We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
When we were kids, we played Army Man. In the evenings, we watched Vic Morrow keep his head in Combat, and Christopher George go dunebuggying in Rat Patrol. Entertainment like that was everywhere, and every retaining wall in every driveway had imaginary Guns of Navarone atop it the day after we saw the movie. We'd gather up all our military-ish toy swag, pick sides, and wander the neighborhood sneaking up on each other and arguing over who shot whom. Nothing we had shot any sort of projectile, so there was nothing to do but argue; but we all wanted to die and fall to the ground in histrionic ways and writhe around a bit, so the arguments were mostly about who was "throwing" the war too easily to suit the other side. There was a dirty little secret of all such suburban war games of the sixties. We all wanted to be the Germans.
The Germans were cool. Exotic. The Americans were just our dads in olive drab. German uniforms were like a circus outfit compared to a reform school tie. Germans had those nifty beer bottle hand grenades, tanks named after panthers and tigers instead of anonymous generals, and those awesome grease guns that went BBBRRRRRPPPP when you let them off the chain. And besides, if you were the Germans, you were expected to lose and die and writhe on the ground in your death throes over and over and have all the fun.
The actual American military seems to have understood that the Germans had all the sexy stuff, and worked hard to remind the American troops that outre weapons, gaudy uniforms with lots of lightning bolts and skulls, and Roman salutes don't win wars. The American army was boring compared to the German army. Boring like Joe Louis fighting Joel Grey would be, that is. Workmanlike. Here's an interesting example of the mundane but necessary propaganda that reminded American GIs that the boring stuff works just fine.
Shooting a gun is like smoking a cigarette or drinking espresso in a café in Paris or having sex on a Caribbean beach: You’ve watched it so many times on-screen that you experience your own actions as an echo. It’s impossible not to feel like a cliché.
This northern chicken-like (gallinaceous) bird prefers first-growth areas, with access to water and open areas. I most often find them in aspen, birch or alder thickets, but they can be seen in piney woods, old orchards, ferny woods, and in streambeds. In regions where birch and aspen are the climax forest, they can be found everywhere or anywhere, but never in large numbers. They are most commonly encountered when they flush with a startling whirr of wings.
Once known as "fool hens" for their tameness, Ruffies have somehow learned to avoid human encounters once they have had contact with them.
These birds do not migrate, and winter very well, since they are very happy to thrive on tree buds all winter, especially protein-rich aspen and birch buds. Their numbers have been declining in the Northeast as the old farms have become either mature woods, or housing developments, but clear-cutting of mature woodlands is a great help to them, as it is to most species of wildlife (it imitates the natural effect of wildfire to regenerate forest succession, which is key to habitat diversity and thus species diversity).
The Ruffed Grouse is the noblest game bird in the US. Wary, they do not often hold to a dog's point and when they do flush, their flight assumes warp speed immediately and is unpredictable. (Gwynnie's theory is that they have a random-direction-generating gyroscope in their brains.) They have an uncanny talent for putting tree trunks between the hunter and themselves, or for flying at your face, or flying between you and you pal, whose life you may (or may not) value more highly than you value bagging a Ruffie. And even the most considerate hunters ( yes - you, Craig) will pop off a snap shot regardless of whose bird it is, and rightly so. You cannot wait with Ruffies.
Grouse hunters (a very special and scarce, and, to my mind, elite fraternity of intrepid woodsy folks who don't mind cuts, bruises, wet boots, and hours-long struggles through underbrush, raspberry patches, thorny thickets of hawthorn, and impenetrable streamside alder growths) require very quick reflexes and a high degree of "relaxed alertness", but they require, most of all, strong legs for all of the hours of difficult wilderness walking which is required to find these wonderful creatures. It is said that grouse "are killed with legs, not guns." Dogs help, a bit, but they are huntable without dogs. When a hunter finds one, they are generally very difficult to shoot such that every Ruffie is a trophy and is regarded as such. And they are also regarded as a rare gourmet treat, because, with their subtle woodsy flavor, there is no finer fowl for the table.
Why "ruffed"? The males have a dramatic black neck ruff which they display for courtship purposes, while they fan their tails and strut around like little Thanksgiving turkeys. Their courtship drumbeat from an old log is also one of their well-known features: many have heard their deep thumping from deep in the woods, and have no idea that it is just a horny male Ruffie looking for a date.
Read more about the wonderful Ruffed Grouse here. The very worthy Ruffed Grouse Society, which Maggie's Farm supports, pays for research on grouse and woodcock ecology, which benefits all woodlands and woodland creatures.
As a favor to one of the local guides, I took part of an over flow party out on Lake Murray recently for a quick fishing trip. One of the clients was commenting on how my digital sonar looked a lot different than his. A discussion began about sonar, how it works and why my depth finder/sonar looked different that his. Sonar seems to be misunderstood as a fish finding technique even among experienced sports fishing fans so it might be fun to clear a few things up.
