Archive for September, 2007

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A hill too high

Sunday, September 30th, 2007

   Yesterday, Doug and I did some squirrel hunting on what’s gotta be about the highest, steepest hill I’d been on in a long time. The last time I’d attempted to scale such a mount, I waited for Russian Boar to attack me whilst I stood there with a double barreled 12 ga. This time I had but a .22 and if those little critters had been a little more organized, they could have over-run my position, and took me with them.

   There was an article recently, in the Detroit Free Press where the reporter wrote about how much fun and easy it is to hunt these little tree rats. How it’s such a great idea to quicken the eye, and steady the aim for the deer season which starts here on November 15th. At the bottom of that article, where the comments are, are a couple people who think that killing these things is a piece of cake, I wish I’d had a few with me.

  Doug entered the tree line first and headed right up that hill, whereas I got 2/3’s of the way up the hill when I noticed some activity below me. There was no way I was going to make it to the top, so I began to work across the face of this hill/mount and watched above, and to the front of me. I had glanced down this hill to see several (three blacks and three fox squirrels) sneaking around to our right flank. I dropped down on my butt, dug in my heels to plant me there and started to take aim. I put the crosshairs on one of the Fox’s, and squeezed off one round. He stopped dead in his tracks, but he was far from dead, so after carefully taking aim again, I touched off another round. This time he figured I was after him and he took off to my right. Anything that traveled off to my right was safe, because the house was back that way, so I let him go and waited for another. Five minutes later two Blacks came bouncing along the same path and I opened up on one of those. I might have hit that one, had I aimed for the body, but another requirement I’d put on myself was only head shots. I checked the range again and I realized that maybe these guys were too far down the hill, so I moved down 50′ or so.

   Once I started moving, all hell broke loose. Up until then, the forest floor was quiet, except for the wind blowing through the leaves above, and the acorns falling from these huge oaks that cover the hill. I heard chattering and screeching and rustling leaves everywhere as these bushy tails, high stepped their butts outta there. I looked up the hill to see two or three tails as they went over the top, and off to my left two or three scampered up the oaks, and one of these stopped. This time when I put the crosshairs on his left ear and squeezed the trigger, he dropped like a rock. I thought at first that he was a bit too far off, but then realized he was 60 yards, the exact range I’d sighted in at. I let him lay there and tried to act invisible in the hopes that a couple more would come by. I spent 15 minutes waiting and watching, but when nothing else materialized, I went down and picked him up. As I bent over to retrieve it, I saw another about 30 feet away and tried to get him. Again I put the crosshairs on his ear and touched off another round. He acted as though I wasn’t even there! “What the hell?” I thought and touched off another, and then another. The wind was blowing pretty good, but it wasn’t that hard and I should have had it. Then I realized I must have been shooting over it’s head and promised myself to adjust the next time.

   All this time, I keep hearing shots ringing off to my left and way above so I knew Doug was having as much fun as I was. I sat there a while longer and could still hear those little bastards running through the tops of the trees, but with all those leaves, I didn’t stand a chance of getting one of those. I moved along and down the hill a little more and made myself comfortable along side another Oak, that must have been three hundred years old. I’ve never seen one so large, and where I sat the ground was covered with acorn pieces where several had been eating. I looked up and saw only large limbs and leaves and continued to watch the base of the hill. About 15 minutes later, I see one of those little rodents stick his head around the side of the tree, not 3″ from my eyes. I started laughing my ass off as he skittled up the other side. 5 minutes after that, I again looked up the tree and there he was, not 6′ from me. When I put the scope up on him, he was just a brown blob, but what the hell, he was gonna die. I fired and he fell right at me! Luckely, (I guess) he grabbed onto the trunk right above my head and hauled ass off onto another tree, and I fired again. Click. Damn, just my luck. He was long gone by the time I changed clips.

