It's The Freakin' Weekend

The obnoxious ring tone of your alarm jerks you awake. For a moment, you simply lay there before realizing how strange it is that at some moment in the past, you purposefully chose an alarm style. You tried different tones and jingles, wondering whether or not it actually had the 'umph' to get you out of bed. But after a few minute of searching, you finally found it.

This is the one. This is the alarm tone I will grow to hate. Time to ruin this jingle forever.

It's 6:00am on a Monday morning and it's time to go do that thing. That thing that so many of us do every week: Work.

Whether you enjoy your job or not, very rarely is anyone super stoked to be woken from a nice slumber, only to realize it's not the weekend anymore. Alas, you've got five more days of this and another four rude awakenings before you can cut loose again. But at that moment, you merely stare at the ceiling and mentally prepare for what's going to be another long work week.

Though you may work in an office, you're an outdoorsman at heart. The only thing that makes your coworker, Janet's insufferable stories around the water cooler even somewhat tolerable is the anticipation of hitting the woods on the weekend. It's archery season, and chasing that big buck has been on your mind for almost a year now. The national forest you grew up hunting is just an hour outside of town, and the only thing standing between you and that tree stand you've picked out are five days of conference calls, emails, and TPS reports. The woods are calling.

By Friday afternoon you're completely exhausted. It's been a hell of a work week, but the one thing that's gotten you by is the thought of Saturday morning. The crisp, cool Autumn air, the smell of the trees, and the anticipation of seeing deer has been on your mind since Monday morning. And so when you finally clock out for the week, you can barely contain your excitement. Tomorrow's the big day and you race home to make sure everything's ready.

It's odd that the alarm that you absolutely loathed on Monday morning is now a welcomed friend Saturday morning at 4:00am. With a groggy mixture of excitement and anticipation, you get dressed and head out to the woods. The drive is actually kind of nice. Unlike the commute to work every morning, the roads are fairly empty at this ungodly hour. Who in their right mind would be up this early on the weekend anyway?

Soon you reach the cut off road for the national forest and turn down an old, bumpy dirt road. A few moments later a pair of headlights turn onto the same dirt road a few hundred yards behind you.

Hmm...Must be another hunter

With the excitement of getting to your stand beginning to creep up, you speed up a little bit as you head down the road. Soon, your headlights begin to pick up clouds of dust, and it isn't long before taillights appear in front. The wire cable of a tree stand can clearly be seen poking up from behind the tailgate of the truck in front, and it's obvious this hunter is on the way to his spot as well.

Eventually you turn off the road onto another and lose sight of the other two trucks. Not far up ahead is where you'll park and walk in. It's an area that you -thought- was relatively secluded. So it comes as a surprise when you round the corner only to find a truck parked where you were planning. Your headlights shine on the hunter as he's getting everything ready to walk into the woods.

Damn it

You get out and greet the other hunter. To your relief, he describes where he'll be and it's no where near where you were planning. So with that, you ready yourself, slap the climber on your back and grab your bow before walking down the trail you marked during scouting season.

Once up the tree, you quietly wait as the woods slowly begin to wake up. It's the magic hour. This is what you were waiting for all week. A chance to escape the office. To spend some time in peaceful tranquility, uninterrupted by the hustle and bustle of every day life. With twilight quickly turning into day, you begin to scan the woods for deer. It doesn't take long before you catch a glimpse of a tail flick, and the body of a doe materializes about eighty yards away. It's a good sign, and in that moment, work and all your weekly troubles have vanished. This is why you're here.

Suddenly you hear the sound of a truck door slamming in the distance. The deer, thankfully, seems to have paid no attention to it. But for a brief second you're reminded that you aren't alone in the woods. About a half hour goes by and the doe you've been watching hasn't moved a whole lot. Out of nowhere, however, she spooks. Tail up, she blows several times before bounding away into the distance.

What the hell?

Then you hear it. The all too familiar crunch crunch of boots. You turn to see another hunter strolling in late to his stand, right down the trail you took to come in. The immediate reaction is surprise. Then anger. Then simply frustration. You wait until he's about sixty yards away before whistling at him. Stopped mid stride, the late hunter looks up at you and raises a hand apologetically before turning around and slinking off the other direction. With a heavy sigh, you lean back in your stand. You're beyond annoyed. The doe you were watching is long gone, and the morning hunt might as well be ruined. You slugged through a brutal work week, and the one thing you were looking forward to beyond everything was to be here in this tree. Away from people, and to have time to yourself. But now? Now it's ruined.

Welcome to the weekend.

-------------------

Over the years, the above scenario has happened to me far too many times. Of course, I don't usually have office jobs, but it's the same concept: I have off on the weekends, I love to hunt/fish, so I go hunting/fishing on the weekends. The problem? EVERYONE ELSE DOES TOO.

