Fishing the Bay with Builder Bob--Day One

There's a Thanksgiving tradition 'round these parts. A group of men with places in Kilmarnock head down for the weekend to fish and drink something stronger than their wives' insipid iced tea. Sometimes they stay at home for the holiday dinner, and sometimes not, depending on how relations are going with the missus. This year, Dad and I were invited by Builder Bob to join his crew. We initially thought it was owing to our sunny dispositions...turns out we just add more rockfish to the boat's limit...

Captain Bob

Thursday and Friday brought bad weather on the Bay, so we postponed departure until Friday evening. Saturday, we were on the water early enough and cleared Indian Creek in plenty of time to watch the sunrise over Windmill Point. A day of trolling never got the skunk out of the boat, so it was back early for dinner in Kilmarnock and some passing of George (Dickel) and lies around the table. Then off to bed, hoping for better luck in the morning.....

Sunup Over Windmill Point

Lines Out West of the Ship Channel

Thanksgiving Day--2009

Thanksgiving Day has always been a pretty big hunting day around here. We're generally not working, and my brothers are often here at the farm with us. We have all afternoon to siesta, so an early morning is no great challenge even if the Thanksgiving Eve family get together strays into the wee hours. This year it was just Dad and I on one of our favorite beaver pond honey holes. Pre-dawn and dawn low light photos are tough to do right. They never seem to do justice to the moment I'm trying to capture. That time, before the birds start calling, is quiet, serene...for me very spiritual. I'd love to share the essence of this part of the hunting experience, but really cannot...these pics are the best I can do, I suppose.

Pre-dawn in the Beaver Swamp

First Light

Sometimes we sit together; other times a few yards apart. Until first light, the only way I know Dad's there is the glow of his cigarette in the dark. When light comes, he appears in the shadows. Then we wait, first for the birds, then for the sun as it rises in our faces.

Dad in the shadows

Sunrise Over the Decoys

November 20, 2009

As if the events of the first few weeks of November weren't enough, I lost my job of sixteen years on the 12th. There are no excuses, however, for ditching the outdoors. I spent many hours quietly still hunting our woods Beyond Bibbs Store. The leaves were still crisp, and rustled all around in the breeze and underfoot making the woods pretty noisy until late afternoon when the wind died and nap time called. I took this shot with my phone camera as I lay down to doze in a leaf pile by an old log in the late afternoon November 20.

Naptime by an old log--Benelli Nova

Needed Some Time Outdoors--November 7, 2009

This is the first of a series of posts recreated from photos, memories, and my written journals. On this day, I had just left Cris and Christiane's side and Cris was having a pretty rough day. We knew the end was near, and I just needed to get off by myself. I drove home, hastily gathered some gear and the dog, and drove over to the Bibb place for a hour before sunset. It was a surreal afternoon. My hunting pal lay dying as I sat in the field with one hand on the warm back of my dog, the other on the cold steel of my shotgun. I tried to maintain my composure as I carried on a one way conversation with a Labrador.

Every Day's a Good Day to Flip

At first I couldn't think of taking a life while Cris was fighting for breath in a dark room thirty miles north, but things came naturally as birds began to fly, and I knew Cris would want me to quit sulking and shoot. We took a few birds; Flip, as always, was on his game and made picture perfect retrieves. 

As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and I walked back to the truck shivering and wiping a few tears as I put the gear up with the dog.

Sunset in Louisa

Cris

Cris passed away yesterday evening while at home with Christiane and sleeping quietly. He drew one final breath and simply stopped. The cancer he'd held at bay for a year and a half finally took him. His final weeks had been tough ones for Cris and his family, although he rallied somewhat last week and was able to smile and carry on conversations, giving everyone around him a final memory of the old Cris. During those moments he chided Christiane, kidded Dad, spoke to Harry, and groused with his nurses. For a few days his blue eyes sparkled, then in his final few days he lapsed into a peaceful sleep.

In a fashion typical of Cris, he directed that there be no memorial service or funeral. The man who didn’t want people singing in restaurants on his birthday for fear of drawing unnecessary attention to himself wished to go out of this world without fanfare. Cris is being cremated, and his ashes will be spread in a favorite trout stream high up in the Blue Ridge, from where all of us that loved him can look West and see him. It's a favorite, secret fishing spot of his and his father's...a fitting spot to rest.

