breathtaking snorkeling.

The fishing ain't bad either. Not being much of a fly fisherman, I opted to take Mrs. S on an evening fishing excursion among the mangroves. We tore up the snapper, grouper, and jack crevalle. I swear our guide Armando was the prototype for Hemingway's Santiago in Old Man and the Sea.

And while we didn't do battle with a marlin, I won't soon forget the brief after-sundown battle my wife waged against a 60-pound tarpon. The beast tail-danced just like I've always read about, and it was an amazing sight reflecting off the full moon's glow.

Not a bad way to celebrate with a woman who's put up with the likes of me for 20 years!

Adieu, LuLu.

2011-06-03T06:42:00.001-05:00

Today is the day that every parent works toward, yet somewhat dreads. Their kid is going to college.

It's still a ways away for my God-given progeny, but my other pride and joy -- my 16-month-old pointer LuLu -- is headed to charm school today. She's been a terrific young dog and a pleasure to train with a ton of natural ability. But I'm smart enough to realize that I don't have the time, knowledge, patience, or wild birds to help her reach her full potential.

Enter Nolan Huffman. I was introduced to Nolan and his wife Danelle last fall while chasing birds last October up near Lewistown, Montana. But his reputation preceded him. A season before, I had the treat of hunting in Aspermont, Texas on Rick Snipes' ranch, and he proudly told me his string of pointers had been trained by Nolan. So it all kind of came together for me.

Jack and I are driving to Waverly, Nebraska this afternoon to meet Nolan at the NSTRA Performance Classic Trial and drop off LuLu. Nolan is no slouch in the NSTRA, winning this year's South Carolina Regional and the 2010 Grand National Invitational last year.

From there, he'll head up to his training grounds around Lewistown, and he'll have LuLu until we come up to hunt in October. I am expecting great things in the next four months (no pressure, Nolan).

It's a sad time (not so much for the kids, who are the primary turd shovelers), but also an expectant time. Wish us all luck!

Getting Technical with L.L. Bean

2011-06-01T18:19:00.002-05:00

Glove Love: Bean's new Technical Upland Shooting Gloves

It's still months before any of us can fire the first shot of the 2011-2012 upland hunting season, but if you're like me, you're already spending time daydreaming about this fall. I typically spend this time of year organizing my gear and (much to the chagrin of Mrs. Scampwalker) spend more than a little time online scoping out new must-have stuff.I've been impressed with some of the newer gear that's being marketed by L.L. Bean, including their Technical Upland Boots, and I recently posted on that particular product's uncertain status. Despite that setback, the Bean guys are still rolling out some really interesting new technical gear for this fall.

As promised, here's a recap of the email interview I did a week or two ago with Jeff Miller, L.L. Bean's Senior Developer for the Tecnical Upland line.

How did the Technical Upland concept originate at LL Bean?

I had been wearing traditional upland pants for many years and frankly they served me pretty well but when I was hiking, fishing or dog training I was typically wearing some "climbing" pant or similar which gave me a great range of motion with more dynamic fabrics and gusseted knees. They were pretty durable, wicked moisture well and dried quickly. If they would turn briars a little better I'm certain I would have reached for them in the fall. As I thought about it more it seemed relatively silly that the upland market hadn't taken advantage of new fabrics and designs that much of the outdoor market was enjoying. So we designed the Technical Upland Pant using a relatively lightweight polyester fabric with a little stretch and great moisture management as far as wicking and fast drying, great articulation through the nylon reinforced knees and then trimmed the cuffs with a bomb-proof, body armor fabric to keep the cuffs from fraying all apart in a season or two. We had some success and have been building on it ever since.

The Performance Hunter Orange Cap -- not your grandaddy's lid!

Hunters are a pretty traditional lot, and your Technical Upland line features a lot of new fabrics, styles and designs. What kind of feedback have you gotten from bird hunters on them?

Hunters are fairly traditional and Upland Hunters are the most traditional (exception maybe waterfowlers) and wasn't even sure if the market would be ready to accept "technical". Thankfully the were ready and have carved a nice little niche in the upland market - with more and more guys interested every year. We do hear about those that are still reluctant to give up their tried and true favorites but I have heard very few that have tried any of the Technical pieces that didn't absolutely love them. Now we all still have traditional pieces in our "quiver" - I mean it's all about the gear - but I think most are finding themselves reaching less and less for them and are preferring the benefits that some of this new stuff brings to the table. Overwhelmingly the feedback continues to be very positive.

What kind of customer is gravitating to the Technical Upland line? Traditional LL Bean customers, or are you getting new ones? My guess is that they skew a bit younger and more receptive to non-traditional designs... is that off base?

I don't think that is off base at all and I think its those same customers that, like me, have been using more technical pieces for their other outdoor endeavors. So yes, I'd say we have gained some new customers with this technical assortment and we have also engaged many of our traditional customers in it as well.

L.L. Bean is continually improving its popular (and bombproof) Upland Briar Shirt.
Note: Bean realizes that some of us use our LEFT shoulder to mount a gun!

What new Technical Upland goodies will Bean offer for the upcoming hunting season?

Well specifically to the Technical Upland assortment, we have only added a performance hunter orange hat - inspired by running ball caps - with tremendous moisture management/movement and ventilation and a shooting glove - inspired by mechanic/motocross gloves - with great dexterity, protection and a form fit. Now I will also add that we updated our traditional strap vest (Pa'tridge Strap Vest) with a great shoulder harness/lumbar belt system which should make a popular traditional piece even more functional and yet still maintain a traditional look. We didn't classify it in the technical assortment but it's a nice" bridge" piece for the guy looking for updated technology in a traditional design.

L.L. Bean's New Pa'tridge Strap Vest - Note the new lumbar support strap.

Beyond apparel, what other Bean gear is new or unique this year for the upland bird hunter?

Beyond apparel/vests/packs for the upland guy we didn't find or develop much other than a cool little bird and trout knife. It's hard to find gear or even ideas for new hardgoods in this category - short of dog supplies - what's an avid upland guy need (specific to upland)??

Between us, Jeff, we both know it has nothing to do with NEED. But it sure is nice to get some new kit now and then, and I applaud you for your innovation. You keep building it, we'll keep buying it!

Jack + .50 Cal Barrett + 5 Lbs. Tannerite = One Badass Time

2011-05-26T07:21:00.000-05:00

In my previous post, I discussed the very worthwhile Pass It On Outdoor Mentors benefit that my ten-year-old son Jack and I attended last weekend. Like most fundraisers of the outdoor ilk, there was an obligatory auction featuring some nice fishing and hunting trips, good-looking shotguns, a chance to fly in an open cockpit Stearman airplane, and more.

It was the "more" that caught the attention of me and my son. The winning bidder would receive the chance to shoot a Barrett M82A1 .50 caliber semi-automatic rifle. The .50 BMG cartridge was originally designed about 100 years ago by the esteemed John Browning to take out lightly armored vehicles and airplanes (and any personnel that happened to get in the way). It hurls a 661 grain projectile at a muzzle velocity of nearly 3,000 feet per second. For the non-gun nuts, the average deer rifle shoots a puny 150 grain bullet at more or less the same speed. It remains a mainstay machine gun round that serves allied forces well in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere.

The Barrett, however, is a different beast. Sure, it's the same day-ruining round, but the M82 is, believe it or not, more of a finesse weapon. The military variant is used to take out single Al Qaeda targets and other unsavory types from over a mile away.

So the bidding started. We stayed on the sidelines, and as the auctioneer droned on, Jack whispered to me. "I really want to do this, dad. It would be so awesome to tell my friends about!" I paused. The bid was $50. "Jack, do your friends even know what a Barrett is?" I asked. "Sure they do... from video games."

The bidding had stopped, and the Barrett's owner took the stage, in hopes of raising the stakes. "C'mon, guys, 50 bucks won't even cover the cost of ammo. If you bid this thing up, we'll throw in some Tannerite to shoot at."

And that's when my son's hand went up. Tannerite, for the uninitiated, is a perfectly legal "binary target" that, when mixed together, explodes upon impact by a high-velocity centerfire rifle round. You can drop it, or shoot at it with a handgun round (though I'm not testing this assertion), and it won't go off.

A flurry of bidding ensued, but when the dust settled, Jack and I were proud owners of ten rounds of the largest production centerfire rifle ever manufactured, and a gun to shoot them in.

The next afternoon, after a great round of sporting clays and lunch, it was time to go shooting. We were escorted out to Flint Oak's range, along with 15 or so curious onlookers. Jack was nervous, and even though I knew firsthand that this menacing-looking gun's recoil was about the same as a standard 12 gauge, I was a little nervous for him.

The video below, while amazingly cool, doesn't do it justice. Simply racking a round into this massive gun puts chills down your spine. Bystanders experience a soul-shuddering whoosh of air each time the trigger is pulled. Jack is aiming at a target about 125 yards or so away, and the exploding Tannerite was the size of a small house --- the secondary report from the explosion is even more rattling. See for yourself.

Dad of the year, anyone? It was a teriffic experience for both of us, and I'm glad we got the chance to fire one. At $8500.00, it's not likely I'm buying one anytime soon, and even if I could afford the gun, the ammo is sky-high and I don't have a place that I could shoot it. If you ever get a chance to shoot one of these beasts, by all means, do so.

Scampwalker's common sense disclaimer: I fully support the ownership and legal use of the .50 BMG and Tannerite. Please help keep them legal by using common sense. Don't use them to destroy property that isn't your own, and if you shoot stuff, pick up the junk afterwards. Don't make more noise than is reasonable, and wear hearing protection, for the love of God. Be a good neighbor and an ambassador of our Second Amendment!

Helping to Pass It On

2011-05-24T06:31:00.001-05:00

Last weekend, Jack and I had the privilege of attending the Pass It On Outdoor Mentors Bust-A-Clay for Kids' Sake fundraising event. It was held at Flint Oak, the renowned hunting and shooting lodge in southeastern Kansas.

Pass It On is a nationwide program that helps connect mentors to at-risk kids who aren't fortunate enough to experience the outdoors. The group hosts camping, hiking, fishing, hunting, and shooting events that provide kids with activities and opportunities that they otherwise wouldn't ever experience. It benefits the kids, the mentors, and helps stem the declining ranks of anglers and hunters.

Jack and I raised money for the group, and in turn, we were treated to a steak dinner, evening auction, and subsequent morning on the finest clays course I've ever had the chance to visit. It's been called the Pebble Beach of clays shooting, and now I know why. The grounds are immaculate, and the stations present pretty much every conceivable shooting opportunity. And brother is it humbling.

But back to the kids. Organizers say they raised nearly $40,000 for their group last weekend. I sincerely believe that each and every sportsman should have at least one cause that they're willing to back with their monetary resources and old-fashioned sweat equity. I think I found my new group. Some of you contributed to the cause. A sincere thank you!

Bad News/Good News Update on the L.L. Bean Technical Upland Boots

2011-05-19T18:13:00.001-05:00

Nearly a month ago, on April 23rd, I received this note (above) from the fine folks at L.L. Bean, informing me that they were canceling my backorder for a new pair of Technical Upland Boots. Many of you know that I've been raving about these incredibly comfortable (if a bit silly looking) boots ever since Bean began offering them about a year ago. They quickly became my go-to boot, and saw extensive duty in midwestern CRP and cornfields, Minnesota grousewoods, Montana prairies, and Texas brush country.

Towards the end of the season, the toe bumper and an external arch tab began separating from the Superfabric upper. Bad news. Once the season was over, I decided to test the company's exchange policy, and they happily agreed to swap out my boots for a new pair, once they had a new shipment in the warehouse. Good news.

And then this note came. Bad news again. I was curious, so I decided to contact the company's media relations guy, Mac McKeever. Mac quickly put me in touch with Jeff Miller, a Senior Developer for L.L. Bean's Upland Technical line, which was definitely good news.

Jeff is a lifelong birdhunter, and grew up in the shadow of the L.L. Bean mothership in Freeport, Maine. "I have been chasing grouse and woodcock around for over 35yrs - starting around six years old with a pneumatic cork gun that I carried while my dad hunted over a good friend's setters," Miller emailed me. For the last 15 or so years, he's been raising and training his own shorthairs. Good guy, and the real deal.

But back to the boots. I explained my situation to him, and asked him why my order was canceled and the boots are no longer avaialble on the website. Here's his emailed reply.

