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

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.

Gun, Meet Upper Palate.

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?

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

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.

True American Dog and Last Chance to Win

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.

Happy Halloween from the Scampwalkers

Get Me Saint Patrick's Number!

Here's something you don't see every day. I had finished up some work on the laptop last night, and everyone else was already in bed fast asleep. I went to the kitchen to shut off the lights, and was startled out of my flip-flops by a sixteen-inch garter snake staring up at me from the linoleum floor.
We're having the exterior of Casa Scampwalker painted, and we discovered that about a dozen of the critters were taking up residence in our firewood that needed to be moved away from the house. So I'm guessing that's where they came from, but still... you really don't expect to see a snake making himself at home in your kitchen.
I tiptoed out to the garage without disturbing him (I didn't want him slithering down a floor vent), and pinned the little guy down with a broom. He was liberated to the neighbor's yard, but if he makes a return trip, he won't be so lucky.
Perhaps it's payback for this little episode:

Playing Possum

This time of year, I love being out on the deck, enjoying the eruption of color as the woods wake up once again. Mrs. Scampwalker was at a wingding this evening, so the kids and I spent some time potting some vegetables and flowers. While admiring our handiwork, I noticed how alive everything was -- simply verdant -- and all was good.

And then I smelled it. It negated all of the hope, possibility, and newness of the season. It was death. And it was near. In the wilds, while hunting, fishing, or hiking, I smell it fairly often... the telltale odor of something gone horribly wrong for some critter. Except this stench was five feet from my back door.

And then I saw it. It was all matted, spiky-haired, and smiling at me slyly, toothily... and very much dead. Possums are some of the ugliest creatures in the world even when they're alive. But when the biggest, ugliest, foulest possum you've ever seen decides to take a dirt nap squarely under your deck, you tend to redefine ugly. And smelly.

I'm the first to admit that I don't handle the stink of rotting flesh very well... at all. No one does, granted, but I'm a barfer. The bile was already in my throat, and I retreated indoors, with the pre-puke spits welling into the back of my mouth.

And then I remembered Hollywood. I can't name the movie, but some cop-drama stars wiped Mentholatum (or was it Vicks? No worry...) under their noses before inspecting a cadaver, which ostensibly drowned out the reek. My son and I would do this together (mostly because I still wasn't sure I could handle it).

I summoned J, and I showed him how to apply the Mentholatum properly (big globs, under each nostril). Tease me if you will, but we both donned semi-surgical-tea-towel-masks as well, assuming that whatever we were up against was much worse than H1N1.

After much scooping, gagging, poking, and facemask-adjusting, we cradled the bastard on a snowshovel and ingloriously threw him into the creek.