We had years of great times together..hunts long remembered, Harry growing up, state skeet tournaments so hot you could fry eggs on the gun barrel, and just plain shooting the bull over a taste of whiskey. Last year's final duck hunt proved his last...so glad it was a good hunt. Even after he got sick, Cris never gave up living, loving, hunting, laughing. They gave him a couple of months and he took a year and a half...some of the best living of his life.

Raise your glass and toast Cris. So long buddy. We'll sorely miss you.

Afternoon Doves

Flip and I went alone for a quick dove shoot. Leaden skies, nothing flying. Always better to be in the field than not. 

Last Early Ducks

Monday, October 12 Afternoon Hunt




Sat with Cris some this morning at his house. He's still pretty under the weather, but we had a nice visit.

There was plenty of cloud cover early in the afternoon, so I figured the birds might be fooled into flying early as is often the case on gray days. Dad didn't feel like tagging along, so I grabbed Flip and the Mule and hunted Edward's side. It's plenty thick...lily pads, cattails, bullrush, and other stuff...but with enough open water for landing. We went early and sat for two hours. A few birds came in before sunset, but set in way out in front...too far for a shot. Got some nice pics around sunset as the early season ended.



I looked over my shoulder as I latched the gate on the way out and saw dozens of woodies coming to roost. Suckers always arrive twenty minutes after legal time...oh well. It was still good to get out with the dog, and the sunset was beautiful.

More Early Ducks

Saturday Morning, Oct 10

Dad and I hunted the same spot and saw fewer ducks...still all woodies. I put one down way below the dam...Flip hunted pretty hard but the bird was poorly marked and in the thick stuff and we never found it. Meanwhile Dad put a drake down ten yards in front...when Flip and I got back he recovered that bird fine. Once again it was all over quickly.

Early Ducks

October 8

We haven't hunted doves since opening day...no birds anywhere that we can find. Finished the skeet season with the closed club shoot in Sept. It's been a busy Fall. Cris has been under the weather and we missed having him here for our ducks opener.

Dad and I hunted on George's side of the creek. Went in plenty early. The corn's not cut, so we slipped into our little honey-hole by walking between eight foot tall rows of corn and then creeping to the beaver dam. The beaver made known his dissatisfaction with our intrusion before we even got set, and kept popping his tail until the shooting sent him back into the lodge. Flip fidgeted and protested that he couldn't go "play" with the beaver, but he sat tight and didn't yip.

Right at legal time bunches of woodies came piling in, mostly in twos and fours, but some bigger groups too. The suckers came, as they always do, screaming in through the trees, fast and furious. You only get a second or two to commit, mount the gun, and get off a shot before they're either past up the creek or down on the water...no circling and quacking for these guys...you'd better be ready and quick about it.

We got in plenty of shooting but only two down for sure, with one lost. By 7:30 it was over. No pics today.

And So Another Season Begins

September 5, 2009

Dad bushogged the church field and around the pond this week. The sunflowers were a dismal failure; Short, stubby, tiny seedheads, and choked with weeds. We made a few mistakes this year; no fertilizer, no herbicide; just tilled and planted. Oh well.

It was a weird opening day. The birds seemed to have moved out of the area ahead of a front earlier in the week. Nobody has birds near us. Even with the sunflower failure, there's plenty of weed seed in the field, but still no birds. Should've brought our fishing rods.

Cris and Christiane came down from Madison; so did Jay, Kathy and Larry. Harry took a break and drove up from Ashland, and Kurt came over from Harrisonburg. We still had fun getting together, despite the lack of birds...good excuse to hunt up all the gear and work the dogs anyway. Croc and Flip were well behaved and ready to hunt.

The story of the day: Cris was the only one to shoot a dove, the only one to even pop a cap. Poor little bird didn't stand a chance...I'll let Cris tell the tale on himself...if he wants to.

Alerts

Follow the Virginia Dept of Game and Inland Fisheries on Twitter @VDGIF.

