So, Shanna and I loaded up the kids and headed for the hills to do some coyote hunting.  Actually seeing a coyote was not really the object of this adventure, but rather to get the kids – and in particular our two-and-a-half year old – a real hunting adventure.  I figured we’d have to stumble into one dumb coyote if we were to actually get something, but the experience would be worth the effort regardless of our success.

Getting the kids ready was an ordeal and we didn’t leave the house till after lunch, and once we arrived at our spot, it was another ordeal getting them out of the car and dressed warmly.  Our two-and-a-half year old spent most of the time while we dressed his younger brother running up and down the road and exploring the sagebrush.  By the time we were ready to hike up the hill, I think he’d already exhausted a good portion of his energy.  But, his mouth still ran a mile a minute and it was nice to see his pure enjoyment as he toted along a toy rifle. About half way up the hill, it became apparent that if we wanted to reach the top before dark I would need to carry him.

Our effort did not pass without reward as we saw over one hundred deer including a nice buck that posed for us on the skyline.  We saw several deer within 150 yards and when I howled for the first time, our two-and-a-half year old promptly raised his toy rifle to his shoulder like a seasoned pro ready to line up a snap shot. Perhaps the best moment of the outing was when he learned one of life’s important lessons: how to identify deer poop.

And, if anyone wants to argue that isn’t an important life lesson, I will explain to them the proud look on his face when he pointed to a pile of old and dried droppings and excitedly announced, “Daddy, deer poop!”  I think he’s well on his way to being a wise hunter.

Coyote hunting with my boys.

This friend of mine is a large land owner near Council and was telling me that another friend of his was asking him if he would take him out to shoot a wolf some weekend.  It never occurred to the would-be-hunter that wolves are not so easy to hunt that you can just simply go out on a Saturday and pick your wolf to put a tag on.  So, I began to wonder just what the tactic is for hunting these wary predators.

Wolves can be so nomadic, it can be difficult to locate them, and locating them is only half the battle at best.  I’m not being contradictory when I also mention that wolves are extremely territorial, because their territory can cover so many square miles that their whereabouts are not easily figured.  Even my large land owning friend, who has battled wolves for ten years, can’t say for sure where wolves might be at any given time.  While I began to realize I really don’t have even a starting point for hunting wolves, it occurred to me that perhaps that is the reason why I’ve had this wolf tag in my pocket since September and have gone hunting to target wolves exactly zero times. And that led me to the conclusion that I may be, in part, a hypocrite.

When a wolf season was set for the 2009 season, I was skeptical of ever getting the chance to tag one, so I didn’t bother buying a tag.  That season, while I never saw a single wolf, I had multiple occasions where their howls surrounded me.  The feeling was discomforting, and when the season was opened again for the 2011-12 season, I went right down and bought a tag.  I’ve been a long-time proponent of allowing hunters the chance to manage wolves, and here was our chance.  But as it sits now, I realize that my buying a tag hasn’t done a thing to help Idaho’s wolf problem.  There has to be some action – regardless of success, there has to at least be an attempt.  And when I realize that, I circle right back to the fact that I’m clueless as to the methods for finding, and bagging, a wolf.  One thing is for sure, though: I intend to quit my hypocritical ways and I plan on getting in the mountains in an attempt.

As of January 26, 2012 the Idaho Fish & Game has documented 201 firearm wolf kills and 59 taken by trapping.  In the 2009 season, 188 wolves were killed.  You can read into the numbers however you would like. Personally, I don’t think they tell us much, but that 31,400 tags were sold in 2009* tells me with a fair amount of confidence that I am not the only hypocrite out there.

*Harvest and tag sale numbers from the Idaho Fish and Game website.

I’m not sure if this is always the case, but there could very well be some missing connection in a sportsman’s brain. There isn’t any other demographic I can think of that can look forward to rising at 4:30 A.M. to go sit in a ground blind with snow and wind swirling around while waiting for the possibility that a duck might fly within shotgun range. To the indoor hobbyist, this sounds like insanity, but year after year, countless outdoor enthusiasts do exactly that, and what’s more is they’ll come back and tell their friends about their exhilarating morning.