"You and I are both big fans, as well as a bunch of other guys, and I'm sorry to say that I don't currently have the toe-bumper/mudguard issue solved for [fall 2011]. The last revision was improved considerably but after several weeks in the field we saw signs of the same potential issue and I am in the middle of the fourth revision/redesign to solve the problem. I assure you, I am doing everything I can to resolve it quickly and get them back on the market - they really are great boots but unfortunately it doesn't look good for this October."

Major bad news. But I'm going to give Jeff and the folks at L.L. Bean some major credit on this. There are a lot of companies out there that would capitalize on the buzz around a new product and churn out junk, just to make a quick buck. But that's not L.L. Bean's way of doing business, and I applaud them for it.

So I'll wait. As long as my current pair stay comfortable, I'm going to continue wearing them. They may need a dab of Liquid Nails here and there, but that's the cost of being an "early adopter." It also makes me comfortable to know that when they finally DO have a design that passes the torture tests, it's more than likely going to be bombproof. The most important thing? L.L. Bean just earned a lifelong customer.

And good thing, too, because Jeff and I got to talking about some of the other Technical Upland gear that his company is pioneering. I'll have more about that in an upcoming post.

Road Photo Friday: Five Months 'Til Grouse Camp

2011-05-06T00:14:00.001-05:00

Right now, northern Minnesota is transitioning from frozen wasteland season into swampy, bug-infested season. But for a few weeks in mid-October, it's heaven on earth. Most of the bugs and many of the leaves have died off, yet it's still warm enough that you can sit by the evening campfire in a fleece jacket, sipping whiskey and trading lies.

I snapped this photo at Dan's legendary cabin, where I've been going for what seems like an eternity. Hunting season wouldn't be hunting season without a visit here every year. I woke up thinking about grouse camp, so it only made sense to post this shot today. I owe Dan a much longer essay (something he's pointed out repeatedly), but this'll have to do until then.

Here's to you, buddy.

Extreme Makeover: LuLu Edition

2011-05-03T11:47:00.001-05:00

LuLu, my 15-month-old pointer, is resting comfortably at home, after a big day at the vet yesterday. I'm getting her ready for her early June trip to the trainer -- more on that in another post, but here's a list of the procedures she underwent:

Ovariohysterectomy (AKA spaying). As I mentioned in my previous post, I no longer harbor any illusions of breeding one of my dogs, and as I learned firsthand with Dottie, it's much more healthy if female dogs are spayed. After much research, I opted to let her go through one cycle prior to the procedure. There are pros and cons of that, but I thought for a bird dog, it was important to let them reach full physical maturity. And besides, the increased cancer risk was fairly negligible.

Nipplectomy (2 nipples removed). Yeah, I know, weird, huh? As a by-product of going into heat, it is common for many female dogs' teats to enlarge. But hers were ridiculous! For some reason, two of LuLu's nipples grew to ginormous proportions, and never shrunk after she went out of season. They were literally the size and circumference of my pinky finger. Gross, but more importantly, I was concerned she'd lacerate them in the field. So after consultation with my vet, off they went.

Front dewclaw removal. When I picked up LuLu as a pup, I was a bit disappointed to see she still had her front dewclaws. Circumstances with my breeder prohibited him from removing them at an early age, so I opted to have them removed while she was already under anesthesia. I have been told that removing a damaged dewclaw can be much more complicated, painful, and potentially crippling, so I opted to be proactive.

Microchip implant. Despite an extensive ID collar and an Astro, I opted to get my big-running dog microchipped for easy identification. The company that my vet uses is HomeAgain, but my research indicates I can register it with virtually any database for a reasonable one-time fee. I believe I'm going to choose the AKC registry, which seems to be the largest and best-known. Anyone out there have any additional advice on microchipping?

Rattlesnake vaccine. In addition to her various other vaccinations, I've chosen to get LuLu vaccinated against rattlesnakes. While I've read about the horror stories on the internet, any reputable breeder or trainer that I've spoken with likes to vaccinates dogs that frequent snake country. LuLu certainly does -- between western Kansas, Montana, and Texas, her odds are pretty good of coming in contact with a rattler. While I'd still take any dog to a vet if they were struck, I think the vaccine might mitigate the effects -- especially since it's a 45 minute drive (at least) to the nearest vet when I'm out hunting. My own vet wasn't familiar with the vaccine, and after calling the manufacturer, Red Rock Biologics, I learned that no vet in the Kansas City area has the vaccine. After consulting with my trainer, he's going to have his vet do it once LuLu arrives in Montana for training this summer. Any other advice or thoughts on this vaccine?

All the poking and prodding slowed down LuLu a bit -- she was actually a pleasure to pet and love on, instead of her usual hyper-puppy self -- but this morning she was almost back up to full speed. I never cease to marvel at bird dogs' capacity to recover. At any rate, by the time she goes to college next month, she should be ready to rumble.

Braggin' On Finn: A New Pup On Our String

2011-05-01T22:00:00.001-05:00

Meet Finn. This stylish and exceedingly cute 15-week old setter pup is my buddy Wes' newest edition to his crew. He's out of Berg Bros Setters in Dayton, Minnesota. I'm decidedly a pointer guy, but a shaggy dog like this one could certainly sway me.

The pigeon trapping was a little bit slow this week, so instead of going to bigger land where we could run both Finn and LuLu (my year-old-and-then-some pointer pup), we just took the little guy to a nearby park and let him have at the one pigeon we had. I was really impressed with his drive and nose. At this age of course, it's all about simply introducing them to new experiences, but even so, it looks like Wes has a real winner on his hands.

On a somewhat related note, LuLu is going under the knife tomorrow to get spayed. While I think she's got some terrific potential, I've learned over the years that I've got no business breeding bird dog pups, so this seems the wisest route for me. I've got to get her ready for her formal training this summer. More on that later.

Braggin' On Jack

2011-04-29T06:22:00.001-05:00

This spring, my son Jack joined our local shooting range's youth trapshooting team. It's sponsored by the Scholastic Clay Target Program, a national organization that strives to get kids involved in the shotgun sports.

Being a fifth grader, Jack is on the younger side of things, but he's really taken to it. Like his dad, he wasn't blessed with a heaping portion of athletic ability (or really even a morsel). But we're discovering that (also like his pop) his hand-eye coordination is pretty darn good.

Good enough to earn him and his squadmates second place in his first-ever trap shoot. More importantly, it's teaching him gun safety and sportsmanship. I'm awfully proud of the kid.

Easter at the Scampwalker's

2011-04-25T12:00:00.001-05:00

'Twas a nice and leisurely Easter Sunday at Casa Scampwalker. After Sunday services, Mrs. S and I whipped up a couple of brandy milk punches. It's an old family tradition of mine, and one I can remember my parents savoring many years ago when I was my son's age. The ingredients sound a bit odd, but they almost taste like a melted milkshake. A decidedly grown-up one.

The centerpiece of our Easter meal was a ham that I prepared from scratch. I bought a 14-pound fresh ham from Bichelmeyer Meats, and, using the recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie, brined it in a cooler for about six days. It wasn't a fancy brine -- just kosher salt, brown sugar, and some pink salt. I smoked it up on Friday (about 7 hours total, until the internal temp hit 155 degrees). It was delicious! I always thought a ham required a lot more knowledge, skill, and equipment than the average home cook could muster, but I can gladly report that we'll be doing this again -- just as soon as we eat the other 13 pounds of this one.

The ham was accompanied by a terrific blue cheese and chipotle scalloped potato recipe taken from Homesick Texan, and some gently steamed asparagus drizzled with some lemon juice. It was all paired with a 2009 Becker Prairie Rotie, a really tasty Rhone-style blend that complemented the flavors of the meal. And a fresh strawberry pie for dessert.

After a prodigious nap on the couch, we engaged in another Scampwalker ritual: cascarones. A south Texas and Mexican custom, a cascarone is a dyed eggshell filled with confetti. A spirited battle at a nearby park ensued, and the Scampwalker tradition of "It Ain't Easter Until Someone Cries or Bleeds" was fulfilled.

My Tricked-Out Ruger 10-22

2011-04-20T06:45:00.004-05:00

Remember back in the day when all it took was a silly little .22 rifle to make you happy? Cans, squirrels, and paper targets were all in danger when that little gun was in your hands. I've recently rediscovered that joy.

A good friend, looking to liquidate some of his excess firearms and components, offered me the receiver of a Ruger 10-22, the most popular, reliable, and vaunted autoloading rimfire rifle ever produced. Admittedly, I was a newbie to the platform, but I knew it was popular for a reason, and decided it would make a fun winter project.

My receiver-providing friend, no firearms slouch, had already done a trigger job, upgraded the firing pin and bolt handle, and jeweled the bolt. But the rest of the gun didn't exist. Enter the internet. The next most important -- if not the most important -- component of any rifle is the barrel, and the 10-22 offers a dizzying array of aftermarket ones. After a lot of investigation, I decided on the Tactical Solutions X-Ring fluted machined aluminum .920 barrel. In rifle parlance, that's a "heavy" barrel, though this bad boy weighs less than a pound. Installation was mind-numbingly simple.

I initially wanted a classy wood or laminate stock, but nothing really suited me. I wanted this to be a gun that would fit me as well as Jack, my 10-year-old son. Somewhat begrudgingly, I went for Blackhawk's Axiom R/F adjustable telescoping butt stock. Boy am I glad I did. It's free-floated, weighs just over a pound, and fits us both to a T.

For optics, I couldn't justify spending a ton on a rimfire gun (yes, I know, I had already spent an inordinate amount of coin on this gun, for those of you keeping score at home). I "settled" for a Bass Pro Shops Redhead Ascent Rimfire 3x9 scope for about 60 bucks, with rings. I chose a Tactical Solutions picatinny-style rail base as well.

I should've stopped there. But I had a Leapers UTG bipod on order from Amazon that was originally destined for my AR, but I figured I was rapidly moving from tactical to "tacticool" on that weapon. So I put it on the sling swivel stud of the Ruger's Blackhawk stock, and I've been amazed at how great it works on the range bench. No sandbags, and much more stable. I've heard there are reliability issues with the UTG rest, but so far, I haven't seen any.

So how much does this monstrosity weigh? Would you believe a mere five pounds, three ounces? Pretty slick, huh? But is it a shooter?

Hell yeah. Out at the range yesterday, at 50 yards, in 10-15 mph variable winds, I was routinely bulling my target -- and so was Jack. You can shoot the thing all day, of course, since the noise, recoil, and expense of the ammo is minimal. And if you like shooting centerfire rifles and pistols like my son does, you need to make sure you have a fun-to-shoot .22 in your gun cabinet.

What I'm Listening To: Spring 2011

2011-04-13T17:18:00.001-05:00

It's been awhile since my last sonic update. Here are a few new (and new to me) tunes that are wearing out my MP3 player.

Jason Isbell - Here We Rest
The former Drive-By Trucker's third solo effort is being hailed from all corners, and for good reason. It's a damn fine album. To me, it feels distinctly more mellow than his last two, but that's not entirely a bad thing. His songwriting has become has become even sharper, and his smoky, bourbon-on-the-rocks voice is in top form. Styles range from the straight-ahead rocker "Go It Alone" to the almost folky "Codeine" to the Department of Tourism-ready "Alabama Pines." Most songs are about loss and longing, but unless you listen closely to the lyrics, the melodies are generally sunny. It's another album that was born in Muscle Shoals, Alabama -- a place that's deservedly enjoying a nice resurgence in attention these days.

Turnpike Troubadours - Diamonds & Gasoline

This one came out late last summer, and it sort of fell off my radar until just recently. My loss. These guys are going to be the Next Big Thing to come out of Oklahoma -- if they aren't already. Literate and geographically astute lyrics are decorated with really great melodies and can't-get-it-out-of-your-head hooks. This is country music for people who say they're too smart for country music, and rock and roll for for those who think they've outgrown it. It probably didn't hurt that the record was produced by Mike McClure, a veteran of the Red Dirt music scene. I had the chance to see them recently, and they're every bit as good on stage as they are on Memorex.

