Go Wild in Tennessee: hunting

Showing posts with label hunting. Show all posts

Monday, October 6, 2014

Goin' on a Bear Hunt: A Preposterous First Experience

The author and one of the hunt dogs

I sat shivering, feet and calves soaked from water with the rest of my body damp from sweat, in the early morning light on the side of a ridge. Early in the walk, about one-third of the way to my destination, there had been one of three mountain streams to cross. This stream in particular was noteworthy because it was the one responsible for my currently half-frozen state while bear hunting in the middle of the ruggedly beautiful Cherokee National Forest.

Rising at 4 a.m., we had left the semi-comfort of the ‘motel, lodge and trailer camping’ long before the first glimmers of sunrise could begin to hint at the sky. Arriving at the trailhead in the pre-dawn hours, we had donned loads of gear and guns to begin our trek into the wild. I had a headlamp – a light affixed to a strap that could go around my head – but the battery in mine was dead so it laid impotent back at the hotel. One of my party had a spare hat-light and handed it to me as he grabbed a flashlight. Not far into the trek, I hear my name called and turned to see why I was beckoned. “Don’t go too fast,” Daryl (“D”) says, holding up his flashlight which shone with the weak light of a firefly in the dark, battery dead. From that point on, I steadfastly held my own small light shining behind me, giving D (who was the last in our party) any benefit of its glow. I, on the other hand, decided to test my resolve and grace by carefully watching the silhouettes of Heather’s feet and tried to mirror any steps she took ahead of me. In front of Heather was her dad and, at the lead of my group, Ed. Most of the walk was relatively uneventful with only an occasional stutter-stepped stumble on the odd root or rock. All, that is, save for the 2nd creek crossing. Here, the water was about 9-inches deep. My boots, on the other hand, were only water-proof up to around 6-inches deep. Determined to not be “that girl” who forces others to look for a better crossing (after all, they slogged through just fine), I set my chin and simply slogged through as well. Funny thing about waterproof boots… they hold water in just as well as they can hold water out.

For the next 2 miles I squished up the side of the ridge as the sky slowly took on the glow of early morning light. Here my party came to a split in the trail. It was at this point that we were going to separate. Ed, Robert (the dad), and Heather were going to bound up the right fork (with Ed splitting from them shortly thereafter) while D and I took the left fork to cross a waterfall and continue up the ridge a ways. We keyed into our hand-helds, ensuring we all had contact with each other and with various others in our 75-man hunting and dog-handling party. Satisfied, D and I continued on our way. We trekked up the hill, no longer needing the light, and decided on a "finger" of the ridge that, once climbed, would provide a decent amount of visibility on the "finger" we were on and the 2 fingers to either side of ours, reaching from the ridge top down into the valley. We ambled up the steep incline and finally selected the base of a large oak tree to settle in for the days’ hunt. Within moments, I was shivering and D, noticing the depth of my bone-chill, volunteered to light a fire.

A fire? Well, that’s not very hunting-savvy. But I admit I couldn’t resist and was deeply thankful that he ignored my protests that a fire would scare all of the game away. After a small fire was built I slowly removed my sodden boots and equally drenched socks. My left foot had taken the brunt of the soaking and we carefully draped the sock over a stick which I held above the fire while D took the boot and, hanging it upside-down by carefully tying and then balancing it with the laces, made an effort to dry it. An hour later I replaced my steaming sock and boot, after having also thawed my foot and hands near the fire. We diligently ensured the fire was out and opted to trek about 20 yards further up the mountainside. We both knew we were the epitome of how not to hunt effectively because of the fire and the not-terribly quiet conversation we had bantered during the drying process.

In the distance, we heard the baying of dogs coming from a ridge a distance away. We had planned for the hunt with different firearms for different purposes. I, carrying my scoped .30-06, was meant to be useful for game – bears today – that were seen at a distance. D, with his 12-guage shotgun equipped with slugs, was meant for quarry that was far closer. The dogs bayed again, closer. We used our ears to mark distance and possible trajectory. They bayed again, already obviously closer. Another set of baying and my eyes widened, my senses suddenly straining with alertness.