One of my families’ favorite hunts has become a late season archery hunt that, in four years, has produced just one doe.  The weather on that hunt is always cold – bitter cold.  One year, the temperature never rose above 17 degrees. It’s steep country, and the snow can be daunting at times.  But every year, we look forward to that hunt like no other hunt.  I can’t for sure say why, but there are always fond memories of that place.

When I think back on some of the more challenging hunts I’ve been on, I realize there must be something about the challenge that speaks to the inner Neanderthal – and I like it.  I remember a few instances when during the hunt I wanted nothing more than to be finished. Yet, when I think back on the hunt, I remember what a thrill it had been, and I start planning to make that hunt happen again.

So, I can’t say I was overly surprised when I asked my mom and dad if they would do that hunt up north again and they quickly responded with a “yes.” It isn’t the weather or the terrain that makes or breaks a hunt, and it isn’t the amount of game seen or killed. I don’t quite have it pin pointed just what it is that makes a hunt, but I know if I have an opportunity to go on a hunt, I’m not letting a few inconveniences ruin my experience.

After successfully avoiding the dirty business for a few weeks, I decided this past weekend that something needed to be done with the decaying skull hanging from the rafters of our garden shed.  I dug out a large pot, propane burner and a couple propane bottles from the shed, rounded up a knife and a stick, took a deep breath and started frantically racking my brain for excuses to put it off for another week. Failing that, I filled the pot with water, dumped in a generous amount of Arm & Hammer Super Washing detergent, and lit the burner.  When I finally placed the skull in the water, I had finally realized that this process was taking a very similar path to my approach to diaper changing.  It begins with recognition that there is a problem, followed by long periods of ignoring the problem, followed by dropping subtle hints that someone else should check the problem, followed by a grudging realization that the job just needs to be done.

To give myself credit, I did have the good sense in knowing that this was a task best completed outdoors.  The task, although not entirely pleasant, wasn’t nearly so bad as I imagined it would be before I started.  And with that lesson learned in hindsight, I realized that I had landed on an idea for this newspaper column – always a welcome realization with a fast approaching deadline and a mind running circles and coming up with exactly nothing.  As I completed the task of prepping the skull, I came up with the following: Life’s Lessons Learned While Boiling a Deer Skull. You may search a long while before you find another list quite like it.

1.      The process is never as bad as the imagined process.  I spent most of the time leading up to boiling (it’s actually a simmer, but I’ll leave that for another column) the skull fretting over how disgusting the process was going to be. It was going to stink like nothing I’ve ever smelled before, and it would be crawling with maggots. In reality, it was mildly unpleasant at worst.

2.      Stink is relative. Really.  You think your shooting ability stinks? You should come with me sometime. I’m 2 for 27 so far this year with my shotgun. Sure, the simmering pot of deer skull didn’t smell good, but I once had to deliver packages to a water plant in Quincy, Washington as part of a seasonal job for UPS. That put stink on a whole new level.

3.       Trial by fire gets rid of a lot of nasty stuff. That’s a fact.  I can prove it if you’d like.  When I dumped that pot upon completion, it was full of nasty stuff. You can’t dispute scientific studies like this one.

4.      Not everyone understands your projects. I posted a status update to Facebook detailing my progress, and was met with quite a lot of misunderstanding.  Apparently simmering deer skulls is not something the average person does on a Saturday.

5.      Procrastination just makes it stink worse. That was the lesson taught, but as I realize how close to my deadline I am for this article, I have to wonder what kind of a student I am.

6.      Happy marriages demand that any animal skulls to be boiled are done outdoors.  This may not count as a true lesson learned as it is more of a theory I developed while completing this task outdoors while a happy wife was looking for her large boiling pot indoors.

