I've always kept a book containing all my pictures of my hunting and fishing trips and referred to it as my "book of death". Thanks to someone that created a blog in 2003 and hasn't updated it since, I am stuck with a little longer title. Same idea.
My goal is to have this be a running "journal" of specifically my hunting trips this year. I've learned over the years it isn't the dead ducks and geese that make a succesful hunt. As lame as that sounds it is true, and a true sportsman that is in it for the right reason will concur. Henry David Thoreau sums it up quite nicely: ""Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after."
My goal is to have this be a running "journal" of specifically my hunting trips this year. I've learned over the years it isn't the dead ducks and geese that make a succesful hunt. As lame as that sounds it is true, and a true sportsman that is in it for the right reason will concur. Henry David Thoreau sums it up quite nicely: ""Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after."
Last season was simply put, stellar. Despite a plethora of banded birds, being able to hunt the full 107 day season without dealing with solid ice up, one of my favorite memories came on October 6th, the second hunt of the year. Hunting with my Grandpa is always a thrill. He is 77 years old and still running strong. Over the years he has got by without hunting over a dog and it took a lot of convincing to finally get Benelli out for her first hunt. At less than 1 year old and never having hunted waterfowl before I was a bit apprehensive. I'd invested a lot of time in those 10 months training and prepping her. The sunrise arrived as quick as the first flight of mallards did. We hit the mojo, they spun once, and locked up solid. I remember Benelli perking her ears up and seeing the cupped greenheads about 60 yards out. I muttered under my breath at her "If you break early you aren't coming home". I don't know who was more focused on what, I didn't dare take my eyes off Benelli and she sure as heck wasn't taking her eyes off the ducks. It was at that moment when Jack's Super Black Eagle sent out the first roar. I didn't even shoot at that group, grandpa winged one that sailed a good 200 yards into a cattail lined ditch. Not the ideal retrieve for her first live bird. I sent her on her line, and to my utter shock and amazement she ran straight there, picked up a nice greenhead, came back to my left side, sat, held the bird in her mouth and stared at me like "What?". Good dog, good dog.
