Sapping, spaetzle, and an infestation

© 2017 Joshua Stark

The fun with the stand mixer continues!  I've whipped up egg whites for home-made Belgian waffles, and made a gingerbread (from James Beard's recipe) with the paddle.  I've also tried the dough hook twice -- for a soda bread, and yesterday, for spaetzle dough.  I'm still getting the hang of it, but it is coming along.

If you've never made spaetzle, the recipe is super easy: 3 cups flour, four eggs, a teaspoon salt and another of nutmeg, and about 1/2 cup of water.  After mixing the dry ingredients together, mix the eggs in the middle with half the water, and then beat in the rest of the water until it's a smooth, elastic and fairly sticky consistency.  The dough hook worked for this part really well, and let me do other things while it worked.

Now, the hard part (for spaetzle):  I don't own a spaetzle press.  I do it the old fashioned way, by cutting it on a board... something like what this absolutely amazing woman does.

Please, take a moment to watch that video, because that woman flat-out rocks!  

Anyway... I'm actually nothing like that woman.  First, I don't have a board with a handle.  Second, the board I do have is too wide to fit into my pot. I also don't have a knife that flat -- my knife is too sharp and kept getting caught on the board. What I got was a quick whipping up of the dough, followed by an hour or so of wrestling with a very sticky, gooey mess.  

I finally was able to cook up a bunch (it kept growing and growing!), served alongside garden chard and elk meatballs. The kids liked it alright.  The wife absolutely LOVED it!

That latter fact bodes ill for my future.  


Now, for the infestation:

Not the best pictures, but they clearly show what was a short-lived infestation of maybe twenty or so Meleagris gallopavo.  They were first heard jumping from our roof to our neighbor's roof -- I wasn't quite sure what they were, then hey!  There's a jenny staring at me through the window!

I called a couple of times, since a jake was keen on struttin' his stuff, and then I hooted like an owl a couple of times and three or four of 'em immediately gobbled back.  It was great.

I don't know if they were roosting in one of our gigantic trees, but we'll be looking for them tonight (update: no return of the flock).

These are city-folk, and we won't be hunting this particular flock come Spring.  However, I have been very pleased with the efforts of our first bird last year


Speaking of trees, I just this morning discovered that people tap walnut trees for sap.  I have a monster English walnut in my back yard (it could easily accommodate three taps), but I have a sneaking feeling that our temperatures rarely get cold enough for a good flow.

Has anybody out there tapped trees in California?  Have you tapped trees where you maybe get three weeks, total, of below freezing temps?

Quick update -- and a new addition to the kitchen

© 2017 Joshua Stark

Back here for a quick update:

Still raining.

No joke, the rain is not letting up here in California.  As a result, many critters are accessing habitat they'd been locked out of for a decade, including our amazing King salmon (Oncorhynchus tshawytscha).  Here's a great Capitol Public Radio report on the floodplain known as the Yolo Bypass.

I was blessed to get to hunt this stretch of water on the final weekend of duck season with a good friend.  It made for a great adventure -- canoeing in with dog and decoys, the sky full of birds (most of them juuuust out of reach), and the weather perfect California -- 50 degrees and sunny, with 40 degree water.

My friend managed three ducks, and I, one, but we had more opportunities than just these -- including a great chance at a pair of mallards (I whiffed), a pair of canvasbacks (I whiffed, and still kick myself for it), and Canada geese (they must have been wearing kevlar).  He was kind enough to give me his birds (I think he was done cleaning birds for the year).

It wasn't fast shooting, but it kept on and on, and it varied.  A flight of pintail drakes came ripping overhead.  My pal reeled in a pair of geese with a call like he had 'em on a line. A few times, we'd be watching flocks of wigeons, pintails, or flights of diver ducks three or four hundred yards out, when suddenly six or eight teal would come screaming in about two feet off the water to land right in our decoys.  

It was a great, great day, especially for this river rat who loves the marsh, and who got to be a part of it. We even saw a mink. Thanks, Ryan!

Back home and a week later, I'm still reflecting on that wonderful day.

Oh, I also picked up a new item for the kitchen:

An extraordinary deal!  It's a whole new world for me...

 I've never, ever owned a stand mixer before.  It's a dream long-deferred, because these suckers ain't cheap.  But it was a great deal, on the 575 watt model, which is what I'd been holding out for.

Tonight I'm breaking it in, probably with either a soda bread, gingerbread, or maybe an acorn cake. 

Let me know your ideas for using a stand mixer -- what should I do? What accessories? Any interesting tip and tricks, send 'em my way.  

On waiting...

© Joshua Stark 2017

I've never been very good at waiting.

Oh sure, I can sit stock-still for a good time in the company of a buck, or scan the skies from a duck blind, or even watch the end of a stick with a line coming out of it into the water.  I could do these things, and things like them, for hours on end.  But that's not really waiting.

Watching and listening are active pursuits. Yes, a person can drift off during these times, but that's all a part of it.

For many hunters, this past Monday marked the first day of Waiting.  Duck hunters (good friends of mine, and family) are especially moved at this time -- memes flew around the social media last weekend talking about the dreaded Wait.  The End of Duck Season.  Questions of, "where were you when it happened?", soft-light photos of the final sunset over the marsh (surely, a tear was wiped away during the shot), and wistful, thoughtful, sometimes poetic eulogies made their rounds.

