Filling the Boxes

      Winter is upon us, deer season is petering out, and my mind is beginning to shift towards the fishing opportunities of the coming year.  Taking this time, when snow and cold weather keep you inside, to tie flies and prepare is a pastime well-invested in the future.
      The two patterns shown in the picture are CK Nymphs and Wooley Worms--both excellent, all-purpose  nymphs for both cold and warm water fishing.  Other patterns that I find falling off of my vise early in the tying season are Wooley Buggers, Clouser Minnows, Red Tags, Pheasant Tail Flashbacks, Mr. Rapidans, and the occasional ambitious bass popper.
      What are your favorite flies?

Write a Review!

      “Please, write a review!”  An automated email plopped into my inbox soon after Christmas day, following on the heels of an online gift card purchase at Cabelas.com.  Reflexive orders from online stores are becoming more and more common these days, as online shopping becomes more main-stream and relatives turn to gift cards to relieve holiday pressure, spurring growth in the ever-helpful, yet sometimes misleading system of customer reviews.  As indicated by the annoying emails, anyone can author such a review, many times resulting in unintended good humor. 

      Often, especially on outdoor supplies stores’ websites, I’ve found, patrons take much enjoyment out of relating stories from the field.  Proud owners of expensive gear are sure to specify that “the deer tried to eat the foliage from my ‘ScentBlocker Protec XT, Mossy Oak Break Up’ camo jacket!,” or that “the fish followed our boat around the lake to get some more of the ‘Berkley Powerbait’ Something Or Other.”  Sure they did.

      Equally entertaining is the customer who clearly displays his lack of knowledge of the product that they invested several hundred dollars in.  “The rod was broken in four pieces, in the package!,” read one of my favorites, written in ignorant vengeance by the unknowing, lucky owner of a four-piece Sage fly rod.

      A small minority—for whom I am very thankful—take the time to include lengthy stories with their enthusiastic thumbs-up or thumbs-down, meandering slowly to the point at which the featured product makes its decisive entrance into the plot.  In particular, I have in mind a certain testimony I read concerning a deer call that was new on the market a few years ago.

      Hunter’s Specialties’ “The Kruncher” claimed to relax deer with the confidence sound of crunching acorns.  A gimmick?  Maybe.  That’s exactly why I checked into the reviews on Basspro.com.

      After reading one, and sorting through the rest of the monotonous opinions left by southern deer hunters, one posted by an Idahoan elk hunter caught my eye.  The story started when the call arrived in a package via mail, and continued as the man awoke on the morning of the hunt, hiked to a high knoll on a neighboring, avoiding his neighbor’s llama farm, and taking a seat to implement “The Kruncher.”  It was unusually well-written considering the context.  The man may have fancied himself an outdoor writer had it not been for what lay at the bottom of the page.  Much to the author’s pleasure, “The Kruncher” relaxed completely the cow elk in the area, and it wasn’t long before a tall, solid specimen wandered to within range.  With a clean rifle shot, the animal went down without a struggle, and I, the reader, was relieved of the built-up tension.  As a satisfying end to the hunter’s chase, there, at the bottom of the page, in all its ironic glory, was an inserted picture of his harvest—a large, solid, and bloodied, llama.

      Now this greatly relieved some of the stress built-up from exams prior to the Christmas break, and I soon felt airy and had a new appreciation for common sense.  Unfortunately, the humorous saga was flagged as inappropriate by some concerned citizen, and my hidden treasure was promptly taken down from the site.  I did eventually purchase a “Kruncher,” but never did I have the same luck as did the comedic Idahoan.  But oh well, I’ve never heard too much good about llama meat, anyway.

A Successful Bushytail Hunt Offers a Lesson in Big Game Hunting

It’s no secret among hunters that the squirrel hunting indulgences that proceed the big game seasons help with re-acquiring woods skills; but an afternoon in a lively hardwood stand also offers a lesson in the more weighty aspect of big game hunting—the shot.

The squirrel, as is the case with any game animal, has its unconventional followers.  Muzzleloaders, bowhunters, shot-gunners, riflemen, and air-gunners have all assimilated their tackle into the world of squirrel hunting.  A question poked at their motives most often brings out a hidden pride, accompanied by two words—“the challenge.”  The governing rules of this challenge are determined by the method.  Form follows function.  Each hunting faction emerges with its own mainstream, suitable hunting tactics. 

The same holds true for big game hunters.  Adaptation in the face of limitation is the reason why many bowhunters are treestand connoisseurs, riflemen often practice still-hunting, and muzzleloading hunters will stand hunt or stalk within a very comfortable range.  The key is in knowing the limitations of your approach and applying them to your hunting strategy.