North Mississippi Allstars - Keys to the Kingdom

I became a fan of the Allstars back during their Shake Hands With Shorty debut and 51 Phantom follow-up, but they kind of fell off my radar as they jumped on the jam-band bandwagon. Today, brothers Luther and Cody Dickinson and Chris Chew are back in a big way with Keys To the Kingdom. Last year, the Dickinson boys lost their father Jim, a legendary Memphis session man, and his departure deeply influenced their latest release. Tinged heavily with southern gospel, soul, and blues, Keys to the Kingdom veers between mourning their father's death and celebrating his life. "Hear the Hills" is a poigniant tearjerker, while the irreverent "Jumpercable Blues" contains the awesome refrain of, "hey hey, well well, all y'all can go straight to hell... you have seen the last of me, pissin' in your wishing well." They even do a brilliant and uniquely original cover of Dylan's "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again."

Eleven Hundred Springs - Eight the Hard Way
The long haired, tattooed hippie freaks from Dallas turn out another solid record full of "Hardcore Honkytonk." The album track by the same name is a dig at present-day Nashville, and "We're From Texas" is their obligatory salute to the Lone Star State. Nothing here is terribly original, but I think that's maybe the point. Over 13 years and 11 albums, these guys simply turn out great, timeless country tunes.

Band of Heathens - Top Hat Crown and the Clapmaster's Son
About the only thing that sucks about this album is its unwieldy and weird title. BOH started as sort of an Austin "supergroup" of individual talent from the likes of Ed Jurdi, Gordy Quist, Colin Brooks, and Brian Keane. Their first couple discs sounded great, but you could definitely tell they hadn't entirely gelled as a band. Their newest one (whatever the hell it's called) is definitely more cohesive and tight, and they've expanded their sound by drawing elements from soul, gospel, funk, New Orleans style jazz, and good old rock and roll.

Black Joe Lewis And the Honeybears - Scandalous

What a fun album. I've worn out their debut full-length album, Tell 'Em What Your Name Is, thoroughly enjoying classic tunes like I'm Broke, Get Yo Shit, and Humpin'. They've followed it up with a blistering soul-funk-R&B opus that includes gems like "Booty City," "Black Snake," and "Mustang Ranch," in which Joe tells the story of visiting the renowned Texas whorehouse to get his "ham glazed." But beneath the outrageous, sweaty, slightly mysogenistic lyrics, there's some damn fine musicianship among the eight (or so) band members. This album is tighter and better crafted than the previous. It's Otis Redding, James Brown, and Wilson Pickett sprinkled with a little Rick James. And it's a hell of a lot of fun.

Road Photo Friday: Snakebit

2011-04-08T17:52:00.004-05:00

These three photos from my recent turkey hunting trip in the Lone Star State do well to sum up the experience.

This photo depicts the guajillo bush that was hit by my shotgun this morning. The turkey standing in close proximity was not.

This photo is of the Mexican free-tailed bat that inexplicably ran into my hunting buddy's neck on Tuesday. Mind you, this did not happen as we were walking to our stand in pre-dawn hours -- it was at 2 p.m. The incident prompted another buddy to quip, "if you start growing fangs, we're shooting you."

Oh yeah, it was a hundred degrees. The first week in April.

This final photo is of the five foot long western diamondback rattlesnake that decided to join us on our early morning turkey hunt Thursday morning. Like within a foot. We escaped, unscathed. The snake did not.

Some trips are just that way, aren't they?

Shameless Brag: My Drop-Tined Buck

2011-03-28T20:50:00.001-05:00

Here he is. And while I freely admit this post is unadulterated braggadocio, this magnificent buck is worth sharing. He proudly stands sentinel in my office, and I've had a number of positive remarks from co-workers, both hunters and non-hunters alike. I took him last fall down near Cuero, Texas.

He was mounted by Eddie's Taxidermy in San Antonio, and I think they did one hell of a job. And as luck would have it, I was able to have him unofficially scored by Dean Heffner, our fishing guide we recently hired over spring break. The old 12-pointer grossed 165 1/4 inches B&C, which dwarfs anything else I've shot. He's the biggest whitetail I'll ever take, that's for sure. But more than the score, I enjoy looking at that big drop tine, the other tine tips chipped from fighting, and the gray, grizzled muzzle -- evidence of a life boldly lived.

Gun, Meet Upper Palate.

2011-03-27T18:05:00.000-05:00

Snapped this little doozy off the back deck five minutes ago. I know others to the north have it even worse than us -- and bretheren to the south are chilly too -- but this is about MY weather, dammit. We're more than a week into spring and less than a week until April. What gives?

SportDOG NoBark 10R: Your Neighbors Will Thank You

2011-03-24T12:20:00.000-05:00

It's springtime (in most parts of the country anyhow), and that means the birds and critters are starting to emerge from a long winter. For me, this time of year also marks increased barking activity, particularly from my one-year-old pointer, LuLu. You can't say she doesn't have prey drive -- she's prone to bark at every robin, squirrel, and bunny that's anywhere within eyeshot.

Unfortunately, I'm a suburbanite, and barking is frowned upon by my neighbors. I've tried a number of different brands and styles of bark collars, and they seem to work fine for my two other (older) dogs.

Not LuLu. She's managed to wear out, destroy, or ignore virtually every anti-bark device I've strapped to her, save one: the SportDOG NoBark 10R. Frankly, I'm not sure what I'd do without it.

It's completely waterproof and has a rechargeable battery that lasts for weeks at a time, even under heavy use. On-board sensors detect both sound and vibration to trigger a correction -- unlike some competitors that would seem to fire off for no reason. After all, the only thing worse than a bark collar NOT working when your dog barks is a unit that works when they're NOT barking! It also has an automatic safety shut-off eliminates the risk of overcorrection.

SportDOG's latest bark limiter has three different modes of correction. "Temperament Learning" measures what level of stimulation it takes for your dog to stop barking, and sets itself to that level. It then reduces the initial warning corrections once the dog has learned to reduce barking. "Progressive Correction" mode escalates stimulation (starting at zero) each and every time your dog barks. There's also a "User Selected" option that lets you manually set the level of correction.

I can't honestly say that I've tried every mode. I just set it to Temperament Learning and let the collar do the rest. It's been a Godsend. It still allows LuLu to bark once or twice, which I think is typically a good thing -- it lets me know if something is amiss. Thanks to the 10R, my dog has learned that birds and squirrels aren't worth barking over, but meter men or other strangers in my backyard are worth bringing to my attention.

Even if your dogs aren't barkers, it's a good item to have in your kit during hunting season. In unfamiliar places around unfamiliar dogs and people, I've seen many a laid-back bird dog turn into a yapper extraordinaire. That won't win you many friends in hunt camp or motel parking lot. At about 90 bucks, it's not as cheap as foam earplugs, but it's not expensive, either. And it's a hell of a lot more effective.

The King of Possum Kingdom Sand Bass

2011-03-19T22:04:00.000-05:00

Definitions. That's probably what this title needs. First, sand bass. Growing up in Nebraska, I caught the hell out of these fish on Johnson Lake, but they were known as white bass. Voracious eaters, they were always biting and a ton of fun to catch. In Texas -- and other points south -- they're known as sand bass. So now you know.

The other part of the title -- Possum Kingdom -- you either shake your head knowingly, or snicker uncontrollably. Even the locals skirt the formal name and simply call it "PK." It's a lake. In Texas. A very pretty one at that, with beautiful limestone cliffs. And yes, it inspired a Toadies song. But that's neither here nor there.

What IS here -- or rather in my belly -- are passels of fillets that my son Jack and I tore up while visiting said lake. I've been on Spring Break for the last week, most of which was spent in the Lone Star State. On the way down (I'm ashamed it didn't happen sooner) I decided that Jack and I -- the only boys on a certain leg of the trip -- needed a diversion from the estrogen and shopping. Naturally, I Googled possum kingdom fishing guide, and, through the greatness of Al Gore's invention, I found Dean Heffner. And boy am I glad I did.

We showed up at the appointed time of 6:30am at Mr. C's Convenience Store (ok, 6:15, I'm terminally early), and Dean met us. We followed him to the dock, and he promptly sat in our truck for ten minutes. "Most of y'all don't show up on time," he explained. He'd never met the Scampwalker family, apparently.

We started fishing at 7:40, and until 11:00, we simply tore them up. Dean was a knowledgeable guide that still made sure we had a great time. One fish, two fish on a line -- sometimes each of us with four-plus pounds on our line. In all, we caught 91 fish (both Jack and Dean made sure I kept track). But I do know that Dad hauled in just one more than son, just to keep the kid humble.

Jack was silent almost the entire trip. I worried that he wasn't enjoying himself. I was wrong. Flashing back to trips that my Dad took me on, he was simply enjoying himself, his surroundings, and his company.

And so did I.

Road Photo Friday: World's First eCollar

2011-03-04T15:04:00.000-06:00

I snapped this shot a couple of weeks ago at the National Bird Dog Museum a couple of weeks back, while visiting Grand Junction, Tennessee for the recently-concluded National Championship. It reminds me of the old World War Two radios you'd see in black and white photos. I bet that it used to shoc-- er, stimulate the hell out of dogs back in the day, don't you?

A cursory internet search (always reliable, of course!) doesn't offer much history on the collar. It's pretty rough around the edges, I'll say that. The Bill Boatman Company is a venerable dog supply company -- I can remember reading their photocopied mail-order catalog as a kid. But I'm not certain if the company actually manufactured these units, or if they were simply a reseller. Any ideas, anyone?

Delmar Smith: King of Bird Dogs

2011-02-21T21:43:00.000-06:00

During the course of any given lifetime, it's not often that any one individual encounters true greatness. One of those times happend to me recently.

I had the distinct privilege of attending the first two days of the National Championship Field Trial at Ames Plantation near Grand Junction, Tennessee this week. It was truly an amazing experience, and one I'll discuss in more detail later.

But back to my brush with greatness. During my time at Ames, I spent my days with (among others) the great Delmar Smith. I'm not sure there are sufficient adjectives to describe this prince of a man. Part Will Rogers philosopher, part P.T. Barnum showman, Delmar is the most significant and influential bird dog man still roaming the earth today.

An Oklahoman born and bred, he grew up raising cattle and breaking horses, and transferred that knowledge of animals to sporting dogs. Early on, he had a fair amount of success in field trials, but it wasn't until his Brittanys started winning that he started gaining some much-deserved notoriety, and jarring the pointer-setter duopoly in the process. From there, it was full speed ahead.

Like any good bird dog man, you would expect a certain amount of bullshit, and he splendidly delivers. But this man -- a spry 85 years old -- has a mind like a steel trap and a handshake much the same. Standing next to him hearing him recount the people he's known and the dogs he's trained (or is it the other way around?) is simply amazing.

And God bless it, he's funnier than hell, too. Several people came up to him during the trial and mentioned hearing this NPR appearance. If you have an extra ten minutes, you'll understand the spell that this man casts.

Mostly though, Delmar Smith left me with a simple yet profound thought. As he tells it, many years ago, Delmar was having dinner with John Olin -- CEO of the then-Winchester empire -- and the gun magnate was having maddening issues with a new gun.

"He told me he went to the factory and started making changes to the gun, one at a time. He started with the butt plate. When that didn't work, he changed the screws of the butt plate. Then he changed the wood and the angle of the stock. And he just moved forward from there, and before long, the problem was fixed. He changed one variable at a time, and that's a lesson I took with me to bird dogs. Make single changes, and you'll be able to isolate the problem."

Simple words, but profound. And ones we'd all do well to heed -- whether it's bird dogs, our work lives, friends, or family.

These Are The Times That Try Men's Souls

2011-02-09T11:26:00.000-06:00

Bird hunting season is behind us.

Fishing is sixty days away.

It's dark at 5:30 in the afternoon.

There's a foot of dirty, gray snow on the ground.

It's warmer in my freezer than it is outside.

Football season is over.

Basketball season has yet to get interesting.

Truly, these are the times that try men's souls.

So, what else sucks about this time of year? Discuss.

Road Photo Friday: The Season In Photos

2011-02-05T11:04:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I know it's not Friday. But this really isn't a photo, either. Enjoy.

My Love Affair With Refried Beans

2011-02-02T09:32:00.000-06:00

Growing up in the Midwest refried beans were typically only served as a side dish to tacos -- a can of Old El Paso, that mom would thin with some water. An afterthought, really. To me they always smelled (and looked) like canned dog food, but I enjoyed them anyway.