This is good.  Hunting is filled to the brim with ethical-minded people who absolutely, wildly and passionately love a place and an activity.  Make no mistake, any one of us could get up this morning and go poach a bunch of animals, but the thought never enters our minds.  The end of season is as final and truthful as the sunrise for hunters. And it is wonderful to see (often) grown men wax philosophical and wistful -- men who otherwise think that their joking love for a particular brand of beer is as emotional as they are allowed to get.

It is the end of a season, of a cycle, and we, like millions before us, now wait for that cycle to come round again.  We know that next time, it will be different, yet completely familiar.  Especially this year, we know that the deluge we've received will have altered the hunting grounds in unknown ways.  That is a beautiful thing about hunting: it is ever the same, yet each time, absolutely unique.

And in truth, many of us will take up a rod and reel in short order and hit these swollen waters after fish.  I'm already waiting like a dog in a kennel at the edge of the corn field for the warden to swing open that door and send me shooting out after shad.

In May.

Of course, it's February 3rd.  Which brings me back to my original thought here.

Since I'm no good at waiting, I'm sure to put too many irons in the fire.  In the leatherworking realm, I've gotten completely stuck trying to finish my first, custom-made chef's knife roll for a friend/customer, and I'm therefore backed up on an order fixing another friend/customer's custom-made guitar strap.  I'm not getting any new orders from the internets so I've less of a fire lit under me, and that, coupled with the wide-open nature of a new product sometimes makes it hard to actually just start stitching pieces together.  There's a fear that comes from hovering over a $100 piece of leather with a knife or punch, wondering if you'd measured right.

I picked up an old classic, the oldest, in fact -- I started re-reading the Epic of Gilgamesh, written probably two thousand years before the "Iliad".   I'm also reading "A Sand County Almanac" with my son as part of his reading log homework every night.  I get a chuckle out of writing it down on the check-in report to the Kindergarten teacher, but it has turned into an actual event now.  We are able to talk botany, biology, and even some math as I defined and drew out an example of "diameter."

I've also collected some absolutely beautiful feathers from some of the most gorgeous birds to ever grace the skies: greenwing teal, with breast feathers that resemble shad eyes and sienna-colored mottled neck feathers; northern shovelers who, at first glance, look like 70's game-show host throwbacks with their powder-blue feathers, but up close, show incredible subtleties; and a pintail -- perhaps the most beautiful duck on Earth.  The flank feathers, alone, can set me up for years tying wet flies and salmon flies, something I haven't done in years.

The garden continues its slow decomposition, with the exception of two swiss chard that sprouted up on their own (that stuff is nigh invulnerable).  We received half our annual rainfall in five weeks here, and another week-long rain has just rolled in, with two inches expected over the first two days, which means that there simply is nothing I can do out back, but wait.  The leaky old shed continues to rust my tools, and the 50+mph gusts mean that even my tiny overhang at the back of the house does little to keep things dry.  When we finally start to dry out, there'll be many trips to the dump in my future.  At least the trees haven't blessed us with too many large branches (a redwood tree branch is the equivalent of a regular tree falling sixty feet, horizontally, from the sky).

And my archery side-business is on hold, as well -- no rains + no indoor facility = no teaching.  I am lined up for March, however, which is right around the corner, so I should probably get to organizing and fletching up my arrows, and even looking for a better way to hang my targets.  Ah, the targets!  The rain is also beating down on them...

So, much of what I do now is wait.  Waiting for the rain, waiting for confidence, waiting for the seasons to turn.  Many projects sit half-finished, and I'm not very good at waiting.

A Grouse in the Hand? Opening day in the California Uplands, 2016

©2016 Joshua Stark

 

One of California's many uplands habitats -- sub-alpine and alpine country
("upland" in California goes from below sea level for gambels quail, doves and snipe, to 7,000+feet after grouse, chukars and mountain quail)

For three years, I've actively hunted grouse in my old deer hunting grounds on public lands in California, and have been skunked -- and often humiliated -- by these wily birds.  My reputation as a nimrod isn't helped by the fact that these birds are often seen trying to figure out what the chicken's motives were, obviously lost in thought and oblivious to their surroundings.

Not my experience, mind you, but I'd been told on a number of occasions that "a big, grey chicken had just crossed the road about a half-mile back"...

My first encounter with grouse occurred while hunting with that Hog Blog fellow, Phillip Loughlin, who had invited me on an archery pig hunt in the Coast Range of Northern California.  It was a traditional introduction to an upland game bird:  about a half-hour before sunrise, quietly walking through the deep dark, contemplating having to sneak within 30 yards of a herd of animals about my size and with razor-sharp tusks, a pair of grouse exploded from a branch at hip-level about three feet from me, leaving me a trembling mess.  

Not one to hunt out of vengeance (it's funny to consider, but seriously messed-up if you think about it for more than ten seconds), I didn't consider heading out after them at that point.

My second encounter was just a sound, while out fishing the East Fork of the Carson River.  A deep, low, slow drumming sound from the top of a hill. That was all.  

I had never heard it before, but I knew immediately what it was.  It was powerful.  It was a bird.  And it awakened something inside of me, as wild encounters do when you happen to, sometimes accidentally, even, be open in your heart to hearing them.

But my third encounter with these grand birds of the uplands sent me on a familiar spiral, hunting after them with gun and dog.

Ever since I bought my 20 gauge side-by-side, I had taken to putting a slug in one barrel and a load of steel No. 6's in the other during deer season.  I had fallen hard for hunting mountain quail and every time I hit our public lands above 5,500 feet or so, I'd run across coveys... while never finding a deer with antlers sticking out of its head.