As a general rule, stealth will more readily make or break a deer rather than a squirrel hunt—a missed shot can be detrimental to future prospects of the day.  Even still, a pressured squirrel will often seek a comfortable, unreachable spot in the crotch of a tree to broadcast to the rest of the bushytail community the details of your existence.

One late-season squirrel hunt comes to mind.  Rain overnight had dampened the leaves, and I moved quietly through the open woods.  Several grays eyed me as they moved playfully about the ridge; but I approached slowly, gently teasing the boundaries of their flight distances.  When I felt I was in good position, I found a solid rest, waited for the perfect opportunity—still target, no branches in the way—and gently applied all my knowledge of shooting to the trigger.  From the first to the last of my limit, every squirrel dropped in a surrendering spring from its perch, and all from the same two acres of woods.

Experience has dictated that a good shot will put animals in the bag faster, and before they have time to tell on you.  The same tactic should be practiced with bigger game.  In either case, missed shots should be diligently avoided.

The medium between a missed shot and a made shot is perhaps worse in total than an outright miss.  The hunter assumes a responsibility for preservation upon initiation, and a wounded animal is in direct violation of that trust.  Not only is it an unpleasant occurrence for the animal, but it is also an unfortunate loss for the hunter, and entails much energy spent tracking and searching, sometimes to no avail.

Squirrels have the considerable advantage of being able to climb trees to escape humans, and have a nasty habit of doing so in the event of a non-fatal shooting; whereas bigger game animals take to tight cover, still easily accessed by the tracker.

For me, squirrels lost to trees usually result from assuming the animal dispatched and turning my attention to others in the vicinity before collecting the prize, which bring us to another point.  Never assume an animal dead.  In the squirrel woods, the biggest consequence may be a bushytail lost to a den tree or a badly scratched or bitten hand; but in the world of big game, the swift paw swipe from an angry bear, or powerful punch of a deer hoof could be deadly.

Prevent this incident by always approaching an animal with a weapon readied.

If ever it is safe to assume an animal lifeless, it is if it has tumbled from its tracks down a rocky bluff and, maybe . . . into a river.  Are you going to retrieve such a harvest?  If so, you’re in for an icy bath and possibly bacterially infested yields.  The surroundings of a target and its possible moves if wounded are elements worthy of weighing.  In most cases, if the recovery of a shot is questionable, waiting for your quarry to move could present a better situation, or, even at the loss of the harvest, prevent the possible waste of unrecoverable game.

The key to maximizing the effectiveness of the shot lies in being conservative and apprehensive.  The squirrel woods are a great place to pursue the sport of hunting, and lessons learned there are equally suitable to all hunters.

Mixed Bag

Unfortunately, the hunting seasons are coming to an end; but hopefully that means you have plenty of pictures of trophies!  Share them here via the contact form on the navigation bar at the top.  If you have stories worthy of sharing, share them too!

Detected CWD in Pennsylvania Will Affect Virginia Hunters

    On October 12 of this year, Pennsylvania was added to the rank of Chronic Wasting Disease (CWD)-infected states when a Whitetail doe, an escapee from an Adams County deer farm, was killed and tested positive for the disease.  Not only is this bad news for the Pennsylvania Game Commission, but the discovery also places new restrictions on Virginia hunters venturing to the Keystone State.

    CWD is a progressive neurological disease that affects the cervid species—deer, elk, and moose—in North America.  Infection causes deterioration of the brain, visibly reflected through emaciation, odd behavior, loss of control of bodily functions, and always results in death.  Despite its relation to livestock diseases like Mad Cow Disease, CWD has given no indication that it is transferable to humans, pets, or livestock, but is theorized to be passed laterally (between co-existing animals).

    Because of this contagious and incurable nature, Virginia, like most other states, prohibits the transportation of whole deer carcasses from locations designated as carcass-restriction zones back into the state.  Such restriction zones occur in the bordering states of Maryland (Allegany County), West Virginia (Hampshire, Hardy, and Morgan Counties), and now Pennsylvania (Adams County).   Other carcass-restriction zones exist in the states of Colorado, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Mexico, New York, North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Wisconsin, and Wyoming, and the Canadian provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan.

    The state of Virginia allows only the following carcass parts to be imported:  de-boned meat that has been cut and wrapped, quarters or meat portions unattached to the head or spinal column, hides/capes without heads, cleaned skull plates with antlers, antlers with no tissue attached, the animal’s upper canines, and finished taxidermy products.

