Dumb Luck Buck

Luck, good or bad, will override just about any plan.

Last year I had put the finishing touches on a Lee Enfield No1 Mk3 restoration. Its an old British/commonwealth military rifle. They saw most of their useage during the first world war but were in production until the early 50’s (as best I can find online). I carried it with me a lot, hoping to get a deer. I got one shot at the biggest buck I have ever seen, he was heavy antlered with a split main beam, and staring at me about 15 yards away. The second I raised the rifle, he bolted. I fired two misses at him and never saw him again. I sat that same field every evening the rest of that season and the entirety of this season in hopes he would come back, he didn’t. It was bad hunting, but I am calling it bad luck so I can get some sleep at night. I had also hoped for a little redemption with my old 303 at some point this year.

This deer season started with a simple mistake. I got greedy and put in for too many draws, I had just got home from Nepal and Thailand and was in a bit of a daze and accidentally put in my mule deer buck and doe draws instead of building priority for one or the other. As a result I had 5 tags I could fill, a whitetail buck, mule deer buck, two whitetail does, and a mule doe. In my experience, loading up on tags usually results in bad luck and not seeing anything.

To add to the peculiar luck of the season, it was warm, very warm. By the time November hunting season 2023 had ended there was still almost no snow on the ground and positive temperatures during the day. That time of year I’ve seen negative 20 and nearly a foot of snow. At any rate, I was going hunting, and it was not going well. I had seen very few deer, usually going the other way. The best opportunity I had so far was a small basket-rack whitetail broadside, about 50m, he was standing almost exactly where I shot my last buck… I decided to pass as he was quite small, I then somewhat regretted it. It almost feels disrespectful to pass on an opportunity that good and some small part of me would like to get a deer of each size on the wall to show how their growth progression works… but that feels oddly devious.

On the Saturday of my last weekend it was windy, very windy. I decided still hunting through the bush was probably my best bet. I got my mother to drop me off on the far end of the property on her way to work (working a Saturday during hunting season is just crazy to me). I brought with me my restored Lee Enfield that I had carried the previous season. I hoped the iron sights would be better suited to close range shots in the bush and the heavier projectile would cut through shrubs and trees easier than on my little 243, my usual go-to rifle for deer.

I started my day in an area we call Sand’s, I’m told its named for the previous owners, and I have seen many nice mule deer in the area over the years. It was my belief the deer would remain in the bush, between the heat and the wind they likely had little need or desire to go into fields. I worked my way around a large stand of trees and managed to spot a doe standing in a small clearing sheltered from the wind. She was glaring at me through the willows. I froze and we watched each other. My hope was that she wasn’t alone. Eventually she got tired of my spectating and slowly walked off, followed by a small buck. I lined up my sights and considered a shot through a narrow shooting lane, but he didn’t stop when I whistled. Then I heard what sounded like him making a U-turn in the trees out of my sight. Across that little shooting lane came an even smaller mule buck and another doe. Something about his antlers looked off to me. They both stepped out into the field 70 yards from me and stood broadside, I got a good look at his antlers with my binoculars to discover it was shadows from his ears I was seeing making things look off. They both ran away and I thought to myself “what a neat interaction… wait… I have a doe tag… darn it”

I worked my way farther west seeing little more than squirrels. After just shy of a mile of walking I got to my favorite spot, Dejorties. Its a few acres on the north end of the family farm where I have had a lot of luck with deer. I walked passed the little swamp and made my way to a clearing in the woods and saw nothing of interest. I took a seat, pulled a cheese bun from my pocket and enjoyed my lunch. I wiped the crumbs, pocketed the bag, and walked the long way around to leave. As I passed a thicket, no more than 50 yards from where I had lunch, a large mule buck sprang up, bolted up the bank where he was nicely sky-lined and stopped just long enough for me to get a look, and ran down the other side of the hill. I sprinted up the bank hoping he would stop and look back. I got to the top just in time to see him jump the fence into the neighbors and disappear into some spruce trees. I headed back to my evening hunting spot, hoping to see that big whitetail from the year before. I saw nothing.

