Fishing Lassen (And Hiking Too, Of Course)

I took a break from the ongoing pursuit of deer (well, and life in general too, right?) to visit a good friend in California and a trip to Lassen Volcanic National Park.  This might seem completely unrelated to the archery story in the preceding post, and it largely is, except for one coincidental but immensely important detail.  The Lassen area comprises the eastern extent of the historic home of the Yahi people, an indigenous group that inhabited a part of the land that is now California. For the man of the Yahi who came to be called Ishi, Lassen was his back yard and hunting ground.  Ishi later became inadvertently famous as the last of the Yahi when a series of tribulations cost him his remaining family and forced him into the outside world.  

Taken away to San Fransisco where he was studied extensively by academics, Ishi became an accidental window into life-ways then at the edge of extinction. However, the swarm of diseases Ishi was now exposed to took their toll and he eventually fell into the care of a Professor of Medicine named Saxton T. Pope.  An unlikely lasting relationship struck up between the two, and a very interesting transfer of knowledge began.  When Ishi was in good health it was he who became the professor, and under him Dr. Pope began a study of archery and bowhunting that lasted long after Ishi's untimely death (and subsequent autopsy and encephalectomy at Pope's hands).  

Pope and his companion Arthur Young set out with a vengeance to demonstrate that bowhunting, rather than an archaic footnote of history, was a viable and effective method of taking any game that breathed.  Their trip to Yellowstone National Park to collect a grand display specimen for the California Academy of Sciences yielded proof that even the mighty grizzly bear couldn't stand against a skilled archer (never mind the fact that grizzlies were already extinct in California might hint at their vulnerabilities).

Pope and Young were in at the nucleus of the movement that eventually led to Howard Hill, archery seasons, recurves, Fred Bear, fiberglass lamination, the Pope and Young Club, Zwickey, cut-past-center, FastFlight, eccentric cams, peep sights, Lumenok, quad limbs, Swhackers, Toxic Broadheads...and me, sitting in a tree, missing an easy shot at a young whitetail buck early one Saturday morning in September.  Long, circuitous route as it was, I was already linked by history to Lassen before I even set foot there. 

But this trip really wasn't about archery at all.  It was about communing with a dear friend and exploring in the great outdoors.  We set up base of operations in Manzanita Lake Campground, a front country facility right near the northwest entrance to the park.  Doug brought his kayaks along, so in addition to the day hikes you'd expect of me we were able to do a bit of paddling and trout fishing on the mountain lakes therein. 

The first evening we found time for a nice sunset fishing paddle around Manzanita Lake.  Considering this was my first time in a kayak in ages, I didn't completely embarrass myself.  I did rely a bit on the kindness of strangers though, as I got a nice push-off from some bystanders, probably waiting to watch the show in case I quickly flipped over or strangled myself with monofiliment or some other sundry mishap.  After that didn't occur I guess they got bored and wandered off, leaving us with the lake to ourselves.  

Scenery didn't suck.

Although a certain friend of mine was afraid I wouldn't catch anything, I quickly pulled in the biggest trout he's seen on that lake.  Not a bad start for a non-fisher.  Manzanita is catch-and-release only lake so fishy went free after a quick photo op.  Doug didn't catch anything.

No trout were harmed in the making of this picture.

We paddled around until sunset then retired to camp for a hot meal of left-over Asian ribs and accoutrements around a roaring campfire.  Only the serene sounds of the night such as the wind whispering through the pines and the screams of children in the group campsite lulled us to sleep.

I woke up at first light the next morning, as I tend to do while camping.  I left Doug to catch up on his beauty sleep and went out into the chilly dawn air to nose around.  I would have taken more pics but my iPhone actually shut down, presumably from the 30-something degree weather. 

Lassen Peak at dawn

When I returned we cooked up a great breakfast of fresh blueberry pancakes and sausage and headed out on our day trip adventure:  A hike up Cinder Cone.  Lassen is a world of volcanoes, with several great examples of various kinds.  Cinder Cone is a pristine cinder cone volcano (big shock) that is believed to have erupted in the mid 1600's (possibly 1666).  The trail out to it follows the Nobles Immigrant Trail, used by settlers to access the Northern Sacramento Valley in the 1800's.  Not far from the parking area the trail passes a 40 foot wall of boulders that marks the northwest terminus of the Fantastic Lava Beds, a  huge expanse of a'a (pronounced ah ah) basaltic lava that erupted from the base of Cinder Cone.

Edge of the A'A

The trail is not super long, and soon Cinder Cone itself loomed 750 feet above us.   

The trail up the actual volcano was like walking on beach sand (or a trail chewed up by horses) but at a 30-35 degree incline.  Quad-buster for sure, but with great views.  Interesting observation, the volcanic soils around Cinder Cone seemed to support no vegetation but a healthy stand of pine trees.  Cool how soil chemistry can influence community composition, no?