On one such occasion, I had traveled up to a spot I'd known held mountain quail, and started in.  About a quarter mile down-hill, on the edge of a clearing, I saw what I first  thought was a GIGANTIC quail... it took a few seconds for me to realize that it wasn't a quail, it wasn't a turkey, and it surely wasn't a chicken.  It was a sooty grouse.

Having never hunted grouse, I hadn't checked the regulations to know if they were in season.  I chuckled to myself at the notion that I'd missed out on a big, tasty bird, but I also felt really blessed.  After all, I'd never seen one like this, in the wild, just poking around.  It slowly walked past a dead log, and into a stand of small pines.

I arrived back at the car just in time to catch a game warden drive up.  I cracked open my gun, smiled as I walked up to him, and talked a bit.  I mentioned the grouse.

"Did you get him?"

Sheepishly, "Uhmm, no... I didn't know they were in season, and I wasn't going to take a chance."

"Yeah, you still have two more weeks on 'em.  Head back down there, they'll stick around the same spot.  They're kinda dumb."

Apparently, not as dumb as some others.  I traipsed back down the hill, a bit wary of the advice, but who am I to disobey armed law enforcement in the middle of nowhere?

Sure enough -- and just like that famous scene from The Matrix, that bird was in the same, danged spot!  I raised my gun with just a bit too much enthusiasm -- frankly, flabbergasted at the exactness of the advice (it was eerie).  The bird bolted into the stand of pines, and hit the jets in full cover.  He was gone.

I left feeling as if I were being filmed for Candid Camera by the Department of Fish & Game. 

Come to find out, grouse are masters at popping out right when they have the best chance of getting away... to such an extent that I have come to believe they have some form of instinctive telepathy.

Over and over, it was a similar story: me, walked to exhaustion, climbing madly after mountain quail, taking a breather and suddenly thinking, "hey, this kinda looks like grouse cover", and BAM! A bird launches out with force to scare the crap out of me, staying just behind cover.  I even started bringing my dog with me, an exceptionally birdy rescue field spaniel named Rocio, who would get birdy and bust birds. 

But I learned little lessons from each failure.  For three seasons, I'd get up only once or twice into spots I'd found the birds, and each time, I wouldn't be disappointed. With seeing them, that is; I still hadn't actually taken a bird.

Until last week.

Last week, it all seemed to come together: a good bird dog, a mountain quail already in the bag, and a familiar spot where I'd seen birds earlier in the year.  For once, I had confidence.

The first grouse blew out of cover, and gave me about a half-second... no shot.  I immediately yelled inside my head: there goes the only bird you'll see today!  But I shut me up... and thought... what if there were more than one bird?  I kept a brisk pace.  I reminded myself, "hunt the dog", and she was birdy, breaking right and left in front of me like a good spaniel (can you believe it?). She broke left, uphill, into brush.

From behind the tree at the back end of the brush, about fifteen yards from me, an explosion of grey feathers. Again, just a second between the trees, but I was ready.  At the end of the day, I'd taken two quail, and my first grouse.

Here is one happy bird dog, along with two Oreortyx picta (mountain quail) and one Dendragapus fuliginosus (sooty grouse).  Also, tools of the trade: one 20 gauge side-by-side shotgun, with a 20 gauge shell and a 28 gauge insert for one of the barrels.  Please note that those are not burrs on my dog, they are a really sticky seed that gets brushed out pretty easily.

Laughing like Sysyphus

My 20 gauge Huglu side-by-side (new cocking dog screw in the center, below the barrels)

For those who have been paying attention (hello, Hippo! and, maybe Dad...), I took a hiatus from blogging.  Life had gotten a little more complicated, what with a new job in a new and fairly complex realm (transportation).  I also didn't think I had much to write about.

But, over the year, I kept getting snippets of encouragement to start writing again (mostly from Hippo, but occasionally from my wife).  Also, I made a sappy resolution to do things that I love (like tying flies, working with my nut of a dog, and apparently writing), rather than things I merely enjoy (like playing annoying little video games on my phone).  So, here goes nuthin.

In addition to venting, I'm using this blog as a reference for my house projects and attempts at hobbies and items of interest.  So first, some house and land projects for the year, in general order:

1)  Increase storage in the attic, since the wife is hoping that I'll eventually move in there and end the charade that I have any space whatsoever left inside the house;
2)  Clean up the 8x16 shed out back, and add a real roof and interior walls(!).  I'm considering this practice for learning how to drywall;
3)  Clean out the washroom and put a washer and dryer in it (what a wake-up call to read that a guy in the backwoods of Angola has a washing machine and I don't);
4)  Fix up the back porch (ideally with an honest-to-goodness roof, a bread oven, sink, countertops, and permanent grill; realistically with a cloth roof, a hibachi, and a three-year old boy eager to carry burning coals).

Of course, each of these endeavors is a universe of joblets, broken tools, trips, agony, despair, makeshift jerry-rigs, and painful attempts at convincing people of progress.  Why, you ask, would a person, knowing what he knows about the utter inevitability of tears and curses, about the futility of it all -- why would he still try?

To understand why I will, yet again, take a running start before I hit the wall (to paraphrase Bill Cosby), let me take you back two months (cue harpstrings and wavy video effects)...

Two months ago, I was happily hunting alongside my amazing springer spanglish, Rocio, and my great brother in-law, who we shall call "Paul".  We'd made a typical circuit in fine California wild pheasant hunting fashion:  a six mile slog through every imaginable invasive weed on a patch of public property almost completely devoid of any game animal.

We'd seen exactly one pheasant, a rooster that popped up in a spot as likely to hold a game bird as a parking lot in front of a 7/11, so of course we weren't prepared.  As we neared our car, however, along a ditch line and near some blackberries, we jumped another bird.

