Outdoor Devotion - "There He is."

Repeated casts on the Roanoke that early, spring morning proved fruitless. Although the striper run was in full swing a front pushed through eastern North Carolina blanketing the sky in cumulus wonder and turning off the bite like a switch. We threw the entire tackle box, cloussers, spooks, deer hair jigs, even live bait to no avail. No fish, not even a bite, nothing, nada. It was going to be a long, long day.
Around noon, as the first ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover, our fishing fortune changed. A quick glance up the river revealed doubled rods and fisherman smiles in almost every boat. Simultaneous cries of “there he is” from the stern and bow of the skiff signaled the stripers’ barometric-driven hibernation was over. The bite was on.
Another Carolina Spring morning found me enveloped in thick foliage waiting for a Caswell County monarch to make an appearance. After half a dozen different calls including my favorite, Lynch’s Fool Proof, and several location changes, covering a couple hundred acres without so much as a peep, I finally had a tom declaring his intentions of paying me a visit. Ten minutes later, with a subtle nudge and a whispered “there he is,” a bronze feathered figure appeared in the wheat field. After a brief, amorous dance in front of two hen decoys the old tom met his end. “There he is.” That one sentence signifies hours, days or even weeks of preparation and hard work are about to pay off. No other phrase more aptly decries impending, sporting success.

“There he is.” also indicates spiritual success. Every person who accepts Jesus as their Savior is called to be an imitator of Christ. As we walk through our daily lives, as Christians, it is important for us to live in such a way that those around us, witnessing the way we treat others at work, the way we talk to the waitress in our favorite restaurant, the way we react to the actions of others in traffic, see Jesus. They should be able to take one look at our lives and say “There He is.”

”Be imitators of God, therefore as dearly loved children.” Ephesians 5:1

04.11.07--Alabama Turkey Chase III

Morning comes even earlier the second day in hunt camp. We weren’t quite as responsive to the alarm’s clarion call. Stumbling from room to room gathering socks and gloves and calls and other assorted paraphernalia scattered about the cabin. I stepped out of the cabin onto the porch and instantly noticed the cool dampness. Everything was dripping wet. Clouds covered the moon and stars and a whipping wind masked all other sounds. At least it was no longer raining.
After Emory finally got his boots on we walked to our spot for the morning. I put out a couple decoys in a wheat field that backed up to a swampy bottom full of oaks, poplars and hickories and we concealed ourselves in some young pines and brush along the field’s edge. Eventually the sky turned from black to gray to lighter gray. Once again our setting was ideal and yet again it proved pointless. We waited approximately an hour before packing it up and heading back for some breakfast. Maybe the weather (or at least the wind) would let up and our afternoon hunt would be better.

PM - It was pouring. The gentle, spring shower had become a deluge. Thunder reverberated across the horizon and the wind was bending ancient oaks like they were saplings. I crawled into a shooting house, overlooking the clover field to escape the conditions and pulled out my small, camouflage Bible to pass the time. The swaying of the wind and the sound of raindrops hitting my tin roofed refuge combined with the sleep deprivation always associated with hunting trip put me right to sleep. I was awoken by the thump of the New Testament I’d been reading earlier hitting the bottom of the stand. I looked out the windows, the rain had stopped, and the sun was shining. The wind however, continued its blow so I decided to remain in my current locale. A glance at my watch showed I’d been “resting my eyes” for almost thirty minutes. I pulled a slate and striker out of my vest and began a series of purrs and clucks. Twenty minutes later I did it again. Nothing. Motion in the corner of my eye caught my attention. It was a decoy turning in the wind. Maybe I should pick up, cross the dirt road to another location and try it there? As I planned my new plan of attack I began to doze again. Again, motion in the corner of my eye. This time it wasn’t a decoy. A hen walked out on the field, feeding along the edge oblivious to my presence. She fed along the tree line and turned back to toward the woods. As she turned I noticed an appendage hanging from her neck. She was a HE and as he came closer it became more and more apparent that he was a mature gobbler. My call was lying at the bottom of the shooting house and picking it up would have meant putting my Benelli down and possible noise. So I decided to wait him out. Then he noticed the decoys in the field. His attention was captured and he meandered toward them and closer to me. When he reached the thirty yard mark I let him have it…3 ½ inches of Winchester #5’s right across the beak. He never made another move. I took a deep breath, gathered my stuff up and went down to check out my prize. He was an old bird. Eleven inch beard, long, rounded off spurs and beautiful coloration. I thanked God for this blessing and went to pick up the decoys. Emory walked up a minute or so later with a big grin on his face, which became even bigger when he saw the bird on the ground. We headed back to camp, two happy campers.