I decided the Sunday, my last day, I would just do exactly what I did Saturday. I also had to laugh at the reality that I was more patterned than the deer I was hunting. There was still wind, but far less, meaning the noise of my boots crunching the frozen leaves was more of a problem. Where I had seen the smaller mule deer, there were only cattle. They were, unfortunately, rather interested in what I was doing. I made my way west again. This time, in the trees I came across a whitetail buck. He was far away and his body was far too obscured by brush to even think about shooting at. His antlers were short, but thick. I watched him for what felt like a long time. I tried taking a step every time he looked away, in hopes of closing the distance. That plan did not work. He wandered off and I could hear him huffing as he left. I am told, the noise alerts other deer of danger and clears their sinus so they can get a better smell.

I was somewhat disheartened and felt part of my issue was loud walking from the frozen leaves. I felt the best strategy was to hurry to a good sitting spot and hope something came to me. Continuing west, I walked along a path about 50 meters wide with large patches of trees in the middle which essentially created two parallel paths that intersected every 50 to 100 meters. As I crested the last hill before the gate to where I had seen the mule deer the day before… I just about bumped into him. He was walking east on the trail and we didn’t hear each other, and apparently hadn’t seen each other either because I was already on my way down the hill when we reacted. He turned around and ran behind a patch of trees, counter clockwise, so I ran around my side clockwise. When he realized what I was doing, he changed directions and so did I. For about 15 seconds, it was very much like siblings chasing each other around the kitchen table. We both stopped moving to asses the situation. Lucky for me, and unlucky for him, I could see him through the trees and had a shooting line. It was narrow, and I could only see his body, but I was close enough I could see his ribs, I took aim and fired. He jumped straight up and curled inward, in my experience that is a good sign. He hit the ground and ran. I ejected the spent case and my second round wouldn’t feed. I guess I hadn’t quite tuned this magazine right. As I finessed the next round in, I could hear him running and blowing his nose. The blowing of the nose struck me as a bad sign. I flipped my safety on and walked to where he was when hit. There was frothy pink blood on the ground, another good sign. The snow was best measured in millimeters so I tracked him as best I could in the dirt. The blood trail was minimal, but he seemed to run west to the gate and turned north into the field. I panicked thinking he must have run into the bush with a poorly placed bullet. I tried calling the house to get a search party going, but my step dad was in town running errands, I was on my own.

I mentally prepped for a hard day ahead. I lined up the last of the blood trail and assumed he kept his trajectory, and I started walking. 50 meters later, he was laid out stone dead 10 yards from the treeline. I guess I had gotten worried over nothing. He didn’t go far, the hills, paths, and bush just hid him a little.

I approached slowly and poked him in the eye to ensure he was dead, I unloaded my rifle, closing the bolt on an empty chamber but leaving the loaded magazine in. I then started taking the obligatory pictures and texted everyone who would be interested. Then, the work started. I tagged him and walked home, just in time for Darrell to be pulling into the yard. We grabbed a ramp and went to get him, loaded him in the truck, hung him in the garage and I got to skinning. During skinning and gutting, I found I had hit both lungs, far back. I had to work the following day so I cut the tenderloins out for supper Monday and put the head in my car to take to a taxidermist friend to be cleaned… it stayed in my car until Thursday, I wonder if anyone in my parkade noticed.

A low angle image with lots of sky in the back is, in my mind, the best way to do a trophy picture for a deer

Closing Thoughts

I like to review, in my head, what I did right and what I did wrong in hopes of more active learning for future hunts, seeing as I am hoping to do this for a few more decades. In the positive, I feel I chose the appropriate rifle for the style of hunting, I never gave up (lots of great deer are taken at the last light of the last day), and I changed hunting tactics as conditions changed. The bad, I panicked after the shot, I should have tracked as far as I could before assuming something was wrong. I also found this season, I was a little too obsessed with antler size, I passed on a perfectly respectable whitetail buck in ideal conditions because I was holding out for a deer I had seen once the previous season. I need to remember I am feeding the freezer, not the tape measure.