"Paul" was shooting a 50lb draw recurve bow with flu-flu arrows (yes, it's a real thing), and I was -- oddly enough -- perfectly positioned just behind his left shoulder, affording him a clear shot.  Sadly, he missed, but the bird banked left.  I let loose with some #7 steel shot, and the bird faltered in mid-air.  I pulled my second trigger to finish it off, and... nothing.  No sound, no kick, no "click" of the firing pin, even.  Instead, the trigger merely squished back.  Thankfully, the bird fell out of the sky, anyway.

At home, I worried.  I had not taken apart my gun (a Huglu double barreled 20 gauge, found here), and when I looked it over, I noticed that it was missing a screw on its left side (ha ha, I had a screw loose -- okay, let's move on now).

I called Holly, a friend and amazing writer (and editor of CWA's magazine), because she and her boyfriend Hank have a guy.

I asked for his phone number, but I also asked about his prices.  Holly responded that prices would depend on the work being done, but that it had cost around $500 to get her gun fitted.

Yikes.

I called anyway, lacking any options (I'd trust a new gunsmith less than a new auto mechanic).  I knew he was British, at least, and so he had to be nice.

My first conversation with him went well.  Of course he was nice, and when I described the missing piece, he replied, "Ah, it's the (I swear to you he said this in his very British accent) cocking dog screw."

The cocking. dog. screw.

The only way that could get any more British is if Benedict Cumberbatch had uttered it while eating chips.  (My friend Andy pointed out that the Brits have a number of sayings -- "bullocks" comes to mind -- that are both extremely vulgar and completely innocuous; apparently, they name gun parts the same way.)

He did say that he'd look it over for free, and in so doing immediately sealed a deal with me.

Out of curiosity (or as Ronald Reagan quoted the Russians, "trust but verify"), I googled the gentleman, and intimidated the crap out of myself.  Among other things, this man had apprenticed and worked for J. Purdy and Sons and Rigby rifles, guns of my childhood dreams.  Now, he repairs and fits guns, engraves, and teaches shooting.  He also hand-crafts a few guns per year, which he sells, apparently, for many thousands of dollars.  I'd be bringing him a sub $600 gun over which I'd fretted spending so much money.  I felt almost embarrassed.

The following Saturday, my wife and I took a drive up to the hunting and shooting club where he worked.  Driving in, I was impressed -- a beautiful iron-worked gate, a couple of happy dogs, and a nice, clean clubhouse.  We asked about the shop, and were directed down a hill to a small, nondescript workshed.

We knocked, and were invited in.

I was surprised: This man's shop looked somewhat similar to mine, and definitely what mine could look like: only four machines -- a bench sander, a bench-top drill press, a bench grinder, and a metal lathe.  Other tools were strewn about the shop -- engraving tools, and also some typical things like screwdrivers and hammers.  Unlike my shop, of course, guns were also strewn about, in various states of disrepair, and I noted that not one looked cheaper than two grand.  One of them was a shotgun of his own making: a beautiful sidelock hammer gun in 12 gauge.

The gentleman shook our hands and warmly invited us in.  He looked over the gun and quickly confirmed it was the "cocking dog screw" (for those of you from England, an explanation: if an American quotes a person with italics, that means it is to be read in an English accent, unless otherwise noted).  I suppressed a chuckle.

He made nice small talk with us while he studied over the gun and removed the forearm and barrels.  In as nice a way as possible, (I swear, Brits can put you down in such a way as to make you feel like royalty), he recommended that I trade up my gun for an AyA (the next cheapest gun on the market, about three times the price of my Huglu).  He removed the stock-plate and looked to see what socket it might take.  He grabbed a one-piece T-handled socket wrench in 11mm.  Too small.  He grabbed a 14mm.  Too big.

He then grabbed a socket wrench with a drive (for fitting various sized sockets), and put a 12mm socket on.  Too small again.  He looked for a 13mm, but couldn't find one, so he grabbed a 1/2".  That seemed to loosen the bolt right up... and then the socket popped off the drive, stuck in the gun.

The gentleman put the gun between his legs to get more leverage, and slowly pulled.  And pulled.  No luck.  He tried to lever it out with a wide screwdriver.  No luck.  He took the gun over to his workbench, raised it stock-side down, and banged it hard against the bench-top (or as my wife, the English Professor, noted: "he knocked the shit out of your gun").  Finally, he pulled the socket.  Apparently, the nut was still stuck fast to the innards of the gun... hmm, probably a 12mm, after all...

A consummate professional, he earnestly explained each procedure to me, (while I stood there imagining scenarios in which, after sheepishly admitting defeat, this amazing gunmaker would offer me one of his guns in exchange, with the promise that I not utter a word about what had transpired).  After about 45 minutes of small talk, banging, explaining, mild cursing, and awkward pauses (my wife had left about 15 minutes in, when he'd started grinding a socket to fit), he stopped, looked at me and said, "I can fix the gun, I'm just going to need it for a bit."

Mind you, we'd never decided on a price.  He knew well both the amount I'd be able to pay (judging from the value of my gun) and the amount of time(money) he'd be putting into the thing.  He looked me square in the eye:

"I can do it for, let's say, $60.  But that's firm."  I'm sure I'd just watched him put $75 of his time into my little turk.

Deal.

I walked back up to the clubhouse, where my wife was drinking a Coke and reading Gray's Sporting Journal, under various deer heads and birds in flight.  We felt very upper-crust, indeed.