“They’re coming straight at us,” I said. D keyed up the radio, asking Robert – who was more experienced at bear hunting – if we should travel towards the baying or stay put since it was obviously coming our way. The advice was to stay put.

“I mean it,” I exclaimed excitedly, “they are coming right at us,” I said as we both turned and took a few steps closer to the ridgeline from behind which the sounds were emerging. We stood there, the baying of the dogs feeling so close that there was a palpable sense of anticipation, knowing we were just on the verge of something happening but unsure of exactly what. Our guns were off our shoulders and clasped in our hands but neither exactly at the ready. Our eyes and ears were straining, desperately striving to provide more information to our minds. The ridge of the finger across from us was about 40-yards away and clearly visible. The ground cover wasn’t too thick and even less directly in along the path in front of us; we stood on an obviously well-used game trail, giving us a clear view of the next crest. Being a finger like ours, reaching out from the top of the ridge and extending to the valley floor with us being near the top, there was a gentle slope down the adjacent ridge and then gently back up to our location. My mind was blank, thinking nothing, as my senses were alight with the anxious tension of knowing I was about to have an experience I had never had. The next events, which I will express in detail, took all of 5 seconds in reality. To help you understand the event, which like all exciting events means that time loses all meaning, I will preface each with the second that marks the event.

Second 5- A black head, heralded by ears immediately followed by face, chest, and front legs of a bear crests the top of the finger directly across from me on the game trail. My mind registers "bear!" and sees the path and trajectory of bear meeting up with where I currently stand... forty yards from me and coming towards me in a full-bore run.

Second 4- I raised my gun, scope to eye level, as the bear begins the downward decent. In my scope, I catch just the hint of the bear’s body as it races down the gentle slope (though even now I have no idea what part of the bear glanced through my scope's view) and squeeze the trigger. Nothing happens and instinctually I click the safety off. In the sudden need of my gun, I had neglected this matter. It wouldn’t have mattered though; as quickly as the bear was in my scope, it had vanished. The bear is thirty yards from me.

Second 3- “Shoot the bear, Steph!” I hear from my right and just behind me. Keeping my gun snuggly against my shoulder I lower the barrel. I already know I can’t get a shot at the bear, running straight at me at full speed going down a slope. Not with this gun... not with my scope zoomed in for long range shooting. Even in this last passing second, the bear was now at the gentle curve marking the bottom and about to start up my slope. The path of the beast hadn’t changed; it was still coming straight at me, now closing to 20 yards and not slowing. Time was so slow that I drank in every detail of the bear. Its muzzle was light but not brown and I wasn't sure if this was from tint or thinness of hair. Its ears were forward and eyes gleaming like dark marbles set just behind the lighter area of its muzzle. Not large but not small, it ran in lumbering up-and-down strides. I felt no danger from attack, the bear didn’t care about or even notice me as its instinct merely relayed one message to it: “Run”. Twenty Yards.

Second 2- “Shoot the bear!” now yelled from the same area behind and to my right. “Can’t” is all I reply. The barrel of my gun now pointed in the direction the bear will travel, placed purposefully because I already know I have to wait until it's right in front of me. Only then - when the bear is literally about to run me down - will I have the ability to shoot my long-range rifle with any sense of accuracy. The upward slope the bear runs up hasn’t slowed its progress at all. The bear is staring both at me and through me. I am nothing more than something in the way. I have no sense of fear, no sense of panic. The situation is what it is; I know that the bear will be to me in another second and, only then, will I have any hope of hitting it with my bullet. Ten Yards.

Second 1- In some other world I hear the click-clack of a shotgun shell being chambered followed by the deafening report of a shotgun fired around 18-inches from my right ear. It doesn’t even startle me. An intense high-pitch trill fills my ear before the second immediate shot is fired, which I barely hear. The bear, mere feet in front of me now on its near-collision course (I think it was actually going to run between the two of us) and 4 feet from where my own gun would have been effective veers slightly to its right, my left. It swerves, suddenly aware from the gun report that it needs to change course. Because of that change in course, my barrel is no longer facing it and I won't get a shot after all. As it veers course, I turn simultaneously with the bear as it passes to my left, six feet from me.