   One squirrel in ten rounds…what the hell. Here I’d been bragging about “One shot, one kill” and I was making a fool of myself. I slipped in the next clip, locked and loaded and moved down along the hill some more. 20 more minutes and I was once again in a target rich environment with another in my sights. This one was invincible, I swear as I sit here and write; I hit him three times and he kept moving. I gave up when he reached the no fire zone and waited for another. Once again, one showed up that was about 60 yards, and he was shot through the neck. Now I was feeling good again, and my confidence grew until the next one showed up 50 yards away. This one I just fired at once, and the same thing continued until I’d used up almost another clip and Doug came walking up carrying 5 by their tails.

   He said they were even thicker at the top of the hill and after 3, he was waiting for the Fox’s to show. I think they sit in those trees and watch the stupid black ones catch hell while they laugh and chitter at us.

   I’d just about had enough by that time, and we headed back to the house. In the end, I’d shot 19 times for two squirrels. Not a very good average, but I know where I can go to get in more practice. Next time, I’m going to the top of that hill and remember to lower my crosshairs. I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

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Fishing report

Tuesday, September 25th, 2007

   This is actually a report for the last three days. Sunday, Doug and I went over to 6 mile Lake for a little ‘gill fishin’ and we were pretty successfull. Although we didn’t keep any, we could have kept 8. Yesterday, I went over there by myself; caught a zillion and kept 10 and today Doug and I went back over there and caught 2 zillion and kept 35. I just now finished filleting them, and next time, they’re all Doug’s. My back’s killing me. If anyones got the time, then they should get their butts out there!!!

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Beep beep beep

Saturday, September 22nd, 2007

   On the 15th, as I was having a cup of coffee and writing in the cabin’s journal, I heard a beeping noise coming from my chest. I looked at my watch and it was 9:01am. The beeping went on for 15 seconds, one beep every second and then again at 3:01pm it did it again. The next day it did the same and the day after that it started beeping at 9:01pm and then again at 3:01am, along with the daytime alarms. I’ve been through this 3 other times now and it’s getting to be a no big deal sort of thing. As soon as I got back on Wednesday, I called the V.A. hospital in Ann Arbor and made an appointment to have it documented and the alarm turned off. I’ll be going down there on October 1st and return the second with my son Mark, who’s been staying with his brother and his mom. After they check it out, they’ll make an appointment for me for an operation to have the AICD replaced with a new one. I’ll be getting a model where I can hook my device up to the phone and have it downloaded from my home instead of driving 4 hours each way, twice a year. People speak of “The good old days”, but I’ll tell ya what, these are the good old days, and with a little luck, they’ll get older and better.

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Moose Hunting, 1968 C.L. Kamradt

Thursday, September 20th, 2007
MEMORIES / KNOWLEDGE / THINGS THAT NEED PASSING-ON

FORWARD

A couple weeks ago, I asked Butch to try his hand at writing and I told him I’d post anything he wanted in here. I read this yesterday and thought this was a great place to put it, and I’m very glad I asked. I hope you enjoy this as much as I have and I hope he continues writing, it’s not as hard as one might think. Anyway, here it is….
            It’s been suggested that I should put to paper stories of my life.    That this knowledge should be passed on down to my children and their children.    The more I thought about it the more I began to like the idea.  I’ve seen things and  been places that future generations of my family might like to hear about … to see what it may have been like to be me.  At the outset I am going to relate as many stories as I can think of.  I’m sure more will come to me as I go on.  But by doing it this way, rather than a day to day diary I can better relate events that determined and defined who I am, who I was, and perhaps who I intend to be.  I expect this Journal to be a journey to the reader, as it was to me, who lived it.  You’ll not read of any heroics or any pie in the sky fabrications.  It has been pointed out to me that I tend to exaggerate and inflate events that have occurred to me … the common term is “Bullshit”.  All the events herein are factual, as it happened to me.  Like all readers of fine novels, that decision is for you to determine.  Sometimes, half the fun IS in getting there.  And let me state this, here and now, that there are no out and out lies.  May be some prevarication perhaps, a bit of stretching of the memory, but no lies.         All hands, stand by to cast off all lines, forward, aft and amidships.  Lets slide this thing out into the harbour and set sail.  Now set the Sea and Anchor Detail.