Fast forward to my college years in San Antonio. A Taco Cabana was always nearby, and the cheapest thing on the menu was the bean and cheese taco. Swaddled in foil and served steaming hot, it was peasant food, but hey, that was me! Just a homemade tortilla, smoky, rich refried beans, and some shredded cheese. It was heaven, and I lived on the things.

As toddlers, our kids lived on them too. It was (and still is) the Scampwalker family equivalent to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They are equally tasty morning, noon, or night. Now our frijoles refritos are homemade, and I can happily report that they no longer smell like Alpo.

Scampwalker's Refried Beans

Roast 3-4 garic cloves, wrapped in foil, in a 350 degree oven for 20-30 minutes.

Meanwhile, sort a 16-ounce bag of pinto beans (black beans also work well) for any pebbles or other debris, put into a large pot with 8 cups of water, and add 3 bay leaves. Do not add salt now -- your beans will never get fully tender if you do.

Cover and simmer for about 3 hours, adding the peeled garlic when it's done roasting. Check the beans occasionally, and if they're still tough, add water as needed. You'll know they're done when they are tender and start sticking to the bottom of the pot and almost all the water is absorbed. Remove from heat.

Add a fresh chopped tomato if in season, or a half can of tomato paste. If you save bacon grease (and everyone should), add 2-3 tablespoons of it. Otherwise add 2-3 tablespoons of vegetable oil. You can also add salt at this time, although I typically don't if I'm using bacon grease.

Mash them with a potato masher. I prefer mine still a bit chunky, but if you want them really creamy, you can finish them off with a hand mixer.

Serve them with homemade tortillas, shredded cheddar cheese, cilantro, and pico de gallo. I suppose the beans will save for a week or more in the refrigerator, but they're never around long enough to know for sure.

What I'm Listening To: Winter 2011

2011-01-28T15:31:00.000-06:00

Here's a list of the tunes getting heavy rotation on my MP3 player. If you don't already have them, I urge you to plunk down some coin and give them a listen -- and support live music while you're at it!

Doc Dailey & Magnolia Devil - Victims Enemies & Old Friends
You know how sometimes you hear a record and it just feels like the place where it was written? The sound, the feel, the people -- few artists ever achieve that, but Doc Dailey & Magnolia Devil have done just that on their debut album. And hell, I've never even been to Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Vitcims Enemies & Old Friends is terrific -- if I had to compare it to anything, it'd be Blue Mountain with a dash or two of classic Muscle Shoals soul. Whatever it is, you owe it to yourself to give this band a listen. I guarantee that you'll be back for more.

Old 97s - The Grand Theatre Volume One
The thing I appreciate most about the Old 97s is that even though every album they make is different from the last, each one is a gem. I can only imagine what a challenge it is to continually stay fresh and relevant, yet still remain true to your core sound -- particularly over the span of 18 years. Influences on their latest effort are all over the map -- channeling The Clash on the album's title track, mimicking Cash on "Born To Be In Battle," borrowing from The Kinks on "Every Night Is Friday Night (Without You)," and doing an obvious (yet unpredictable) rewrite of a Dylan classic on "Champaign Illinois." Rhett Miller's clever wordplay abounds throughout the album - like when he sings longingly about "living in a state of Texas" -- an almost-there sentiment that I can clearly understand. The only thing better than an Old 97s album is an Old 97s live show -- and I hope to experience another one of those in Lawrence tonight.

Javi Garcia & The Cold Cold Ground - A Southern Horror
This is a NSFW album. Heck, it's not safe to play around your wife, parents, kids, or really anyone else. It's full of pissed off, murderous songs, and thanks to profligate cussing, it'll probably never receive any airplay. But that doesn't mean A Southern Horror isn't worth a serious listen. Javi Garcia reminds me of Steve Earle before he got fat and overtly political -- or even Johnny Cash before he cleaned up his act. He writes desperate, ragged, rugged music about the reality of 2011 rural America. It's not always a pleasant trip, but Javi Garcia certainly makes it a profound one.

The Black Keys - Brothers
I am admittedly a latecomer to these guys. I've given some of their previous efforts a listen or two, but they nevery really resonated with me. Brothers is different. It's got a swampy groove, not unlike Mofro -- perhaps because it was produced in Muscle Shoals (detecting a trend here?) by Tchad Blake. The whole album is a fuzzy, bass-driven groove. If I could dance, I'd choose this album to dance to (let's all be thankful I won't try).

Social Distortion - Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes
Ah, Social D. Good to have you back, fellas. If you like them, you'll like this. If you don't, you won't... no sense in me yammering on about it.

My 2010-2011 Hunting Season By The Numbers

2011-01-26T18:07:00.001-06:00

Barring a spur-of-the-moment trip to Texas, my huting season is officially in the books. It was a great one, filled with fond memories of good times. My first wild chukar. My first season with my new pup. My son's first season to hunt alongside me. Longtime hunting buddies and some new ones, too. It's hard to put it all into words, so here's a brief digital recap.

Days hunted: 44

States hunted: 4 (Kansas, Minnesota, Montana, and Texas)

Species taken: 12 (mourning dove, whitewing dove, bobwhite quail, scaled quail, pheasant, woodcock, ruffed grouse, sharptail grouse, prairie chicken, hungarian partridge, chukar, whitetail deer)

Pairs of boots worn: 1 (L.L. Bean Upland Technical Boot)

Miles put on truck since September 1, 2010: 21,843 (Jiffy Lube loves me)

Number of consecutive upland opening weekends hunted: 16 years (ended this year)

Hottest hunting day: 91.4 degrees (Hondo, Texas, September 4)

Coldest hunting day: 15.8 degrees (Pratt, Kansas, December 12)

Bars visited with rivers flowing through them: 1

Rattlesnakes shot: 2

Times knocked unconscious by hunting buddy: 1 (long story)

Days left until turkey season: 52 (Texas) 71 (Kansas)

Thompson/Center Venture + Hornady Superformance = Bad Day For Deer

2011-01-19T08:49:00.000-06:00

As my 2010-2011 deer hunting season draws to a close, I would be remiss if I didn't rave a bit about the setup that I've used this fall.

Back in September, I received a Thompson/Center Venture in .270 caliber. Anyone who knows me understands that I appreciate a nicely-grained walnut stock, so this gun was a bit off-putting with its black plastic furnishings. It was all solid, and the grip panels were effective, if not elegant.

But that's about the only quibble I can make with this firearm.

T/C raves about their 1 MOA accuracy out of the box, which I assumed was a bit of puffery from the marketing department. I was wrong. Fitted with Nikon ProStaff glass, this is the most accurate deer gun I have in my safe. The 12-point drop-tined buck that I took dropped in his tracks at 150 yards, and the doe my son shot never knew what hit her. And at an MSRP of around $500, it's a gun (American made, no less) that's within almost any hunter's reach. I know I'll be reaching for this gun again next fall.

I'm convinced that part of what makes the Venture so deadly accurate is what I've been feeding it: Hornady Superformance SST loads. Every year it seems the ammo manufacturers come out with some new load that promises to be the ultimate whitetail medicine. Few deliver, but the Superformance does.

I don't entirely understand it, but Hornady claims they achieve a muzzle velocity that's 100 or 200 fps greater than a conventional load. And man, is it hard hitting. Jack's doe had a fist-sized hole where her heart used to be. No one - me, Jack, or the rest of the guys in deer camp -- had seen a deer hit that hard.

And best of all, it's not a hard-shooting load. I was a bit apprehensive about letting my son use a .270 on his first deer, especially with these hot loads. But there truly was no appreciable difference in recoil between the Superformance and a conventional load.

It's a deadly combo -- and one that's given us a full-to-the-brim deep freeze this winter.

"I Have A New Level Of Respect For Christopher Boykin."

2011-01-17T12:01:00.000-06:00

That sentence was uttered last night by my ten-year-old son Jack. Who is Chris Boykin? Why, he's the Guinness Record Book holder who peeled and ate three bananas in less than one minute.

My son knows that because he read it in a book he checked out from the library over the weekend. It was a record he thought he could beat. The Guinness guys stipulate that to become a valid world record, he needed two witnesses and videotape. The result is below, and is not to be missed.

Road Photo Friday: Not Exactly A Trophy Room

2011-01-14T13:57:00.001-06:00

I took this photo about five years ago, while bird hunting up on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in southern South Dakota. It was kind of a jarring sight -- five really nice trophy heads, in various states of decomposition, sitting on top of a pickup truck in its own state of decomposition. Off to the left of where this photo was taken, there was a four-foot pile of antlered skulls and sheds as well.

I'm not sure if there's a conclusion to draw here, other than the Lakota Sioux seem to have a very different philosophy on the value and display of a pair of deer antlers.

Hunting Mr. Spikey

2011-01-10T16:22:00.006-06:00

Jack and I settled into our blind at around 3:30 in the afternoon. It was cool (by south Texas standards, anyhow) and a gentle wind was blowing into our faces. We situated ourselves, and after a couple practice mounts with the .270, we decided it'd be much easier (and infinitely quieter) for Jack to hold the gun resting on the blind's window sill.

At ten years old, it was Jack's first time in a deer blind, but somewhat to my surprise, he was calm and at ease. Nevertheless, it certainly wasn't his first time afield with his dad. As I sat there, I reflected on the past few months of introducing (some would say indoctrinating) my son into the love of the outdoors and the fun of shooting. He had taken to it better than I ever could have hoped, and this evening we were spending time afield, much like I had with my own dad in a Platte River duck blind some 30 years earlier.

Our hunt was a doe hunt, and that suited Jack just fine -- once he came to terms with the fact that we probably wouldn't mount his trophy. I was also told that if a trashy-loking old spike came through, we were welcome to remove him from the gene pool as well.

As we settled into the stand that evening, I told Jack about the spike. "I want to shoot Mr. Spikey!" he excitedly whispered. Apparently, I had a blossoming trophy hunter on my hands.

About ten minutes later, a group of ten or 15 does came out onto the ranch road and began feeding. Jack's eyes got as big as saucers, and I could see he was breathing a bit heavier. I figured he'd cave at any moment and decide to pop a doe -- but, unlike my own tendencies at that age, he never did.

We never did see Mr. Spikey that evening, but it didn't really matter. We spent the evening watching deer -- including some respectable shooters -- and engaging in conversations both serious and silly. Back at deer camp, Jack ate dinner with the other kids, but then abruptly told me he was going to bed. I worried he might be getting sick. "Nope, I'm great. I just want to make sure I get enough sleep tonight so I'll be wide awake for when Mr. Spikey comes."

Now I knew what I'd be praying about that evening. And I knew I wasn't going to be the only one.

The next morning found us back in the tower blind, filled with optimism. Family obligations dictated that we only had a few hours on stand, but we were both in great spirits and confident our deer would show himself.

About an hour after sunrise, a group of eight does walked into a clearing about 70 yards in front of us. "I'm holding out for Mr. Spikey," Jack insisted. The does continued to mill about in front of us for the next 45 minutes or so. Time was running short. "Jack, I don't want to make your decision for you, but I don't think Mr. Spikey is going to show this morning. If you're going to take a deer today, you're probably smart to take one of those does."

Jack considered. "Ok, you're right. I'll take the one on the right." At that moment, all eight deer disappeared in the blink of an eye, for reasons unknown. Utter despair crossed my son's face. I couldn't hide it on mine, either.

We hung our heads in defeat, but decided to wait it out for another 30 minutes. At the witching hour, two does, one considerably larger than the other, appeared where the other eight had fled. We both knew there'd be no waiting for Mr. Spikey.

Jack raised the gun, and I disengaged the safety. We both peered out the window at the larger doe, and time stood still. "Ok, I've got her," Jack managed. "Ok, take her," I said, as calmly as possible. A split second later, the gun erupted, and I could easily see that Jack had scored a vital hit. I watched the unlucky doe sprint 30 yards and fall.

What followed was pure, unadulterated elation. Father and son, sharing a once-in-a-lifetime moment that we'll both cherish forever. We hugged, high-fived, and wiped the tears from our eyes. And we each exhaled for the first time all morning.

"Let's go get her!" Jack gushed. "Not yet -- we need to wait about 30 minutes," and I launched into a five-minute dissertation on the importance of not pressuring a wounded animal. At the end of the lecture, we were stepping out of the stand -- I couldn't stand it either, and I knew she was hit well.

I let Jack track the considerable blood trail, and he found his deer right where she went down. It was indeed a perfect shot, and it made a considerably proud papa grin even wider.