I've been a weekend warrior before, so please don't think I'm hating on them. Unfortunately many people have no other options than working that Monday-Friday 9-5. So that means they've no choice but hit the woods or the water on Saturday and Sunday. Weekends end up becoming insane. Hunting and fishing pressure go through the roof as everything is inundated with people trying to get their outdoor fix. But eventually there's a point where it becomes unappealing. We all seek the outdoors for some reason, and often that experience becomes tainted with -far- too much human pressure.

"Why bother going fishing this weekend? There's going to be 8 billion people at the boat launch Saturday morning. I probably won't find a place to park the trailer"

"I guess we can go to the springs, but we're gonna have to wait in line half an hour since it's a pretty day"

"I'd rather not go to the trouble of getting to the tree stand. Someone will assuredly walk in on me"

It applies to almost any outdoor activity you can think of. Too many people end up ruining an good thing. And they don't have to be destroying anything, or trashing it, or being loud, etc. Simply too many people being there end up taking away the experience that many look for.

Hell, I might as well have just stayed at the office. I'd see less people"

For almost two years now, I've been lucky enough to be a guide. Whether it be taking people out in the Everglades to look at Alligators, kayaking to look at Dolphin in St. Augustine, or chasing down Elk in Colorado. I've gotten to see people use our natural resources that have been set aside for just that: Use. And since I've been guiding, I rarely get a weekend off. Ever. It makes sense though, when you think about it. People primarily have off on the weekends. They want a guide and they hire me on their days off. So I'm thrust into these outdoor settings every weekend with everybody and their brother.

What it's done is change me. At least as to how I enjoy the outdoors. On the off chance that I actually get a weekend off, you won't catch me dead outside. I'll be inside on the couch. I've had too many days practically ruined during the weekend rush. Be it a jet-ski buzzing by the kayak at 30 yards and scaring all the fish, or a hunter walking right up to my tree stand. It happens all the time and I've grown tired of it. Friends might ask:

"Alex! Can we go kayaking Sunday morning?"

"Absolutely not".

I simply won't do it. I can't do it. There's too much pressure and it's lost its appeal for me. So I question; How many others are like me? How many hunters, or fishermen, or hikers, or whatever, have altered the way they use the outdoors? How many have all but just given up? Think about the most popular outdoor spot near you. Now imagine it on a holiday weekend. It's going to be an absolute zoo. There are so many people that it might as well be Wal-Mart, and lord knows no one ENJOYS going to Wal-Mart.

Luckily for me, since I work the weekends, I often have weekdays off. I can go kayaking on a Tuesday morning and not see a soul on the water. I can hike after lunch on a Thursday afternoon and not see the faintest sign of another hiker. It's fantastic. But I realize not everyone has the same luxury of doing things on the weekdays like I do. I'll never claim to be any more or less avid than any of my fellow outdoorsmen. So I ask the question: How do you get around the weekend crowds when you're stuck to the weekend schedule?

I'm avid enough that should I ever find myself stuck with that schedule, I'd still try. But I can't say I'd enjoy it nearly as much as I should. It would wear on me, and eventually might break me. I'd find myself skipping weekends and just watching football and drinking beer instead of being outside. Anything to avoid a tainted experience with something I love. All because everyone wants to do the same thing at the same time with their days off.

Are there ways around this? Yes. Well...Sort of. Take hunting for example. Don't hunt public land like national forests, right? Okay, so you fork over the cash to join a hunting club, and you'll get to avoid the crowds. But what's that end up doing? Driving the cost of hunting through the roof. If you weren't already aware, hunting is becoming a rich man's sport. Yes people pay big bucks to hunt...well...big bucks. But they also pay up to avoid the crowds of people who flock to public areas when they can't afford a private hunting lease.

I honestly don't have a solution when it comes to dealing with the weekends. I've figured out how to deal with it personally, but I question everyone else. Do you simply grin and bear it? Do you wake up -extra- early to beat the crowd? Or do you hike those extra ten miles into the wilderness JUST to dodge everyone else?

Personally, I don't see the issue getting any better. Hell, if it's even an issue at all. For all I know maybe there are people out there who love fishing around the crowds or watching the chaos that is the county boat ramp in the morning (ok, that's admittedly fun to watch). But for me, it's a problem. And I can only hope that we can find some sort of solution before more people want to simply give up.

Sand in the tent

“Did you hear that?” asked my dad, looking over his shoulder at the ominous dark cloud across the bay.

I had, of course, heard the thunder coming out of the massive storm. “Yeah.”, I responded, brushing some sand off my arm. “I think it's heading away from us though”.

If ever there was a phrase to guarantee a direct hit from a storm of apocalyptic proportions, that's the one. It's probably what Jim Cantore says when he arrives at some poor old coastal town ahead of a hurricane.

The storm took no time to decide to jump right across the bay, and whip everything into a frenzy. Paddling our hearts out, my dad and I raced back to shore, praying that we not only made it, but wouldn't get hit by a bolt of lightning. Our campsite was a little dot on the pristine white-sand shoreline of St. Joseph State Park and in that dot was our tent, the only shelter for miles....