To me, this image really shows the importance of perspective, the deer looks much smaller in the photo.

Technical Details

Someone had also asked in a previous post for firearm details, so… in this particular instance I was using a 1942 Lee Enfield No1 MK3* in 303 British. These rifles were made all over the commonwealth but mine was made in Birmingham, and it is stamped with a B, which means it is a “dispersal rifle” made in the area after the BSA (Birmingham Small Arms factory) had been destroyed. When I got it, the wood had been cut down to resemble a more familiar hunting rifle, this is called “sporterizing” and was very common as the rifles were plentiful and cheap. The process was done to make them lighter and more suited to hunting. I rounded up a variety of new and used parts to take it back to factory original… ish. Like any restoration of something that was made for 50 plus years, parts will change a little bit over time, and I went with whichever parts I liked rather than what would have been more accurate to that date. Only a keen eyed collector would ever notice, and I built it to use and enjoy, so I did it the way I like it. It was a slow process that required a lot of hand fitting, and it would have been cheaper to just buy an original, but every time I look at it or show someone I am proud of myself.

What the rifle looked like before restoration
Here’s a bonus photo that I just like, a friend took it while I was bolting on the buttstock.

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The Death Of A Coyote

In recent years, the local coyote population around my parents’ farm has exploded. We see them everywhere, and hear them yelping all night. We also hear the farm dogs barking at them all night. The general agreement among farmers and hunters is that coyotes are a pest and are to be shot on sight. They will kill farm animals, pets, and game species all the same.

Up until this point in my life, I had never actively hunted coyotes and during hunting season I avoided shooting at them for fear of spooking the deer I was actually after. Over the years, I came to notice that deer dont seem particularly phased by gunfire. I have been to more than one shooting competition where we had to shut down a range while we waited for deer to clear off. So, with the coyote population up, and my excuses to leave them be, worn rather thin, I decided this year deer hunting season is also coyote season.

As a relevant aside, I have talked with a few people, a few times, about how much ammunition to bring hunting. Some hunters will joke “you should only need one”, some will say “Two, incase you need a follow-up shot”. I have a friend that ran out of ammo while hunting and had to finish off a cow moose with a knife, while she was trying to stand back up. I, usually take somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 bullets, and have never needed more than two, I have been lucky so far.

On the second day of opening weekend, I was slowly making my way through the woods and found myself standing in a patch of trees on the North edge of a valley. Below me, I spotted movement. It was two coyotes walking through the tall brown grass with ears back and tails down. I have found that coyotes either walk as though guilty or trot as though they haven’t a care in the world. These two looked suspicious. I brought my rifle to my shoulder and found one in the scope. I squeezed the trigger… and everything went wild. One coyote dropped, the other ran West in the valley, and 20 yards West of them, a large mule deer buck sprinted up the far hill. I trained my optic on him and watched for a chance. No way my 243 was going to push 95 grains of lead through that brush and do anything other than wound it. I noticed movement in the grass, the coyote that had fallen was slowly getting up, clearly mortally wounded. I immediately shot it again, he moved no more. I was down to three bullets in the gun. The second coyote, perhaps unsure of what the noise was, circled back and stood between me and his deceased companion. I took aim and made a clean miss at an embarrassing 87 yards (ranged after the fact). He ran east then south across the valley along an old beaver dam, stopping to look at up me again. I took another chance shot and missed again. I felt good about both shots but somehow neither touched hide or hair. In a flash of fur he was gone. I had one lonely bullet left and I wasn’t about to use it on a coyote knowing full well a big mule deer was somewhere nearby.