Half way now, I think I can, I think I can.  Like a natural cardiac stress test.

Cinder Cone has a cool double rim, though to be caused by variations in the eruption sequence. Trails follow around both rims and down into the crater itself.

We took another trail down the cone so that we could circle around the south side of the volcano, past the outflow vent of the Fantastic Lava Beds and along another section the Nobels Immigrant Trail. 

Fantastic Lava Beds vent

  

Base of the cinder cone, trail alongside.

After the Cinder Cone trail we ate a quick late lunch then put our kayaks out into nearby Butte Lake, where the Fantastic Lava Beds go right down to the water's edge.  This time I could eat what I caught, so the game was afoot.

Lava beds on the shoreline.  Evidently great for fishing.

Doug headed over to the forested shoreline, expecting to find fish nearby.  Not knowing any better, I went right over next to the barren lava flow and tossed out a cast.  A few seconds later I was calling my friends name so hard he thought I had capsized.  A big ol' rainbow trout was on my hook, straining the low-test line.  It was a beauty both in its rainbow sheen and its lovely edible girth!  We strung it along behind the kayak and headed off, Doug now intently interested in the basalt shoreline. 

Doesn't look it here but that's a 14 inch trout.

I caught another smaller rainbow a little further along, insuring our dinner protein.  Thereafter my curiosity outweighed my continued interest in fishing and I leisurely paddled around, exploring the lava inlets, my trout stringing along behind me.  Too soon the sun went down below a trio of volcanoes and we packed up and headed to our culinary reward.  Doug didn't catch anything.

From left to right:  Cinder Cone (cinder cone volcano), Lassen Peak (plug dome volcano), Prospect Peak (shield volcano)

I'm going to eat you little fishy!
'Cause I like little fish!

The second morning was much a repeat of the first, I took an early morning stroll then after a big shared breakfast we headed out on a day hike.  This time our destination was Bumpass Hell, an active geothermal area.  It is named after Kendall Vanhook Bumpass, a cowboy who was leading an expedition to the area when his leg broke through the mud crust, resulting in massive scalding that eventually caused the loss of his leg.  I'm sure to Bumpass it did indeed become his idea of Hell. 

Bumpass Hell was much kinder to us.  We decided to take the back trail to the place, past a Cold Boiling Lake (more like cold bubbling puddle this time of year) and up a steep trail with great views.   We saw a mother bear and two cubs, fortunately before we stumbled over them.  They were gobbling up manzanita berries, fattening up in the last days of summer.  In fact, the whole landscape had that feel of waiting, prepared for the first of the winter storms to settle in. 

After a long climb up we finally came over a ridge and arrived at Bumpass Hell.  The steam and vivid colors were a big contrast to the green and brown later summer landscape we just traversed. 

Lots of volcanic material degraded to clay minerals by the hot, acidic waters.

No leg scalding for me man, I'm staying on this here boardwalk.

Supposedly those are pyrite crystals making this pool dark grey.

We finally headed back down and made our way back over to Manzanita for the evening.  We had great weather for two days but the growing wind, dropping temps and clouds on the horizon heralded the approach of the first winter storm.  The mild end-of-summer day was holding out for a few more hours though, and we headed to Manzanita Lake for one last evening of fishing.

Chaos Crags, Lassen Peak with it's cloud, and my friend.  Great last look.

Oh yeah, and Doug finally caught a fish!

During the night the storm front rolled in, a steady rain lashing the tent well past sunrise.  We finally pushed our way out into the gloom, crammed our sopping gear into the truck and headed back to the city.  On the way out we heard from a ranger that there was slush at the higher elevations, and I'm sure our lovely trail to Bumpass Hell was an icy mess.  I wondered about our bear family, curled up with their fur and fat.  But no matter, they were well prepared for it.  As for ourselves, we had great weather for a few days, and I think we did a good job of catching the last of summer there in Ishi's back yard at Lassen Volcanic National Park. 

Theory vs. Practice, In Which The Archer Receives Another Step in His Education.

Picture it:  North Florida, 2013.  A not-so-young-anymore man sets out down the trail to his deer stand in the almost-cool predawn hour.  The sounds of the night call out of the flatwoods as the small pool of his headlamp opens and closes in his passing, lighting the way to the edge of the swamp.  From there reflective blazes mark the way around the drying muck to his tree stand, carefully placed against a pond cypress tree, it's position along the confluence of game trails chosen after careful deliberation weeks before.

That not-so-young man is your's truly, of course, and I was beginning the morning hunt that marked both opening day of archery season 2013 and the christening hunt at our new lease, my portion of which I've dubbed Blueberry Flatwoods.  It's a ten minute walk from where I parked my truck to my stand, short by my public land standards but still far enough to enter another world.  The stand is placed on the edge of a clearing beneath the swamp canopy.  In wet times, such as earlier this year, the area is under standing water.  Now, Mid-September, it was still soggy but rapidly drying out.