I was lucky enough growing up to get to spend many of my summers in and around Port St. Joe Florida. A hidden gem along the Gulf Coast, St. Joe and its state park provided an almost limitless playground for me in the form of camping and fishing. My dad and I would load up the canoe or kayaks and set out for week long camping and fishing trips along the bay. We'd pitch our tent right on the sandy beach next to the water and fish from there.

If you've never had the good fortune to camp on the beach, allow me to set the scene for you:

Sand

Sand everywhere.

Sand on your feet. Sand in your tent. Sand in your shoes, your gear, your clothes, your hair, your food, your water. Sand in your soul.

Try as you might, the sand gets onto and into everything. After about four days, it becomes a way of life. Its omnipresence is a constant reminder that even in paradise, you're forced to cope with this otherwise unseen gritty hell. There was, however, always one thing that could give you a break from the sugar white sand: Rain.

So as my dad and I paddled for our lives from the storm ,which had now whipped the bay into a frenzy, we were hit with fat heavy raindrops. I was already covered from head to toe in sand from camping for several days. So when the rain finally hit me it was almost like taking a shower. It honestly felt amazing to finally get SOME of the sand rinsed off my body.

We were close enough to shore now that I could see the trees and grasses getting whipped around in the high winds. Heavy bands of rain and wind were no longer showering us, but rather drowning us. Most of the sand on me -had- to have been washed away at this point. A crack of lighting ripped through the white-washed sky as our kayaks ground to a halt against the sandy beach. Only a few yards up onto the beach was our tent. Shelter. And inside were towels, sleeping bags, and various gear to get us dried off. I pulled the yak onto shore and looked up just in time to witness one of the strangest sights I'd ever seen.

Thanks to a massive gust of wind, our tent, with all of our supplies, was ripped from the ground and sent tumbling down the beach. I couldn't really believe my eyes. I just sort of stood there trying to mentally grasp what I was watching. The tent, with its poles sticking every directs, was hurtling itself down the coast like some massive sea urchin. To make the sight stranger, all of our gear pushed and bounced on the canvas from within, making it look like some beast was attempting to kick its way out.

By the time I gathered myself, the tent was a good 40 yards down the beach and gaining distance. I immediately broke into a sprint after our runaway shelter. I should note that no matter how many sports you play, or how many outdoor articles you read, you'll never be fully prepared to chase down and tackle your own tent. It's not exactly something you get to do every day.

I'd finally gotten within arms reach of the tumbling canvas mass and after lining up my shot to avoid the swinging poles, I dove...

Face first into the sand. I did manage to get my hands onto the tent, but the wet canvas just slipped out from underneath me. I spit a mouthful of sand out onto the ground as I picked myself up and took off after the tent again. I was angry now. Not because our gear was threatening to blow into the water and out to sea, but because less than 2 minutes after my “shower” I was sandy again. Actually, sandy isn't the right word to describe me at that point in time. Powdered donut is perhaps a more accurate term.

Perhaps I just got lucky, or maybe it was the extra grit all over my body, but my second attempt at tackling the tent proved successful. I wrestled it still and my dad caught up to help me stake it back to the ground. I opened the tent to find that our gear had been thrown around every which way, and I sat down inside to try and dry off.

Never in my life have I seen more sand in a tent than I did that afternoon. I thought about going back outside into the storm to let the rain wash some of it away, but as quickly as the storm was on us, it was gone again. Trying to become sand free would be nothing more than an effort in futility.

I just sat there, looking like a powdered donut, and stared out across the now sunlit bay. “At least the fishing's good”, muttered my dad.

Summertime in St. Joe is something I'll always be grateful for. Even through all the bugs, heat, storms, and runway tents, I enjoyed (and still enjoy) every minute I get to spend down there. Everything about the place has a special place in my heart. Even the sand...

Seriously there's probably sand in my heart from that place.

Deer, Pigs, and Shame

The dull blue-grey of early dawn had already begun to illuminate the surrounding woods. But there would be no sunshine on this morning . A thick, wet fog was beginning to settle in and everything was soon soaked by its subtle misting. Though the day was truly beginning, the woods seemed suspended in a dark twilight under the shadow of the fog. It took longer than usual for the birds to start chirping and squirrels to begin chattering. It was a peaceful morning under the fog, and even the wildlife seemed reluctant to wake. That was, at least, until a long, terrifying growl echoed through the twilight…

The rumbling in my stomach hadn’t been going on for very long. In fact, it felt fine as I was busy attaching the climber to the base of the tree. But now, three quarters of the way up the tree, it hit me:

I think I have to poop

Situations like these are all mental games. Most of the time you can overcome the urge by just ignoring it or even telling yourself “You do not have to poop”. So I climbed on, inch-worming my way in my tree stand, all the while muttering to myself that I didn’t need to climb back down and take care of business. 