It would be five weeks before I'd see my gun again (although in his defense, we did go on an extended vacation).  When I picked up the gun, it had two matching cocking dog screws, handmade.  He said it is a fine little boxlock, and that the rest of the gun may disintegrate, but he'd guarantee the triggers.

Why does this story inspire me?  Because, watching my gun get worked (and I mean worked), it occurred to me that I was basically watching myself do just about anything.  I was lucky enough to watch a master craftsman hard at work, and I could just as easily have been watching a video of myself changing the brakes on my Subaru.

At one point, as this man took my five hundred dollars and slammed them against the bench to dislodge a seventy-five cent socket, I actually thought to myself:  I can do this.

Turkey on a spit

© 2012 Joshua Stark

That would have been a great title for an article where my cousin and I successfully bowhunted turkeys. 

Of course, "success" can be defined in any number of ways, and by my typical definition when applied to hunting, (amount of time spent doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down one's face), this hunt didn't disappoint.

Yesterday was opening day for turkeys in California.  In Northern California, the turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) is an established species introduced (reintroduced?) specifically for making hunters cry.  It is an impressive bird, both in size (it is the largest upland game bird) and in smarts.  It can hear very well, and it can see, in color, 280 degrees without turning its head.  On public lands, this forest phantom (or, "A-hole of the Woods" as I call them) offers the ultimate hunting challenge.

One good characteristic about turkeys, however, is that they love edgelands, and where you can get permission to hunt private property, you might actually stand a chance of shooting a bird.  So it came as wonderful news when my cousin, a wildly successful salesman, let me know that a client of his was allowing us to hunt his foothill property.  The only catch:  Kevin (my cousin) wanted to bowhunt.

I love bowhunting because it is just about the most pure hunting experience one can have.  While your range becomes limited, forcing you to get better, the type of game you can hunt becomes nearly limitless.  Only a double-barreled shotgun approaches the versatility of a stick, string and broadhead for hunting in the field.  And if you shoot an animal with it, you get to be the Great Nimrod for a bit.

With this I can hunt quail to elk. As for hitting them...

Actually shooting something doesn't happen without practice, though; something I've been out of for a while.  But at least I've got experience.  My cousin, on the other hand, had purchased his the week prior, and his first time loosing an arrow with the apparatus occurred the day before the hunt. 

Kevin was on fire at the range, but since he can hit a gnat's eye with a pistol at 25 yards, I expected this.  His equipment, a Bear compound with quite a few bells and whistles, was purchased used and so was already "tuned".  He'd mentioned nearly losing the ability to have children when he first attempted to draw the bow at the shop, and he asked what the poundage was set for:  71 lbs.  He then, in as manly a way as possible, I'm sure, asked for the archery tech. to crank it down a notch.  Now at 55 lbs., Kevin is much happier.

At the range, we set his three sight pins for point-blank, 20 and 30 yards.  Almost immediately, he was hitting a four inch group from his bow at 20 yards.  I call that hunting time.  I'd wanted to loose some arrows at the range, but had forgotten my glove (see below) and didn't want to set my fingers ablaze just so I could look cool in front of my cousin.  I guess I'm getting older.

On our way home from the range, we discussed the next morning's strategy.  I would meet him in front of my wife's father's house at 4:45 am, and we would be at the happy hunting grounds by one hour prior to sunrise.  Sleeping would be light, then, and in the living room so I wouldn't wake the family.

At 4:00 my alarm blared, waking me and the family.  My keen survival instincts tingled, sensing that if I didn't get ready and get out of the house now, I faced certain doom.  I dressed quickly, grabbed my cup of coffee and my gear and headed out the door.

If you talk to folks who hunt with me, eventually they'll make some insensitive comment about me forgetting pieces of equipment at home (ironically, they never forget to mention it).  Not one has ever thoughtfully inquired as to my mental state or any medication I may be taking; no, they just go through the Standard Litany upon picking me up:  "g'getcher bow/gun/pole?  g'getcher arrows/ammo./lures? g'getcher license?", followed by some smart-assed remark about having to drive a half-hour extra to pick up whatever piece of equipment got left behind.  Thankfully this time I'd only forgotten my belt.  I'd be doing the sidle-shuffle to pick up my pants occasionally, but Kevin wouldn't have to drive me back.

Kevin used to be that guy who would say, "meet at 4 am" and then call you at 10 am with an apology.  No more.  Now married and with two children, Kevin shows up 15 minutes prior to the stated meet-time, a time he, for some reason, set a half-hour earlier than necessary.  Sure enough, he was there and ready to go.

The drive wasn't too awful long this time, about 45 minutes, and as we reached the neighborhood, something stood out to me, something that boded well for our prospects.  The place was covered with houses.

Kevin explained where we could hunt, and also told me the advice the property owner had given him and his reply, which quickly deflated my hopes.  The turkeys show up between 8 and 10 on his driveway; last Wednesday, he'd had to get out of his truck and shoo them away.  Kevin had mentioned that any additional birds we may shoot would be donated to a local food bank.

I guess Kevin had forgotten about my hunting magnetism.  Basically, I am set to the same pole as the game I pursue.  He'd also apparently forgotten about Turkion, the Angel of Embarrassments.  Were it any other human, I'd have attributed his comments to hubris, but it's Kevin: it was excitement, not overconfidence, that led him to make that ill-advised claim.

We drove up to the driveway and parked on the car-wash deck.  We decided to head out a bit, find out where the birds might be, then move in, call, and catch them out in the wilder part of the property.  We set off into the guy's back yard.