I scouted this area back in the heat of summer (not that it isn't still hot here, but only just a bit too hot, not stupid unbearably hot).  The section of swamp that crosses B.F. is roughly shaped like an inverted cross.  I was in the eastern limb.  The southern branch reaches to the property boundary, while the northern limb intersects the road through the property, a favorite crossing point for deer.  The western limb contains ares of deeper water.  It is all surrounded by flatwoods planted in slash pine but with a very diverse understory, brimming in places with the namesake wild blueberries.

Several game trails (presumable only deer, as we have seen no confirmable hog sign) converge on and cross the branch of the swamp I have chosen.  It was here I captured several does and at least one buck on game camera several weeks earlier.  Just natural features, no corn or other bait involved.  I felt pretty good about the place as I settled into the tree stand with my Therma-Cell warming up to keep the six-legged "swamp angels" at bay, bow across my lap, ready to watch the world wake up in the gloaming of the new day.

Only a few minutes later I heard something approaching fairly quickly from the direction I came in from.  It sounded like a deer so I got my bow ready.  A few moments later I vaguely made out a deer approaching, its winter grey coat flashing through the leaves.  Still too deep in cover for a clear shot, this deer came right up near my stand, finally half-entering the opening only about 6-7 yards away.  I froze, but I could now make out antlers.  The dim light made it difficult to tell exact detail but it looked like an older, large-bodied (for Florida) buck with a small for it's size rack, perhaps a 6-point.  Unfortunately, even though this buck was super close I was now in his direct line-of-sight and couldn't move unseen. Just a couple of seconds later it hopped back into cover.  It never really startled, so I presume it did not know I was there, but worked its way rapidly around the south edge of the clearing, behind too much cover for a shot, and away to the west.

Of course, I thought this was amazing, only on my stand a few minutes and a very desirable-sized deer had already made a close appearance.  I thought a little about the savory stews I'd not be making from that guy but had little regret, he never presented a decent shot at any rate.

I settled back down and continued my silent observation. Only about 15 minutes later I could hear another critter approaching from the same place deer #1 had appeared.  This one wasn't as loud, and I was soon lucky enough to see why.  A much smaller-bodied but definitely adult deer (it was much lighter now of course) worked its way towards me, more slowly than the previous deer but on the same path.  I had my bow in a better position this time, ready to draw. 

The deer came out right where the other had stopped just minutes before, revealing itself as a young buck with a 4-point rack.  Except this time the deer kept on coming, out into the open.  It made its way at a walk right in front of me, still in the open, totally broadside, 8-9 yards away, head down, oblivious to my presence.  To be honest this startled the hell out of me, way beyond my wildest dreams.  I gave a silent "Do it!" to my immobile arms and I shifted my bow into shooting position and drew back.  I remember thinking, wow, it doesn't even hear the arrow draw from this close.  Right there he was, broadside, stopped.  Crazy easy shot...

Then it all just flew out the damn window.

Honestly the actual moment of the shot is a blur.  I believe I came to full draw, but I know I didn't pick a spot.  I was just washed over with a blinding moment of panic and what should have been an easy shot, one that I've practiced many times, went flying free and clear over the deer's back.

A wave of shame and anger at myself crashed in my brain.  How could I be that damn stupid?  Such a rank amateur! But then I realized the buck hadn't spooked.  He jumped away from the arrow when it half-buried itself ineffectively in the muck but now he was looking back at it inquisitively.  He still had no idea I was there.  I collected my shaking hands to slowly pull my backup arrow (Clippy, my favorite target arrow because the fletching is already somewhat damaged) and get it nocked.

No, this story doesn't have a perfect ending.  By the time I got Clippy ready to fly the buck had wandered back into cover.  I could see him looking around, sometimes at me but not always.  He was onto something, and finally accumulated enough input do decide he should be elsewhere.  He blew a few times and half-ran off, still not panicked but ready to be somewhere away from where sticks with feathers fall on him and strange shapes lurk in the trees.

I was left there alone with my thoughts, mentally flogging myself with wild enthusiasm.  The rest of the morning was uneventful.  As rationality finally returned (its hard for me to stay in a mental hole in the woods) a group of squirrels milled up behind me and finally decided to start scolding the blob in their path.  I guessed no deer was going to show up with that going on so I called it a hunt, and collected my things to head back to the truck.  But before I climbed down I did one last thing.  Choosing a leaf on the forest floor as a target I focused, drew and released.  The arrow thucked into the ground two inches away from it.  Two more leaves, two more arrows with comparable results.  Strange, guess core ability wasn't to blame. 

By this time I'd convinced myself that I had been overcome by a common nervousness that many novice hunters (which I certainly still am in many ways) fight with.  Target panic, or buck fever, or whatever the hell you want to call it.  Now I've had that experience, I told myself, and next time I'll avert the panic, grab the wheel instead of going for a lovely little backseat ride on the control bus and drive that arrow right home.  But as the soft rain of love bugs squashing against the windshield attempted to sooth me with their gentle plopping, I knew something else was wrong, some other piece was missing. 

