Delmar Smith: King of Bird Dogs

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

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

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

My Love Affair With Refried Beans

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

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

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

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.