It wasn’t long after I’d settled into my stand before my gut rumbling shifted gears to full blown emergency. Reluctantly, I admitted defeat and with a great amount of frustration, I got ready to descend the tree to answer mother nature’s call. But I was quickly reminded that when mother nature calls me, she actually screams. And I hadn’t made it six feet down the tree before I realized what was about to take place. 

Oh no

There’s a real “Come to Jesus” moment that occurs when we, as adults, realize we’re about to crap our pants. It’s a humbling experience when you’re forced to make a snap decision based solely off of your inability to control your bodily functions. How you react in a moment of crisis defines who you are, and I had almost no time to think beyond the quick thought: “How does this even happen?”

 -----------------------------

 

Three days prior to this emergency, I found myself sitting in a Southwest Georgia hospital patiently awaiting my meeting with an orthopedic surgeon. I’d spent the entire night before in the emergency room for a very different emergency from the one happening up the tree. After nearly cutting off my index finger (a story that I won’t get into yet), the nurse who stitched me up flatly told me “Oh yeah, you’re gonna have to have surgery. You went right through the tendon and artery. I’ll schedule you an appointment with the surgeon”

So when the surgeon finally came in, I was fully expecting the worst news and that I would indeed need surgery. But in a bizarre twist of good luck, he looked at my finger, made me move it around some, and said “You’ll be fine without surgery. Here’s a prescription for some meds”. He then sent me on my way. 

I was on a hunting trip after deer on some of the plantations that I used to work on. I’d already missed my first morning hunt thanks to the finger fiasco, so I was excited to finally get some hunting done. This year I put away the bow for the time being. I darted deer enough. I was ready to blast one with the rifle, and I quickly set about doing just that. 

Just a few minutes before sunset later that evening, I lined the crosshairs of my 30-06 on a fat doe’s chest as she stood broadside, and squeezed the trigger. I was, however, shocked to see her kick, stumble, and run off. I was using the same 175 grain VLD bullet that took down my monster boar earlier this summer. It was almost expected for her to just fall over. So I climbed down and immediately found blood, but as soon as I did, the overwhelming smell of guts hit me. Looking down, I also saw half digested corn.

Oh no

I’d never gut shot a deer before. Ever. And I couldn’t believe I’d done it to this doe. My rifle was sighted in earlier that afternoon. So how had I shot so far back? And why was there SO much blood on the ground. Seriously, it looked like someone had dumped buckets of red paint on the ground.

Once my buddies showed up to pick me up, we began tracking her. Luckily, the blood trail was heavy, and we found her piled up about 100 yards from where she was shot. The entire time we were trailing her I was nervous and honestly kind of embarrassed to have gut shot a deer. When I shined my light down on her, it was obvious that the bullet exited the guts. But what about the entry wound? We flipped her over to discover a hole right in the shoulder. Exactly where I was aiming. 

So how did I manage to shoot a deer, perfectly broadside, in the shoulder and the exit wound come out mid rib cage? The only thing I can imagine is the bullet. The VLD is highly frangible and honestly not made for hunting. The bullet must’ve hit the shoulder blade, fragmented, and simultaneously ricocheted through the animal. Regardless, it got the job done, but I’ve stopped using VLD’s for deer hunting. Attempting to clean a gut shot deer one handed was enough to make me switch rounds. 

With meat in the freezer, I set about looking to shoot my first nice buck. Unfortunately, nothing aside from a spike and a little 6 point made an appearance the rest of the weekend. But my final day was anything but dull. 

Years prior to this day, me and my buddies had a long, drawn out conversation about peeing out of a tree stand. Some of us did it regularly, others (like myself), considered it a mortal sin. I know there’s tons of data explaining that deer can’t tell/don’t care, but it’s still a rule of mine. One of my friends, however, admitted that he’d had to poop from the stand before; a statement that we regularly ridiculed him about afterwards. I don’t know of a hunter who likes to poop in the same zip code as their tree stand, much less OUT of it. So we all gave him hell for years afterward about being the one guy we know who’s done it…

At least, until, my emergency 30 feet up a pine tree. I won’t go into detail as to how I managed to take care of business out of a climber. All that matters is that disaster was averted. I shamefully climbed the six feet back to the top, and sat down feeling extremely thankful that such a terrible outdoor experience was over. I’d made it 13 solid years of hunting without that ever happening, and I prayed that was the first and last time I’d ever have to do something like that again. 

Until 10 minutes later when round two kicked in…

Later that afternoon, I felt infinitely better and with a freshly restocked toilet paper supply in my bag, I deemed it safe to return to the tree stand. While walking down to a creek bottom with a lock-on stand, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see what looked like a small possum. Suddenly another one appeared. And another. I wanted a closer look so I walked within just a few yards of them. It was then that I realized what I was looking at. They weren’t possums. They were tiny little piglets. And that only meant one thing: Momma was nearby. 