Later at home after I told the story my husband added a simple observation that rocked me again.  "Maybe you just didn't want to kill it."  The words had a profound impact, and I knew them to have truth.  Now that I've mulled that over I believe the missing piece was that I just didn't want to kill that deer and it factored into my miss just as much as any "buck fever". 

Why didn't I want to kill it?  I'm not completely sure.  Partly because of sympathy for the animal, it was obviously a young deer, but maybe I just wasn't ready yet.  And I'm not sure what that means, but the more I think of it, I think that was a big part of it.  I did my time practicing, sure, I was halfway decent at target shooting. I think I was physically ready, but I just wasn't mentally ready to kill again. 

A friend of mine recommends for someone who wants to kill deer to spend a season or two hunting small game like squirrels, to get used to the idea of killing.  I'm not sure I'll go that far, but he has a point.  I've killed deer, yes, but always with the detachment of a gun, and always with the reinforcement of others.  This deal with me with a bow, alone, in the woods is in many ways a new thing.  Yes, I've done it many times now, but maybe the last two seasons were really a dry run of sorts, getting me used to the idea of taking the equipment out, learning to sit silently, reading the woods.  But this, this was the very first shot.  The first moment of truth, as it were.  

Now the big question, when am I going to be ready?  Did it just take this one time to jump start the learning curve?  Or will I have another T-0.5 abort the next time I draw back on something other than a leaf?  Or am I just going to start Blueberry Flatwoods Wildlife Sanctuary?  I don't think it will be that extreme, I am pretty sure I can eventually face a death in the deer woods.  Only time, luck and experience is going to tell me when.

 

Let it be a clean kill or a clean miss, nothing else.

New Product Plug

Just when you though that feelings of inadequacy would ruin your date for opening day:  Introducing the Cornholer, a handy package for delivering a salty treat that will stay like a rock even after hours of licking.  This is obviously for the hunter who feels he's being shafted by deer who pull out of his shooting zone prematurely, leaving him frustrated and unfulfilled.  You can find this fabulous new product right next to the Donkey Juice at your local Wallyworld.

Better than corn, ya'll!

Screw it.

Yeah.  But I'm the gay one, right?

One of my friend's comments  included "What's next, the Dil-Doe?" to "I knew hunting had the same marketing strategies as porn, but I didn't realize it was gay porn."

This pic also sent another typically even-keeled hunting budding into as close as I've heard him come to a tirade about how marketing for instant gratification has gone too far and he can barely stand to look at all these products pushing the idea of chumming animals to your location instead of actually, well, hunting them.

Look, I know there's a long, long gradation of styles in the spectrum of "hunting", from those that think the Timucua were too advanced to those that would happily pay the cost of a Cadillac to punch a keyboard in Miami and pop a elephant on the Serengeti (yes I made that last example up, but its not that far removed from things that have been proposed).  Somewhere on that spectrum is where the game laws kick in that have made conservation function, so far.   On the legal side of that line we have to make our own judgement calls about what is meaningful and real.  Should we constantly push the letter of the law and use all the advantages we can, or should we say the spirit is enough and find our fulfillment there?  I posted some of my thoughts topic before.  However, there's no doubt it is human nature to tinker and improve.

But these choices do have consequences.  Lately I've seen more and more stickers on vehicles with some mix of human bones and hunting iconography, that ubiquitous Bone Collector crap being the best example.  I guess if you really think of yourself as some angel of death in your hunting endeavors, sure, whatever gets you off.  However, if I find it questionable, who the hell knows what someone unacquainted with hunting thinks, someone who may have thought more favorably of hunting with the right message?  You certainly don't have to give a rat's ass what that person thinks, but then again that person may one day have their hand poised to cast a vote that would take hunting away from the bone-wrapped camo crowd.  Who knows?

Done now, that soap box was getting rickety and sort of slippery anyhow.  I'm sure everyone will agree with me, right?  Who's up for something fun and non-controversial?  Ice cream? Puppies?  Puppies eating ice cream?

Blueberry Flatwoods

(Author's note:  This is post number 75 for Eating My Deer.  Not exactly a record but longer than I ever thought this blog would hold my occasional attention.  My original deer are long since eaten, and what started mostly as a feeble cooking blog has morphed into more of a record of my hunting and occasional outdoor ventures, most of which involve entirely no harm to any animals other than myself.)

There isn't a lot of story to this one, just some photos.  There is a bit of good news though.  Even after last year's attempt to acquire a hunting lease ended in frustrating failure, we weren't dissuaded from the desire for a place of our own.   My friend and I kept our eyes and ears open, and last month I got a call from him on a Saturday morning about a parcel that had come up on a timber company website.  It was within an OK driving distance and at an OK price, so he placed a bid and, surprisingly, we managed to get it.  Later his brother joined up as well, and we decided to split the parcel three ways.