MOOSE HUNTING, 1968

I’d saved all year for this trip.  My Uncle Pete and I were going to drive up into Ontario for two weeks of hunting and fishing.  At this time I was in the Navy, just having returned from my first Med cruise on board the USS COLUMBUS CG-12.  We docked at our home berth, Pier 5, N.O.B. Norfolk, Virginia.  It was good to be home.  I had leave commencing immediately and a shipmate drove me to the airport in Norfolk and a prop-jet from United Airlines was waiting for me.

Uncle Pete picked me up from Detroit Metro that morning, his station wagon and trailer all loaded to the gills.  We drove home to the folk’s place at 19498 Indian, Redford Twsp, Mi.  Once I got there I hurriedly changed out of my dress blues and put on some of Dickie’s finest … green work uniforms of the civilian world.  Felt good to be back in ‘em.  Nobody had Camo back then.  You dressed comfortably for the season and trusted to your shooting ability for “getting close”.  Guess things weren’t so “stylish” back then.  Nobody laughed at you if you didn’t have “camo” on.  Hell, weren’t no camo.  Only ones that wore camo were Army Special Forces … the justly famous “Green Berets”.  Back then it was against the law, in some countries of Africa anyway, to even wear it.  It meant you were a bad guy trying to hide from legitiment authority.   OK, back to the story.  We ate.  Mom put on quite a feed for us and had baked some of her famous bread for us to take into the Canadian bush with us.  There was also a bottle of Seagram’s finest.  I got politely ripped.  Then it was time to go. 

I had been making a list of items to take with me on this adventure.  Guess my “list making” started then.  Mom and Dad had carefully packed my gear in a brand new duffle
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bag that Grandma Griffin had bought for me.  A fine one it was too.  Forty years later I still have it.  Lesson#1.  Always buy the best available, no matter what it is, as long as it serves you.  It doesn’t have to be the most expensive but it does have to be top quality.  You get what you pay for.  Quality shows … and lasts.  Everything I would need for that trip was in there.  Packing light is really a dream.  You can’t, not and enjoy yourself.  I carried everything I would need in two cases, and one of them was a gun case.  A QUALITY gun case.  It would hold 4 firearms.  I only took three.  Two rifles and a shotgun.  My armament consisted of a HVA (Husqvarna) in 7mm Remington Magnum, a 1903 Springfield in .30-06, and a brand new Berretta Silver Snipe 12 ga. Over and Under that I’d had made especially for me by Pietro Berretta of Italy .  It had magnificient wood and engraved steel, and, most importantly, 22” barrels bored IMP / IMP.  I had it made for the hunting of upland game … pheasant, woodcock, partridge and quail.  And I was proud of it.  Way beyond my means but I had bought it when the Ship tied up in Naples , Italy , and the Berretta rep came on board to take orders for weapons.  We could order them brand new for $0.10 on the dollar.  Lesson #2.  Let the other guy pay full price.   The rifles I had built myself.  This was back in the day you could order a rifle through an outlet house, mail order.  I had purchased this rifle from Herter’s Inc, an outfitting firm long since gone out of business.  Must have been 1965 or so when I bought it.  I had restocked it in a beautiful piece of California Myrtlewood.  My heart danced when I looked at it.  It was truly a beautiful piece of wood.  The second rifle I took as a spare or backup in case tragedy befell the HVA.  That rifle, which I again own now, was a Springfield M1903 bolt gun.  In .30-06, it was the weapon we fought WWI with.  It has been described as a “military arm designed by target shooters”.  It showed fine fitting of wood to metal, metal finished smooth with no grind marks that defined later rifles of this Country.  I put a lot of love into that piece.  Hand finished and polished all the metal parts.  Dad had Herb, his welder at work, modify the bolt handle so I could mount a scope on it.  The rifle, as military surplus, had cost me $13 from Dunham’s Sporting Goods.  Uncle Pete, as manager of the Union Lake Store, had a Bishop stock on hand which he donated to the cause.  The “cause” being I was a young punk kid still in high school and didn’t have any money.  I rebuilt that rifle in 1962 and it took me most of a year to refinish it.  By my descriptions of those two rifles, you can tell that I love firearms as tools as well as works of art … the Gunmaker’s Art.  But I digress.  The fourth item in my guncase was a couple of fishing rods and reels and a small amount of tackle.