This is what you would see if we were to make one of those cool hunting videos.

Immediately, we were hearing gobbling all over the hills.  Kevin called with a diaphragm call, and two birds gobbled back just down the saddle.  We walked a bit, waited, second-guessed ourselves, walked back, walked back down again.  Each time Kevin called, those birds would gobble back.

Kevin, looking quite the part.

Then, another bird called.  A jake turkey said Kevin, judging by its rasp (I'd have thought it was a rooster with a sore throat).  We split up, and I hunkered down in the brush while Kevin walked down a small dirt road.

He came back quickly, shaking his head.  Other hunters, three of 'em, and with shotguns.  They'd been making the jake call.  Dejected, we decided to follow the landowner's advice and went back to the driveway.  On our way back, a doe started snorting at us...

We sat down and talked about how our hunts never go as planned.  We chuckled, had a cup of coffee, and talked about waking up later in the day next time.

It was about 8:15 when Kevin glanced down the driveway and noticed a gigantic turkey walking up the asphalt road.  Camoflauge is definitely relative; our open talking, acting like we just lived there must have given that bird, no wait, those birds a sense of security.  There were now two toms.

Our turkey blind... what you wouldn't see in those videos.

We grabbed our stuff (Kevin knocking his metal thermos over on his truck hood) and started down the driveway right when that doe and her fawn decided to step out onto the road.  Seeing us, they took off running

The turkeys didn't take off running, though, but they did turn off the road and, going at that annoying speed they have (.1 mph faster than you), they walked quickly into the brush.

Two more birds emerged from the brush next to the road, also going away juuuust a bit faster than we could go.  

We walked back up to the truck and after a bit heard more toms uphill from us.

Kevin called and got a response much closer than we'd expected.  A tom was heading our way.  Kevin peeked around the shed and saw him, then another, then another.  Three toms, all walking the edge of an oak grove, coming straight at us.  Kevin called, and I'll be darned if that bird didn't puff right up and gobble back.  It was amazing.

I walked over to the truck and reached for my camera, then saw the bird looking at me.  Crap!  I didn't move.  Kevin called.  The bird gobbled and kept coming.  I snapped a picture, then moved out of the way.

I promise you, that teeny black dot in the field out there is a turkey coming our way!

Kevin called.  They gobbled and kept coming.  Now I could hear the booming that happens when tom turkeys gobble close.  It goes right through you, and it shook the shed such that it compounded those deep, deep tones.  It was one of those moments that is awesome in the true sense of that word: it inspires awe.

80 yards.  70 yards. 60 yards. 50 yards.

Just over the hill to our right came the report of a shotgun.  Two seconds later, another.  I could have cried.

The birds we were watching didn't run, but they shifted their direction, turned away from us and headed down the draw.  I told Kevin to go over and try for a shot.  He took two shots, one he guessed at about 30 yards and another at about 40.  His shots were high, and the birds headed off.

That seemed about right for our turkey hunting.

Did I want to march over that hill and skewer a shotgunner?  Why yes, I did.  Was that guy probably hunting property he hadn't been invited to hunt?  Most likely.

There's always next time.

How can a guy dressed like that be denied a turkey?

A break in the rain, archery & a trip to a sporting goods store

© 2012 Joshua Stark

March is surely going out like a lion, but yesterday and today we've had a slight precip. reprieve.  With the weather clearing, the kids and I were crazy outside all day long, preparing Mommy's garden bed (for her upcoming herb garden), training the boysenberry, pulling bolting bok choy, feeding the cabbage patch, cutting fence posts and birdwatching.  Today it's more of the same, but with a little less enthusiasm (I make the Hippo on the Lawn look like a Marvel superhero, so I'm a tad sore).

The big news for me is hunting, interestingly enough.  Turkey season opens tomorrow and my cousin has access to land.  Archery-only, and the rain has kept me out of practice, but the day before yesterday I took the old Versorger down and flung three arrows into a turkey-sized circle, so I'm happy.

Versorger is the name of my first-ever recurve bow.  I bought it about seven years ago, before doing any real research into recurves and longbows, partly because I was really itching to go to a stick-and-string (lose the training wheels, as they put it), and partly (about 90%) because my wife said, "Let's just buy it."  It didn't have a name back then, except "htg. 56"" scribbled on the limbs, and I had to do some real googling to discover that it is an AIM recurve.  I did know, from the salesman, that it was a 55 lb. bow, which means it takes approx. 55 lbs. of pressure to keep the bow drawn 28 inches, a typical draw length.  Since I'm built like a gibbon, this turned out to be a problem.

If you don't know much about archery or archery terms, let me introduce you to two:  "Stacking" and "pinch."  If your only exposure to archery is obsessively watching Ted Nugent, then go get help; also, you might think that the first term represents a good quality, ala "whack 'em and stack 'em", the profound, entirely original and eloquent phrase used by Msr. Nugent to summarize his hunting philosophy.   However, amongst archers "stacking" refers to the degree of difficulty in pulling the last few inches of the string to one's face.  On bows without training wheels, drawing the bow becomes progressively more difficult for each inch.  On high quality recurves and longbows, the last few inches feel as smooth as nearly every other inch, i.e. each inch of pull on the bow results in ~ two pounds of extra force.  On Versorger, the graph of my draw weight looks like a launching Polaris missile at the last two inches.  In my head, I get fooled every time:  I begin the draw, and it feels smooth, smooth, smooth, up to where the string dances in front of my nose.  Then, as I pull to anchor my hand to my face, I hear any number of tendons begin humming, popping, and relocating themselves to awkward and inappropriate places.  The bow starts dancing around in my hand, and my face takes on a Looney Toons appearance.  Instinctively, I jam my head forward, because that string just won't move. 