My share of it is roughly rectangular, about 40-45 acres, fairly mature pine flatwoods in the east and a basin swamp in the west (the deer aren't thirsty here, unlike the old situation in 40 Acre Pines).  I'm still exploring it, but it's surprisingly high-quality for timber land.  The pine has an intact understory that is absolutely loaded in places with the blueberry bushes that inspired my informal name for it:  Blueberry Flatwoods.

A bit more after the photo tour: 

Road that divides the parcel, my part is on the right.

Tar-Flower, Bejaria racemosa

Marshy area

Lots of blueberries

Even more blueberries

Hooded pitcher plants Sarracenia minor (I think)

Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis)

Cool twisting grass(?)

Hopefully my killing field one day (that's probably about the most aggressive thing you'll hear me say)

Old turpentine pine in the swamp

Sublime, yet spooky.  Perfect.

I placed a game cam on the outskirts of the swamp last week, I'm going to try to head up soon to check it and move it to an even better trail I discovered.  So far I've spotted two does, one of which was very near my truck when I returned from a circuit.

There are some issues on the horizon though, later this decade an extension of a major highway is going to be built almost adjacent to the west boundary of the property.  We aren't sure how that might change things, it may not even be that big of a deal, and we can even think of a couple of ways it could work out in our favor.

But that's years from now.  For now, I'm looking forward, hopefully, to this September.

Using Fowl Language: Spring Turkey 2013

Spring Turkey 2013 has come and gone faithful followers (well obviously, since its now June.  So much for timely blog posts).  Spoiler alert:  We didn't get any.  However, we did spend some quality outdoor time and make some great memories, for real.  

In recap, I applied for and procured limited entry permits for Goethe State Forest.  Upon hearing of this, my good friend Charlie, who as I've mentioned was instrumental in reintroducing me to hunting after all these years, decided a chance at an Osceola tickled his fancy and he proceeded to make plans to fly over from California to spend a nice few days in the woods with me chasing turkeys.  

Charlie arrived on the Wednesday before the first weekend of the season.  We made him legal to hunt at the local Walmart, then proceeded to spend Thursday and Friday scouting several areas of the forest, some of which I was familiar with either from hiking or hunting. On Friday afternoon we spotted a nice mixed flock walking one of the woods roads at the western boundary of the forest.  If it had been the season already, I'm pretty confident I'd have gotten a Tom that day, a grown one paused and posed pretty for me just 25 yards or so off in the woods, right between two cypress trees. 

Charlie wanted to set up nearby but I, ever the paranoid one, was reluctant to hunt that close to the boundary with private land.  I talked him into going a little farther east where we picked a nice triple intersection of trails and set up our blinds for the morning.

The pre-dawn of opening day was slightly chilly (ah, memories!  Won't feel cold again soon...) but we warmed ourselves up on the hike in.  I had bought a small flock of inflatable decoys on clearance last spring, so after a bit of puckering up and blowing we set them up and then blended ourselves into the adjacent background as well as possible, I with my 835 and Charlie with his recurve.  I intended to let him take a first shot if possible, of course, since he traveled much further for it. 

Charlie, geared up.

Over the course of the morning we heard gobblers in several different directions.  One took an interest in Charlie's calling and he carried on a nice leisurely conversation with him.  Alas, some unknown breach of turkey etiquette evidently occurred and his answering gobbles reversed course and faded into the distance.  

We spent the last couple hours of that hunt walking farther north.  We found another triple intersection that we felt really good about and decided to make it our new hunting ground for the next morning.

Turkey blow-up dolls.

A heavy fog hung over the forest on Sunday morning as we exited the truck and made our way a few miles back towards our blinds.   I felt really good about this setup, near a place we spotted another small flock while scouting and with plenty of tracks.  Again we placed the turkey blow-up dolls out in the opening and faded into the brush.

Foggy dawn over the Mossberg

It was there that the coolest few moments of the hunt occurred.  Although it was still foggy, it had brightened up a bit.  I heard a rustle from behind me.  I froze and shifted my attention to a faint trail scarcely ten feet to my left, one I had obviously underestimated as a potential travel lane for the morning.  What emerged from the woods confused me.  It was a turkey all right, but instead of the normal browns and bronzes of the typical wild variety, it was a mottled grey and tan.  Man, I thought at first, somebody's farm turkey has got loose and is wandering around.  

A slight concern for personal safety followed, as it dawned again on me that a full-grown turkey who's head was at an even height as mine was standing the aforementioned ten feet away, staring at me intently.  These damn things used to chase me around my grandparent's farm when I was a little kid, and I had a dim flashback as I struggled to control my breathing and slowly squinted. My camo apparently worked well though, as the turkey wasn't alarmed and continued picking its way past me.