It took me a second to figure out exactly what I was looking at. The stump that was only 4 yards from me suddenly moved and I realized momma pig was staring right at me. Now I’m still not entirely sure why she didn’t run, or charge, or anything. But I had time to take my rifle off of my shoulder, flip the scope covers off, turn the power from 9x to 3x, flip the safety, find the pig’s head, and pull the trigger without her moving. And as if that wasn’t enough, I heard a snort and looked to see a second sow just 10 yards away. Also not moving. I chambered a new round, found the pig’s head, and squeezed the trigger. Almost immediately I heard more snorting through the brush as a THIRD sow moved in close. This one, however, never stepped out, and just grunted at the piglets as they ran to her through the brush. 

I left the pigs on my path to grab them on the way out and went ahead to climb my stand. I was hunting over a scrape line and there was a nice looking scrape just 30 yards in front of my stand. The evening was pretty uneventful. I saw a bunch of turkeys, and a bobcat carrying a dead squirrel walked directly underneath my tree. It wasn’t until about 45 minutes before sunset that I saw brush moving just beyond the scrape. 

I raised my rifle and waited. The entire time I was envisioning what this buck was going to look like. Would this be it? My opportunity to –finally- kill a noteworthy buck? I’m generally very slow to excite, but I began to get a little excited with anticipation. 

All I need is for him to step out

But to my EXTREME disappointment, what stepped out was not a buck. Rather, a giant boar. Frustrated that my hunt was over without a buck, I flipped off the safety just as the boar stopped to sniff the air, and I put a round right behind the eye. The boar did a front flip, and as if to really prove to me that my chances of killing a buck were gone, he flopped down DIRECTLY on the scrape. 

As I was busy dragging bacon back to the road, I couldn’t help but reflect on the whole weekend. I was grateful to still have my finger, it was amazing getting to spend time with some of my best friends, and I was lucky enough to not only take a deer, but also pigs. It was my first and only chance to hunt this year, and with the exception of a few hiccups, the weekend couldn’t have been more fun. I got to spend some much needed time in the woods, and even did something out of the tree stand that I’ve never done before. 

That’s right. I’ve never actually shot a pig from a tree stand before. 

What? Did you think I was talking about a different tree stand experience? 

The question “what in God’s name did I eat?” actually did bother me for a while. And it wasn’t until a week later that I solved the mystery. Out of sheer boredom, I flipped over my prescription bottle to read the back. 

That explains a lot.

Kayak Fishing Jacksonville: Muddy edition

A few weeks back I managed to escape work and drive over to Jacksonville to stay with my sister. While her and her husband had work, I had nothing to do but fish. So I dragged the kayak with me and got up early the next morning to fish.

I'm impressed every time I go to Jacksonville by its sheer size. The city is massive and very spread out. Even though I was technically in the same "city", the drive to where I wanted to launch the kayak was an hour and half away. Prior to leaving, I did a bit of Google earth scouting and picked out some promising looking spots from my launch. The area I went to was Kingfish Park. Having never been there, I was pleased to discover a well maintained park, boat launch, and even a designated kayak/canoe launch.

I wanted to get out at first light, so I arrived in the dark and began loading the kayak. Very quickly, I noticed that the no-see-ums were out in full force. But after swatting at myself several times, I realized that they weren't no-see-ums. Rather, they were the world's smallest mosquitoes and they were busily attempting to drain my body of all fluid. Having brought no bug spray, I opened myself up to an absolutely miserable time trying to get the kayak ready. I'm kind of glad that I was the only one in the parking lot. Had others been there, they would have seen a 20-something year old man dancing wildly around a bright yellow kayak and cursing to no one in particular.

One thing that I fail to do on a regular basis is plan. Anything. I usually do things spur of the moment, so I tend to forget things. On this particular trip, I forgot my crocs. Even though they slip off constantly in mud, they're a much better option than what I brought with me on this trip: My flip flops. In addition, I failed to check the tides for that morning.

Now the tide screw up wasn't really something I could have changed. I honestly almost never forget to check the tides. And I didn't so much forget to check, as I didn't care. I was there in Jacksonville, I wanted to fish first thing in the morning, and I didn't really care -what- the tides were going to be.

But what I forgot about were Jacksonville's terrible mud-flats of death that result from low tides. I experienced these once before, and was pretty sure I found the gates to hell in the form of a soul sucking, bottomless mud flat that forced me to wait for the tide to come back in. You know it's shallow when your kayak gets stuck.

So as I dragged my kayak down to the water's edge at Kingfish Park, I looked out in horror to see a sloping mud bank that went 30 yards out and under a dock before touching water. As I walked, I immediately regretted having worn the flip flops. Ever step threatened to suck them off my feet, never to be seen again. And I would have simply removed them, but the mud is filled with broken oyster shells, and the last thing I wanted was to cut my foot wide open.

After a momentary "So this is how it ends?" freak out , as I was stuck in the mud standing next to a mosquito swarmed kayak, I managed to free myself, belly crawl onto the kayak, and kick my way through the mud into open water.

Having finally extricated myself from a muddy grave, I looked down to see the damage. You know that scene in predator where Dutch figures out the mud hides him?