I could blame the bow, but part of it is my fault.  You see, even though I'm 5'11", my draw length is closer to thirty inches than twenty-eight, but the bow was built for the "typical" draw.

The other term, "pinch" is exactly what one might think it is: it is the angle of the string at your fingers at full draw.  Mine tries to fuse my fingers to the arrow, and has resulted in me shooting three fingers under (which I actually prefer anyway).

I've drawn bows that cost hundreds of dollars more, and I know why they do.  It's easy to see how spending good money up-front can save you hospital bills in the long run.



Why did the bow get the name Versorger, you ask?  Our last name is Stark, which is German for "strong" (like calling a tall guy "shorty"), and, upon my first kill with the bow (a beautiful little coast blacktail it instinctively hit right between the eyes even though I was aiming for the chest - a story for another day), I needed a word to show how it had provided for my family and gave me strength.  Google translated "versorger" as a German word meaning bringer or provider, and so Starke Versorger it was.  So what that I later learned the term means "caterer"?

So in conclusion I hunt with a recurve bow that may or may not take a finger with it one day and that has caused my right eyeball to permanently stick out about 1/4" further than my left.  But, it magically kills with head shots.

In my hunting enthusiasm earlier this week I took a trip to a "local" outdoor store to see if I might be missing any essential equipment.  I actually went to see if I could afford a Magnus turkey point.  I love Magnus broadheads, and I love the concept around these kinds of turkey heads, but they were sold out.  The other brand of this broadhead type went for forty dollars, which is laughable, so I left the archery department empty-handed, and probably for the best.

On my way out I passed - and drooled at - a ghillie suit.  I think I was a ghillie in a past life.  Alas, I can't justify that to myself, even, much less my wife.

I also walked through the clothing aisle, knowing full well that there are some nice, quality American-made hunting clothes on the market (like Pointer Brand jeans and Danner boots).  Just not in this market.  Or any brick-and-mortar establishment in California, for that matter.  No, this place had a number of the "cool" brands on hand, and for the same price as one can get American-made stuff. 

I was also hoping the store would have a corkboard up with hunting dogs for sale, but no luck there, either.  The check-out lady said that folks bring their dogs to the doors on weekends sometimes, but that didn't satisfy my insane dog craving.

Later today my cousin is coming over to sight in his bow, or rather tune his arrow-launching apparatus (his has all manner of technical gadgetry).  I'll have more on that, hopefully with pictures.

California's big country - and getting to know one little slice of it

© 2011 Joshua Stark

Most people think of California as either Sun, sand, and surf, or as a seething hole filled with people, or as a cosmopolitan bastion of communism.  But there is much more to this, the third largest State in the Nation.

California has more climate regions than any other state, and within each region lie dozens, if not hundreds, of microclimates.  California has more plant species than all other states put together.  It has the oldest natural park in the Nation (Yosemite was created in 1864).  It has the tallest peak in the lower 48, the tallest trees on Earth, the oldest living thing on Earth, the largest thing on Earth, the largest animal on Earth (which it shares with other Pacific states), even the largest elk in the country (which it shares with Oregon).  It's agriculture is simply unsurpassed.  And half of the State is owned by the federal government, which means that huge tracts are accessible for free by all us Americans. 

Within California lies the Sierra Nevada Range.  Within the Sierra Nevada run a number of big rivers, each an accumulation of huge watersheds.  One of these watersheds, the American River system, is very dear to me, and one mountain-side in this watershed, in particular, holds a very special place in my heart.  At the base of this mountain, in the river, I proposed to my wife of 8 years.  Each year, I get to know this mountain, a very large, craggy-in-places, ecologically diverse sliver of California.  It has huge elevation changes which make for amazing habitat diversity, beginning with mixed conifer (but mostly oak) at its base and toying with sub-alpine habitat at its plateau.  Its wildlife is equally diverse. 

Every time I visit this place, I find something new.  Yesterday, I walked the mountainside with bow in hand for the opening day of our archery season.  The place was crawling with hunters, "crawling" in the sense that they were slowly picking along the mountainside in four-wheel-drives and ATV's.  I found a gully without a truck parked on it, and slowly started walking up-slope.  The Sun was creeping up (I'd gotten up late, but wasn't worried - this was more of a scouting trip) over the ridgetops, and below, a couple thousand feet down, flowed the American River through its canyon.

Archery hunters are, by their nature, quieter than gun hunters, and so there was very little human sound in the land.  I poked my way up the gully, noting little sign, but fresh in the grass.  Nothing jumped out of the thicket, however, and I moved over the ridge to the South slope.  It was going to be a hot day (90 F), and I knew they'd be moving to the North side and hunkering down early.  At the ridgeline, I looked down at a beautiful reservoir.  On the North side, I found new habitat, a great spring running off the mountain (a spring!  In late August!), and more good sign, but no deer.

No deer, but my new finds this time were a new meadow filled with yampa, a couple of red currant bushes, another great spot for gooseberries (finally ripening - in late August!), and four coveys of quail with babies.  (Babies!  In late August!)

It has been a wonderful, watery, verdant year for the mountain.  I can't wait to get back up there and find something new.

Hank Shaw's new book is out!

© 2011 Joshua Stark

My copy arrived yesterday, and it looks great! 

Pick you up one.  While you are at it, see if you live near where he'll be stopping by on his tour.