Due to the angle away from me the oddball turkey had assumed I was unable to ascertain the presence or absence of a beard, so I didn't attempt to pull the trigger as the turkey walked directly across my line of sight and down to the awaiting decoys.  If it was a Jake I was sincerely hoping Charlie would get a good shot at it.  

A few minutes later the turkey again ambled right through my line of sight and I was able to clearly see that it didn't have a beard.  By that time I'd wracked my memory and sneaked in a quick Google search to determine that it was likely a leucistic hen.  Since then I've learned that these have been spotted in the area before, rare but heard of.  I felt pretty special to have been so close to one.

The hen spent the better part of an hour walking back and forth into and out of our rubber flock, clucking a few forlorn clucks now and then.  I was actually pretty happy to have a live "decoy" now, but no other feathered brethern and sistern showed up.  Little Miss Lonely finally gave up on her stuck-up new friends and took off to the south, calling all the way. 

That was the highlight of the Sunday hunt, maybe not the same as turkey tetrazzini but I enjoyed it none the less. 

The next day we woke up to rainy forecast for the late morning but made our way out anyhow.  It was relatively clear until 10 or so, when a steady drizzle began to fall.  I tenting in under my poncho and was actually quite content listening to the woods in the light shower while putting out an occasional call and a bit of hope until Charlie finally decided to call it a hunt. 

Monday morning coming down.

Its a skunk ape!  Charlie in his blind in the drizzling rain.

That Monday hunt was the end of it for Charlie and he hopped a jet plane back to Cali the next day.   I, however, got myself a permit for Phase II during the pickup period. I only got to take one more stab at it the next Saturday, chosing an area on the side of a prairie, not far from where I called up a gobbler last spring.  It was a beautifully clear morning with a waxing moon hanging over the dawn, which made it worth the trip regardless.

Blow-up dolls in the middle distance.

Just a few clouds for decoration.

Florida Maple, more leafed out than we saw it last.

I tried to talk to a few distant gobblers but got no real response so after late morning I headed back home.  When I stood up I noticed this rub on a nearby tree that I had missed in the darkness.  Hopefully this is an omen for things to come:

There's always next fall.

A Gun For Dinosaur

Only a few short days are left before the opening of spring turkey season in Goethe State Forest, and I was fortunate enough to get a limited entry permit for the first phase of hunting this year.  Even more fortunate, my old friend Charlie, the man who was pivotal in reintroducing me to hunting with my trips out to beautiful Catalina Island, is able to join me for a few days of scouting and hunting.  I'm really looking forward to seeing him, as well as the mental health boost that a few days of companionship in nature will afford me.  I've been super busy and stressed lately, dealing with massive renovations at home and a flood of activity at work (see the recent unfortunate events in Seffner, FL for the reason for this) and some nature time is exactly what I need.  A few meals of wild turkey would be pretty sweet too.

I realized this morning that I never covered the story my tentative attempts at turkey hunting last spring on this blog.  Not sure how I omitted that, but here it is in summary form:  After applying for and getting a turkey permit for Goethe II last season, I decided my old A5 wasn't going to cut it for turkey hunting and that I needed a new shotgun.  I have a form of OCD that really short-circuits my brain when decisions between closely equivalent things are concerned but after my usual agonizing protracted mental ordeal of choosing I decided on a Mossberg 835 turkey rig that was actually available at the local Wally-World.  Its a handy little pump action shotgun, I do like the feel of it. 

The 835 is chambered for 2 3/4 to 3 1/2 inch shells.  I'd never actually shot a 3 1/2 inch shell before, so I acquired a box of them when I went to SC on an early Spring visit with my family.  I test fired the shotgun at my brother's house, using it to blow vent holes in his new burn barrel (you laugh, but it's by far the easiest and most fun way to accomplish that goal).  Standing about 20 yards from the barrel I racked a 3 1/2 inch shell into the chamber, aimed and fired.  BAOOOM! went the 835.  SPANGGGGG! went the pellets against the barrel.  Back rocked the barrel.  Back rocked me!  When I got vertical again I looked over at my brother and uttered a very un-church-going string of words.  I would not like to shoot very many of those in row.

As far as the hunts go, I practiced with a basic box call until I sounded only like a slightly afflicted turkey.  To my utter amazement I managed to call up a tom late that first morning.  He appeared, of course, when I was taking a short break after holding my gun at the ready for hours.  I was almost frozen at the shock anyhow.  By the time I snapped out and started to raise the gun the tom had spotted me and turned turkey.  I'll never forget the extreme case of tunnel vision I had while my eyes were laser-locked on his Rudolph-red neck and head.  That got the heart pumping, let me tell you. That's as close as I got to roast wild turkey in 2012, although I heard a good bit of gobbling on my two subsequent attempts.