We drove North, thru Windsor , Ontario , Canada on the Queens Highway 401, if memory serves.    We arrived in Hurst, Ontario where we would pick up final supplies and then board our bush plane for the flight in.  We settled on Lake Petticoupe, fondly known as “The Puddle of Puke”.  It was a shallow lake, probably not more than 20’ deep at its deepest.  It was a lake of about 1000 acres, long and narrow, fed by a small river.  Now, this is a good point worth remembering.  The lake was surrounded on three sides by muskeg.  This ensured that if there were moose in there, they would be confined.  A good thing for us for we wouldn’t have to put up with moose just walking on by.  And being a shallow lake, the pike and walleye fishing was supurb.  The flight in took about an hour.  We flew over what looked like 5000 small lakes and the flight was noneventful, meaning,
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we didn’t crash.  With the weight we had on board our glide path would have been about 60º.  We flew in the Cessna 110 at about 2000’ to give us a few moments to get over water if something should happen.  Make no mistake, this land is desolate.  Maybe desolate isn’t the right word for it was beautiful with the Fall colors.  Let us call it remote.  It would be a long walk out should something happen.  Our pilot, Freddie, was French Canadian and spoke with a strong French accent.  He was rated very highly as a pilot/guide.  How does he gain his “ranking”?  By crashing … and then coming out.  Freddie had crashed bush planes three times.  He walked out all three times.  It’s interesting to note that this isn’t simply a matter of walking out.  You are going thru total wilderness … walking on muskeg.  Muskeg is a unique mixture of grass, land, and water.  You may be walking along, solid as ever.  The next step all they may find of you is your hat floating on top of the muskeg.  The best way to navigate muskeg is by sliding a canoe alongside you, your hands always on the canoe.  That way, when you go through you can hang onto the canoe.  Note the “when” you go through … not if.  You WILL go through and it could come at your next step.  There won’t be any warning.  A moose can navigate this without a problem.  He won’t be traveling in a straight line but meanders all over, keeping to harder “ground”.
            We flew in to our camp.  Freddie had access to approxamently 500,000 acres where only his clients could go into.  Individuals could traverse it by whatever means possible and available but no other pilot could infringe upon his concession.  It was a small camp with a plywood structure for a cabin.  Ours could sleep 4 and had a cooking area and a pot bellied stove.  There was no insulation.  Nobody inhabits these cabins in the winter except perhaps for a lone trapper.   Four beds, a table to cook on, and a pot bellied stove for heat.  Freddie had a boat there for us and Pete had brought in his own outboard.  That first day, after we got our gear unloaded and the rifles loaded, Pete had us making a fishpen.  There was some chickenwire in camp, enough for a holding pen about 5’X5’.  I remember asking Pete what the pen was for.  He stopped what he was doing and said “For dinner”.  Turns out the purpose was to keep any excess fish we had on hand in the pen, to keep them alive.  It’s purpose being if we encountered bad weather and couldn’t go out hunting or fishing, we still had food.  If Freddie was unable to fly in because of bad weather we could still eat.  We weren’t about to run out of food.  And the pen worked great. 
            First thing we did was go out front and catch some Walleye right from shore.  These we put in the pen.  We caught about a dozen and kept four out for dinner.  The rest became our grocery store.
            The way we hunted is now illegal.  We’d go fishing, and have the rifles in the boat.  If we were to see a moose we would haul our lines in and make a run on the moose.  We got to make some trial runs, having spotted a few moose at various times while out fishing.  Unfortunately, they were all cows, but they just stood there while we bored in on them.
            One day I decided to sit on a beaver house and hunt.  We had seen sign in the immediate area so I thought I’d give it a go.  I’d been sitting there about an hour when the beaver swam up to where I was sitting.  He studied me for about 3 minutes then slapped the water with that huge flat tail.  I gotta tell ya, when he slaps it, and you’re not expecting it, you pee a few drops and your heart stops.  That’s the rules.  You’d swear that a giant just took a 4×8 sheet of plywood and slapped the water with it.  IT IS UNNERVING.  And every damn moose in the area knows that something is wrong over where that beaver is.  They don’t slap it to signal love signs. 
            So, he slapped the water and dove.  I vowed right then that the next time I sat near a beaver house I wouldn’t let the beaver see me.  So, with my “cover” blown we decided to fish from the beaver dam nearby.  Just casting from the dam I hooked a pike … not huge, mind you, but perhaps 36” long.  I get him right up to the dam and am considering how I’m gonna kneel down to lift him out, and the world explodes.  Yep, the entire world just blew up.  The end was nigh.  God, in his Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes was gonna preside at this one.  And I was soaked.  Took me a minute to figure out what happened.  Ahhh, what tipped me off was Pete laughing his ass off.  There he stood, all 6’6” of him, all the 350 pounds of practical joking muscle, with the muzzle of his .308 Winchester pointed at the fish.  And to make sure I’d noticed and hadn’t been sleeping or anything, he fired two more rounds into the fish.  I didn’t know whether to shit or simply go blind.  Ahhhh, the fish wasn’t nearly so large or heavy that I couldn’t have lifted him out, so I did.  And a fine looking head it was too.  I took it back to camp and nailed it up on a tree in camp.  Figured to let the Whiskey Jacks have some fun too.