Echo location is a fairly well understood technique – transmit a signal, it reflects back a certain amount of energy to a receiver (or receivers), a quick calculation is made (return time) and the results displayed. Bats, whales and dolphins, certain fish and as unusual as this may sound, a bird species called cave swiftlet all have a means of echo locating objects and prey.
Sonar (SOund Navigation And Ranging) uses the mechanical propagation of a sound signal to locate a target's position. There are two main sonar techniques – passive and active. A good example of passive sonar is a relatively simple technique used in the late 15th Century – a simple open at both ends tube stuck into the water with a listener on the dry end to detect approaching ships. Anybody who's ever spent some time underwater on a busy lake with lots of boaters can relate to “listening” to the props move the boats through the water – that buzzing sound you hear is a form of passive sonar. A sailboat would produce a “whooshing” sound as the hull creates the bow wave.
My NYC daughter's Yorkie pup is three months old. (That white thing is a Christmas hair bow.) Pees on the floor, gets up on her hind legs to challenge our big dog - gets right in his face. Sort-of does "Sit" and "Stay" thus far, but not really "Come" or "heel."
Back at the barn after a long days' hunt today in the Hudson Valley with a pal and his business partner. Venison stew for lunch with a Bloody with extra horseradish, shot lots of birds over my pal's excellent Lab, saw three Bald Eagles (one of which, we suspect, stole a bird from our bird pile), smoked a cigar, had a few good beers and some very good conversation too. I shot quite well today, which I do not always do. I always find that an Irish Coffee or a Bloody helps my shooting.
Advent is hunting season too in this neck of the woods.
Thanks, pal, for hosting such a fine day. Les tres riche heures du Bird Dog, blessed as he is with good dear friends who like to do things. (On the other hand, he did chastise me, gently, a little for not monetising Maggie's Farm.)
Several neighbors kindly stopped by last weekend and dropped off the NY Times Sunday Magazine. The cover had a picture of ME! How exciting. Not quite as exciting was the article about how, in my current state, I may well be doomed. The article offered several solutions on how my breed may be saved.
I've owned a bulldog for 17 of the last 18 years, and currently own my second. I grew up with collies, german shepherds, and golden retrievers. Never did I expect to fall for a breed such as this. In fact, the original purchase was a Christmas gift for my new wife who loved the breed. We lived in an apartment, and they are excellent apartment dogs.
Neither of my dogs have had major health problems. More importantly, regarding the article, I've never met a breeder who would disagree with some of the commentary the article provided about the breed. All of them are upfront and honest about the difficulties bulldogs present. I purchased my current dog from Cody Sickle, who is quoted in the article. He is well known for producing healthy dogs. My vet is a former breeder, and his partners have all adopted the bulldog as their 'specialty'.
The key point of the article, however, is that the standard needs to be changed. Here, unfortunately, breeders and the AKC have not taken the necessary steps. Undoubtedly, the breed needs some refinement and some steps should be taken. But can you really question the majesty of such an animal as this?
I've seen all kinds of talented bulldogs. Skateboarding bulldogs, skimboarding bulldogs, bulldogs that run obstacle courses, they are all exceptional. But I think I'm partial to this one.
The recovery of the American Wild Turkey populations, like that of Egrets after the turn of the last century, has been a giant success of intelligent conservation.
Whether you want to shoot 'em and eat 'em, or just look at these huge birds (I like to do both), their resurgence is a great gift to America - thanks to conservation organizations.
The WTF has basically accomplished their goal. Turkeys are everywhere now, and huntable in most places. However, like government programs, non-profits rarely close up shop when their work is done. They tend to find something else to do, if only to keep their jobs. It's a sad fact that Ducks Unlimited still has much of their original mission to accomplish - wild duck populations, and the other wetlands critters that inhabit the habitats that DU protects and rehabilitates - remain far below where they were in years past.
There are a number of species of Wild Turkey in the New World. None native to the Old World.
Photo above: You all know that the males only display like that when they are overcome with love and/or horniness. Photo below: Our Editor-in-Chief Bird Dog (before he gained weight) with a bird in the hand.
Our contributor Gwynnie will not be seeing this sunset from his duck boat in the reeds this fall, due to (non-serious) medical repairs.
Nice weather and clear skies are terrible for duck hunting. What you want is wind and snowy sleet, because when you are uncomfortable, the ducks are too - so they fly around. Otherwise, they sit and loaf and work on their tans in huge rafts out in the middle of the lake. Photo is not the lake itself - it's a good-sized bay on the lake.