    These prohibitions by the Department of Game and Inland Fisheries are implemented as precautions to limit any possibility of worsening its own case of afflicted deer.  When CWD was discovered in western Frederick County in 2010, the Department established a CWD containment area in Frederick County, the portion of Shenandoah County north of Route 675 and west of I-81, and in the City of Winchester.  The DGIF enforces within the containment area a mandatory sampling of deer taken on the first three Saturdays of the general firearms season, as well as several restrictions concerning the exportation of deer carcasses, parts, and wastes originating inside the containment area, and the rehabilitation of deer inside the containment area.  In the areas included in the containment area, as well as neighboring Clarke County, feeding deer is illegal year-round, and seasons and bag limits on private lands have been adjusted liberally to attempt to lower the population.

    More information regarding deer harvest treatment and preventative measures against CWD can be found on the VDGIF’s website, on the wildlife department websites of the aforementioned states and provinces, or at www.cwd-info.org.

A deer suffering from CWD will often appear
extremely emaciated

    Still, in Virginia it is relatively rare to encounter a deer (or now, elk—fingers crossed) infected by the disease; but what does an affected animal look like?  The most obvious symptom is emaciation over time, as the animal becomes noticeably lethargic and begins to consume less food.  Frequent drinking and urination can also be tell-tale signs.  Behavioral changes such as isolation, the lowering of the head, and a perpetually blank facial expression can also be hints of infected individuals.  However, many of these symptoms are characteristic of other wildlife diseases also, and are not always trademarks of CWD.

    If you do happen to harvest an animal that can behaviorally be suspected of infection, even outside of the established containment area, it could prove vital to contact a local wildlife official—doing so could be critical.

    All of these regulatory hoops may seem like a lot to trouble oneself with; but they come with a reward.  Since the beginning of sampling procedures in Virginia, nearly 7,000 animals have been tested, 10 years have passed, and only four deer have been confirmed as positive for Chronic Wasting Disease.  Only through the continuation of widespread public participation and respect can this biologically detrimental disease retain such favorable statistics.

The Qualities of Trophies

    There was a time when I defined a trophy as something unique among hunters, a likeness of each one’s personal ideal and definition of beauty. Experience has taught me otherwise. Taking an oversized buck from inside a fence with little effort hardly establishes the kill as a trophy, no matter how unique or beautiful. A trophy is relative—the product of hard work, self-pride, a memorable experience, and beauty on behalf of the animal—but this is easily forgotten. Luckily, every so often, a wise, hermitic, animated reflection of this principle ambles gracefully from his haunts to enlighten us—not that we had forgotten.

    Such is the description of a white-tailed buck that had evaded hunting efforts for years, and that now starred in the fantasies that drugged our brains. My dad and I, since my birth, had spent the lesser part of four seasons deer hunting, mostly without preference to the animal harvested provided it was made of meat. However, the deer that had been showing up on trail camera photos earlier this season contained one deer of particular interest. The landowner on whose property we hunted recognized the buck—now a pompous five-year-old—as one he regretfully passed up the year before, and generously insisted that one of us take him given the opportunity. The sun, quickly rising above the horizon as we sped towards our destination, began to cast a shadow on the potential of our poorly-planned morning hunt.

    A half hour later I was seated comfortably in a tripod blind overlooking a small clover plot, compound bow resting on my lap. My dad was perched on the opposite side of the property in a similar blind, overlooking a much larger plot, cradling a potent muzzleloader with anticipation.

    An hour and a half after sunrise, a black powder charge echoed from his stand. Instantly thoughts and hopeful scenarios, again starring the old eight-point, flooded my mind. I remained on stand, but soon abandoned it as my father summoned me from the truck.

    I accepted what I somehow already knew when he met me halfway—he had indeed shot the eight-point, but needed help in tracking. There had been no visible blood splattering at the point of impact, but a short blood trail ensued just inside the tree-line bordering the plot, and went cold soon after.

    I quickly picked up the rest of the trail as it crossed a bowed cedar and continued, muddling through a dense stand of white pines. We lost it again at a barbed-wire fence that marked the beginning of a neighbor’s property, but soon relocated it, passing under the wire and continuing straight, crossing a creek, and heading for cover in dense transitional habitat.

    In an attempt to relocate the lost trail, I set out in vectors from the last trace. On one route, I neared an island of white pines that broke up a hardwood stand between the two food plots. From the aerial photographs, it seemed that the stand would make an ideal bedding area, and I stood for a time attempting to relate the rest of the property to its location.

    I turned away. A crash broke in front of me. A brown freight train crowned with white beams plowed from a bed beneath the bulk of a pine logjam, his bounding muffled by pine needles, his destination retained.