Yeah, that scene? I looked something like that except I was wearing fishing clothes and I'm slightly less "roidy" than ol' Arny. Anyways, as my usual good fortune would have it, this whole thing had an audience. As, I began washing my arms and legs off in the water, I looked to see a Jon boat with two old men that had clearly witnessed my failure of a kayak launch. When my kayak (now stuck in the current of a rapidly falling tide) floated past them, I did my best to give them a respectable fisherman's nod, but it's kinda hard to look respectable immediately after floundering around in the mud like a mammoth in a tar pit.

Anyways, so with a falling tide, I began to paddle back into an area that I'd seen on google earth and figured it'd hold fish. But upon arriving, I noticed that the only time it could possible hold fish would be high tide. This is because the little creek mouth I planned to fish was now nothing more than a muddy ditch 3 feet above me.

I fished nearby anyways, and as luck would have it, I actually caught a small trout on topwater with my first cast. The rest of the morning was -slow-. Very slow. It wasn't until the tide turned that I even began having hits again. After a few dinky little trout on my DOA, I decided to pick up and switch areas. I paddled across what was at this point a raging river with the incoming tide, but eventually found calmer water and started fishing again.

I watched as an osprey flew down, nailed a mullet, and started to fly away. But as it flew, I saw a fish spook below it. In less than a foot of water, a 30+ inch Redfish was rapidly swimming directly at my kayak. I did my best to cast at him, but having already been spooked by the bird, he was having none of my DOA.

I started to focus on some exposed oyster bars and it quickly paid off. After missing a few chances at small tailing Reds, I managed to finally put the lure where it needed to go, and hook up. I tried out my GoPro mount for the first time, and was able to snap this picture from the video. I'll have to remember next time to wash off the lens before filming as it's obviously still dirty from my muddy launch. I should probably not point it directly into the sun either.

But luckily I brought another camera.

The fishing started to slow back down once the tide began to reach full high. I'd been out there all morning anyways, and it was past lunch time. So I called it a day, paddled back, and was pleased to see that the water now went all the way up to a sandy beach, and removing the kayak involved no mud.

I definitely plan to go back there soon and fish again. Since I'm stuck in Gainesville at the moment, I'm situated pretty much right between Jacksonville and Cedar Key. So really I can just take my pick with the kayak. It shouldn't be long before I have the fish in Jacksonville dialed in. I've just gotta make sure to check the tides, and avoid a muddy grave. 

A Walk in the Swamp

It’s a strange thing- to wander. To not really know where you’re going, or even care for that matter. To just…well…go. One foot in front of the other. It seems strange. Though when I think about it, it shouldn’t.

It seems too often that our lives are completely scheduled out. Work starts at this time. This is what I need to cook for dinner then. The meeting takes place there and then. So on, and so forth. Even on a vacation, things are planned out. It’s a rare, and sometimes never offered opportunity to simply go out and wander. No real plan, schedule, or anything. To just go. To literally live in the moment.

I thought about this as I was doing just that: wandering. Now granted, I didn’t just walk out my front door and zombie-step into oncoming traffic. Nor did I aimlessly drive my car around the bad side of town until I ran out of gas. I at least knew the general area I wanted to wander, and had an idea of what I was doing.

But I did take a moment to look around. I’d been walking for about an hour through this swamp. I was semi-actively looking for pigs with my 30-06 slung over one shoulder and my .45 on my hip. I didn’t, however, really know where I was going. I’d been slowly walking in the direction I thought was north, but I wasn’t too worried about where I was. All I knew I was that I still had some daylight to burn, work was done for the day, and I was wearing so much Deet that I would probably pee Deep Woods Off later that evening.

It was a nice walk though. Even through the heat, I truly enjoyed myself. I slowly weaved my way around large areas of flooded timber, occasionally ducked out of the way of a Golden Orb Weaver web, and kept my head on a swivel for pigs. I hardly noticed that my snake boots were trying to rub a blister to my bone, or that I would suck a mosquito up my nose from time to time. It was just a walk through the swamp with one slow step in front of another. It was pretty freeing to just be out there. As long as I got out of there before dark and didn’t die a shriveled husk of a wildlife technician after the bug spray wore off, I didn’t care how long I was out there or where I ended up.

As uncomfortable as my feet were, it was refreshing to have dry toes on a walk. My usual boots are a Vietnam style military jungle boot that has drains on the sides to let water out…and in. So I confidently walked through water several inches deep without worry, and my inner twelve-year-old even chuckled at the suspicious squishing sounds that the boots made in the mud. I also didn’t have to stare at the ground quite so intensely for snakes. Thus, freeing my eyes to search for pigs and consequently almost trip and die on cypress knees since I was no longer staring at the ground.

Before I really knew it, hours had passed and I had slowly wandered my way out of the swamp and back into the quail woods of the plantation. Lots of pig sign, piggy looking areas, and stump pigs (they’ll fool you every time), but no actual pigs. I suddenly realized where I was and just how far I’d walked. I guess something about not caring what time it was made time actually fly. I was miles from the truck. A few hundred yard walk through a healthy mixture of beauty-berry and blackberry bushes, and I stepped out onto an old road.