Sunset is quittin' time. When he gets back to the lodge, he would typically clean up and dress in tweeds and a bow tie, and have a couple of single malts and a Habana ceegar in front of this fireplace before dinner. And probably some ancient port and another ceegar after the pumpkin pie with Maple Syrup on top, at the evening post-prandial confab at which non-PC jokes and lies predominate. Women not allowed as guests here. Jimmy Doolittle used to sit in front of this fireplace on his duck hunting trips (It's easy to tell that I'd like to be there now):
Flock of Snow Geese over a farm field in Manitoba, early morning, a few years back. When they come down in numbers and set to land in your decoys at dawn, it sounds like a fire fight. And the geese make plenty of noise too:
Somewhere in either Tolstoy or Dostoevsky there is a comment about the remorse of the hunter when holding a Woodcock in hand. You have noticed that our head image on Maggie's now is Woodcock hunting.
I have frequently felt something like remorse, when, on picking up a wounded one, I have met the forgiving expression of its full and bright, yet soft hazel orb. How many of the beauties who dazzle and enslave us would be proud of such an eye.
Skinner's charming section on the Woodcock, written back before hunting seasons were instituted, is here.
The Woodcock is a fat little shorebird, fatter but not much larger than the American Robin, who renounced the shore and took up residence in our Eastern woods and swamps.
Like all shore birds, they are ground-dwellers and ground nesters, and do not perch. Because of their camoflage, their habit of feeding and being active at dawn and dusk, and their trick of freezing when approached, they are not commonly seen except in early spring, when the males perform their remarkable aerial mating dance at dusk.
Their long bills are hinged near the tip for capturing earthworms which they probe for in the soil and forest litter. They are thus necessarily migratory, to the Southern US.
A few other details: Woodock is the only "shorebird" which is a legal game bird in the US today. They are not widely hunted, but they make excellent sport and their liver-flavored breasts are a rare gourmet treat. The French especially favor the brains, on toothpicks. People who don't like to eat them should not hunt them. Their habitat overlap with the Ruffed Grouse makes a typical mixed bag for Ruffie hunters. Because of their small size and cute appearance, many hunters will admit a mingled sense of dismay and pleasure when they bag a Woodcock. Unlike grouse, they cannot be hunted without dogs, because you would never find them. A decline in Woodcock numbers has been noted over recent decades, which may be due to habitat loss, but the cause is not certain. They are fond of overgrown fields and orchards, wetland edges, and transitional young woodlands, especially birch and aspen. The European Woodcock looks like ours, but is larger. Woodcock's heads are oddly-arranged: their brains are upside-down, and their ears are in front of their huge eyes.
I don't know if you've ever heard of Mark Derr - most people haven't but he's written a couple of books about dogs and one about Davy Crockett - all of which are very good. He's of the opinion that most anthropologists and other social scientists are wrong about the dog/man team and how it formed. He has had this idea about it being a matter of co-evolution rather than co-dependency and has written a new book about it: How did the wolf evolve into man’s best friend?
One could argue that co-evolution/co-dependency is the same thing, but I think he makes some important distinctions in how the wolf became the dog.
I do take issue with the main thrust of most of the dog/man analysis in that I don't believe the wolf ever truly left the dog. Most dogs, if left to their own devices and survival, revert very quickly to a feral state very similar to the classic wolf pack. The difference between feral dog packs and the wolf pack is that the feral dogs have a rather loose organization with more than one top dog and those aren't always breeding pairs as they are in a wolf pack. In fact, the feral dog pack behaves much in the same way Derr describes when he was doing his research on the wolf researchers.
I love his commentary about The Dog Whisperer" - Cesar Millan. The guy is a good trainer no doubt, but he's got some rather outdated ideas about human/dog interactions.
In any case, I've read his other two dog books "A dog's history of America : how our best friend explored, conquered, and settled a continent" - 2004 and the first "Dog's best friend : annals of the dog-human relationship" - 1997. Highly recommended if you can find them - I think they are both out of print.
Anyway, the article is very good - enjoyed it. Hope you do.
When sitting in a duck blind or deer stand, standing on a ski slope watching your grandkids, and winter hiking, it's much more pleasant to have warm toes and fingers. I have had times in duck blinds when my fingers were too cold and numb to pull a trigger, but I have a touch of Raynaud's Syndrome.
Assuming that you wear things to keep toes and hands dry, hand and foot warmers can add plenty of comfort.
This site has aluminum-coated insoles and insoles ("footbeds") with inserts for 6-hour warmers.
Every red-blooded American kid should know how to handle firearms. And a lot of other things, too.
As I always say to my critical sisters, it's more morally consistent to kill your own food than to buy it at the supermarket after other people kill it.
Happy Hunting season to all Maggie's Farmers, whether you participate in the fun, or not.