Waterfowl Seasons

VDGIF posted the 2009-10 waterfowl seasons today after the Board of Game and Inland Fisheries meeting. Looks like 5 per day with 4 mallards and one black, and woodies went to 3 a day. Mark your calendars for early Ducks starting October 8!

Countdown to Fall

The dove and early goose seasons are posted. The sunflowers have started blooming. Let the countdown begin!

Legal Time

This little utility, compliments of the Navy, is going to take all the fun out of trying to figure out legal time. No more squinting at the tiny VDGIF booklet sunrise chart after several hefty bourbons on the night before opening day. No more arguing over whether we need to add or subtract three or four minutes from the Richmond time for the early season.

Now, can they come up with a way to get all my gear in one place before I have the first drink?

The Last Gray Dregs of Winter

As happens every year, we were fooled by three days of sixty plus degrees, forgetting ourselves and forgetting also nature's proclivity for a last gasp cold snap or two before releasing us all in a headlong rush to Spring. Years ago, when we lived in Warrenton and the Casanova Hunt Point to Point races were still held at Spring Hill Farm, we could count on a balmy short sleeved weekend for the races two or three years out of five. The first of the Virginia hunt series, Casanova was, and I suppose still is, held in early February, weeks before even the boldest bloodroot or crocus pokes its greens above the earth. The flowers, smarter than we, somehow understand that we will endure yet a few weeks of bitter cold alternating with deceptively warm spells......flu weather....pneumonia weather.

So now it's cold again, and nature's just reminded us of how fickle she is with ten inches of snow to begin March. Meanwhile, rabbit season has ended with February, and hunters throughout Virginia turn indoors for the mundane tasks of putting away all that is the flotsam of hunting gear in the basement. Slightly befuddled at the notion of no hunting until Spring gobbler season, we awake at Four A.M. on Saturdays subconsciously aware we should be doing something but finding nothing on the calendar to justify our sitting in the kitchen silently drinking coffee from a camo thermos while waiting for sunlight and the rest of the house to stir. It's actually a pretty discomforting time for hunters, this dead time of no hunting...too cold to fish, too early to drink.

At our monthly card game last week, fellow Benellian Cris reminded me that 2009 is an odd year, meaning that we need to clean our shotguns. Never one to argue with Cris' expertise in all things organizational, I took the old blunderbuss apart this weekend past, and, finding the action and receiver full of debris as disparate as September dove hunts' feathers to January's mud caked twigs and leaves from when the gun was jammed into the creek to break my fall on a late season duck hunt, I ambled across the basement for the shop-vac. Confused as to whether to use the discharge or intake port on the machine for initial gun cleaning, I set it aside for a moment and hung some bibs, waders, and camo coats from the joists in the "dead animal room."

My distraction from the task complete, I spent a few hours going through all the stuff accumulated over the past months. Shotgun shells were classified, organized, and put away in the ammo cans by the workbench, duck calls untangled and put up in the big miscellany tub, robo ducks and robo doves were rehung on the wall, fishing reels got new grease, and the reloaders were cleaned in anticipation of spring skeet shoots. The benelli, now a pile of parts, plugs, springs, and stuff, remains on the cleaning table today. It will get its cleaning finished soon, but no rush; won't need it for a while, and it seemed to cycle fine for five months with no cleaning. Now, where was that turkey decoy.........?

The Last Moment

Saturday, January 24---Afternoon

Flip and I returned to the creek an hour before sunset. We slipped up George's side of the creek and down Edward's....good chance to do some remedial schooling on staying at "heel" with distractions abounding. We flared a couple dozen mallards from the current in the swamp below a beaver dam. They got up at about thirty yards or so from us, but I decided to watch rather than shoot. Flip looked up with a question in his eye, but he stayed at heel....good boy.

We recrossed the creek at the lower honey-hole dam right at the end of legal time (just as if I planned it that way). I unloaded and we sat together on the dam sharing the last of the fading sun. We were in that calm stillness of sunset, when even the winter wind lays down for twenty minutes or so, and I reflected on friends, family, and the simple blessings of country living. It's been a good duck season.....who better to share it with than Dad and the Lindsays?

Back at the truck, I set up the tripod and took a few shots looking South and West. We watched several flights of ducks getting up from various points all up and down the creek, wheeling in the sunset and heading west, toward who knows where.....

