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!

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.

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.