In 2004, I married a girl from a wonderful family.  A family, however, with next to zero hunting experience.  My wife, Shanna, was accepting of my passion for the outdoors, but I think it would have been a stretch to say she was understanding.  That first year of our marriage, I shot both an elk and a deer, and when Shanna experienced her first taste of venison rolled in flour and fried in butter over a hot skillet, her interest in this hunting business seemed to pique.  In 2010 she went so far as to buy her first deer tag.  We found a babysitter for our one-and-a-half year old and spent the day looking for a buck.  It was a mostly disappointing hunt. The area we hunted was littered with people, and when we finally found an area to ourselves, the rain came down in a steady, ‘soak-you-to-the-bone’ drizzle.  It wasn’t the best of experiences for someone on their first deer hunt, so I was pleased, and even a bit surprised, when Shanna expressed a desire to hunt this year.

We now had a 4 month old to go along with our 2 ½ year old, and finding a babysitter was not easy.  My mother, excited that Shanna was interested in hunting, volunteered to give up a day of her hunting season to watch the kids.  This would be the day that Shanna would get hooked on hunting.  We found an area to ourselves and proceeded to run into deer – and most of them bucks – constantly throughout the day.  We ran into the familiar problem of Shanna, being new to using a rifle, having problems finding the deer through the rifle scope.  The rifle we borrowed didn’t quite fit her right, and each time we would get on bucks, she struggled to find them through her scope. I was getting anxious, but Shanna declared at the end of the day, that that day had been the most fun she’d ever had while hunting.

The next week we were grateful when my mother volunteered to watch the kids again.  Our day started out slower than the week prior, but we did  run into a couple bucks and, unfortunately, experienced the scope issue again.  I was impressed that Shanna kept trucking with me all day long for two Saturdays.  We had put a lot of miles on our feet in difficult country.  For the evening, we sat at the edge of a likely feeding area.  Shanna had a dead rest and we got her comfortable looking through the scope at the opposite hillside.  When two bucks appeared on the hillside, she was ready.  She waited for the larger of the bucks to turn broadside and stop. And waited. And waited.  The bucks were putting the distance between us while never offering a good shot.  When they finally turned and stopped, I judged that they were pushing 300 yards away. I told Shanna to hold right on the back and squeeze it off.  I kept my eyes glued on the buck through my binoculars.  When the rifle barked, the buck melted to the ground – I let out a shout of excitement!  She had done it – this girl from a non-hunting background that several years ago had never heard of a 6mm, the rut, forked horns, or any other hunting jargon.  I snapped the distance to the buck with my rangefinder – 327 yards! She hadn’t said much since pulling the trigger and I wondered what thoughts were going through her mind.  But when we reached the buck – her buck – and she sat beside it, a giant smile spread across her lips.  Perhaps this was the beginning of her immersion in the hunting culture, or perhaps you could say it started when she married an outdoor junkie from Idaho, but whatever the case, her smile told me this was not a one night stand.

Check out that grin - Shanna's first buck.

Shanna and I with her first buck.

So, as I was saying, archery season begins here in Idaho in 12 days. Got that? That’s 12 DAYS! Don’t be alarmed – I’ll wait for you to get your bow out of the closet, and I might not even shake my head condescendingly. But I can’t promise anything on that account.

I’ve been shooting my bow pretty faithfully for the last 6 weeks, and after putting on a new sight this spring, I was excited to be using the new equipment. However, about 2 weeks ago as I was getting my broadheads tuned in, I noticed something bad. As in, arrows flying drastically to the right. Like, missing the target completely to the right. I’ve never thought of myself as a world class archer, but a guy that misses an 18″ target at any distance inside of 60 yards? That’s not me. So I inspected my bow. Everything checked out fine, so I checked the sight – sure enough. The culprit was found, but punishment was delayed. It seems that the screw for the gang adjustment had stripped and with each shot it would move just ever so slightly to the left. So when I jump back to 60 yards, the ever so slight movement turns into disaster. I promptly went to the hardware store figuring I would show the sight which of the two of us possesses brains. I bought a steel socket hex head screw and clamped that baby down. Tight. I’m pretty sure I even heard the sight squealed a bit. I then went to the range and shot my arrows. 20 yards for 3 shots. 30 yards for three shots. They are starting to drift right.  50 yards for three shots. Definitely drifting right. 60 yards for three shots. Barely hitting the box. Frustrated that I’m not shooting like I normally shoot, I begin to fret that I’ve lost my shooting touch. Proving that of the two of us, I may have been presumptive by thinking it was I who had the brains. Then it dawned on me that maybe my sight was the culprit again. I checked it – sure enough. The steel screw to replace the soft metal screw that came with the sight was not enough. So I called the manufacturer to let them know of the faulty sight. That was Friday – and now as I count down the days to the archery opener, and my 6 day backpack hunting excursion, I begin to frantically call my wife every 30 minutes to ask, “has my sight come, yet?”