    The next two hours were spent connecting the end of the blood trail and the bed. Shortly after, the landowner arrived to rejuvenate and to contribute to our efforts; and it proved successful as my dad picked up the trail again on the opposite side of the logjam.

    Two hours more led us a short distance. Our prize crossed yet another creek and struck out for the island of pines, the blood trail running thin. The realization that the buck was likely alive and recovering in his ordinary bedding area began to take hold.

    We were reluctant to give up hope; but the sky turned cloudy, and the sun began to set on our determined effort as we stood, gazing into the pine thicket. It seemed the happy ending we had suspected from the beginning was going to escape; but happiness, like trophies, is relative. Over the course of the day we had had two encounters with a truly magnificent deer; we had experienced his haunts firsthand, sweated through our clothes, and in the end, stood blank-faced and blank-minded, eclipsed by a wall of trees hardly commanding enough to cancel out the buck’s true grit and august character. Those are the qualities of a trophy; and, as far as I was concerned, we did not leave empty handed.

First published in The Rural Virginian

PEOPLE DON'T MAKE GUNS, GUNS MAKE PEOPLE

    As November middles out, outdoor publications greet the impending firearms seasons with reports of the latest and greatest hunting implements, putting forth descriptions spiked with jargon that almost overshadows the reason why we take to the woods carrying these prizes. While hairpin trigger pulls, tight bolt cycles, and krypton gas-charged scopes characterize many hunters’ favorite guns, chances are they learned to hunt and shoot with firearms of a much more modest make. Perched alone in a tripod stand on the Muzzleloader opener, I sat thinking about my first guns, and how they shaped me as a hunter.

    I was fortunate enough to have a father that packed me along with him in the fall woods. Our destination was often a mountainous, hardwood ridge littered with Bushytails, or occasionally a wintry cornfield where our young setter would point out the avian inhabitants with ancestral proficiency. For these pursuits, I was entrusted with a smooth-shooting double barreled shotgun whose caliber I never thought to question. It was a true shotgun in that it had to be handled safely and fired safely, always with the safety sliding back into place following the charge, and it certainly did no injustice to the term “boom-stick.” However, it was lacking in what it propelled. A cap gun of sorts, the birds and squirrels that I did lead—maybe—fell to the administering swing of my father. Regardless, I never once shot a dog or a person, and the rush of the flush wasn't lost on me.

    
    Soon I acquired what Ralphie Parker reverently called “the greatest Christmas gift.” Then, we lived closer to the mountains than we had previously, and I was self-conscious enough to tote my Red Rider BB gun with some newly-granted freedom and explore the mixed-hardwood jungle along the dirt road on which we lived. A short, muddy maintenance road we dubbed the “pump-house road” for the jaded well house that marked the trail’s head was the primary venue for hunting safaris and target shooting. I remember being ordered not to come back without dinner, to which I made the sporting decision that I would take an opossum provided I was eluded by a squirrel—not knowing, of course, of their table-fare. Even so, at most, the BB gun killed a few unfortunate pine bark cells, but never before I had exhausted my efforts until nightfall, and always without endangering anything besides blue jays and gray squirrels.

    We moved again, this time to an undeveloped neighborhood in the Piedmont. It was then that my parents entrusted me with an air rifle. Unlike the Red Rider, my new Crosman was scoped—implying true lethality—and could handle pellets or BBs—an obvious contradiction to Ralphie’s declaration. The pneumatic’s 600 fps could hardly drop a mighty Bushytail. Nonetheless, I was trusted to pursue my hunting endeavors alone, venturing across numerous unclaimed lots, often coming home after dark after losing my silhouetted quarry among the darkening trunks. The Crosman’s chamber was opened by a hard-edged lever, and I can remember a determination, after missing almost a hundred shots, that drove me to rub raw my numb, cracking hands in hopes of finally reaching out to a squirrel scurrying along the branches.

    It wasn't until my tenth year that I was granted an arm of true firepower. The upland preserve season was growing cold and bare in Virginia and my father felt it fitting that I carry my own 20-gauge pump shotgun to shoot over our aging setter. We made two trips to a Southside preserve during that season, on which I harvested my first upland birds, and witnessed again the talent of our now-seasoned four-legged hunting companion. I handled and fired safely my new prize, always instinctively returning the safety to its “safe” position following the charge. It was cold, but, due to conditioning, I never succumbed to the biting metal of the action release against my numb fingers.

