The Senior Tour

The buggy rolled to a stop, and Steve and I surveyed the ground ahead of us.  It was a good looking draw, at least by Midland, Texas standards. More of a dry creekbed, it definitely looked birdy and manageable enough for us to put down our two older dogs for a brief run.  The sun was shining and things were warming up quickly, but this would only be a 45 minute walk or so.

Steve put down Em, his then-11-year-old black and white pointer, and I readied Dot, my 9-year old lemon and white counterpart.  I stopped to wonder how many birds these two old girls had between them -- the different species, scents, and locales that they've collectively hunted.  This walk would be dubbed the Senior Tour.

We loaded up with shells and water, and the brace began.  Neither dog was running the way they did back in their younger years, but they didn't need to.  Fanning out across the creekbed, they knew just what to do. Wisdom always trumps enthusiasm (at 43, I'm finally starting to learn that lesson).

Not five minutes into the hunt, Em locked up near a gnarly patch of prickly pear.  Dot was 30 yards behind, staunchly honoring (never a sure bet).  The covey of scalies rose, and two quickly fell.  I don't recall any remarkable retrieves -- there certainly weren't any from Dot, who only cares about living birds, a trait I've learned to accept in her older years.  Either way, we collected our birds and continued chasing singles for the next 30 minutes or so.  It was an impressive show, and all four of us were soaking in every minute of it.

I've killed more birds on a single walk before, and I've certainly seen dogs cover more ground than these two did.  But it's the memory of two veteran dogs that hunted with the prowess that only age and experience can bring.

I'm not sure, but I think that might've been one of the last times Em went to West Texas, having mostly retired from Steve's traveling team.

I got a text from Steve yesterday letting me know that Em had died in her sleep Wednesday night at age 14.  We spoke on the phone, and I extended my condolences, feeble as they were.  Nothing really helps when you lose a hunting buddy, save maybe the solace in knowing the guy on the other end of the phone has experienced that same pain, and is destined to again as long as he's got a bird dog.

That's the contract we all sign, willingly or not.  We'll miss ya, Em.

What Are Your Birds Worth?

$4554.00 worth of scaled quail, Midland, Texas 2007.

If you're a Texas quail hunter, then it's exactly $253 apiece.

I've been rolling this number around in my head for about three months now, and I'm not sure what to think.  The figure, compiled by the Texas AgriLife Extension Service, is certainly a lot to ponder.

The study indicates that in Texas, the average quail hunter spent just over $8600 for roughly nine days of quail hunting during the 2010-2011 season (the year before Texas birds really nosedived.)  Texas, as many of you know, is a pay-to-play state -- there's virtually zero public land, which means very expensive leases, which many times go into the five-figure stratosphere.  So that's probably a number that skews the figure.

I'll let Dr. Rollins and his cohorts' study speak for itself, but it raises some interesting questions, namely:

• Nine days?  Really, guys?  If I'm going to drop some serious coin on a Texas quail lease, even if I live in Kansas, I'm spending more than nine damned days hunting them.  I spend more than a cumulative nine days a year shaving, for the love of God!  I've never cared how many I kill, but nine days concerns the hell out of me -- for a portion of the world blessed with what is the best (yet dwindling) quail habitat on this planet.


• According to the study, the number of Texas resident hunters has plummeted 79 percent since 1981.  Frightening, but I guess I can't blame folks.  It's an expensive sport, and in a where racks and beards matter, shooting something not much bigger than a songbird apparently isn't as cool or as worthwhile in our time-strapped, measuring stick society.


• How does the price of a quail -- or a decent season of quail -- compare to what a trophy deer hunter spends in Texas?  High fence or low fence, a deer outfitter commands thousands of bucks (pun intended) for the privilege to shoot a decent-sized trophy.  That's one animal.  And the success rate I'm guessing are a lot higher than the probability of shooting a decent day's worth of quail (to say nothing of a Texas limit).  So are the economics really in favor of a bird dogger?


• What will gas prices do to this equation?  With most Texas quail hunters (read: urban) at least three hours from decent Bob country, will it cease to be worth the effort?  Or will it increasingly be the domain of the well-heeled?  Sad stuff.

And then, of course, I think about my own season.  I shot exactly two quail in Kansas this season.  It was on "free" public land, and I'm grateful for those birds.  But when you add up the numbers -- gas, lodging, bird dog expenses, vacation time -- well, you get the picture.  I might as well have taped some balsa wings on gold bullion bars and shot them in my backyard. Putting a price on our avocation is indeed a slippery slope.