It's the time of year when we re-link our world-famous Boots and Wellies opus as part of our series of All You Need to Know For Snow (and mud) season.
It's also a good time of year for another free advt for Sierra Trading Post. Good discount outdoor gear, plus sneakers, etc. Often, good deals on dress shoes and work shoes, too. Some folks collect knives, or guns, or knick-knacks. I collect boots because happy feet make for a happy man.
I also collect boots because, as many unhappy feet learned the hard way, your winter boot size is probably not your foot size. You will put your wool socks and maybe liner sox inside them if you plan to spend any real time in the cold.
You gotta size 'em for your socks and not for your feet, in the north.
Repost - I guess this is Part 2 or 3 of our Outerwear mini-series, and part of our world-famous Winter Warmth series which we will begin to post in view of the coming Global Cooling Crisis -
The invention of Gore-tex rendered plenty of waterproof and windproof fabrics obsolete - or quaint. For example, rubberized raingear, or waxed cotton or waxed canvas. Gore-tex is much lighter, it breathes, it requires no maintenance, and Gore-tex outerwear is cheaper to produce and can be made with the blaze orange patches which American field hunting (unlike European) requires by law.
Trouble is that waxed cotton jackets, wellies, a dog, and a nice gun look so natural together. It's about fashion to some extent: how many Americans wear their Barbour when brush-busting for grouse or mucking the stall vs. the number that wear theirs to the hardware store, the mall, and their kids' soccer games?
I own a Lewis Creek and an old Browning waxed jacket, but I have plenty of Gore-tex parkas and field gear for various purposes: camo, blaze, parkas, outer-jackets, etc. Gore-tex hunting brush pants, too - insulated and uninsulated (insulated hunting trousers was a waste of $ - all you need is winter underwear of whatever weight you select for the weather of the day).
Despite all the above, I'll just address waxed cotton here despite its impractibility. Gore-tex is great stuff, but it's boring.
For true heavy-duty waterproof outerwear, Filson's tin cloth is the ultimate. That waxed canvas is so tough that it stands up by itself after you take it off. In fact, if you died standing in a goose blind or in the woods the tincloth jacket and tincloth trousers would probably still hold you up straight like a scarecrow until a strong winter storm blew you over. Their "shelter cloth" is lighter weight. I have some of the stuff. Its durability:comfort ratio is high. Feels like medieval armor before it warms up and softens a bit.
Our editor mentioned not being able to quite grasp the idea of freshwater stripers. Well, here is one I caught yesterday morning on Lake Murray, 26" - 15 lbs. Caught a total of four over a half hour or so - all in this range - 25 to 26", 15/17 lbs.
I was definitely on the wrong side of the bite, so I switched from bait casting to fly rod. Used a Ugly Stick 7' fast action rod (home build), Galvan T-12 large arbor reel, #12 weight forward sinking line, 5 yards of 48 lb lead core line, 6' 20 lb florocarbon tippet and one of my jig "specials" - 1/2 oz, lead core, foam covered jig head/hook with chartreuse/white bucktail with some transparent yellow colored foil for flash. All topped off with a 6" curly tailed grub.
Now I can here you thinking all the way down here - that's not fly fishing - that's bait casting. No it isn't. Its the same technique used to get the lure down to the fish as you would use on a stream, pond or small lake - it's just heavier with more "umph" if you will. The whole idea is to get the lure to present properly to the fish you're targeting. It works the same if its a nymph, dry fly or foam bass bug.
Wood stove heat, two bedrooms, and lights and a hot shower when they turn the generator on at 5 am. They serve a heck of hearty breakfast - lots of bacon, meat, eggs, pancakes, and home fries - and a tasty, simple supper. They will cook whatever you bring them from the woods. BYOB - and we do. No phone, no cell service.
Our usual hunting cabin at Bosebuck Camps, 13 miles down a rutted dirt logging road with Moosies usually trotting down it, not far from the Quebec border.
Dogs in the lodge, dining room, and on the beds, of course.
Support your local DU Chapter this year. It's for conservation, not greenie silliness. Attend your local event. It's good fun.
We always have a good time at our annual dinner. Basically all guys, except for the delightful raffle gals. Our DU dinner is old-fashioned, but we realize that the fellas like a guy's night out.
It must be late summer, and I have hunting on my mind.
This is my muddy-legged huntin' Standard Poodle, gazing out the cabin door after a long day in the woods and bogs a few years ago. Don't laugh: he points hard, and retrieves. Bred from a line of hunting Standards, and my second from that line. Used to hunt pretty close, but lately ranges too far yet will loop 20 yards left or right on command. Will chase a damn deer in a swamp forever, dang it. That's what whistles and shock collars were made for. He's been good with whistle commands, but I haven't practiced with him lately. Also known to point on mice. Love the guy despite imperfections, and well-aware that any dog's imperfections in training are really the master's laziness.