I can’t hear anything but the head-splitting whine in my ear. I take two ardent strides back up my ridge in the direction the bear was headed, trying to figure out which way it went but unable to hear any indicators. My eyes catch a glimpse of movement from low shrubs and brush settling back into place. “It went that way!” I likely yelled (not meaning to but unable to hear very well) and desperately scan the hillside for some indicator of the bear. It’s no use. The bear’s course had taken it directly towards a rhododendron thicket and it had disappeared. A moment later I turn to see the first of the dogs, 2 blacks ones, as they bounded up the hill and began baying up the tree we had been standing by.

The Scene Captured!

We start yelling (not angrily but in amusement) to the dogs that we hadn’t treed the bear and that, being obvious amateurs, they should continue their pursuit. After a moment, they gave us a blatant yet thoughtful look of "Ah, I see! You idiots missed it!" and realized their (or perhaps our?) error and did just that. A few moments later 4 or 5 more hounds followed, baying. At this point we were able to rationally start laughing about the odds of being nearly run-over by a bear at a full run that just so happened to be on the exact game trail we had chosen to stand on. Two more dogs, the stragglers, arrived and carried on past us, almost without noticing us.

From this point the bear had run back down the hill and into the valley, crossed over the creek near the waterfall area and then headed back the way it had started. Not too long a distance from where the chase possibly began, the bear was taken by a man named Curtis, another hunter in our party. D and I had already started down the trail at this point, eager to tell those in our immediate group of the preposterousness of the event after D had fielded questions about our luck via hand-held when others heard 2 gunshots. We regaled the story over and over throughout the remainder of the day, laughing at the absurdity of the bear being on a literal collision course with us, my resolute (and probably daft) decision to not fire until the bear was directly in front of me, and D’s 2-shot miss… divulging that the first “click-clack” I heard was him unthinkingly ejecting an already-chambered shell and reducing his possibility of shooting the bear by one-third. In reality, hitting the bear would have been a grand ending to the tale but his primary intent was for the bear to not run us over (which I ardently argued would have been the perfect end to the tale).

We all decided that it would have simply been too much if either he or I had shot and hit the bear in such close proximity. Regardless of the ending of our absolutely amazing tale, we would be hard-pressed to ever find a hunter with such a ridiculously exciting and yet laughable tale of their first-ever bear hunt.

"THE" Bear.

Author’s note: Curtis, knowing the immediate history of his bear, gave me a chunk of the tenderloin so that I could share in the spoils of the bear that almost ran me down. For that small courtesy, I will forever be grateful to him. OH - as a PS: the bear weighed 115 lbs.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Being the Conundrum: Animal lover hunter?! - by Stephanne

There are a lot of people who may tell you that an "animal loving hunter" is an oxymoron. I'm not one of those people. There is a way for the two "extremes" to live harmoniously because, quite simply, its only in the extreme cases that it becomes an oxymoron - the norm is quite a different story. Before you get your eyebrows in a furrow at me, let me explain.

There's a sentiment often expressed by a lot of very vocal people that hunters are simply blood-thirsty. I won't say that hunting - like any facet of person or activity - doesn't have its own share of extremism. But, for the most part, it's actually quite different. I don't know a hunter that hunts simply to shoot things. I've heard of one once... but of the hundreds of hunters I know... I don't personally know one that is blood-thirsty. If you can give me the tiniest moment of your time, let me tell you about why *I* hunt, ok? I'll be brief:

I woke up at 4 a.m. and drove to the woods. The moon was a slim sliver of pewter arced in the night sky, providing only the idea of illumination. Its ok, I don't need the light. I know where I'm headed. I walk down a path my feet now know well, the soft crunching of damp fallen leaves under my feet and the mist hovering like an unearthly, glowing blanket. It never fails to amaze me how the mist swirls and dances when I exhale. I wish I could see the "wake" of it after I pass through it. I get to my destination, a wooden ladder climbing up a tree with a semi-comfortable seat at the top. I climb up, rope in, and settle into place, waiting for the horizon to erupt in an array of hues. Slowly the sky melts from the blackest blue to the shimmer of blue gray and, finally, the explosion of purples and pinks and oranges and reds that proclaims daylight has found me. It's during this time, when the sky is waking and the woods are still sleeping that is a magical time - the silhouettes of the trees standing stoically in the mist never ever fails to make me think of eras gone by... people who have shed sweat or tears or blood on these lands, natives creeping through the cover of that mist to provide for their tribe, even ancient predators using the cover of the mist to find prey. This scene is brilliantly new every time I see it yet older than I can fathom. Yes, it is magic indeed.

After the sky is alive and the fogs begin to burn away, I have already been sitting here - motionless - for an hour. I'm 20-feet above the ground and still I am the statue. The air is alive with sound: A cacophony of birds enliven the air, the scuttle of squirrels digging for the last of the acorns to store. Then I hear it. The determined trudge of 4 feet. They're distant. How many can I hear? I close my eyes... focus my hearing... three. I open my eyes, searching for the source of the sound. Then, slowly, I see them making their way through the woods. Its three... what... doe? I use a call to lure them closer. It works and they alter their course to head my way. As they near, I see it's a doe and two yearlings. Technically all 3 are legal and, right now, all 3 are entering into the one thing that makes bow hunting harder than any other type (in my opinion) - entering into the range where I feel comfortable taking a shot. But I don't raise my bow. I know that soon her yearlings will leave her side and start a life on their own, but right now I get more enjoyment from watching them nibble on leaves, completely oblivious that I'm even there. Later I do the same thing with a 4-point buck. That evening, as the light is waning, I see a large doe. She doesn't have any yearlings or fawns with her and she's only 35 yards away. I raise my bow, I aim...

I don't want to shoot because I am blood-thirsty or barely a step above a Neanderthal. I want to shoot because I have been outside all day (all day on numerous occasions, really), not looking for a trophy, but looking for food for my family that is organic, lean, and that I worked for myself. Could I have driven to the store and bought some steaks? Sure. But it's far less green (to use a term we all know). That deer is very green... no fossil fuel use to transport it, no agriculture to sustain its growth, no electricity to process it... Yes... this is as green as it gets.

People promote eating organic foods - growing their own gardens, composting, organic beef, etc... where is the difference in harvesting my own meat rather than that organic beef or pork or whatever? Only... mine is even more natural. And it bothers me when self-proclaimed animal lovers condemn me for being a "Bambi killer" yet they have leather seats and leather boots and a leather coat and eat things like veal. It makes my blood boil. I'm not saying this is all animal activists by any means... but sometimes people get a little too emotional about things on both sides of the fence.

The only thing that I'd ask everyone to do is maybe calm down a little and stop being so emotionally invested in name-calling and side-taking. There's lot of fights out there to engage in... there's many things worth while to involve in.... but animal activists (of which I am a member of many groups) and hunters (of which I am one) can be one-in-the-same.

So... when you have some free time, whether you're a hunter or an animal activist (or both)... do me a favor take a walk in the woods with just you and your trail supplies and consider how powerful of allies we could be if we wouldn't chastise or taunt each other with names... because a lot of us really are on the same side.

Stephanne Dennis is an outdoor enthusiast extraordinaire. A highly skilled backpacker and apex predator specialist, she shares her love of the outdoors with her unrivaled writing skills and her faithful companion, Bandit McKaye, her Anatolian Shepherd. She is currently studying Wildlife Biology at Oregon State University and dedicates her time and skills to the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency and the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Foundation.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Giving Back to Our Defenders of Freedom - by Stephanne

There are many things that I've never done and, ironically, millions that I didn't realize I really wanted to do. This weekend was one such occassion. This past year I've become more and more involved in things that surround the workings of the TWRA (Tennessee Wildlife Resource Agency) and the TWRF (Tennessee Wildlife Resource Foundation). This has afforded me exciting opportunities to both broaden my horizons as well as provide new experiences. Most of these experiences have to do with wildlife or outdoor-related activities, but this weekend brought something really great to the plate: The Wounded Warriors Hunt.