It wasn't a Boone & Crockett record book buck, and it wasn't even Mr. Spikey. It was much, much more than any of that.

I'm Back...

2010-12-27T05:32:00.000-06:00

My sincerest apologies for dropping off the face of the earth.

It wasn't really planned, and I don't really have an excuse. I wasn't despondent over the Husker loss (disappointed though), I didn't come down with some terminal disease (that I know of), and I didn't have some terrible accident. I just unplugged.

Yeah, I honest-to-God haven't logged into my blog (or read any other blog) since the day I wrote my last post, almost a month to the day. While I've missed reading everyone else, it's been a nice break. I never wanted this blog thing to be a chore, and it was starting to feel that way. So I took an unpaid sabbatical.

During that time, I've logged over 6,000 road miles while hunting in three states (shooting deer, quail, and pheasants), said goodbye to my wife's dear 98 year old grandmother, and enjoyed the Christmas holiday with my wife and kids. It's been a busy month!

This morning finds me in the Texas Hill Country with my children, visiting my parents. Mrs. Scampwalker will join us tomorrow, along with NotHemingway and his growing family. It's shaping up to be a great week.

Today, I will take my son Jack deer hunting for a fat whitetail doe. Expect a post in the near future on that one.

So yeah, I'm back. Thanks to those of you who wondered, or maybe even missed me. I missed the blogosphere. A belated Merry Christmas, and an early Happy New Year. I'll not be a stranger.

Saturday Night I'm Going To Party Like It's 1978

2010-11-29T12:20:00.000-06:00

It was probably the late 1970s or early 80s, and I was sitting around the dinner table, dining with my parents and brother. On this particular evening, we had the TV tuned to the local news -- mostly as background noise.

It was a rare night that I wasn't enjoying my meal -- a casserole of some sort (of which I'm still not a fan today). "I hate casseroles," I muttered to my plate and no one in particular.

Across the table, my father's fork audibly dropped on his plate. "Young man, hate is a strong word. You can dislike your meal all you want, but you're not allowed to hate it. The only thing you're allowed to hate is that man right there."

My father pointed to our small Emerson television. Barry Switzer, coach of the Oklahoma Sooners, was talking. And that was my indoctrination into Husker football.

Of course, Dad wasn't entirely serious about hating Coach Switzer. In fact, in the years since then, I've always had a fondness for the Sooners. Back then, the Cornhuskers and Sooners were the two heavies that could always be counted on to fight for the Big 8 championship, and most likely a national one. Epic battles between the brash, foul-mouthed Switzer and the bland, choir boy Tom Osborne. My allegiances never faltered from the Huskers, but I did always secretly love (and love to hate) Coach Switzer.

Then came the Big 12, and like everything else in sports (and life I suppose), it became all about money and power. Our yearly duel with the Okies ended. And the power (and money) shifted to Dallas and Austin. I'm not here to debate who's at fault -- there's plenty of blame to go around, and what's done is done.

I pondered all of this last Friday, as I watched the Huskers drub the Colorado Buffaloes (always an enjoyable thing) from our seats in Memorial Stadium. Both teams will soon head off to different conferences and different futures. While the game was great, something felt amiss. I'm no longer able to look forward to annual games against the K-State Wildcats, Kansas Jayhawks, or Missouri Tigers -- the schools where my co-workers and hunting buddies attended. Their stadiums are all a short drive from home.

I'm trading that for far-flung Ohio State and Michigan -- great schools, for sure, but I don't know a soul from either institution. They're strangers to me. That'll change over time, but next year is going to be weird.

But for the next week, I'm going to set that all aside and fondly anticipate Saturday night's throwback throwdown between two historic (and hopefully future) powerhouses. And however things turn out, I'll be satisfied that the old Big Eight had one final, proud curtain call.

And The Winner Is...

2010-11-25T20:56:00.001-06:00

Lots of good entries... well, actually, there were surprisingly few entries, but damn fine advice from the folks that did enter. We'll highlight all of this stuff (cuz as far as I can tell, it's all good endorsements from good people), but without further ado, here's the winner - who can email me at koenig721@gmail.com

Here's to tryptophan.

True American Dog and Last Chance to Win

2010-11-24T11:00:00.001-06:00

Completely random pre-Thanksgiving thoughts today...

I have no idea what the True American Dog blog is about, but it's weirdly fascinating. And you can submit photos of your own dogs for publishing -- come on, fellow bird-doggers!

And why haven't more people submitted entries on my gadget contest? It's a free hunting vest, really. No strings attached. I won't stalk you or offer you my Nigerian uncle's inheritance in exchange for your bank account's routing number. Right now I have fewer than ten entries, so your chances are pretty good. Winner announced tomorrow.

Don't eat too much, yall.

Garrison Brothers Distillery: Hye Times For Brown Liquor in Texas

2010-11-23T09:55:00.000-06:00

Being an unapologetic Texaphile, every so often I imagine myself 120 years ago, sitting in the dark and smoky Menger Hotel bar, drinking a glass of whiskey with Teddy Roosevelt as he recruits me to join his Rough Riders. Or I daydream about sititng in the richly-appointed Driskill Hotel bar in Austin, as dusty cowpokes mix with wheeling-and-dealing politicians. And once again, I'm sipping a bourbon.

Even back then, if bourbon was your firewater of choice, you probably weren't drinking anything made in the Lone Star State. Now you can.

Garrison Brothers Distillery, located in the Hill Country hamlet of Hye, is the first-ever bourbon distillery in Texas. (And yes, contrary to popular belief, true bourbon can be made outside of Bourbon County, Kentucky. Law dictates that Bourbon must be a whiskey made of at least 51% corn and undergo two years aging in new, charred oak barrels, among other things, but there are no geographical limitations.)

After calling to set up an appointment on a balmy Saturday afternoon, we were met by owner Dan Garrison in his small, yet busy stillhouse. He and his ragtag staff are literally working around the clock to brew their whiskey. Like any Texan, Dan is proud of what he's got going, and he has every right to be.

In the center of the room was the "Copper Cowgirl" -- a 100-gallon still that works overtime and has seen duty at the Wild Turkey and Buffalo Trace distilleries. They make this stuff by hand, in ridiculously small quantities, redefining the term "small batch." Their mash contains West Texas corn ground on site, wheat that's grown on premises, and malted barley from the Pacific Northwest. That recipie results in what they say the highest fermentable sugar content available. That, of course, makes for smooth, complex bourbon.

And one that's apparently quite popular. The 2008 vintage was released on November 3rd and within ten days, all 1,800 bottles had been snapped up -- reportedly to a tune of nearly $90 for each 750ml vessel.

Dan doesn't apologize for the price, nor should he. The batch we tasted was simply the smoothest bourbon to ever cross my lips. Normally, I like my whiskey on the rocks -- even the premium brands tend to open up a bit with a slowly melting ice cube or two. The Garrison Brothers we sampled was served neat -- and what a pleasure it was. Smooth without being syrupy, warming without burning, with all the vanilla and caramel flavors that define a good bourbon.

Thankfully, Garrison is expanding his facility and was meeting with a builder the day we met him, so there'll hopefully be more opportunities to snap up a bottle or two of this uniquely Texan spirit.

Photos taken from the Garrison website... I was an idiot and forgot my camera.

The Best Hunting Gear & Gadgets You Never Knew About - Enter and Win!

2010-11-15T20:48:00.000-06:00

Anyone that even remotely knows me understands that I'm something of a gear freak. I can't help it. I completely understand that no amount of technology can take the place of experience and dedication, but dammit, hunting gear is just plain fun!

It doesn't have to be specifically designed for hunters though -- in fact, it's even more enjoyable if it's not. Nor does it have to be expensive. I love discovering little-known or little-heralded tools or technology that make our lives afield just a bit easier.

Not sure what I mean? Here's just a smattering of my must-have hunting tools and technology:

Sirius-XM Satellite Radio. For a hunter who spends long hours on the road, this is really must-have technology. Commercial-free, hi-fidelity music makes those long miles fly by, and it's great to have the news when you need it (Three years ago, I fondly recall getting word in remote Montana from XM that the economy had cratered and my 401k was all but worthless). My only complaint is the college football lineup is pretty haphazard.

Little Giant Duraflex Feed Bowls. These rubber bowls don't absorb bacteria, can be hammered on if they freeze over, and are chew-proof save for the most determined dogs (cough-LuLu-cough). Plus, they're skid-proof and they don't make all sorts of noise when kicked around a kennel like a steel bowl. They can be found at any Tractor Supply or Fleet farm for six or eight bucks apiece. I've had a couple for nearly 20 years now.

Moist Towelettes. The maximum bang for the minimum buck, bar none. Did you just clean an entire covey of quail in the middle of nowhere? Eliminate the avian influenza heeby jeebies with one. Did that eight-mile hike leave you a little less-than-fresh? Fake a bath with one. Was that Allsup's two-for-one breakfast burrito special a bad idea? You get the idea.

So what's your favorite outdoor or hunting gear? Post your submissions in the comments section - all (reasonable and appropriate) entries will be thrown in a cowboy hat and one lucky winner will be chosen at random by Jack. The winner will receive one new Boyt hunting vest, size large, as well as the undying adulation of your peers and complete strangers.

And now for the half-assed legalese...

Estimated MSRP of the vest is approximately $100. Vest may vary from previous hyperlink, but it's the closest I could find. Winner to be announced on this blog on Thanksgiving Day. If you don't want the vest, enter anyway... you can designate the winner. Undying adulation is at the sole discretion of peers and strangers. Boyt Harness or its subsidiaries are in no way affiliated with this contest. Each entrant may include up to three entries (each different product will be considered a separate entry). Scampwalker will pay for ground postage to winner. No warranties are expressed or implied. All entrants agree to completely indemnify Scampwalker's blog and real-world persona from any liability or damages. Final decisions are solely that of Scampwalker, and more importantly, Jack. No whining. And no, I am not an attorney, but I know some good ones. Keep it clean, legal, and have fun!

Tips From The Road: Freezing Game

2010-11-10T06:21:00.000-06:00

The Kansas upland season is just starting, as it is in much of the U.S. of A. And with any luck at all, we'll all be coming home with a few birds for the freezer. With that in mind, I thought I'd share my method for storing birds for later use.

I was under the impression that everyone did it my way, but I've encountered plenty of serious bird hunters (and fine cooks) who simply toss their harvest in a ziploc bag and drop it in the dark recesses of the deep freeze. That's a sure invitation for freezer burn, which dries out any exposed surface area of the meat and generally makes your hard-earned birds taste like freezer plastic.

Instead, take ten extra seconds and fill that bag with just enough water to cover the contents before you freeze it. The water protects the meat almost indefinitely. I recently thawed and ate a package of quail from the 2008 season that had managed to hide itself deep within the deep freeze -- with no deleterious effects. The method does take up a bit more room, but it also encourages you to clean things out for the next season.

Just make sure you label your packages -- nothing's a bigger bummer than looking forward to a meal of Hungarian partridge and realizing you've just thawed a package of woodcock.

Wisdom From Jack: 2010 Kansas Upland Youth Opener

2010-11-08T14:23:00.001-06:00

On Saturday I had the pleasure of taking my ten-year-old son out for the pheasant and quail opener in Kansas. I handled the dogs, and Jack toted his 870.

What follows are few choice exchanges between father and son during our time afield.

==========

(before first field, father and son relieve selves by the side of the road)

Jack: I love peeing outside. Girls are really missing out.

==========

(after one of my lengthy dissertations on gun safety involving where to stand, when to disengage the safety, why it's always ok to pass up an uncertian shot, and what the "Blue sky rule" is)

Jack: There sure is a lot to think about before you pull the trigger.

==========

(while walking)

Jack: Hey Dad, what's a radioactive isotope?

Scampwalker: Well, they're not good for you. I, um, well... I think they kill cells and stuff. To be honest, I don't really have a good answer.

Jack: That's ok Dad. I bet mom will know.

(Ouch!)

==========

(While sitting on the tailgate, eating lunch)

Jack: Hey Dad? I know you're not supposed to shoot birds on the ground because there are other people and dogs around. But what if you are hunting alone and you don't have any dogs with you? Can you shoot birds on the ground then?

SW: Not really. It's not considered sporting or ethical.

(long pause)

Jack: I know that politicians make hunting laws, but who decides what's ethical?

==========

GPS: Arriving at pheasant milo, on right.