    These pensive memories of my early development flow through my mind on the cold muzzleloader opener, triggered by the jaunty squirrels and mockingbirds that slip below my stand unscathed. I sit on the opposite side of an expansive property from my father, with a 12-gauge lying idle on my lap, waiting patiently to check out with a Thanksgiving turkey. The safety is on; the muzzle, pointed to the left. My face is chapped by the November wind; my hands, numb. To think of my own favorite gun, well-balanced muzzleloaders and crystalline optics come to mind, but I find it hard to discount the ones that brought me to where I sit today, both as a hunter and a person.

*First published in The Rural Virginian.

Smallmouth Bass Outlook for 2012

    If you read this publication, you live within short driving distance of some of the best smallmouth fishing in the country.  The James and Shenandoah Rivers in particular, along with the Rappahannock and New Rivers, all provide excellent angling for these feisty game fish.  Here’s what you can expect on the river this year.

The James and Rivanna

    Anglers fishing our country’s founding river this year can expect solid average to slightly above-average catch rates.  Biologists predict fair numbers of fish less than 12 inches and greater than 15 inches, but a weak middle-age class of 12-15-inch fish.

    For this anglers should be thankful; for the disease associated with the fish kills that appeared in 2007 was non-existent in the 2011 Department electrofishing sampling.  The source of these fish kills has not yet been identified; but any noticeable decline in numbers of bass in the river can be optimistically attributed to bad spawning successes in recent years.

    You’ll find the Rivanna smallmouth in a similar state.  Though there has been no formal population study done on the Rivanna, I have noticed no noticeable change in fish numbers or quality from years past in my daily outings.  Statistics aside, the key to finding and catching both numbers and quality of fish is on-the-water research—for which there is no substitute.

The Shenandoah                                                                                                                                   

    Talk to any Virginian smallmouth enthusiast and “The ‘Doah” is sure to be mentioned.  Many anglers consider the Shenandoah River to be the premier smallmouth fishery of the commonwealth; and there are numbers to back up their statements.

    2004 and 2007 both produced exceptional spawns; and studies show that it takes about five years for a bass to reach a respectable 14 inches in the south fork.  Therefore, the number of fish 11-20 inches has been increasing since 2010.  2012 will be an above-average year for trophy smallmouth on the ‘Doah.

                The smaller north fork will not host the same fishing as the south fork.  It has seen low water in the past few years; but has nevertheless held successful spawns.  Fishing will be fair, but don’t look for the same numbers or quality of fish as can be found on the south fork or the main stem of the river.

    The first wave of fish kills that plagued the river in 2005 had a minimal effect on the adult-age class that fins the river in 2012.  So don’t let bad press prevent you from enjoying the sport the Shenandoah fish can provide.

The Rappahannock

    Both the Rappahannock and its major tributary, the Rapidan, can produce excellent smallmouth fishing under good conditions.  Both rivers, however, have experienced drought conditions in recent years, hindering spawning activity, and resulting in weak age classes.  Nevertheless, 2007 was an exceptional spawning year on the Rap’; and big fish are present in the river.

Adventures Beyond

    While central Virginia hosts plenty of quality smallmouth fishing, there are more options for those with an appetite for adventure and perhaps a bit more time.  From the remote Holston River, to the most accessible river in Virginia, the New River, exceptional bronzeback fishing exists in the far corner of our beautiful state.

    While the legendary New River is considered healthy as a whole, anglers who frequent the water know that smallmouth populations have been less-than-anticipated in the past few years.  12-inch fish are readily available in the river this year; but smallmouth-specific anglers will be disappointed to learn that 14-20-inch fish will be few and far between.

    The cause, biologists say, of the mortality of slot-sized fish is unknown.  Suggested causes include increased tournament pressure, an increase in musky populations, the introduction of hydrilla (a non-native aquatic plant) on the lower river, and a possible adult-specific disease problem.  Whatever the cause, biologists are certain that the renowned New River smallmouth will return soon.

    The Clinch River will also hold many fish smaller than 14 inches this year.  About 15 percent of the bass in the river exceed the 14-inch mark.

    If fishing pressure is the reason for the affected New River population, then the remote and rough-access Holston River system should be thriving.  The Holston smallmouth enjoyed a 79 percent survival rate this year.  More than 30-percent of adult fish are longer than 14 inches.  10 percent measure longer than 17 inches.  A float trip is the best way to enjoy the fishing the Holston has to offer.

    The hard-fighting smallmouth bass inhabits most of the Old Dominion's blue ribbons.  They are the bad bikers of our state's true scenic highways.  So whether you are targeting your next citation smallie, or day-tripping, enjoy your time on the water matching wits with these fierce-fighting fish.

First published in The Rural Virginian.