I still had no real place to be, and was in no hurry to get there. So with one slow step in front of another, I walked my way down the road and back to the truck. I picked and ate an inordinate amount of blackberries along the way, and thought about how lucky I am to have opportunities to just wander. To cut loose, not care, and go wherever my feet take me. At the end of the day, what’s more strange? To have everything from sun-up to sun-down planned out? Or to wander? Just remember,

Not all who wander are lost.

Contrary to popular belief, not –all- of my hunts are unsuccessful. I’ll leave ya’ll with a sneak peek of an upcoming report:

The Dry Run

One would think that over the years, an outdoorsman such as myself would only get better at preparing for an outdoor excursion such as a fishing or hunting trip. This, however, couldn’t be further from the truth.  As an outdoorsman ages, he accumulates more and more gear. And not only does the gear grow in numbers, it also grows in complexity. That cane pole with the foam cork has transformed into a fly rod and with it comes an assortment of flies, fly boxes, and so on. Most often, the accumulation of gear is the direct result of taking an already difficult task, like deer hunting, and making it nearly impossible by bow hunting. But that’s a rant for a different day. The point is, outdoorsmen have a lot of stuff. 

So in order for an outdoorsman to actually step foot outside, he has to prepare properly. But the preparing stage is often a complete failure. I personally prepare for a hunting or fishing trip about like I prepare to go buy groceries. There’s certainly no list, or even planning involved. I sort of just browse the isles and pick out things that I think I’ll need over the course of the week and inevitably, forget to buy about a thousand things. The same thing holds true for getting ready to go on a fishing trip. I look over a bunch of my gear, pick out what I think I’ll need that morning, and then head out. Only at the dock do I realize I’ve forgotten something vital like a fishing rod. It’s instances like these where one prepares as best as they can, only to forget that vital piece of gear, that leads to what I like to call a “Dry Run”. 

A Dry Run is actually great practice for the outdoorsman. He gets remarkably good at doing everything he needs to do in order to hunt or fish, but without actually getting to step into the woods or make a cast. A prime example of a good Dry Run was during my hunting season a few years back. I was hunting outside of Andalusia Alabama, over 2 hours away, and I was packing everything I’d need for a weekend hunt. After a few hours of gathering gear and packing it into the truck, my dad and I took off for the woods. But after about an hour and a half of driving, I got that sinking feeling like I’d forgotten something. 

But what could it be? I thought to myself as we continued down the highway. I’ve got my rifle…tree stand…ammo…hunting lic…crap

Frantically, I pulled out my oversized wallet (I honestly don’t know why it’s as thick as a bible. It has literally no money in it), and began rifling through it in search of my Alabama hunting license. I’d practically given the state of Alabama my left arm in exchange for the absurdly priced out of state license, so there was –no- way I’d left it behind. 

But alas, a quick phone call to my mom back home confirmed that it was sitting on the kitchen table. My dad and I had executed a fantastic Dry Run. A little more practice and we’d get this hunting thing down pat.

But it’s not only small things like licenses that can lead to a dry run. Last summer a friend and I got ready to go canoe fish in a lake a few miles away. We loaded up the truck making sure we had plenty of lures and gear. We even remembered to bring some rifles in case we ran into pigs along the way. About fifteen minutes later we arrived at the boat launch. I lined the truck up so that we could back the canoe right up to the water’s edge. I shifted into reverse, looked over my shoulder, and realized we had no canoe. It was still at the house. 

And sometimes it isn’t even your own fault that leads to a Dry Run. Mother Nature often intervenes and makes sure you get plenty of practice preparing for trips without actually getting to go. If I had a dollar for every time we’ve gotten everything ready to go fishing at some ungodly hour of the morning, only to arrive at the launch during a hailstorm or gale force winds, I’d be a millionaire. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but head back home, unpack, and go back to bed with the satisfaction of knowing you had excellent practice and getting ready to go fish. Optimists will inevitably say things like: “Well, at least we don’t have any fish to clean”, but thorough disappointment is enough of a reward. 

Dry Runs are, however, actually good for the outdoorsman. They ensure that you’ll almost –never- forget to pack that hunting license or canoe again. To add, they make you appreciate days when you don’t forget to pack a thing. Even if you didn’t catch a thing, or see any deer, at least you managed to get out and avoid having a Dry Run. 

Tomorrow will be my first “real” fishing trip out on the water for 2013. Hopefully I’ll dodge the Dry Run and come back with stories to tell. Stay tuned!

Stump?...No!

Through the early morning darkness, I gazed intensely into my scope to see the small food plot in front of me.  Steam from my breath was trying its best to fog up my lens, and every few seconds I took my head off the gun stock to attempt to look with the naked eye. I was deep into an argument with my inner-self, and my brain was having a tough time believing what my eyes were seeing.