Jack: Cool! It'll say the words that you type in?

SW: Yep. Don't ask me how, but she knows how to speak words.

(long pause)

Jack: Can we type in bad words and make her say them?

(long pause)

SW: Sure, go ahead.

(Juvenile snickering ensues from father and son alike)

==========

SW: I've had a great time with you, Jack. I really enjoy hanging out with you, buddy.

Jack: Yeah, thanks. And it really doesn't matter that we didn't see anything, its just fun to be with you.

(SW covertly wipes tear from eye)

Jack: Hey Dad, now can we go shoot something?

When The Going Gets Hot, The Hot Go Redneck

2010-11-04T08:53:00.000-05:00

It wasn't all birdhunting on my recent trip to Montana. For more than a couple days, our efforts were stymied by mid-80 degree heat. I'd like to say we stopped for the dogs' safety, but truth told, those temps are damned hot for the hunters, too.

To pass the time, we spent a couple of lazy afternoons target shooting. We had my AR-15, a Savage .223 bolt-action, a Ruger Blackhawk chambered in .357, and a Charter Arms .38 snub nose.

Good fun was had by all, although I wouldn't rate any of us as ready for sniper school. We found a few prairie dog towns, but after the first shot or two, they wizened up and the closest shot we had was at least 300 yards away. That's a wee bit far for wingshots like us.

No matter -- we shot a couple hundred rounds' worth and had a ton of fun doing it.

Tip From The Road: in a pinch, empty .223 brass makes a great makeshift trailer door peg when you accidentally drive off without securing a padlock.

Follow-Up Gear Review: L.L Bean Technical Upland Boots

2010-10-27T18:45:00.001-05:00

Since purchasing my L.L. Bean Upland Technical Boots in late August, they've hunted in four states over approximately 24 days and a total of 120 miles. They've seen sage country, prairies, coulees, rolling hills, thick popples, marshes, creeks, and cactus.
While not without a few important shortcomings, I can emphatically say that without a doubt, these are the most comfortable, most supportive boots I have ever worn.

I'm a gear guy, and as any of my hunting buddies will tell you, I usually bring two or three spare pairs of boots on any given hunting trip. It's been my expereience that I always wind up soaking a pair or developing a blister and I frequently switch around my arsenal of boots.

My Upland Technicals are the only pair I've worn this season - they're that comfortable. The Boa stainless steel lacing system cinches the boot around your foot as tight or as loose as you want it -- perfect for different terrains and temperatures. I found myself lacing them up pretty tight during cool morning trips, and loosening them slightly during the warmer afternoons as my feet began to swell.

I hiked moderate hills (both rocky and sandy) while wearing the Techicals, and they passed that test with flying colors. I wouldn't recommend extensive sidehilling in these, but for prairie hills and Montana coulees, they couldn't be better.

I dropped in a pair of Dr. Scholl's Custom Fit Orthotics (the stock insole was a wafer-thin joke), and I think that helped to make a difference as well. Never did my feet show signs of plantar fasciitis like they did a year earlier.

Another key feature of these boots is the "Superfabric" uppers, billed as puncture resistant by L.L. Bean. To test this assertion (against my better judgment), I poked my boots with native Kansas and Montana cactus, and sure enough, the needles bent and never penetrated the fabric.

Much to my disappointment however, a recent trip to Texas demonstrated that these boots aren't as puncture proof as I'd like. My boots were pierced not once, but twice by prickly pear cactus -- without me even trying. It was a disappointment, for sure. If you do a lot of hunting around prickly pear or mesquite, these might not be the boots for you.

The other major disappointment (but not entirely unexpected) was the boots' waterproofness. On my first hike through a praire of wet grass, the boots became waterlogged within a mile. Major bummer. I treated them with some Kiwi Camp Dry Heavy Duty Water Repellent, and it helped. I could ford streams and brief bogs and sloughs in Minnesota grouse country without getting soaked. As a general rule, I think Gore Tex is fine for brief splashes, but it's been my experience that prolonged exposure to moisture will compromise any breathable membrane.

This season, completely by coincidence, I began using a boot dryer that mitigated this issue. More on the boot dryer in another post.

I have not yet tested these boots in cold weather, but I don't typically like a lot of insulation in upland boots -- I prefer to regulate that through sock thickness. They did not seem to be particularly hot during early season hunting, at least no hotter than any other boot I've worn.

Finally, I recently noticed that part of the toe rand (the rubber bumper that protects the leading edge of the boot) was coming loose from the Superfabric. It doesn't appear to be anything major, but it seems a bit early for adhesives to start breaking down.

At $190, these boots aren't cheap, and because of that premium price, I expect them to last for at least a couple of seasons. Add in $40 insoles and $10 waterproofing material, and these treads get downright expensive.

Despite their flaws though, I absolutely love these boots. They are like wearing a comfortable sneaker and require absolutely zero break-in period. The lacing system makes a lot of sense for the varied terrain most upland hunters encounter. Because of the toe rand coming loose, I may ask to exchange these boots. Thankfully, L.L. Bean has a generous return policy that would allow me to receive a new pair of boots before I send my old ones back.

Taken from L.L. Bean website

That's welcome news -- because after a month in my Bean Technicals, I don't think I want to go back to wearing my old boots.

Note from Scampwalker: L.L. Bean has sold out of these boots and their web page has been removed from the website. In a call to a L.L. Bean hunting specialist today, I was told that they will not be available again for sale until June 2011.

Second note from Scampwalker: I paid full price for these boots and I did not receive any compensation from L.L. Bean or anyone else for this review.

Final note from Scampwalker: Yeah, I know. They're goofy looking, and you should hear the snickers I get when my buddies hear me clicking up the lacing system. But if the shoe fits...

Road Photo Friday: A River. In A Bar.

2010-10-22T05:30:00.004-05:00

Hunting traditions are funny things. For three years now, Jon and I have visited the Montana Tavern in Lewistown. It's a friendly dive, just the way we like it.

It's old school, with pool tables, a long bar, and precious little in the way of foo-foo drinks.

Every year, despite my better judgment, I order a shot of Yukon Jack here, and every year I swear it's going to be the last time I subject myself to that rotgut.

The jukebox is decidedly 21st century, wirelessly piping in damn near any tune you can think of. When the jukebox is silent, you're entertained by the din of a surprisingly active police scanner behind the bar -- a nice touch.

I'm not sure if we fell into the actually, apparently, obviously (or ridiculously) camp.

But the wackiest thing about the Montana Tavern is a feature that we somehow missed for the two previous years. A river runs through the damn place.

It's sort of hidden in the corner, but there it is, sure as shit. Enclosed in pine, plexiglas and rebar, you can look down through a cutout hole in the floor and see an honest-to-God artesian spring creek flowing underneath the bar.

Lewistown was built over this spring creek, and it has flowed through the bar for as long as it's existed. Local lore has it that the original owner fished while he worked, and reliable sources confirm that there is indeed a decent-sized brownie that frequents the watering hole (so to speak). It's also said that bartenders used to keep the kegs chilled in the cold spring-fed water. The rebar gate was added when locals would float the creek after the bar had closed and help themselves to purloined refreshments.

It's hard to argue with this claim.

Above the river shrine rests these treasures. A portrait of a bare-breasted indian woman and an apparent knockoff of same to the left, a couple fish mounts, and a really odd-looking beaded, feathered antelope horn mount.

If you're ever in the neighborhood, it's a must see. Heck, you might just start a tradition of your own. Just stay the hell away from the Yukon Jack, hoser.

Montana 2010: LuLu's First Point

2010-10-20T06:20:00.000-05:00

This video requires a bit of setup. LuLu, my 8 1/2 month-old pointer pup had only brief wild bird contact prior to our trip to Montana. Over the course of our two weeks in Big Sky Country, she started figuring it out. She pointed several times, including one where the hun covey flushed wild, and another where she mistakenly crowded a flock of sharptail into flushing.

This time though, she put it all together. We had just put her down and were gearing up two other dogs to run a nice-looking strip of sage along a wheat field. Before I finished collaring Dottie, my Astro indicated that LuLu was on point. Sure enough, 50 yards behind us, just above the bar ditch, she was rock solid, pointing into the field on the other side of the road we had planned on hunting.

The video picks up after we crossed that fence (Dottie is the first dog you see in the video). LuLu is the second, to my left. Please forgive the overenthusiastic whoops and hollers -- but I can assure you that they were borne of true excitement, not outdoor-TV-manufactured idiocy. (Honest idiocy, if you will.)

Forget the double-double. That little pup slamming on point is something I won't soon forget -- having it on video was icing on the cake.

Montana 2010: Final Wrapup

2010-10-19T06:21:00.000-05:00

Yes, I am alive.

I've received several notes wondering what the hell has happened to me over the past three weeks. Unfortunately, my blogging about hunting and life in general has taken a backseat to, well, hunting and life in general.

After a week or so unpacking, refamiliarizing myself with family and office, and repacking, the kids and I are now in grouse camp in northern Minnesota, and I'm writing this post, fittingly, around a roaring campfire.

More on that later -- but first I've got to recap the Montana Odyssey. Here goes.

The chukar hunt that started things was something of a harbinger for the entire trip. We had a ton of fun, had (mostly) great dog work, met some kindred spirits, ate, drank, and generally lived it up. I'm never one to measure the success of a hunting trip by body count, but this year was our most successful in terms of birds pointed and birds taken home.

We learned a lot about huns, and we're starting to think we might have them figured out. Here's the secret.

They're mostly found in sagebrush.

Or grass.

Or coulees.

Or wheat stubble.

Or near rattlesnakes.

But the nice thing is that when you finally do locate a covey, they always hold for the hunters to arrive, and they always fly together. Unless they don't, which is typically the case. But when they do, when it makes it all worthwhile.

The only complaint was that it was hot -- really hot. Halfway through the trip, I called my family who was in Dallas with relatives. She was lamenting how cool it was there -- a balmy 72 degrees. In Lewistown that day, it broke 90. Al Gore was right, apparently.

It wasn't all us, though. We hunted a couple days with a local -- one of the finest, most knowledgeable bird hunters to walk the high plains. And I'd tell that straight to Ben O. Williams, and I'll bet you he'd agree, too. But no, I'm not gonna tell you who he is.

But the real talisman?

The moustache. Behold the power.

Montana 2010: Never A Dull Moment

2010-09-30T21:22:00.004-05:00

Montana 2010: Five Up, Three Down

2010-09-30T06:14:00.000-05:00

Montana 2010: The First Day, Hail Mary Edition

2010-09-25T22:32:00.000-05:00

I'm much too tired to write this cleverly, but here's the deal. Jon, Wes, and I (along with six dogs) left Kansas at 5:30pm on Friday evening. We drove straight through, all night long, to Carbon County, Montana. We arrived at 10:30am Saturday morning and put down Doc, Dottie, and Sage.

For those in the know, Carbon County is one of the few counties in Montana that hold a population of chukar partridge. It was a longshot, to say the least -- we called it our "Hail Mary" attempt at punching our Montana card for a new species of bird. In fact, none of us had ever shot a wild chuck anywhere. Hell, when Jon called the Montana FWP, they advised him not to waste his time searching for these crafty birds.

That, of course, was taken as a challenge.

So imagine three corn-fed flatlanders, hitting the biggest, ugliest hills we could find. And we tackled them. As best as three dog-tired dudes could do, somehow feeding on the deprivation of sleep, energy, and a couple thousand feet in altitude. Nothing though. As the sun reached it apex, we headed down a drainage and back to the truck, birdless.

And then, as any bird hunter knows, luck changes on a dime.

Dogs got birdy. Locked up. Relocated. Locked up again. Solid this time. Wes went in to flush Doc's find, and all hell erupted. Ten birds, probably. Three died. A fourth fell when Dottie pointed a single, her tenth upland bird species of her ten year career.

Hard to beat today. But we're gonna do our best to try for the next 14 days.

Road Music Roundup

2010-09-24T15:29:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile since I've posted anything music-related, but here are some of my recommendations for those long road trips to your favorite fields and coverts.

