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.

Bubbas and Rednecks can be a lot more nuanced... at times.

© 2012 Joshua Stark

The Mallard of Discontent, Chad Love, posted a little piece about a friend of his, a very talented Bubba-type person, complete with music video.  It's not a joke post, it is a great comment on just how ridiculous stereotypes can be, but only obliquely (it's really just a hat-tip to a talented friend).  It bit me, though, in a good way.  It got me thinking about my family, and it got my writing juices going a little bit.  I started to write a comment to his post, but realized I'd gone way off on a tangent and would look like a crazy person, so I figured it'd go better here at my blog, where I'm already known to be crazy and off-focus.  What I wrote:

Bubbas and rednecks, indeed. Working class intellectuals.  My people, I swear.  It made me think about my life and the weird nexus in which I find myself.  At one time, I tried to write poetry and short prose about my family to my then-newborn niece, Dakota, who that morning had been dancing to the rhythms of frying bacon.  I was sitting at a Cafe' in Davis, California, after having heard an interview of Steve Earle by Teri Gross.  I was writing about my Dad's work in the oil fields after getting his EBT M.A. in philosophy of religion; my Mom living in Sunset migrant camp, her skinny little body holding their house down by the tent pole in a wind storm, and me (and sisters) still going back to the migrant camps in Lake County, following the pears, saving money for grad school. I was trying to write a poem giving the feel and rhythm of my Dad and me hunting, walking tiny steps on RR track ties so as not to be loud in the gravel, and walking back in the door at home, skunked, taking those very same, tiny, awkward steps and cackling like fools.  That was also the first time I ever saw a water ouzel.  I knew what it was immediately, just like I know, by smell, the different possible leaks that can spring out of a car.  I also wanted a story about visiting Aunt Carol and Uncle Gerald who lived in one of Merle Haggard's old houses in Bakersfield, and then visiting cousin Burr and Jeri-K: Burr, the card-carrying socialist middle school teacher who married Jeri-K when she was fourteen, and who've been happily married for thirty years; whose eldest daughter is the Dean of Education in Arvin, and youngest got her degree in biology and political science at CSU, Bakersfield, and looks to break into environmental advocacy.  That, or fashion design.

Bubbas and rednecks.  Last year, I high-centered the Prius trying to get it up on a levee where I hunt pheasants.  Earlier, I'd run across a friend in a corn field, a friend I learned had lost half a finger in a pipe threader that year (and yes, we picked on him a bit).  His name?  Bubba.  I kid you not.  Bubba, you know: the Filipino-Mexican-American guy who rode steers as a kid.  I got picked on by a cousin for making a rat-killer out of a chef's knife, an old broom handle and a couple of zip-ties.  My author-friend Hank said, "oh yeah, I forgot you are a redneck" when I said that, after my board meeting with a salmon habitat advocacy group, I was taking the kids to "Mamaw an' Papaw's" house and I could meet up with him to hunt snipe and pick nettles.  I tied flies from my dog's fur.

I also put that same dog to rest after thirteen years and still miss her so very much, a border collie/golden retriever mix who could out-hunt most purebreds.  She could point on quail and retrieve with the softest mouth, and run down cottontails.  She also taught me that both gophers and tules are edible, and if the yellowjackets get after your food, you move your bowl of food to a different place, then eat it. 

She was a working-class intellectual.

(Here's a short list of some online Bubbas and Rednecks you might like to read:
Mallard of Discontent
Querencia
Suburban Bushwacker
The Rasch Chronicles 
A Hippo on the Lawn 
Please, let me know of any I'm missing) 

On dams and rivers, California's climate, and morals to stories

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Here in Northern California we are experiencing Winter in a Fortnight.  Of course, we are two months past the waterfowl hunting seasons, and so the storm doors are opened wide; the wind is howling, the hail may be here shortly, and the rain pours and pours.  California's is often called a "Mediterranean Climate", and I don't know if that is an accurate comparison for some parts of it, having never been to Europe, but I know it is inaccurate to label all of California with one climate  (for a great map example of what I mean, click here). Here in Northern California, for example, we get about 20" of precipitation in the Northern Central Valley, about 35"-40" in the foothills, and about 50"-70" in Blue Canyon (about twice the annual rainfall of Seattle).  The most important thing to know about our precip., however, is that it all falls between November and April-May.  Effectively, then, we are a schizophrenic climate: desert for half the year, and pretty wet the other half.  Our Great Wall, the Sierra Nevada, does a wonderful job wringing out rain and snow from the Pacific Ocean, giving us an amazing, fertile valley for much of the year and very deep snow drifts during the winters and springtimes (the entrance to Lassen Volcanic National Park usually has ten feet of snow by the end of the season).

Of course, being a Civilised Nation, we've plumbed the hell out of the whole river system, and now support one of the largest urban centers on Earth with water from 400 miles away.  We've also dammed nearly every river flowing out of the Sierra Nevada, doing great damage to one of the largest Chinook salmon runs in the world.  Both of these are issues I feel strongly about, but I won't go into them here.

Like every boy, I've always been fascinated by good engineering.  The juggling act that our dam managers have to conduct, keeping the balls of water storage, flood protection, and electricity generation in the air, is amazing.  They pore over weather predictions, flow charts, market prices and myriad other factors in determining just how much water to keep:  If you let too much go, there may not be another storm; but if you hold onto too much, you just might find yourself having to flood downstream communities.  Obviously, timely information and working equipment are vital, as is having boots on the ground, as it were.

When the weather gets this crazy, I often think of a story that may have happened when I was a boy.  In the early 1980's, a great hydrological engineer by the name of Nathaniel Hastings worked on-site at a dam in the foothills.  It was a sizeable dam, and protected a few towns directly downstream.  Nathaniel was very good at his job, knew the weather like nobody else, and knew when and just how much to open those flood gates.  Of course, in California's zeal for the Next Big Thing, he (and a number of other engineers at dams up and down the Valley) was replaced by a system of mechanical equipment, cables and such, that were operated centrally from the power company's headquarters.  In Mr. Hastings' case, literally, there was a gigantic cable-operated lever (for you Brits, that's pronounced lehvr, not leevr) installed right where he used to sit at the controls.

Well wouldn't you know it, the on-and-off nature of California's climates being what it is, a huge cold front froze up the mechanical equipment, and with the roads out (why plow when nobody is going to be there?), the next rainfall blew out the gates, and flooded three towns and hundreds of thousands of farm acres.

It was then that California learned its lesson:  better Nate than lever.