HUNTING

            OK.  We went to have a good time hunting and fishing.  We did accomplish that.  Northern Ontario, Lake Petticoopie.  Don’t quote me on the spelling.  We had about a three hour flight North of Hurst, Ontario.  We were about 200 miles north of the Railroad.  It was remote.  We chose it, read PETE chose it, because it was shallow and long, being fed by a small river, call it a big crick.  One way in, one way out … for us AND the moose.  It was surrounded by muskeg.  Moose prefer a shallow lake because they can get out into it and feed on the water lilies.
            Each day started out pretty much the same.  Get up, grab a rifle, wander back behind the cabin and take a shit.  You don’t go anywhere without a rifle.  Just don’t ever know what may walk up to you and want to slap the silly shit outta your dumbass.  Anyway, once we had taken care of that pleasurable chore, we ate breakfast.  Usually eggs, potatos and Walleye.  Then we decided what we wanted to do that day. 
            Pete said he wanted to see what was at the far end of the lake so we piled into the boat and off we went.  We are cruisin’ right along, wind whipping at us at a right brisk pace.  Ahead of us, maybe 100 or 150 yards away, a raft of Pintail get up.  That part of the sky turned black.  So, fantastic rifle shot that I am, I pulled up and took aim and shot.  A lone Pintail falls out of the sky.  Now, understand, we are STILL going down the lake wide open on the outboard, bouncing thru the waves, wind whipping thru my few wisps of hair and I just shot a Pintail with a 7mm Remington Magnum with some of Mike’s handloads, using 175 grain Hornady bullets.  And a Pintail fell from the skys.  I put the rifle back in my lap and turned around to look at Pete.  He’s sitting there, at the tiller, just shaking his head.  He was incredulous.  I looked at him, he looked at me, and I just shrugged my shoulders.  He busted a gut laughing.  And Pete went to his grave thinking I actually pulled that off.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that wasn’t the duck I was aiming at.  But, hey, the bullet had to go someplace .  And we didn’t see any moose.
            Another day, in camp, I was contemplating what to do about the Spruce Hens that were overrunning the camp.  The Whiskey Jacks and the Spruce Hens had decided that we were about the best thing to come down the Pike since peanut butter.  They had it made.  We would often throw scraps of toast and bread on the ground for the birds.  We even would leave the remnants of breakfast in the big, black iron skillet for a time.  Those Whiskey Jacks would lite on the edge of the frying pan and pick at the Walleye until it was all gone.  So, I set about rigging up a landing net as a trap, baiting it with chunks of bread and pieces of Walleye.  Attached a piece of fishing line to a stick, propped up the landing net, and snuck back into the treeline.  Pete is looking at me like I’ve lost all what remained of my brains.  Hell, I thought it was pretty fancy, in a simple sort of way.  I set my trap, Pete went into the cabin and we both watched and waited.  Spruce Hen did what Spruce Hens do and walked under the net, I pulled the fishline, and bingo, I had a Spruce Hen.  Ohh, I was proud.  I looked up and there is Pete, standing in the doorway, rifle in hand, taking aim at another hen.  Boooom!  Head of that one just evaporated.  Pete looked over at me, smiled that huge smile of his, and said “mine was easier”.  We had the grouse for dinner that night.