Ryan Bingham & The Dead Horses - Junky Star

I was unsure of what to expect on Bingham's third album, this one produced by the legendary T-Bone Burnett. Bingham's first two efforts were gems -- raw, rootsy, and raspy. But since his anointment by Hollywood (for his Oscar-winning "Weary Kind" theme song from "Crazy Heart"), I feared he might be caught up in the glitzy trappings of the west coast. Instead, it appears he used his relocation to the Golden State to his advantage. This disc is a reflective snapshot of our country at a time where it can't seem to figure out what (or where) it wants to be -- only that it doesn't want to be where it currently is. There are no rocking cuts like on previous CDs (think "Bread and Water" or "Hey Hey Hurray"), but it'll sound good on a cool evening sitting around a campfire with a glass of Ezra on ice.

Jamey Johnson - The Guitar Song

I can't quite figure out why this guy gets the modicum of mainstream country airplay that he does -- and that's intended as a compliment. He's definitely old school country, owing more to Waylon and Merle than Big and Rich. This album, like "That Lonesome Song" before it, has some funky instrumental noodling in between tracks that gives the voluminous album some continuity. There's not a lame track among them, but some standouts include "Can't Cash My Checks," "Mental Revenge," "I Remember You," and "That's How I Don't Love You." And he's confident enough in his own talents that he's not afraid to throw in a few classic covers by Vern Gosdin, Kris Kristofferson, and even MMM-Mel TTT-Tillis.

J.J. Grey and Mofro - Georgia Warhorse

This is swamp soul that begs to be played loud and sung along to. On "Warhorse," the Jacksonville, Florida-based Grey and his band show that they can channel some pretty classic Motown, too, with tracks like "The Sweetest Thing," "All," and "Beautiful World." And if you can't get laid to "Slow, Hot, and Sweaty," well then no amount of Levitra is going to help you either, pal.

Danny Barnes - Pizza Box

For me, a little banjo goes a long way. Don't get me wrong -- I don't mind it as an accompaniment, but it rarely does it for me as a main course. Maybe that's why I like this album so much. Danny Barnes is an accomplished banjo traditionalist, having played with the likes of Del McCoury and Bela Fleck, but also sits in with varied artists like Lyle Lovett, the Butthole Surfers, and Ministry. "Pizza Box" takes the banjo out of the nonconsensual sodomy arena of Deliverance and into completely new, modern territory. It's a really cool mix of rock, folk, bluegrass, country, hip-hop, and jazz. It's been out for nearly a year, but I'm just now discovering it.

Terry Allen - Lubbock (On Everything)
Ok, so this one's not even close to new, but this 1979 double album by Texas panhandle savant Terry Allen never ceases to amaze me. It's a (sort of) concept album that tells the story of cotton and guitar-picking farmers, tired waitresses, high school football players, art dilletantes, and Wolfman Jack. Ridiculous? You bet. But somehow, Terry Allen pulls it off with aplomb. This one's a "desert island album" for me, as it has been for nearly 20 years.

The 2010 Prairie Chicken Opener - A Photo Essay

2010-09-23T12:13:00.003-05:00

I haven't had a lot of time lately to write -- hunting (and packing for hunting trips) has happily cramped my style. Here's a pictoral update on my exploits afield.

I'm the chosen one, bitches!

By popular vote, Dottie got the call for the first upland hunt of the 2010 season, a Kansas prairie chicken quest. Thankfully, the girl didn't skip a beat. She covered ground nicely and didn't appear to be as out of shape as I had feared. In fact, she pointed the first bird killed on the trip. You can even see the zippered scar on her belly. It blows my mind at how quickly the canine body can recover.

Learned: a sealed bag of Art & Mary's Jalapeno Kettle Chips, placed in close proximity to a dog crate on a long road trip, can be opened and eaten remotely. I'm not sure who the thief was, and the suspects aren't talking.

Speaking of suspects, the only shots I can get of LuLu are when she's chained to a tie-out stake:

Or when she's taking a break from making 400 yard casts. The pup shows great promise as a big-running dog -- she covers ground with purpose and is exceptionally good about coming in when called. She even had her first point -- surprisingly staunch, in fact -- on a hen pheasant.

Vegas was solid too. And when it got too hot in the afternoons to walk the hills in search of chickens, she pulled double duty as a dove retriever. She didn't seem to mind.

It was the maiden prairie chicken hunting trip for Terry, a Minnesota native who was more accustomed to tight grouse woods than open, hilly prairies.

But the eight or so miles of walking each day was usually rewarded.

Tomorrow, I'm off to Montana for two weeks in even bigger country. And to think -- today is only the first day of fall.

Who Gets The First Call? Help Me Decide!

2010-09-13T19:57:00.000-05:00

Faithful readers, we hunters are an odd lot. We pine all spring, all summer, for the fall season to finally get here. And as the various opening days draw nigh, we freak out. I need to fix the lock on my topper. I really should have shot more clays this summer. How many pairs of liner socks do I have? Shit, I missed the sale on Laphroaig!

But the conundrum facing me at this moment is which dog do I put down on Wednesday for the beginning of the Kansas prairie chicken season? Seems silly, I know, but I think about these things, not unlike a college football coach who has a QB controversy on his hands. I suspect I am not alone.

Here are the choices -- pluses and minuses. Vote in the poll box to the right of this post. Voting ends Wednesday at noon -- about the time I arrive in the Land of Chickens.

DOTTIE (10 year old pointer)

Pros: she's my pro. She knows the drill, and she's hardly ever let me down. She's also gotten the call for every season that we've hunted together.
Cons: she's recovering from surgery. She's been cleared by the doc, but her conditioning is nonexistent.

VEGAS (6 year old shorthair)

Pros: she's in good condition, and although she's a late bloomer, she impressed in late season 2009 and during training this year.
Cons: she's pretty close-working, and my goal on Wednesday is to make some bird contacts so I know where to go when my hunting buddies arrive later in the week.

LULU (8 month old pointer)

Pros: she's a puppy. It's a new season, so why not start it with my newest? The dog can certainly cover the ground, and she has a great nose. She'll undoubtedly bust birds, but if she's a miscreant, there's no one else to offend.
Cons: she's a puppy. If I need to explain, then you're at the wrong blogsite. Go here instead.

Please vote, folks. And feel free to add comments as well. If you think I ought to put two down, vote that too... although I'm already going to insist that if it's LuLu, it's her alone. I need all my focus on her!

The Gift

2010-09-12T06:14:00.000-05:00

The shotgun barked, same as the ten thousand before it on this particular afternoon. This one, however, was quickly cut off by a deep and hearty YEAHHHHH! from yours truly. I couldn't help it. The day was over, we were out of shells on a borrowed and ill-fitting 12 gauge autoloader, and I was hastily running to retrieve my ten-year-old son's sixth whitewing dove of the sultry South Texas afternoon.

To say I was happy was putting it mildly. For one, it cleansed the bad aftertaste of my own abyssmal shooting (also putting it mildly) out of my mind once and for all. But more than that, it was the punctuation -- the exclamation point -- on a special Labor Day Weekend for me, my dad, and my son.

Through some connections, I was able to line up a dove shoot at the Nooner Ranch just outside of Hondo, Texas. "Pulling a Nooner" is indescribable. Sammy Nooner (among other things) manages hundreds upon hundreds of acres specifically for whitewing dove. Having only started showing up in the Rio Grande Valley in the last 20 years or so, these invaders from Mexico are now the dove of choice in this part of the world, and can be found as far north as Kansas these days. We arrived on Saturday at around 3:30pm, and the hunt was already on -- the amount of gunfire made it sound like something as close as I ever want to get to D-Day. Literally tens of thousands of fast-flying acrobats poured across the sky, from their roosts in the city of Hondo to Sonny's planted sunflower fields that ring the small town.

As we readied ourselves, I recalled that I wasn't fortunate enough to hunt with my Granddad, but I know that's where I got my love of the outdoors. For him, hunting was more than sport -- it helped put something on the table for his hardy German family of eight brothers and two sisters nearly 100 years ago. Back when I was a kid, Gramps would take us plinking with the .22, but for some reason, we never walked a field or sat in a blind together. No matter. He was still a mythical figure, regaling me with stories and knowledge that you can't get from any book or website.

Jack, my son, looks at my dad in the same way. Seeing Jack and Gramps together is a time machine back to my own childhood. And what better way to relive my childhood than on a hunting trip with the two of them? And I gave them that gift on Labor Day Weekend 2010.

Funny thing though. As I sat there on two semi-sweltering afternoons, I realized I was the one who was the biggest beneficiary from my little plan. My father was proud of me, joining me in something I deeply and profoundly care about. He told me I shot well (the first day anyhow). He was pleased I was teaching my son safe, ethical, and proficient gun handling. Most of all, he was proud that I was exposing Jack to the glory of the outdoors.

My whipsmart, yet sometimes flighty boy had it in him -- he had to -- it was good breeding, not unlike any birddog worth their salt, that had been passed down through generations. I was just the inevitable enabler, the kin to ignite the spark in him that really can't be extinguished.

So when that final gunshot went off, I looked for that spark in my son, and saw an inferno. I looked at my dad, and saw an even bigger grin. And so I ran, ran to that downed dove -- because I didn't want either of them to see me me smiling so hard that I was crying in joy.

Seeing his smile -- and my dad's -- is something I'll never forget. Here's to the past, the present, and the promise.

And here's to the Gift.

Gear Review: L.L. Bean Technical Upland Boots

2010-09-04T06:40:00.002-05:00

NOTE: L.L. Bean has informed me that they are trying to iron out some quality issues on these boots and that as of May 20, 2011, they are not for sale. You can find the full story here.

NOTE: This review has been updated with my impressions of the boot after a month or so afield. That evaluation can be found here.

Here's a first in a (hopefully) occasional series of upland gear reviews. As I purchase new stuff, I'll do my best to post initial, as well as subsequent, evaluations as time allows.

There has been a lot of discussion about the new L.L. Bean Technical Upland Boots on various upland hunting message boards, and they recently garnered a 2010 Field & Stream Best of the Best award. Those factors were enough for me to give the Bean Boots a try. I ordered them for $179.00 and free shipping directly from L.L. Bean on August 27th and I received them on September 2nd. That seemed a tad long, even for free shipping, but the ordering process was otherwise uneventful.

Full disclosure: my opinion of L.L. Bean generally skews neutral to slightly negative. I own little (if any) Bean gear, and right or wrong, I have always considered it northeastern preppy stuff. Not to the Orvis level of pretentiousness, but not far from it. In fact, I think the last piece of Bean apparel I owned were a pair of duck shoes back in 7th grade -- they were hot, uncomfortable, and butt-ugly.

Enter Bean's Technical Boots. Unique looking is probably a charitable description. They're sort of a cross between a traditional hunting boot and a high-tech hiking boot. Two features really steal the show on these boots though -- the funky material that comprises most of the upper, and the unique steel cable lacing system.

Normally, my taste in boots is pretty traditional. I prefer full leather uppers, and I like a light boot that still gives me good ankle support. I'm not normally in terrain where I need a hardcore hiking boot -- my typical terrain is rolling prairie grass, cropland, and thorny West Texas mesquite pastures. But form follows function in my book. I'm not afraid to employ new technology, whether it's textiles, electronics, or ammo -- as long as it makes my time afield safer, more efficient, or more enjoyable.

Puncture resistance is part of what attracted me to these boots. The uppers, as I mentioned, are made of Superfabric, a composite material that sort of reminds me of a cross between fish scales and chain mail. According to the manufacturer, Superfabric is abrasion resistant, and cut resistant, and L.L. Bean claims it's "punctureproof" -- all good things for the intrepid (and sometimes clumsy) upland crusader. In a preliminary walk around the neighborhood, it also felt very flexible and lightweight -- no noticeable difference between a leather or Cordura upper.

I wouldn't say I'm particularly hard on my boots, but I don't baby them, either. I have a good hunting buddy that needs a new pair (at least) every year -- he tears up boots like nobody's business. I'm not that way, but I do put a lot of miles on mine in many different environments -- from swampy Minnesota grousewoods to the dusty plains of Texas. I can usually get a couple years out of my boots, and then retire them for yardwork, kennel cleaning, etc. I'll be interested to see how the Superfabric holds up to the claims, and will report back once I get some miles on them.

The other unique feature of these boots is the Boa stainless steel lacing system. I was somewhat familiar with this feature, having seen it on cycling shoes and boots. It made a lot of sense to me -- no laces to fray or untie, and at the end of a long day, I could easily pop my boot laces and open up the fully-gusseted tongue on the drive back to the motel.