"Find the bird." He will do that with the greatest of pleasure, but it might very well be out of range if he puts the bird up or points on it. Loves the job, loves the hunt. Like most field dogs, cannot understand how any human can miss a bird. "No bird, no bird." They look at you like you're an idiot. You are supposed to be God.
I cannot clean a shotgun with him in the room. He goes berserko with excitement. All hunting dogs know the difference between hunting gear and ordinary outdoor stuff.
There is no work-out like a few days over hill and dale and busting brush in Maine near the Quebec border, pursuing the Ruffed Grouse (they call it pa'tridge up there - or "chicken") and Woodcock. Gosh, I just love it, even though you occasionally annoy a cranky moose.
As a very casual fisherman now - but an ex-avid fisherman (I no longer really care whether I catch anything or not as long as I can be out on the water), I kinda wonder.
It's the end of April, the Bluefish are beginning to show up and the Spring Spawn stripers cannot be far behind.
East Coast stripers (called Rockfish on the Left Coast) are an anadromous fish meaning that they spawn in fresh water, but live their adult lives in salt. There are four breeding stocks on the East Coast - Chesapeake Bay, Delaware River, Hudson River and Cape Cod. These four main schools provide most of the striper population along the East coast.
Recently, there has been some investigation about the Thames River (New London and Norwich, CT) over winter school being an addition feeder school to the Cape Cod stock. It is not unknown for the Thames River school to reach tremendous populations over winter and spawning up the Thames into the Yantic and Shetucket Rivers in the Spring.
Striper fishing is one of my passions - fresh water impounds down south or inshore in New England, stripers provide me with the best and the most honest type of fishing. I say honest because striper fishing isn't a case of chasing down a fierce predator like any of the bill fish or tuna. Stripers are basically lazy and thus require patience and knowledge of the bottom structure to obtain the best size.
A few of my favorite spots and techniques are below the fold -
It was after morning recess in Mrs. Winter’s sixth grade class at Mapleton School. I remember the moment precisely, when the boy behind me, right in the middle of the lesson, leaned over his desk and my shoulder to whisper in my ear that if I’d take a nickel down to Woolworths at Broadway and Pearl, I could buy this fishing “thing” with which I could catch lots of fish out at East Dagues Lake.
Well, so are all dog breeds, until someone gives them a breed name. But Brittanys aren't really true Spaniels (here are the main spaniel varieties - more of 'em than you might have thought), which is why we call them plain Brittanys. They are more pointers, or setters, or something. A mix of various random things that happened to come together well.
Who cares what you call them. In our neck of the woods, Brittanys are the best all-purpose dog for the field, and maybe the most popular gun dog. They point birds, they retrieve, they do not mind water retrieves; they are bundles of energy and affection, and they are easy to train - a cross look is usually enough to get your point across to these emotionally-sensitive critters. The larger American version can handle the large spaces.
But you need at least two of them. One Brittany isn't a fully happy dog. They need the exercise and the company they can give each other. Every hunter, or every human, can use a few sweet Brittanys around the place.
A group of them is called a "Singular" of boar (although the use of the term is disputed; see James Lipton,An Exaltation of Larks, Penguin
Books, 1991). An alternate term is a "Sounder" of swine.
Lovely day of fishing with "Gwynnie" today on his beautiful stream. Is there a name for the color of the earliest spring leaves in New England, that easy-on-the-eyes translucent yellow and green?
A darn shame Capt. Tom couldn't join us to offer me some fishin' tips and some photo tips.
Pool on the stream. There's a Red Tail nest down a little ways. We saw a Bald Eagle en route. Woods were full of singing flycatchers, warblers, and thrushes mostly headed further north. Atlantic Flyway.
Brought home a good-sized Brookie who obviously thrashed in the leaves for a minute. I considered a new recipe - oak-leaf-encrusted trout. Will cook him up for dinner tonight for Mrs. BD as an early Mother's Day treat. Orange flesh, like Salmon.
(No wonder Dunkin Donuts pays Maggie's $5 million/year for publicity...it's a good deal for them. Next, we'll work on a similiar deal with HARPOON BREWERY, makers of delicious brews. Consider it, fellas - Maggie's is an elite market!)
I went fishing this morning, but after a short time I ran out of worms. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cottonmouth with a frog in his mouth. "Frogs are good bass bait" I thought to myself.
Knowing the snake couldn't bite me with the frog in his mouth, I grabbed him right behind the head, took the frog, and put it in my bait bucket.
Just then, I realized I had a problem, how was I going to release the snake without getting bit? So, I grabbed my bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a little whiskey in its mouth. The snakes eyes rolled back and he went limp. I released him into the lake without incident and carried on fishing using the frog.