            Next day we went, honest to God, moose hunting.  Pete had tried calling the night before and wanted to see if anything had shown any interest.  We got into the boat and headed up the lake, to about where it starts to empty into the exit river.  I’m on the motor.  As a general rule, only the person in the bow would shoot.  Just a safety concern, that’s all.  I’m just idling along and we’re into the mouth of the river.  Out of the bush tromps this young bull moose.  As soon as I see it, he sees us.  He gives a few snorts, pounds his front legs a couple of times, and comes towards.  Now, let me say right here, he wasn’t charging us.  Oh, it would look good on paper to say so, and none would be the wiser, but it just wasn’t so.  A moose, especially a Bull Moose, is a curious animal.  He wants to know what it is he’s running from.  So, he comes a bit closer.  A moose isn’t high on the list of wildlife that have excellent eyesight.  Matter of fact, he’s right above a blind beaver in the eyesight department.  Anyway, Pete stands up in the boat and starts to shoot.  Pete was using a clip-fed .308 Winchester M100 carbine.  Me in the boat, Pete in the boat, Moose in the water.  Fifty feet away.  Pete starts shooting.  Empties the clip, puts in another one and empties that one too.  Understand, 50 FEET.  This is the same man that shot the head off a grouse the previous day with the same rifle.  Anyway, Pete hollers to me to swing the boat and shoot.  So, being the dutiful nephew I always was, I swung the boat, stern to, and started shooting.  I hit the bull in the neck, just forward of the leg joint and he stumbles.  NOW he’s mad.  He keeps coming at the boat.  I shoot again and hit him in the shoulder.  NOW he’s really mad … and in over his head, in more ways that one.  He goes under the boat and comes up alongside me.  I put the muzzle of the rifle up to the back of his head and shoot.  NOW he isn’t mad … he’s dead.  So, the lesson here, children, is to get your eyes checked every year so you don’t end up dead at the end of a muzzle.  If that moose had been able to see he’d of died an old bull, instead of a young one.  Oh, by the way, my 7mm bullets were the only ones that hit the bull.  Pete missed 8 times … at 50 feet.  But that grouse was sure good.

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20 Sep ‘07

Thursday, September 20th, 2007

   Annie and I got back about 2pm yesterday and from the looks of her, she was happy to be back. The same dog that broke land speed records less than a week ago, is now sound asleep lookin’ like the hound she is. I’ll tell ya guys, she’s a winner. I got me a butt load of housework to do and I gotta get that done before I can start writing about all this. We all had a pretty good time and B.B.’s still up there, somewhere. Last night he was going to camp alongside a lake we found the day before. He had a dream that night of him standing alongside that lake with a broken rod in his hands and a disbelieving look on his face. From there he’s heading to Munising and a Crappie lake, full of pan sized fish.

   If Travis is reading this, I still need your email address. The pictures came out pretty good of you sittin’ on that bear.