The Boa system (thus far) has not disappointed. It's simply a matter of pulling out the knob and twisting it counterclockwise to loosen the coated steel cable lacing. When you're suiting up in the morning, you just push in the knob and twist it clockwise for the proper fit. You can really customize the comfort of each boot -- my right foot is slightly larger than my left one, and it was easy to adapt each Boa to my foot. I was a little surprised at how thin the laces are -- I'd hate to have one of those suckers break in the middle of a long hike, as they're not as easy to replace as traditional laces. I would assume that Bean would repair or replace these if they ever broke. Nevertheless, the manufacturer claims the laces are, gram for gram, "stronger than tank armor." So at least I've got that going for me.

The sole is similar to most midweight hikers -- fairly aggressive, but flexible and with a tread more more like a tennis shoe than a waffled or air bob sole. They don't look like they'd hold a lot of mud, but only time will tell. The upper appears to be both stitched and glued to the sole for optimum waterproofness, and, like most boots, the Technical Upland features a Gore Tex membrane. As a side note, I've found Gore Tex to work flawlessly -- for the first couple of times your boots are exposed to water. After that, it's a crapshoot. The boots also feature a pretty robust toe rand -- the strip of rubber that partially shrouds the toe box and deflects some of the toughest hits from brush and rocks.

Putting on the boots was easy. They felt true-to-size for my size 12 feet, and the unlocked Boa system allowed plenty of room to slip my foot into the footbed. As noted before, I was able to custom-tighten the laces for each foot, and there was no way they'd loosen or untie over time, like traditional ones. Ankle support was more than adequate (at least in a jaunt around the neighborhood).

My one big gripe about these boots is the removeable insole. In a word, it's crap. They're thin, flimsy foam that would be worthless for any hunter that's serious about anything more than road hunting. For a boot that runs $180, I would have expected more. Thankfully, that was easily remedied with a pair of Dr. Scholl's Custom Fit Orthotics. Normally priced at about $40 at Wally World, I had a $10 rebate that made the purchase tolerable. I had some issues with plantar fascitis last season, so I'm hoping these will prevent another flareup. Even so, I think Bean ought to take a serious look at the lousy footbed they're currently using.

Using a fairly precise kitchen scale, the size 12 Technical Upland weighs in at 3 pounds, 6.5 ounces. That's not my lightest boot, but it's not my heaviest, either. For comparison's sake, my Cabela's ultralight kangaroo boots clocked in at 2 pounds, 12.5 ounces and my Danner Sharptail Covey Boots weighed 4 pounds, 7 ounces. I have a feeling that the Beans will be light enough to go all day -- and they certainly possess the best out-of-the-box fit that I've ever experienced in a hunting boot.

In conclusion, I'm really excited to give these boots a go this season. I plan to wear them on a dove hunting trip today and tomorrow in South Texas. It'll be a light to moderate break-in that should give me a decent idea of how they perform. If all goes well -- as I expect -- my L.L. Bean Technical Upland Boots will see a lot of miles this fall.

What A Difference A Week Makes

2010-09-01T20:17:00.000-05:00

One week ago, I was nursing a sick dog with an uncertain future. I owned today.

Jack and I left Casa Scampwalker a few minutes after 5am for the hour-long trip to our dove field. It poured -- and I mean poured -- rain the entire drive. I was in full damage control mode, telling my eager son that it was likely the day (his first day) would be a washout.

Pulling off and parking at our destination, I checked the NEXRAD. Seemed clear just to the west of us. The sun reluctantly rose behind the clouds, and the rain let up. Shooting time.

For the next three hours, my son and I had the hunt of our lives -- Jack, his first-ever, and me, living vicariously through his wonder-filled eyes and shit-eating grin. We saw and shot plenty of birds. And thank God for Vegas -- she found half the birds we knocked down in the thick soybeans and sunflower undergrowth.

My ringing phone shook me out of the predatory bliss I was in. It was Dr. Frances, our vet who had removed Dottie's alarmingly fast-growing tumor. Dottie is fine. It turns out she had a long-blocked mammary gland that happened to flare up suddenly. Crisis averted.

Gathering our spent shells and dead birds, we hustled to the truck as it began sprinkling. By the time we pulled out, it was a downpour, all the way back home.

We dodged a lot of stormclouds today, and saw heaven, too. Not a bad first day of the season.

Thanks again for your well wishes.

A Season Of New Begins Now

2010-08-31T17:18:00.000-05:00

I can't believe it's almost here. Hunting season starts tomorrow.

If you hunt, you get it -- the giddy anticipation and the borderline obsession with last-minute dog training, gun cleaning, and gear gathering. If you don't hunt, then you can probably stop reading this blog and tune in again sometime in January, because between now and then, this little corner of the internet is going to be devoted to birds, dogs, buddies, and the places we all inhabit this time of year.

And what a special, special year this is going to be for me. It's the first season my ten-year-old son will be actively hunting with me. I was lucky enough to draw an opening morning public dove hunt on the Kansas River Wildlife Area, and sunrise tomorrow will find me and Jack in the middle of a sunflower field, heads pointed skyward. It's a rite of passage -- I vividly remember my first dove hunt at the Cornhusker Army Ammunition Plant with my father nearly 30 years ago. I became hooked on this whole outdoor affliction at that moment -- and I can't wait to pass on the tradition to my boy.

Jack and I have been practicing gun safety and clay target shooting for the past month or so. And after much experimentation with the various scatterguns in my safe, I opted to buy him a Remington 870 youth model. The gun fits him well, he shoots it well, and while not as elegant as a breech gun, it is pretty much bomb-proof (and hopefully boy-proof).

The other "first" I'll experience this year is hunting behind my now-seven-month-old pointer, LuLu. I'm doing my best to temper my expectations, but I think this dog is going to be a keeper. She has the drive and birdiness that I had hoped for, and she's proven to be a dream to train and handle thus far. Just this morning I had her off lead (having just recently collar conditioned her) and I was thrilled by the graceful 250-yard casts she'd make -- and even more thrilled that she would voluntarily check in every few minutes.

The appreciation for LuLu is magnified when I am reminded of how fragile it all is. Dottie, my eldest dog, is enjoying her air-conditioned solitude indoors while recovering from surgery. While we haven't yet heard back from the veterinary pathologist, I feel pretty confident things will be alright. And if nothing else, the old girl has reminded me to appreciate every moment I'm blessed to be afield.

Happy hunting, everyone. Be safe.

Well, That Was Quick. EPA Shoots Down Proposed Ammo Ban.

2010-08-30T17:07:00.000-05:00

Apparently the work of sportsmen and gun nuts makes a difference. On Friday, the EPA announced that it was denying a petition aimed at outlawing lead in ammunition. Nicely done, folks! The NSSF credits a strong grassroots campaign in helping to defeat the measure.

Road Photo Friday: Do Not Touch The Shuttlecock

2010-08-27T12:01:00.000-05:00

I was looking for a fun photo to close out a week from hell, and here it is. You may recognize it as part of Shuttlecocks, a huge outdoor sculpture at Kansas City's Nelson Atkins Museum. By sheer coincidence, the four precariously balanced, 5500-pound pop-art icons are celebrating their 16th year in existence on this very day. Crafted by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, they've become icons in the KC area and beyond.

These photos, I'll have you know, are a tad contraband. See, you're not supposed to touch these works of art -- let alone allow your kids to climb on them. We didn't know that at the time, and shortly after our little photo session began a voice boomed from speakers unknown, PLEASE STEP AWAY FROM THE SHUTTLECOCK. Befuddled, we collected the kids and walked back to our car. Looking over my shoulder, some security guard was hurriedly walking towards us, but we didn't wait around to talk to him.

Happy weekend, everyone.

Gimme Back My Bullets, EPA

2010-08-26T15:43:00.000-05:00

Ok, guys, here's a real quick, painless way to write your Senators and Representative and encourage them to prevent the EPA from adopting a complete ban on lead ammunition.

They're using the Toxic Substance Control Act of 1976 as their basis, except the law specifically calls out ammo as exempt from the rules. Make no mistake --the Obama-appointed people behind this proposal are more interested in a de-facto gun ban than saving any kind of wildlife. Not only that, but there's never been any legitimate, peer-reviewed study that I've found that connects wildlife mortality to the ingestion of lead.

The NSSF has the full story here, and you can send an email or letter to your elected officials here. Do it now -- the whole shebang takes less than a minute, and it could help save the future of our sport.

Home, And Dog Tired

2010-08-25T14:57:00.000-05:00

Well, the surgery is successful, and other than the 8-inch incision in her belly, Ol' Dottie seems to be fine. A little drugged up, but who wouldn't be? She gets the sutures out in a couple of weeks, which, by my calendar, means she ought to be ready (although a bit out of shape) for the Kansas chicken opener. I'll say this much -- it's nice knowing she'll at least go on the trip.

Of course, we are still on pins and needles waiting for the biopsy to come back, but we can all breathe a bit easier knowing we did what we could to get to the most pressing problem.

Thanks to all of you for your comments, emails, phone calls, and silent prayers. They mean more to me and my family than words can describe. We'll keep you posted.

Prayers, Mojo, and Good Thoughts for Dottie

2010-08-24T08:11:00.000-05:00

My ace is sick. Dottie -- my decade-old pointer bitch -- has a nearly-golfball sized mass in the breast tissue under one of her nipples.

While I was carousing and being immortal with the boys over the weekend, my family had our eldest bird dog in the house. Plenty of loving and petting ensued (as it should), and they noticed the lump. It's fast growing, for sure. It was just a couple weeks ago that she was at the vet for her routine checkup. While I'm relieved we caught it quickly, I'm also alarmed by its rapid growth. My wife -- an RN who's talked me off numerous ledges throughout our marriage -- assured me that ol' Dot can lick this. Despite her confidence, the dull, acidic aluminum taste seeped into the back of my mouth -- the same one I encounter in the worst times of my life. Worry. Bad News. Sickness. Death.

So Dot goes under the knife on Wednesday. Funny how it works. A week ago, my string was as tight as it's ever been. Dottie as the wily veteran. Vegas (finally) coming into her own, and LuLu impressing.

And now this.

My first question to my wife -- as any bird dogger would ask: will she hunt this season? It starts the 15th. We've got places to go, goddammit. The vet was confident, thankfully. And, thankfully, so was my wife. So we sit. And pray. My girl might not be immortal after all.

And if she's not...

Road Photo Friday: Drive South

2010-08-20T12:03:00.000-05:00

Gratuitous Puppy Photo.

All is well. The Ram is pointed towards the equator, XM's Outlaw Country is churning out some classic Son Volt, and the beautiful Flint Hills are passing by at a brisk 75mph.

Wes and I got a jumpstart on a bachelor party weekend this morning and visited Skyview Setters outside of El Dorado, Kansas. Some nice looking, nice running shaggies.

Now it's onto Oklahoma City, for some R&R by the pool, carousing in Bricktown this evening, and tomorrow night's Reckless Kelly show at the Wormy Dog.

Bird dogs, beer, and bands... I think I could get used to this.

Pimientos de Padrón

2010-08-18T06:16:00.000-05:00

Part of the fun of having a garden is growing stuff you don't normally find at the grocery store. And that certainly extends to Pimientos de Padrón. Never heard of 'em? Neither had I, before traveling to Spain. They can be found in many tapas bars along the winding cobblestone streets of Barcelona, and they're worth seeking out.

They range anywhere from an inch to two inches long, and almost all of them are sweet and not at all similar to the jalapenos that most Americans know. Folklore has it that one in ten peppers are truly hot, but I think it has more to do with the size of the pepper -- we let our first batch grow too large and some of them were downright face-melting meteoric, and my family doesn't fear a little heat.

Most satisfying is that we grew these peppers ourselves, from seed no less -- provided to me by the inimitable NotHemingway, no slouch when it comes to good Spanish grub. It was touch-and-go for awhile... out of sixteen seeds, about eight germinated into spindly, sad-looking sprouts. Of those, only two survived and are bearing fruit. But they're prolific enough that we expect at least a few more servings of these spicy treats.

Preparation is simple... fry them in a liberal amount of olive oil until their skins just start to wrinkle, sprinkle them with sea salt, and enjoy. Enjoyed with a glass or two of Manzanilla sherry, manchego cheese, some garden-fresh gazpacho, and a basil tortilla española -- we were transported to the ancient Plaça Sant Josep Oriol.