But…

No. No. It can’t be…

But it really looks like a…

No….

As any hunter knows, Mother Nature likes tormenting us with oddly shaped stumps, branches, and leaves that look like deer. Or at least what one would imagine a deer to look like, if one actually stepped out. Our brain has an idea of what to look for, probably thanks to reading one too many Field and Streams, so every time that weird leaf moves, we suddenly think DEER!

But alas, 99% of the time, it’s just some stump that looks exactly like a 10 point buck, or a blowing leaf that looks like a twitching ear. Low light conditions are the worst for these situations and I’ve lost count of the number of defenseless branches I’ve nearly poached over the years. It’s not uncommon for the same stump to fool a hunter 8 or 9 times in the course of a few hours. Eventually, however, the mind grows weary of being wrong –all- the time, and the thought process changes from: DEER!?!...No. To: Stump?...Yes. 

So as I sat there in my stand in the low light of dawn, something caught my eye and my first thought was Stump? But there was a problem. After peering through the scope, it –really- started to look like a deer. More so than usual. In fact, it was even moving around. But since I hate to be wrong…especially when arguing with myself…I wasn’t completely convinced it was a deer. Maybe it was some weird shaped tumble weed or something. 

I come by my reluctance in accepting that a deer is in front of me thanks to hunting years of Florida public land. Seeing a deer on Florida public land is a lot like a seeing a Unicorn, but probably less common. But I wasn’t hunting Florida public land. I was actually hunting a Southern Georgia quail plantation that’s been –extremely- well managed.  So after what felt like an eternity of internal debate, I decided to take a chance at being wrong and guess I was actually looking at a real live deer.

I had decided before the hunt that I wouldn’t shoot any does. This particular plantation is one that I work on during the deer study. My job is to tranquilize does and I figured killing one would be the opposite of job security. So I kept my finger off the safety and watched the little doe eat. About 15 minutes later it became light enough that upon closer inspection, the little doe was actually a button buck. I was suddenly –very- thankful that I had not shot him right off the bat. By this particular plantation’s rules, I was allowed to shoot any does, and one “freebie” buck. After that, I would have to play by the rules of no bucks younger than 5 ½ years old. I definitely didn’t want my freebie to go to this little guy. 

30 minutes later something caught my eye back behind me. I spun around in my stand to catch a glimpse of a deer, not a weird stump, as it slipped behind some cover. I readied my rifle, and watched the opening that it was heading for. Slowly, it poked its head out to reveal a tiny 5 point buck. Though this guy was admittedly bigger than my 6 point from last year, I decided that I didn’t want him to be my freebie either. I watched him for the next 15 minutes as he worked within 60 yards of me, walked out into the food plot, ate a bit, then moved off into a creek bottom. This whole time the button buck was still munching away and I timed it at right at a full hour before the button buck finally walked off. 

Another 30 minutes passed before something else caught my eye in the same area I’d seen the 5 point originally. I quickly grabbed my binoculars (as it was now light enough to use them) and looked. 

Antlers. 

I don’t actually remember the process of putting away the binoculars and getting my rifle onto my shoulder, but I imagine it took about a millisecond. I found the buck in the scope and took a good hard look at him. He definitely wasn’t 5 ½ years old. He -might- have been 2 ½ , but his antlers were nice. An 8 point, and he was coming closer every second. The safety was off and my crosshairs darted from antlers to chest, antlers to chest. I had upwards of 5 minutes to shoot this buck, but finally decided at 70 yards out to not shoot him. 

And before you toss me into the category of obnoxious trophy hunters that look at a 170 class buck and go “Meh…I’m really looking for something a bit bigger”, give me a second. He was admittedly small. He might have weighed 125-130. It was a young deer. And though every fiber of my inner Florida public land hunter was screaming “SHOOT HIM”, I let him walk. I know that I’ll get to hunt the area again in the coming years, and he’s going to be a very big deer. 140-150 class deer aren't uncommon on this plantation.

I climbed down about an hour later after not seeing anything else and walked back to the Jeep. While walking back I had a shot on two does that were standing in a field, but again, I decided to not shoot them. I didn’t need the meat, and I’d personally rather see a radio collar on them in a few months. Once seated in the Jeep, I couldn’t help but notice the big ol’ grin on my face. What I’d just experienced was, in fact, my best hunt ever. 

No. I didn’t actually harvest anything. But that doesn’t matter. Too often we measure the success of an outdoor venture on what we shoot, or how many we catch. For me, I prefer to measure success in what I’ve learned or how much fun I’ve had. I had an absolute blast on this particular hunt. Seeing deer when you aren’t used to it has that effect. And at the end of the day, I wasn’t crammed behind a cubicle, or pages deep into my studying. Instead, I got to experience a fantastic hunt and enjoy a passion of mine. The whole thing was exciting and will remain a hunt that I’ll never forget. So to me, I call it successful.

It sure beat staring at stumps.