A little later, I felt a nudge at my foot. There was that same snake with two more frogs in his mouth. Life is good in the South
I have a friend who was a dog handler in Vietnam. He would take the dogs into the jungle, find the caves, then go into the caves. Scary as hell, even with the dogs. Last I recall, he and his wife have two little Shih Tzus.
Because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariably ugly;
Because of all the television commercials, cocktail parties, and assorted social posturing I thus escape;
Because in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate, my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion;
Because trout do not lie or cheat and cannot be bought or bribed or impressed by power, but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience;
Because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time, and I for one don't want to waste the trip;
Because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters;
Because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness;
Because bourbon out of an old tin cup always tastes better out there;
Because maybe one day I will catch a mermaid;
And finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important, but because I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant - and not nearly so much fun.
Robert Traver
A mermaid, or a cougar in a tree? Cougar safely below the fold -
I'll start with an introduction to a wonderful gentleman, personality and writer named Gordon Wickstrom. I came to meet Gordon at a fly-fishing trade show when he, as a member of the wandering press stopped by to check out our new concept in fly rods. He's grown to be an excellent friend. Gordon has published two books and writes a newsletter, now a blog, and I find his "take" on things to frequently be just a "twist" away from most of what we read these days about fly-fishing (theatre, politics, music and a great many other things). I think that Maggie's readers would likely enjoy many of his perspectives. Gordon is retired from a long and successful career as a professor of Literature and Theatre at Franklin and Marshall College (he's a master Shakespearean actor and director as well). He lives in his original hometown of Boulder, Colorado and is a frequent contributor to The American Fly Fisher magazine, the journal of the American Museum of Fly Fishing. To initiate that introduction, following are links to two columns he's written - as a sample of his work.
Following is a link to a recent piece in Gordon Wickstrom's current blog - then another, as an introduction, and also a partial quote I lifted from another of his essays.
" .......As the snow keeps coming on, let me tell you that a few days ago an old friend sent me an old copy of an old issue of Gray’s Sporting Journal for April/May,1976-- an issue in which I had an essay on catch and release. That was thirty-one years ago. I thought that anglers were not looking hard enough at the ideology of no-kill, and so I should do it for them. As I re-read the essay now, it sounds all right, but the penultimate sentence caught me: pretty much what I believe today, and it’s in connection with my proposal of a sixth, The New Period, in American fly fishing. Here’s that sentence: “Now let us go a-stream more like our fathers-- individual, unself-conscious, unreconstructed, and quiet with our streamcraft and our love more important than our equipage and image.” But how, I wonder, can I both blog and, at the same time, in Walton’s use of Scripture, study to be quiet….? It’s snowing now, those great, beautiful, sloppy spring flakes. For us Westerners they fill the air with promise-- and are superbly quiet.....".
One final thing follows as well ... from my website for Hexagraph I've carried a "philosophy" page, the higlight being a poem you probably know from W B Yeats:
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread. And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in the stream, And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name. It had become a glimmering girl, With apple blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran, And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering, Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands. And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
I pulled a few nice trout out of this beat in Connecticut on Saturday:
Here's my recipe:
4 to 6 trout (approximately 1/2 lb. each), 3 Tablespoons lemon juice, 1 teaspoon coarse (kosher) salt (or to your taste), 2 cloves minced garlic (or to your taste), 2 bottles of fine Sauvignon Blanc, 2 Tablespoons Italian parsley, 2 Tablespoons chopped green onion, 2 Tablespoons dry seasoned bread crumbs, 4 Tablespoons melted butter.
Wash and dry trout. Rub the outside of trout with lemon juice and sprinkle with salt. Reserve half the wine (1 cup) into an appropriate stemmed glass.Retain the base wine for step 3.Sample the reserved wine.
Arrange the minced garlic in the bottom of a buttered baking dish that is large enough to hold the trout in a single layer.Check the reserved wine for flavor.
Place trout in the dish and pour the base wine over the top. Double-check the reserved wine.
Sprinkle with parsley, green onion, and bread crumbs. Spoon the melted butter evenly over the top. Test the reserved wine for spoilage.
Ceremonially empty the reserve wine container and bake trout at 400 degrees for 20 minutes.
Makes 4 to 6 servings. Open the second chilled bottle to serve with the fish.
Cabo is famous for the fishing, but we were out for meat as much as for sport and, as I mentioned, we are not really into hassling the big fish from the big boats anymore. Leave them fish alone!
We set out early with Carlos in his super-ponga to find "Sierra" - Sierra Mackeral (similar to the Atlantic Spanish Mackeral, but larger) - for dinner for ten invitees. We needed the meat but good sport is always the bonus.