Yet I soldier on, undeterred, as I'm sure most of you do.  After all, you can't put a price on happiness.  

My wife will read this, after all.

Secrets of Preparing Dark-Meated Gamebirds

Seared Sharptail breast, steamed broccoli, and corn spoonbread.

I love hunting prairie birds in the early fall.  Chasing sharptails and prairie chickens for me and my buddies has become more than a way to pass the time until the pheasant and quail season start up -- it's a focal point of our fall campaign.

Fortunately, we usually have a freezer full of these dark meat birds at the end of the season.  I savor this exotic-tasting bird done just about any way, but like many folks, Mrs. Scampwalker isn't too hot on dark meat from wild birds.  But I've got a foolproof recipe that'll satisfy the most finicky of palates.

When I clean and package the birds, I fillet the breast into two medallions. I freeze the thighs, legs, and bones for a later date when I can combine them with other prairie bird hindquarters and simmer them into a rich stock for a gumbo.

With the breasts, I soak them in a simple marinade of 1 part soy sauce, two parts olive oil, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, a couple of crushed garlic cloves, a tablespoon of coarsely crushed dried rosemary, and black pepper to taste.

I turn up my Weber full blast until it's good and hot, and I sear the breasts -- a minute or less on each side -- until cooked medium rare.  After turning the meat, I baste the birds with a bit of Chatellier's Rare Game Sauce.

Chatellier's is hard to describe -- a unique mix of savory, sweet, and tangy.  But it does what all good sauces should do -- it enhances the taste of the meat instead of hiding it.  And it's equally good paired with venison, goose, woodcock, or red domestic meats as well.  It deserves a spot in every hunter's fridge.

Note: I received my jar of Chatellier's for free from the company.  But it's still darn good and I plan restock more once my freebie is gone -- which is soon.

Pheasant Fest 2012: Winning Hearts and Minds, One Kid At A Time

Most of you are aware that Pheasants Forever hosted their annual Pheasant Fest in Kansas City this past weekend.  For those unaware, it's an outdoor trade show that features all things related to hunting and conservation -- bird dogs, guns, and everything else related.  By any account, it was a success, drawing more than 22,000 people over three days.  That's impressive, given that KC was as far south as The Fest has ever ventured -- not to mention that the weather was ridiculously nice, which probably kept a few people outside.

But I've got another, more personal, way to measure the festival's impact.  Saturday morning, I took my 11-year-old son Jack to the show, and let him bring along one of his classmates -- we'll call him Justin.  While Jack's outdoor experience rivals almost any kid of his age, Justin wasn't at all familiar with hunting, shooting, or bird dogs.  I could tell on the drive downtown that he had no idea of what to expect from the show.

After arriving, the boys and I cruised the aisles.  We pet bird dogs and we handled shotguns -- a first for Justin.  After about 30 minutes (and a few "rules" admonishments), I let them wander the hall alone while I conducted some business.  A couple hours later, we met up for lunch.  The boys were ebullient.  They told me about the shooting galleries and fishing games, and showed me the autographs they got from the young men who would represent the U.S. on our Olympic skeet team.  They had collected stacks of catalogs and brochures from vendors.  (Jack was a little bummed he couldn't find Larry Potterfield to autograph his Midway USA master catalog that he lugged to the show, but that's another story...)

Anyhow, I had planned on taking them home after lunch, but we went back for more.  Two hours later, we were descending the escalator, smiles on all our faces.  And then Justin turned to me with a question.

"Do you think I could take a hunter's safety course with Jack this spring?"

That's when I saw Pheasant Fest from a different perspective -- the view of a non-hunting kid who had truly gotten excited about a new thrill.  It's a thrill that I've never lost, but it's one I've almost come to take for granted.

The kids are home from school today (Presidents Day, you know).  But I can't wait to hear what Justin says to Jack tomorrow in class.  Hopefully, he's still as excited about hunting as he was on Saturday.  Hopefully, he'll talk his dad into shooting with us some afternoon this spring.

And maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to show Justin the thrill of a rooster flush or covey rise next fall.

A Goose, and a Tease

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

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.

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

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.

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.

Finding Lost Dogs: A Low-Tech Approach

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.

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.

Montana Dog Report: The Kids Are Alright

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

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.

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.

The Indoctrination Is Complete.

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.

Hunting Buddies

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

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

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.

Road Photo Friday: Video Edition

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.

The Un-Chained Chain Gang

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.