  

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Eckerman 8

Wednesday, September 12th, 2007

   My bags are all packed, the batteries are charged, and the food’s ready to go in the coolers. There have been two changes, Doug’s not coming and I’m taking Annie with me. I don’t forsee any problems with Annie coming, but Doug not coming is really a bummer. He and I have been going to these together since our first and we’re really going to miss him; fishing, hunting, and bullshitting around the campfire. It just won’t be the same. I’ll be making copious amounts of notes and if I get the chance, I’ll stop up to Paradise library and see if I can make a couple entries.

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What’s the problem?

Tuesday, September 11th, 2007

   Butch and I were just talking about the Eckerman trip and that I was packing today. He said to not forget my rifle. He went on to say that Grandpa had forgot his rifle one year and caught holy hell when he got home. I’ve heard of instance’s where wives will put something the husband needs into his gun case, to see if he actually did hunt. What difference does it make, what’s the problem? I’m about to go on my eighth Eckerman trip and NEVER have any of these guys cheated on their significant other. They’re either partying, fishing, hunting, or sleeping, sometimes all four at once, but still….

   Do these women actually think their dirty, smelly, sometimes drunk husbands are out trying to pick up women? You ladies sell yourself short sometimes if you think that’s what’s going on. Women enjoy the company of men who are: rich, clean, well behaved, articulate and mostly, romantic. Trust me ladies, we are NOT any of those. Most guys are NOT any of those, if they wanted to be that, they wouldn’t have come here! Men just want to stay up as long as they can, say what they want, when they want. Fart when and where they want, stay dirty as long as they want, and drink as much and when they want. If there were women in camp, they’d have to be polite, clean, tidy and all the other crap women want. Screw that!

   Is it because you can’t go camping with a bunch of other women and have a good time, or do YOU need to get laid to accomplish that? What’s the problem?

Posted in Eckerman 8, Thoughts from today | 2 Comments »

3 days

Monday, September 10th, 2007

   Being true to form, rain is predicted for the Eckerman area 7 days out of the next 10. As luck would have it, Saturday will be one of the days where it’s sunny. By then we should have enough fish cleaned to feed an army, and we can spend the day sitting under an Oak tree waiting for the squirrels to show up.

   Yesterday Mark and I went out to Doug’s and sighted in the .22’s. Mine for the squirrels and Mark’s magnum for the coyotes. Don’s been talking about bringing up his varmit calls and I’d love to have a pelt or two stretched out on the living room walls.

   A couple days ago, I made up the makin’s for some meatballs, Doug’s bringing along ground venison and a large bag of fish, and Don’s taking up the makings for bacon and beans. Mixed in with that will be some steaks and a variety of cold cuts. Finding something to eat has never been a problem, and it looks like it won’t be again this year. Wednesday, after I drop Mark off at his brother’s in Grand Rapids, I’ll make a chocolate cake for when we’re looking for something sweet.

   The last I heard, it’ll be Don, Doug, Jamie Crandall, Dave Crandall, Carl Johnson, Wade and myself. B.B. has a fishing tournament that weekend and may not make it this year. Don is a football coach again this year, and part of Saturday will be spent adding another win to his esteemed career, and I’m sure he’ll be back in pleanty enough time to help us celebrate another victory.

 

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08 September, ‘07

Saturday, September 8th, 2007

   I woke up at 4am this morning and the very first thing I thought about was what I’d be doing a week from now. Must be I’m getting ready for Eckerman again. Last year this malady started in June when I received my approval for a bear permit, and it got worse once I started baiting. By the time I got to this point on the calander I was a mess, and this year, it hasn’t been like that at all.

   Last night I looked over my list of what I’m taking and what I’ll need to get at the grocery store, and pared it down. My Brother Butch (sounds like a t.v. show) was going to go this year, but available finances just wouldn’t allow it. He was only two weeks away from a trip he’s waited years to go to, and got shut down. That would be like getting to within 25′ from an outhouse and have the building catch fire, or that whore house I went to once….ah, no, not that one, we got the girls out fast enough. Anyway, it sucks to be Butch. That cut the grocery list by half.