For the sake of her sanity, I hope it comes today.

Brad and Johnny were headed to their favorite duck hunting spot on the river when they caught movement on the side of the road. Brad slowed down and they saw a deer that had been hit by a vehicle. It’s back legs had been broken and who knows what else, but the deer was suffering and they decided the thing to do would be to put the deer out of misery. Somehow, though, the thought went that they needed a gun with more power than a shotgun, so they walked down to a little house not far from this deer. Brad knocked on the door and they waited. Pretty soon a man opened the door and his huge body filled the door frame as he looked at the two guys on his doorstep dressed in camo. His eyes rolled and darted and immediately Brad noticed the cats. Seemingly by the thousands. Still, he started to tell his story – “We just noticed a deer that’s been hit on the highway and were wanting to put it out of its misery. Do you have a gun we can borrow?”

The giant of a man didn’t say anything, but he just turned and motioned for them to follow. In a back room, he sat at a desk and eyeballed the two men. Brad remembers the eyes – they seemed to just roll out of control in the man’s skull. He reached in his desk and pulled out a shiny .44 revolver and laid it on the desk in front of him and began to run his finger across it. He looked up at the two men again. Brad, who had had a bad feeling from the start, was getting nervous. He leaned close to Johnny and out of the corner of his mouth he whispered, “We’ve got to get out of here. On the count of three, make a run for it.”

On three, Brad took off like his backside was on fire headed for the truck. He had nearly reached the truck when he starts looking around him. No Johnny. His heart sank. “Oh no. I’ve got to go back in there and get him,” he thought. So Brad walks back in the house and finds the scene in the back room completely unchanged. Johnny, who never heard Brad’s instruction and warning, is still staring at the floor, and the man is still sitting at the desk stroking the .44 revolver. Brad then nonchalantly tells them, “I just remembered I was parked on the road so I wanted to move my pickup.”

Finally, the man simply handed the revolver to the pair and they took care of the wounded buck. The entire situation was one they were glad to done with.

Thanks to those who let me know about the problem.

Of course any time you get hissed at while hunting, the heart does a few cartwheels and the eyes bug a little bit. People don’t hiss for no reason, and young as I was, I knew Dad had either spotted elk, or he was in minor danger. Turning around, I guessed correctly it was the former. He had his binocs in one hand and was looking across a draw. When Benji and I reached him, he pointed out the little brown dots on the opposite hill about 400 yards away. Sitting down to study the group of elk, we found one bull – and now we had to decide which brother would get to shoot first. Immediately, I saw a chance to prove my generosity and proclaimed ot Benji, “I’ve already shot an elk, so why don’t you shoot first?”

We settled in, then. I put my cross-hairs in the general direction of the bull (I wasn’t much of a shot in those days) and waited for Benji to shoot. And waited. And waited. I wondered if he had lost his gun somewhere along the way. I glanced over – no, he had his gun and he was looking down it at the elk. I waited. The elk wasn’t going to surrender at gun point, and I was getting antsy. Finally, Benji’s rifle barked, and what followed was a little bit of a blur. I remember noting that it looked like Benji missed, and then my instincts kicked in. My instincts in those days were ‘put enough lead in the air, some of it might hit what you are sort of pointing the rifle at.’ I emptied the magazine. “Did you get him?” I asked Benji. He was still a little too shocked to speak.

Dad had a grin and said, “I don’t think either of you hit him.”

Finally Benji spoke again, “You didn’t give me another chance to shoot.”

“How many times did you shoot?” I asked.

“Once.”

Once?! How could you shoot just once? The elk was in sight for at least 3 seconds!

Benji and I don’t hunt together much anymore.