The current plan is to scout tomorrow and Friday afternoon and evening then hunt the weekend and possibly Monday morning as well.  Charlie has some experience hunting turkey in Cali, he's actually bagged a few so I'll be deferring to his seniority on this.  I got to go over on Sunday afternoon to do a little scouting, I have some areas in mind but I'm pretty flexible on it.  Wish us luck an all.

Florida Maple greening up on the pond.  Breath 'o spring and such.

BTW, the title of this post references both the fact that turkeys, and all birds, are descended from a branch of the dinosaur family tree and also the title of a short story by the science fiction author L. Sprague de Camp , which was adapted into a great episode of the classic Sci-Fi radio show X Minus One.

Gone Coastal: Coastal Prairie Trail, Everglades National Park

 

The Coastal Prairie Trail is a single-track pathway that strikes out westward from the D-loop of Flamingo Campground, Everglades National Park, generally adhering to the route of an old wagon road plied before the establishment of the park by hardy and optimistic people seeking to gain from the unforgiving wilderness.  The southernmost mainland foot trail in the United States, this pathway continues out over seven miles to Clubhouse Beach, a marly shorefront on Florida Bay peppered with mangroves and shell fragments and the site of a backcountry campsite with famed sunset and sunrise views.

This trail has haunted my list of unobtained Florida destinations for many years.  There it sits, a taunting dashed line on my maps, far, far away from my Gainesville home.  I had already failed one attempt at traversing its siren path, when in late December 2002 an ill-fated camping trip to the Everglades was cut substantially short.  Suffice it to say I spent that Christmas day on my couch, sipping codeine-laced syrup while attempting to survive pneumonia.  I didn't watch any comedies because laughing made it feel like something was about to tear loose in my right lung.  Ah, sweet memories.

It seems almost every winter since then I've tried to plan the several days and fourteen-hour total drive needed to walk this forlorn trail, but fates successfully disrupted in enterprising ways.  Alternators failed the evening before.  Ill-timed illnesses were contracted.  Mysterious winter storms caused plans to be cancelled.  Two years ago the husband's parents both suffered unrelated debilitating hip-related incidents at the same time that resulted in me being left to tend four dogs by myself for over a month.  Last year my own father's health problems intervened. 

This year, 2013, I put my foot down and said, no more, cruel fates!  I shall achieve this goal!  And lo and behold, I wasn't struck by lightening.  More importantly, things actually began to work out.  Beautiful weather was in the forecast, low humidity and very tolerable highs.  No last minute emergencies arose, either mechanical or medical.  And so, the first light of dawn of Friday morning found me rolling southward, the proverbial wind at my sails and anticipation in my heart.

Many hours later I set up my base camp at the front-country Long Pine Key campground, surrounded by the pine rockland habitat of the eastern Everglades.  As explained by a park ranger at the evening program, Long Pine Key is an isolated island of relative uplands surrounded by seasonally flooded marl prairie, cypress, and freshwater sloughs.  As the extreme southwest extension of the limestone ridge that lines the southeast coast of Florida, it represents the largest unaltered remnant of the South Florida slash pine forests that once flourished on the Miami ridge where high-rises, subdivision, and tomato fields now sprawl.  While not the favorite domainof the Florida panther, they definitely do utilize the habitat that surrounds the campground.  Later that night I enjoyed a bike ride along the paved park roads, gliding along in the bright moonlight while fantasizing about a panther sighting.

As the skies lightened the next morning I was up and driving southwest on the main park road towards Flamingo.  A glorious sunrise flashed across the sawgrass prairie, but I did not stop, for anticipation drove me ever forward.  By 7:30 I had reached the back of D-loop and stood slathering on sunscreen as I faced the trailhead signage for Coastal Prairie.  With one last check of my water supply and snacks, I grabbed my faithful walking stick and lit out into the West. 

Dried marl trail about 8:00 AM

I quickly realized just how well my luck was finally working for this trip.  The footpath consists of a thick layer of a material colloquially known as "marl" atop a limestone bedrock.  Marl is a somewhat antiquated term (yes, that's the geologist bleeding out) but essentially denotes a material that has substantial components of both calcium carbonate fines and siliciclastic silts and clays.  In practical terms, when this stuff is wet, its a fiercely slick mud and when its dry it does a good job of imitating concrete. I managed to arrive when it was closer to the concrete-like phase, so walking was good, but thousands upon thousands of hardened footprints, some several inches deep, were a constant reminder of the difficulty this trail would pose in the wet season. 

Bleached bones

I learned from the literature that the park had on hand that the coastal prairie itself is sort of a by-product of hurricane activity.  As the storm surge washes over the shore and the mangrove forest, it deposits layers of salty mud on these open areas, stifling all but the hardiest of plants.  At several sections of the trail, the sun-whitened skeleton forests gave mute testimony to past storms.

Trail through the buttonwood forest, fairly easy to imagine the old road here.