04.10.07--Alabama Turkey Chase II

No matter what state you’re in morning comes awful early at hunting camp. Waking with just enough time to throw on some clothes and put on still damp boots we walked out of the cabin into the predawn darkness. Unsure which direction to head, due to our lack of scouting success, we headed toward to a location close to Emory’s ridge, as good a place to start as any.
After placing a hen and jake decoy in the field we eased back into the piney shadows and donned head nets and gloves. The setting was ideal. Soft calling from my Lynch’s Foolproof box call echoed through adjoining oaks and pines but evoked no responses. The woods were coming alive with all types of animal and avian activity but no turkeys made themselves known. Finally we heard a gobble way off, probably a half a mile, in the distance. He gobbled four times and went silent. We sat in our location for twenty more minutes and moved to another spot, calling a little and waiting a little, then moving to yet another location. The results were the same. It seemed all turkeys within the vicinity had lockjaw. We decided to pack it in and go have some breakfast.
Following some bacon and eggs we got back to it. We drove to a new location and split up, Emory choose some hardwoods next to a large pond and I headed down to a large, lush clover field. There was some good sign around the field edges with scratchings and droppings and a large dusting bowl. As soon as I got myself set up it began to sprinkle and I thought, “Great, this will get those birds out of the thick stuff and into the fields.” Things were looking up. I made a couple calls with my slate and as if on cue the clouds broke loose and a downpour began, soaking my calls and my spirits. I sat for a little while and decided I’d had enough, packed up my gear and headed back toward the truck. Emory walked up right after I did and we drove back to camp to wait out the storm. Our wait lasted through the day as the rain continued into the night. Maybe we would do better in the morning.

04.09.07--Alabama Turkey Chase I

Three turkeys, all hens, were feeding in a large wheat field. Long, gangly legs supporting black and bronze bodies shimmering in the afternoon sun. I glanced at my watch, 4:00pm (3:00pm ‘bama time) as the truck whizzed down Highway 17, my friend, Emory, at the wheel. A moment later, on the other side of the road, another turkey was feeding, this one appeared to be a jake but at 65mph who can be sure. Two minutes later, in a field way off the highway, a mature tom was blown up, in full strut, displaying his grandeur for all the world to see. My trigger finger was twitching, my mouth was salivating and that little voice in my head, the one it always pays to ignore, was telling me to unbuckle my seat belt and roll out of Emory’s Ranger. How much longer??
By 5pm we were fully camoed and set up in the wild. Emory was on a hardwood ridge adjacent to a food plot, I was in a swamp bottom paralleling another plot. Our intent was to scout a bit, maybe call a little and listen for roosting birds so that we’d know where to set up in the morning. A recent cold front had brought spring to a screeching halt and clamped shut the mouths of gobbling toms. And other than some sparring squirrels and the repeated bites of no-seeums (mental note: put Thermocell in turkey vest.) it was a beautiful but eventless evening. Emory hadn’t made out much better. Some deer and a rabbit “large enough to put a saddle on” were all he’d seen.

SoDak - 3.14.07 Pheasant City Pt.1

What's in a name? Well, when you're on an airplane headed to South Dakota and more specifically a place called "Pheasant City" you sure hope its alot. Following our two hour drive from the airport (actually it was supposed to be two hours but ended up being more like four with a first time visit to a Cabelas store, in Mitchell, and multiple stops to digitally capture some of the numerous wildlife sightings) Rusty and I pulled into the driveway of Pheasant City. Two rooster pheasants crossed the road in front of our rental and dodged into the snow filled ditch. Unbelievable. "Pheasant City" indeed!
The lodge was unlocked so we unpacked the car and did a little exploring. The lodge was spacious and properly equipped but the views and sounds coming from without continually called me outdoors. How in the world do the good folks of South Dakota get anything done without spending each day staring at their beautiful surroundings?
After a fitful night's sleep, very similar to the fitful night before every first hunt, we ate a hearty breakfast and headed out back to shoot some clays. Each target met the same demise, a orange cloud of clay dust, boosting my confidence and steadying travel weary, sleep deprived nerves.
With briar proof clothing, ear plugs, hunter orange caps, shotguns and eye protection we loaded up into Pheasant City's mode of transportation, a camoclad, lifted, four wheel drive school bus (read "school beast"). Travis, our guide for the day, Rusty, Morris, a new friend from Tennessee, and two labs drove to our first spot of the morning. Morris and I would block at the edge of a wood lot while Rusty, Travis and the pups would put on a push. My ambush location provided a wonderful, panoramic view of the prairie. It was a gorgeous day! Distant clouds contained the sun's glare but temperatures rose into the 50's filling ditches, ponds and low lying fields with melted snow. A light breeze blew out of the west causing the switch grass to dance and filling my nostrils with pungent odors of a nearby stockyard. Flock after flock of mallards bobbed and weaved their way into a large grain field, unsure of the safety but sure of their desire to be there. Next, a "v" formation of Canadas flew across the horizon, singing their raucous chorus and settling into the same mallard infested field. Then came the snows, high flying travellers, flapping and fussing their way to some genetically imprinted location. My senses were in avian overload. A blur across my peripheral vision brought me out of my trance as a pair of rabbits darted through the woods. A rooster pheasant cackled as it took flight but it either vanished or had an obscure evacuation route because I never laid eyes on it. Moments later a dog came into view, and another and through the brush I spotted two blaze orange draped hunters zigging and zagging their way toward me. Another rooster cackled, this one coming in our direction, busting out of cover, through oak branches and out into the open, splitting the waiting blockers. "Rooster" rang out as I ducked, anticipating a close shot that never came. After the pheasant cleared Morris' twelve boomed but the bird glided to safety a hundred yards away.
The remainder of the morning was more of the same. Beautiful surroundings, good company and great shots (and some not so great ones). Unfortunately all good things must come to an end. Fortunately we were going to hunt again tomorrow.