By now, Flip, safely bundled in the truck seat, looked bored with it all and ready for his supper, so I packed up the camera gear and called it a season. Time's left for rabbits and geese, then we'll begin planning bird plots for next dove season....not a bad year, all in all.

Frankenduk

Cris shot this duck Saturday morning. It's obviously a hybrid of one flavor or another. Both Black ducks and Mallards are prolific crossbreeders, and this behavior is often cited as a potential contributor to declining black duck numbers. We speculated for some time about what the parents of this duck might have been, checked a few websites, and couldn't agree. Dad's theory was a Mallard and Pintail. Mine a Black and Muscovy. We'll never be sure, I suppose.

I sent these pictures and a description to Gary Costanzo, Migratory Game Bird Program Manager at VDGIF. His best guess is Dad's correct...Pintail/Mallard. His argument is the large amount of white on the chest and neck, shape and color of the head, and lack of purple in the speculum point suspicion at a Pintail and Mallard as parents. Gary sent a great picture of an obvious Pintail/Mallard cross. If he gives me permission, I'll post that pic up here later.

One thing's for certain....it's an oddity. Anybody else want to pile on and place an entry in the 2009 "Who's Yo Daddy" duck quiz? Hit the comment button and give us your best guess. Try to keep it clean please, and give us the rationale for your choice.

Here's another conundrum to consider: if I can shoot five ducks per day, with only four allowed to be Mallards, and let's say I've already shot four Mallards.......or my limit of Pintails.....what do we count a duck like this as?.....hmmmm.....

Last Ducks This Season

Saturday, January 24

There's been just enough thaw to open a little patch up the creek...moving into place through the darkness the only sound is cold water flowing over the beaver dam thirty yards on our left. The temperature's comfortable and dull clouds overhead seem to muffle all sounds...skating on waders I work to the open water and set up the Mojo and a couple of black decoys. Cris and Christiane have joined us for this, the last morning of the duck season. Still trying to balance my way across the ice, dodging the dog who's skittering ahead, then underfoot, behind me I hear a thud and a curse. Cris has tumbled over his dove stool backwards into the mud. He flails for a minute like a junebug on its back before righting himself onto the stool. I hear giggles from behind gloved hands, first Christiane, then Dad....

Flip and I set up on the left, Dad on the right, Cris and Christiane in between...and we wait. This is the quiet, expectant time...each of us knit together as hunters have been for thousands of years, and also alone with our thoughts. This time before the light, before the ducks and guns, is calm, thoughtful, and comfortable. It's one of those parts of hunting I can't explain to the uninitiated, and wouldn't really care to try if I could. Just before legal time I hear the first circling quacks and chuckles. The first group of four or five pitches in just after legal...I take one fat greenhead and Flip makes a quick retrieve. By now we're covered in ducks. Threes, tens, big groups all pile in without regard for the splashing dog and wading handler. Cris puts one in the thicket behind me, then two more out front. Dad another, and we have four down nearly at once, all drakes. Flip does his job like the thoroughbred he is.

After working Flip on the birds I end up near Cris and squat in front on the ice as another bunch works its way in. As they flare, Cris kills one more, a funky hybrid of some sort that none of us can identify.

Then, as quickly as it began, it's over. If we were ballplayers, we'd be high fiving like crazy over the shooting we just shared....but we're not ballplayers...we're hunters, so we stand and savor the moment as we watch the light fill the swamp and warm the ice. Christiane's popped her first caps at ducks....cool! I pick up Mr. Mojo for the last time and begin to contemplate breakfast and benelli cleaning. What a great day! What great friends to share it with!

jts

The Mob after the Hunt

Was That Fun, or What?

Oh Vanna....!

Tres Hombres Benelli....Ole!

What a Great Day!

Yep, M. R. Ducks

Three Below

Saturday, Jan. 17

This from the NWS and Weatherunderground.com

Louisa - Northside, Louisa, Virginia (PWS)
-3.1 °F
Clear
Windchill:
-3 °F
Humidity:
81%
Dew Point:
-8 °F

I didn't know we lived in Alberta...