You know, I've read this blog post over and over and I just can't seem to 'nail it'. "It" being that emotion that filled me yesterday where I wanted to stay all night long and spend time with the boys who had already given far too much in service of our country. One of those guys, Wade, would have told me "That's not true... you gave us your son who serves as well." Maybe... but they all have Moms as well so I'm not exactly super special for that. Wounded Warriors. The title is befitting but the boys themselves were still upbeat, fun, and I would give my all to protect each and every one of them from anything.

What the event means... for them and for me

When I arrived at the event on Sunday early afternoon, I wasn't sure what to expect. It was being hosted by a friend of mine and I had silently questioned why an individual would put so much time, effort, and money into something that he wasn't necessarily impacted by. Wow, how wrong could I be when I thought 'wasn't necessarily impacted by'? Everyone there was impacted by what we were doing in one way or another. The TWRA and SCI helped the local host with some resources and a lot of man power for activities, which ranged from a skeet shooting competition (I was impressed... and I'm hard to impress!) to bow targets to rifle targets. There was a live band (who were pretty darn good - Overland Express, I think?) and a catered lunch and grilled Cajun hotdog dinner. The bonfire was nothing short of epic and - thankfully - warm as the temp dropped with the waning sunlight. The participants were relatively local guys (the ones I spent the most time with were stationed at Fort Campbell, KY) and had all been wounded serving our country. I'm well known for being a staunch supporter of our defenders of freedom (which has gone into hyperdrive since my son left for the Navy) and always expressed great pride in my hockey team (Nashville Predators) for honoring a soldier at each and every game... but the standing applause I provide at games is still somewhat distant (even if tear jerking).

This weekend was far more up close and personal. I ended up hanging out with a group of young men from Fort Campbell and spending the majority of my day listening to them talk about the random things occurring in their lives. They asked me about my son (I was sporting my pink cammo "Proud Navy Mom" shirt!) and they reassured me countless times that with his profession he likely wouldn't ever end up at one of their Wounded Warrior events.

How does one respond to something like that? "Thank you"? or "I'm glad to hear that"? Or what?! What doesn't sound selfish or self-serving in light of what they've done?

I appreciated their concern for my emotions but I can't tell you it didn't really strike home that the majority of the boys were just that: boys. Of the group I befriended, all were younger than I and the majority were merely a few years older than my son and here they were: Wounded Warriors. They had been deployed across the world, traversed mountains and caves in the middle east and bore scars telling of their travels. Stephen, only 24 (4 years older than my own son) had leg injuries. Chase, 24, knee and hip and both ankles. I wanted to hug them... to tell them I was sorry for what happened. But I didn't think that was appropriate necessarily... so I opted, instead, to treat them with utmost respect and express verbally that I was so very proud of them and would forever be indebted to their service in honor of my freedom. And the boys? Can you believe they were touched by the what we were doing for them? It was nothing compared to what they have done… yet their appreciation was obvious and outspoken and knowing that we provided a comfort and fun for them was heartwarming. So… of course I had to drag ALL of my gang into the field to “dance” for the last song of the night (of note, we officially tapped right feet in tune, held a few lighters in the air, and even managed a sway or two! HAHAHA).

Why the TWRA

Another thing that was shocking to me was the involvement and service by and from the TWRA in support of this event. The things that are occurring today and tomorrow - the actual hunts - are greatly assisted by the TWRA and I don't know how many people know that they do events like this. They provide opportunities for these wounded service men and women to participate in a guided hunt in some locally well known 'honey holes' for game. To say I am proud to be an intern/volunteer with the TWRA/TWRF is a drastic understatement. The staff from the Agency showed in force - from retired law enforcement officers to the Chief of Wildlife - all to lend a helping hand and express personal gratitude for our heroes.

My pride runneth over both for our Warriors and for the Agencies with which I am affiliated. My personal thanks for being a part of this event - and hopefully those to come - has no limits.