   The camping list got halved when Dave and Sharon offered us the use of their 5th wheel for Doug, Butch and I. I sincearly hope that Butch not coming hasn’t changed the offer, I’m almost as old as him, and Doug’s almost as old as me. Last years trip almost did us both in, sleeping in that tent. When I bought it, I thought I was getting a nice walled tent, good clearance, compartmentable, and nice looking windows. I didn’t see one of these set up, but it had pictures on the box. When I opened it up the first time, I saw to my amazement that there were great big window screen’s in the ceiling. Excellent venilation for those hot, muggy August nights. But, BUT, this was the last week of September, camping along M123, a little North of downtown Eckerman. We froze our ass’s off. Doug had a tarp that I thought would be large enough to envelop the entire tent, but it was 2′ short all the way around. And then on the second night, we had a bear walk by sounding his total disgust in homosapien’s, twice. It was still better than what was going on in the cabin though. I’ll tell ya what, those boys know how to party, but I ain’t up to it anymore. Come 10 o’clock, I’m ready for bed.

   This is a much more, laid back sort of experience, rather than the anticipational adrenalin pumping type of years past. Tomorrow I’ll do the laundry and pack the cloth’s, Monday I’ll put all my hunting and fishing gear together, and Tuesday I’ll go over it all again and add or subtract. Wednesday Mark goes to Grand Rapids for a week, and Thursday around 5am, I’ll be pulling out of here. That’s when the adrenalin will start to flow.

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Pistol cartridges in rifles for deer hunting. Carl Kamradt

Thursday, September 6th, 2007
PISTOL CARTRIDGES IN RIFLES FOR DEER HUNTING
I’m looking to start a “grass roots” campaign for the Michigan DNR to consider modifying the law concerning the use of Shotguns Only in the lower 1/3 of the State of Michigan, also known as Zone 3, to allow the use of straight walled pistol cartridges that are also used in rifles, and be able to hunt with those rifles.
Calibers used should be not less than .40 and not more than .50.  This would include the .38-40 WCF (which is actually a .40 caliber bullet), .44-40, .45 Long Colt, .41 Magnum, .44 Magnum, .475 Linebaugh, up thru the .500 Smith & Wesson.  Suitable rifles for these mainly old time cartridges would be the M73 Winchester, M66 Winchester, M92 Winchester, M94 Marlin etc.  They are presently all available in reproduction form and mainly used in the Cowboy Action Shooting game.  Sure would put meaning in “hunting” again.  These cartridges, for the most part, are about as powerful as a shotgun with slugs and some will only carry a bit further than a shotgun slug.  Basically, we’re talking about a good, solid 50 yard rifle with 100 yards being a pretty safe maximum.  To avoid abuse of this proposed law, I also suggest rifle scopes be forbidden on these rifles for the purposes of hunting.
Cartridges such as the .56-50 Spencer, .45-70 Government, even though straight walled, are not normally “pistol cartridges” and would not be allowed in the Zone 3.
What got me to thinking about this was the new hunting regulations being implemented this year in Indiana, which has been a “shotgun only” State for many many, years.  They are trying it out, Statewide, this year.  I’m anxious to see if it’s going to work out down there.  I received a call from the Michigan DNR today concerning another topic and at the end of the conversation I asked the agent about using the pistol caliber cartridges in rifles.  He was intrigued by the question and asked me a lot of questions about it.  Basically, “what-if’s”.  When I mentioned that Indiana was implementing it this season he became quite alert.  He did tell me that it would have to go thru several processes in order to even be considered but that he would definitely pass this proposal along to the powers that be.
Now, I realize that most of the active members of our forum live and hunt in Northern Michigan and this law would have no affect on them or their hunting.  But for those other readers of the Blog and the forum who think this idea may have merit, I suggest calling the local DNR office and inquiring about the idea.  Perhaps if enough of us do this we may be able to implement a change in the law.  Sure would be a lot of fun to hunt with the old time rifles like our Grandfathers did, in the lower third of the State.  The deer are here, the safety is here and the challenge is here.  I think if enough of us call or write, something may happen.   

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