I always say, "Huntin' and fishin' ain't shopping." It's a risk to invite people before catching the fish, but it's never failed for me. The Lord provideth the tortillas and the fishes. We caught 8 but really only needed 6, so had leftovers for breakfast. (We Yankees believe in fish for breakfast.)
Being lazy and on vacation, we brought our 8 cleaned and skinned mackeral over to Solomon's Landing on the marina to prepare it for us all for dinner six hours later. Since we supplied the fish, it wasn't a big expense except for the cocktails.
It was a good dinner party. Margueritas the size of bathtubs. Here was the result at 7 pm that evening -
First course: Sierra Ceviche - the best ceviche I have ever had in my life. Sierra is said to be the best fish in the world for ceviche, and I cannot dispute that. I could live on Sierra Ceviche and Margueritas:
After the dynamite ceviche, they brought platters of our Sierras cooked three ways - chef's choice: Fried with coconut, baked with capers, olives and peppers, and baked Rockefeller style (like Oysters Rockefeller) - all wonderful Mexican cooking:
The USA is unusual because wild game meat can not be sold in stores. All "game" meat sold in the US is farm-raised, whether venison, quail, pheasant, duck, or whatever.
That is the correct and righteous legacy of the devastating, 12 month/year market hunting of the past which devastated the seemingly endlessly abundant American wildlife populations.
There is no bird as special for the table as Woodcock, but you have to get out and shoot them yourself. One way to do justice to this diminutive bird (smaller than the European Woodcock) is a ravioli dish I learned from my Cordon Bleu chef friend.
Take a few Woodcock, and cut all of the meat off them - breast, thighs, etc. Chop the meat into roughly 1/2" pieces. Throw in a bowl and mix with a bit of sauteed very finely-chopped shallots and carrots, salt, pepper, a bit of fresh thyme and parsley and a little bit of truffle oil.
Take some wonton squares and brush some whisked egg on the edges as glue. Put a teaspoon or two of the mixture inside, then seal the squares tightly to eliminate any air inside, and place carefully into gently boiling water until done. It only takes a few minutes.
Serve two or three raviolis drizzled with somewhat reduced gibier sauce, with a few shavings of black truffle on top.
Here's the menu for the sort of 1890's-style dinner our Ducks Unlimited commitee serves annually. Our Chef for this special annual Game Dinner was making Rillete de Lapin since he was a kid in France. Yes, it is generally Black Tie out of respect for the chef and/or the host.
What's the deal? Our Ducks Unlimited Committee sells this dinner for twelve for significant bucks (usually $10-20,000 - and worth every penny) in our charity auction, provides the game, helps the Chef, and serves. When lucky, we're invited to join the dinner table. Otherwise, Chef and his sous chef feed us well in the kitchen, and we help consume the wines.
All the host has to do is to light the fire, and buy the wine and ceegars. With all of the loins and breasts, this is one sexy menu, and mighty filling:
Cocktail hour hors d'oevres:
Game terrine, grainy home-made mustard, gherkin slices, and toast
Rillette de lapin, capers, toast
Pate of Wild Duck Liver with cognac, toast
Dinner:
Roast Country Pigeon with green and white asparagus, mache salad, truffle vinaigrette
Woodcock ravioli with celeriac flan and wild mushroom sauce, with Black Truffle garni
Pheasant breast, braised red cabbage, lardons, with cognac jus
Satueed breast of Redhead or Canvasback with wild rice and roast figs, jus de gibier
There are two edible parts of a duck, whether wild or farm raised: the breast, and the leg and thigh.
Some people like to roast the whole bird, but I prefer just to remove the breast and the leg, and then use the carcass for gibier or duck stock.
Duck breasts, generally, are cooked by scoring then searing the skin side in a hot skillet for a few minutes, sizzling the meat side briefly, then roasting at 400 for 5-10 minutes. It should be rare-medium rare. (I once ate a whole raw, warmed Bluebill. Sushi. Wasn't too bad, but a bit fishy. I wanted to take "rare" to the limit.)
Then comes the sauce. Here are a few of my favorite ideas:
4. Emeril does a simple pan roast. Trouble with that for me is the danger of overcooking.
5. I also like a sauce made with a gibier base, with some halved cherry tomatoes and chopped Italian olives and a little vinegar.
Duck legs are another matter, because they are tough and stringy like pheasant legs. Both do very well for confit, if you want to take the trouble. An alternative is to braise the legs. Some ideas:
A reader sent me this pic. Trust me: these dogs are trained. Which reminds me - we need a series on dog training, hunting and regular obedience. It's an important topic, and only the rich farm it out to experts. I have trained my own. For regular obedience, they have been quite good but for hunting they have been a little "difficult." They like the birds too much and behave like children when there is too much game around. My fault.