La Lucha es La Gloria

© 2011 Joshua Stark

It's funny, I found myself particularly reflective this past week, and then, reading Hank's post on resetting yourself, it occurred to me:  for California hunters, the New Year takes place on the first Monday after the last Sunday of January.

California hunters' year doesn't end with December.  Many seasonal hunts are still going strong during January, when the Pacific flyway is awash in waterfowl, coveys of quail and chukars explode at the snow line or across the Valley or deserts, and rabbits and squirrels search out foodstuffs during breaks in the storms.

For us, the end of January signals the end of the year, when hunters (except those kooky pig hunters) put up their guns.  This is our time for reflection.

For me, the last day of the season perfectly summed up my last year.

My cousin and I met two friends at the Yolo check station, paid our entrance fees, and, because my cousin had drawn fifth in the reservation lottery, we were able to pick a decent blind.  We drove out, set up the blind (well, I didn't do much, since I've a hole in my waders, dear Liza), and checked the clock.

One hour and forty-five minutes to shoot time...5:15 AM for those of you who don't read your clock by "shoot time".

By the time we were able to shoot, we experienced a mild drizzle and a nice, calm period of about fifteen minutes.  When the clock struck, we were in a solid rain with a north-heading wind.

Over the course of the day, we'd experience just about every weather pattern the California Valley could throw at us, from rain to misty drizzle with high fog, a South and then a North wind, clearing and sun with calm.  We sat in that blind and watched a very good number of ducks all day long.  We cracked jokes, talked only a little politics, and waxed profound on shot shells.

I shot the absolute worst day of my life, with no hyperbole.  My shells piled up, miss after miss, while my comrades were taking duck after duck.

For some of the time, I experienced mild hypothermia, I'm sure.  Other times, I shot way too early, or tucked my head too deep into my gun.  Each time I missed, I became more and more frustrated with my shooting.

The day ended, and I had one beautiful greenwing teal hen to show for 19 shots. 

It will go down as one of the happiest days of my life.

I had a great time, a powerful time.  I saw white pelicans, ibises, avocets, swans.  I watched some good shooting.  I spent a day with a cousin I love and good hunting buddies.  After some groups around us took off for the day, it was even nice and calm.

The waning day was the best.  The Sun had cleared some of the clouds, but there were still powerful storms moving around us, especially to the East over the Sierra.  Pintails were working our decoys, and when they would pass across the sky and bank, their beautiful browns and tans and white across their perfectly sculpted bodies were simply awe inspiring. 

That is the perfect analogy for my last year in one great day.  I worked part-time for just over half the year, limping along like professional hypothermia, and then I was laid off, and didn't get a job until last week.  It was a bare-bones year, and became worse during the last half.

But family and friends pitched in a great deal.  And last September, our baby boy was born.

During the last half of the year then, I was able to spend time with my newborn and my daughter, help my wife (I hope) in nighttime feedings and diapers and just being there.

Was I always as positive-sounding when it was happening?  Far from it; but, neither was I positive when missing those shots last Sunday. 

Last Sunday, and last year (my Chinese year, by the way) were two of the toughest.  And I wouldn't trade them for anything.

A different kind of harvest

© 2010 Joshua Stark

Since I moved my 'Lands on the Margin' concept over here to Agrarianista, I feel more free to talk about my other passions, my outdoor life.  As I've said, California is blessed with a huge variety of climates and conditions, from which has arisen a vast diversity of plant life.  It has also, therefore, been blessed with a vast diversity of animal life, which, though greatly impacted by urban sprawl and industrial agriculture, it still provides in abundance.

Ever since I can remember, I've been fascinated by animal life.  As a kid, we used to always play "animal", pretending to be one or another sort of creature (almost always ending, by the way, in one of us being a badger or a wolverine, those symbols of the utter wild in the West).  I also birdwatched, and we took a spotlight out on the 'back roads' looking for nighttime creatures.  I've had a deep and intimate relationship with one Olaus Murie, but until about 6 years ago, I had no idea he was a founding father of the environmental movement - to me, he (along with my Dad) was the man who taught me how to track.  I fished, too.  And, I hunted.

I didn't know just how big an impact hunting would have on my life when I was a child.  I was just attracted to it the same way a cat has to get that little string you jiggle in front of her.  With my friends, I hunted from the day I got my first BB gun.  When I got older, I thought about the ethics of hunting and death, and I decided that not only was it okay to hunt, to me it was actually morally preferable to other ways of living (if you are interested in my ethical philosophy, take a look at my other active blog, "Ethics and the Environment").

Today, much of my professional life and my personal choices are due to my outdoor experiences.  And California has blessed me with an abundance of outdoor choices, from kayaking and birdwatching, to telemark, mountain climbing (should I so choose to try these things), hunting and fishing. 

More generally, hunting and fishing are grand traditions in a homesteading, agrarian life, and I see no reason why living inside city limits should change that.  Within 30 minutes of my door, I can hunt anything from rabbits and doves to deer.  Oftentimes, in places like California, foraging, hunting, and fishing actually can provide quite a consistent meal, more efficiently turning the local Sun, water and soil into something to sustain us.  In fact, in light of the constraints on animal husbandry that city life brings, hunting and fishing may be the only ways to directly acquire meat.

And so it is Fall here in California (regardless of the high today of 75 degrees), and that means hunting seasons.  Expect some conversations to follow about game, should some of my hunting friends get lucky enough to want to share...

If you have any questions or comments about hunting and how it might fit into urban homesteading and urban agrarianism, please let me know!

If you are a waterfowl hunter, click on this image to be given the shakes.