Too cold to take the camera. Dad and I set up on the only open water we found, a small piece below a beaver dam about the size of our dining room. Cold, cold, cold. Didn't see bird one, so quit early and here we are back at the house at 0733.

Last Doves

Saturday, January 10

Dad and I hit the same spot as yesterday. Nothin'. Dad shot at one high flyer that was circling and really wanted in across the creek....desperation shot. Funny how much difference one day can make. Yesterday we saw maybe a hundred birds in there...today, nada.

Perry slipped in behind us and farther down the creek. I flushed a hen mallard from the swamp straight to him. He said it was the first bird he'd shot in three years. Never thought I'd see a three year drought with one of those brothers....we all get busy with softball or other things our kids are doing. It was nice to see him there. Root's getting pretty old and gimpy...Perry says he's twelve...old Labrador.

Sparks has closed for good. There'll probably be more of that with this economy struggling. We went up to the Mineral Restaurant for breakfast after the hunt. Picked up another beagle pup, Jack, from Allen this week....more on Jack later.




Falling temps and rain were the prediction for the afternoon, but since it was the last day of late doves we thought we'd give it a try. Went over to the Bibb place and set up in a bean field. The birds were working a line between the beans and a patch of picked over corn. We sat against some power poles, but it's a big field and hard to hunt with only a few guns. About three the rain started and Dad headed home. Flip and I stuck it out for another hour before we'd had enough too.

Big flocks were flying, maybe twenty to forty in each, but they were few and far between, and they never seemed to light where you wanted them. I killed three and called it a season. We headed home to the fire and some hot chocolate.

Right Spot at the Right Time.....

Friday, January 9

Dad and I hunted the same spot as with Cris and Christiane last weekend. Loads of ducks this morning, and we ended up with two drakes and two hens, all mallards. Flip's getting much better this season at working the scent and hunting cover to recover birds. He did fine today.

Ducks with the Lindsays

Saturday, January 3





Cris is one of the original Benelli brothers, the Super Black Eagle toting gang of four: Mike, Cris, Dad, and me. Part skeet coach, part hunting buddy, Felix to my Oscar in the RV, one hundred percent confidante and friend, Cris is exactly halfway between Dad and me in age, and equally at ease with either in the duck blind. We've hunted some pea soup foggy mornings when the ducks floated in like shadowy ghosts and crisp mornings when they were silhouetted against the bright white of snow squalls, way up in the swamp and down in the blinds. We've had some great hunts; two of Goldmine's ducks hang in Cris' den, a black duck and gadwall.

There was the day five geese that came straight in to the big blind like they were on a string, setting wings two hundred yards out and dumping air to coast toward us ten feet above the water....we up, guns up, wait, wait, wait.......NOW! Bang, bang, bang, four geese on the water and Dad purely sheepish after dropping the hammer on an empty chamber. Cris coined the moniker "Click Schick" for Dad, who will never forget to load the gun again.

Other times we hunted at Uncle Newt's up at Brandy Station. There's something extra special about hunting divers on a farm pond haunted by the silent spirits of men who fought their Yankee brothers and bled into the ground over which we hunted.

Once, when Harry was a young freckle faced boy of ten or twelve, we took him hunting in the beaver swamp. One of my favorite all time images is Cris, stools, guns, shells, and gear under one arm, Harry under the other as they crossed the creek....you see, Harry had no waders. Later that morning the early hour of their rising caught up with Harry and he curled at Cris' feet and napped.

Now Cris has another best friend to join the hunts. Last year we took wife Christiane, but lacking gear and duck stamps she huddled a few yards away and watched the men. Fully outfitted (and legal) this year she joins us as one of the team. The year of aught eight's been a tough one....it's nice to be in the swamp, ready for the big morning flight I scouted this week.



In early, we broke ice for decoys and set up to wait. Just at legal time, Cris took a hen from the first flight. Flip chased her down and made a good retrieve. We had beaucoups ducks working for fifteen minutes, but none in to the decoys after that bunch. As usual, within a half hour it was all over. That's OK.....Christiane got in her first real hunt; we saw plenty of birds; the sunrise was beautiful....all in all a fine morning...next stop, Innwood for breakfast.