If you feed a dog, he'll love you. Any dog will snuggle. The training is the deeper connection in which you learn to think like him, and hopefully mostly vice-versa. His work is to anticipate your wishes just as our work is to anticipate our bosses' wishes (but at Maggie's, we try to avoid having bosses other than God).
Any dog can be trained to the whistle and to hand signals. Any human can learn God's hand signals.
It's more shooting than hunting, but it looks like great fun. Friends who have done such shoots come home with sore shoulders but otherwise very happy and well-fed - with no time zone change.
More cool if slightly pricey hunts at GSS. (No, this is not a paid advt. We do no paid ads here but we do plenty of freebies just for fun.)
This is an annual re-post. We'll post more game recipes over the next few weeks to help our hunters with their bursting freezers -
With hunting season over, it's time to get cooking what we have in the freezer. It all begins with the sauce:
Uncle Bill's Jus de Gibier (mixed game) sauce, aka Brown Game Stock, aka Clean out the Freezer Sauce
This will be the tastiest sauce base, or sauce, you have ever had in your life, for chicken, game birds, turkey, venison, pork, veal, pasta, ravioli, etc. It's an ideal base for pheasant, chicken, venison or goose bourguignon. It has an earthy richness to it which is remarkable. We like to make a woodcock ravioli with black truffle, and this sauce is essential for that.
Gibier refers to mixed game, but we do it with mixed meat too, but not beef, which would overpower the subtler flavors. It is the best use of freezer-burned game and other stuff in the freezer. It's fun to make (but it takes a while), and you can clean out the freezer and the fridge at the same time. I freeze the used carcasses of Thanksgiving turkey, ducks, goose, random deer bones, etc. to use when I make this, once or twice a year, along with freezer-burned chicken, pheasant, etc. You could do this with entirely store-bought stuff if you lack a hunter in the family. The more stuff, the better.
You need a 10-12 (or larger) quart pot to make this, if you have a lot of stuff to use, but it freezes fine when made. It's good for a few months, at least.
Bake in oven until browned (not necessarily cooked-though) your saved carcasses and freezer-burned game meat and meat, especially pork and pork bones are good, and veal bones, (even if they have already been cooked). Yes, you bake the bones too. Do not burn them in the oven. I tend to use freezer-burned venison, pork chops, all my game bird carcasses, venison bones (cracked with a mallet), a bunch of veal bones and veal scraps if I can get them nowadays (it doesn't hurt to hit up the butcher for some stuff for this), turkey carcass, woodcock carcasses, and a pile of chicken wings. Chop this stuff roughly with a cleaver into 3-6" chunks and toss in the pot. Try to crack the bones.
From 
This northern chicken-like (gallinaceous) bird prefers first-growth areas, with access to water and open areas. I most often find them in aspen, birch or alder thickets, but they can be seen in piney woods, old orchards, ferny woods, and in streambeds. In regions where birch and aspen are the climax forest, they can be found everywhere or anywhere, but never in large numbers. They are most commonly encountered when they flush with a startling whirr of wings. 
The Woodcock is a fat little shorebird, fatter but not much larger than the American Robin, who renounced the shore and took up residence in our Eastern woods and swamps.
I don't know if you've ever heard of Mark Derr - most people haven't but he's written a couple of books about dogs and one about Davy Crockett - all of which are very good. He's of the opinion that most anthropologists and other social scientists are wrong about the dog/man team and how it formed. He has had this idea about it being a matter of co-evolution rather than co-dependency and has written a new book about it: 
When sitting in a duck blind or deer stand, standing on a ski slope watching your grandkids, and winter hiking, it's much more pleasant to have warm toes and fingers. I have had times in duck blinds when my fingers were too cold and numb to pull a trigger, but I have a touch of 
Happy Hunting, 
It's the time of year when we re-link our world-famous 
The invention of Gore-tex rendered plenty of waterproof and windproof fabrics obsolete - or quaint. For example, rubberized raingear, or waxed cotton or waxed canvas. Gore-tex is much lighter, it breathes, it requires no maintenance, and Gore-tex outerwear is cheaper to produce and can be made with the blaze orange patches which American field hunting (unlike European) requires by law. 
Here come the stripers. Not the strippers.
Well, so are all dog breeds, until someone gives them a breed name. But Brittanys aren't really true Spaniels (here are the 
Our fishing friend Harry Briscoe of 
The Song of Wandering Aengus
Got any Woodock left in the freezer?
Cocktail hour hors d'oevres:
There are two edible parts of a duck, whether wild or farm raised: the breast, and the leg and thigh. 
Uncle Bill's Jus de Gibier (mixed game) sauce, aka Brown Game Stock, aka Clean out the Freezer Sauce