Although the trail does traverse substantial sections of coastal prairie, it also spends considerable time below the splotchy shade of forests of buttonwood (Conocarpus erectus), a close relative of the true mangroves.  I read that one way people attempted to make a living in this wilderness was preparing charcoal from buttonwood trees.  The forest itself in the dry season had a feel of places much farther west, and reminded me at times of the oak groves of the California coastal chaparral. 

Wild cotton (Gossypium hirsutum)

Along the trail I encountered a blooming example of another reason humans trekked into this harsh environment.  At first the the wild cotton plant, like it's domesticated descendants, was exploited for the fibers that surround its seeds.  According to a ranger, its said that the itinerant pickers planted as many seeds as they picked, looking towards job security.  Later, in the 1930's, the WPA sent teams of workers into the Everglades wilderness to eradicate wild cotton, as it was believed to constitute an agricultural threat to cultivated varieties.  The effort wasn't completely successful, but close enough.  Wild cotton is now extremely rare, and is classified as an endangered species in Florida.

Salt tolerant and not so salt tolerant.

The main ground covers of the coastal prairie are salt tolerant succulents such as glasswort and saltwort.  These also grew under the sunnier sections of buttonwood forest as well.

Cardinal airplant (Tillandsia fasciculata)

Like elsewhere in the Everglades, epiphytic bromeliads are common.  One of the largest, the Cardinal airplant, was in abundance.  It didn't seem to be the correct season for blooms, as the flower clusters were mostly gone to seed, but I did find a few fresh stalks. 

These plants don't take any sustenance from their tree hosts, as is evident in this photo of Cardinal's continuing to live on dead buttonwood.  According to a flyer published by Big Cypress National Preserve, just to the north of Everglades, in addition to deriving nutrients from insects and organic matter trapped in their leaf bases, these bromeliads also feed off of nitrogen compounds created by lightning.  I need to find more information about that for sure.

Red mangrove (Rhizophora mangle)

As the trail nears the last stretch of prairie before Clubhouse Beach, it crosses over Slagle Ditch, where a photogenic little colony of Red mangrove has encroached.  Somewhere near this point is the original location of the town of Flamingo.  I was actually unaware of this that day, or else I would have surely been bound to find the townsite, where old foundations are said to still be evident.

Not a single track.

Not far past Slagle Ditch the trail opens up considerably, following the muddy plain of the prairie.  Although quintessentially Floridian, this area also has a primal feel and would have looked equally at home with elephants and gazelles in the distance, or even a family group of sauropods with pterosaurs circling around.   The dried trackways were reminiscent of the lithified footprints of our distant ancestors that have been found in Africa, imprinted as they traversed a plain of fresh volcanic ash.

Finally, as I trudged along in sunlight that had become very bright and a tad warm, a sign appeared directing me to take a hard left towards the coast.  I willingly followed it's suggestion.

And Lo!  The goal was achieved!  More than a decade in the making, my journey to Clubhouse Beach was complete. 

A nearby Black mangrove offered a nice spot of shade on the short, coarse sand dune.  I laid out my blanket and took shelter under its boughs, where I sublimely devoured the tastiest peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich I've ever eaten.  I soon drifted off into a near-slumber, lulled by the whispering waves and occasional seabird. 

After about an hour I arose and wandered about investigating the vicinity:

The other side of my mangrove resting place

Muddy marl

Green sea turtle, I believe

More muddy marl

Lone black mangrove

In the end I had nearly two hours to myself on this lonesome strand, with just a few passing sport boats interrupting the sounds of nature.  I finally took one last good look around, packed up my gear, and started to backtrack.  The sun was not getting any cooler, and that peanut butter and jelly sandwich was already wearing thin.  I met a young couple just a hundred yards or so away, I told them I was giving the beach to them and headed back on the trail toward modern-day Flamingo.

P.S.  About a mile later I met two young Army guys with big backpacks.  I mean HUGE backpacks, gear and fishing rods and reels poking out everywhere.  Made my back sore just looking at them.  They said they were hiking to Cape Sable.  This isn't something you can do without bushwhacking many miles and swimming a canal.  Evidently they were aware of this and continued hiking west with their ginormous backpacks.  I was left again with my thoughts, wondering if I could ever manage what they were cheerfully setting out to do.  Definitely a thought for another day.

P.P.S  About another mile later I met a troop of Boy Scouts, being just as loud and unruly as you would expect a troop of boys to be.  I wished the two chaperones bringing up the rear good luck, they managed faint, slightly shell-shocked smiles.  

P.P.P.S  Even after this hike, the burger at the Buttonwood Cafe (actually a food trailer with a screened enclosure attached) in Flamingo was as bad as the service.  Meaning awful.  I highly recommend not eating there, ever.  They are working to rebuild the actual restaurant, which I remember being not so bad once upon a time.  Perhaps it will be again.  Until then, pack a picnic.  

Human track, panther track.  Same space, different times.