I jogged down the hill and checked that the coyote was dead and then walked home for more ammunition, all the while wondering how my marksmanship had been so poor. I have more than once heard old timers tell me that there’s something magic about coyotes, one of the few animals that you seem to miss more shots than you make. Perhaps its their size that makes guessing distance deceiving, maybe its their wily nature, maybe it supernatural… or, my guess, is that its something subconscious. Coyotes are described as a lot of mean nasty things by many people, but at the end of the day, they are a wild dog and to me, that makes it a bit of a hard trigger pull.

I went out that evening and circled back to get pictures of my first coyote. I find it interesting that I have been hunting for nearly 20 years and somehow never got around to shooting a coyote. I approached the downed animal and he laid in an unnatural pose, a pile of fur with a foreleg stuck awkwardly out the side. I lifted his surprisingly heavy body and laid his head on a log, a slightly more dignified pose. I got some hunting photos and inspected its teeth, its k9s worn almost flat. This animal lived a long happy life here. I considered taking its hide, almost out of a sense of obligation to not have it feel like a waste, but it wasn’t particularly nice, given the time of year.

I took the photos and went to my hunting blind for an evening sit and reflected on the days events. I learned that if I’m not going to be a better shooter, perhaps I’d better up my ammo count to 6. Next time I see coyote, I am going to take more time to observe them. I can’t imagine the two of them could have taken down a grown mule deer buck, but they sure looked like they were aiming to try. I wouldn’t say I feel bad about shooting a coyote, and I certainly plan on shooting more. However, some small part of me has to at least respect the plight of the coyote, they haven’t many friends in this lonely world and they’re just out there hunting, like I am. The only difference is, if they aren’t successful, they dont survive. Maybe its because I miss my old dog, or maybe its my recent time in Nepal surrounded by Buddhists that has softened me. I guess I’m of two minds, or just a hypocrite, but I feel bad for the coyotes while actively hunting them… and I doubt I’ll ever change.


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Drumheller Road Trip

For reasons I am yet to understand, I purchased a motorcycle. My intention was to drive it west into the mountains, but, as expected, the forecast has been daily rain since I signed the bill of sale. I decided, instead, to ride south to Drumheller as a bit of an equipment test and an opportunity ride through the badlands.

All my gear loaded on my bike

I headed south of Edmonton on secondary roads and made a detour to the Len Thompson “worlds largest fishing lure” statue, just to say I did. From there it was a somewhat dull drive across the flat prairie, my headphones provided most of the entertainment until I was near my destination. Just before Drumheller, the road dropped sharp into a valley and within a kilometer I went from green, flat, prairie to small sandy hills and winding roads. I investigated a few campgrounds around town and found most ludicrously expensive, lacking in facilities, or both. After paying $30 in Nepal for a nice hotel, its hard to pay $45 to throw a tent in an open field. Far south of town, near the Hoodoos, I found a nice campground with more sensible rates. I pitched my tent and got organized just in time for it to start raining and hailing. I laid in my tent and read my book while I waited for the rain to pass. It eventually did and I was able to make a small snack before bed.

Len Thompson lure
My modest camp
Hail

The following morning I tried to go to the museum but being mid summer I couldn’t even find parking so decided against it. Instead I went to see Horseshoe canyon, I hiked down and around it for the better part of an hour. The geology was interesting, but the heat was intense. I then took a motorcycle tour towards the town of Wayne, known for its eleven bridges. The road and scenery were amazing. After the last bridge the road turned to gravel and I could see many bikers had done that road and turned around right there, which is exactly what I did. I got back to my tent just in time for a short afternoon rain. Afterward I went to the camp office and charged some electronics for my ride home the following day. I had a fire and went to bed.

Horse Shoe canyon

I left the campsite early in the morning so I could take my time on the long drive home. My first stop was Horse Thief Canyon. The lookout, at that time of morning, only had one other vehicle, a camper van with the windows covered. I walked out and took in the scenery and in the distance saw a coyote running, about as fast as I think he could go, right along the ridgetops. I got back on my bike and continued on. My next stop was the Bleriot Ferry. It was a small ferry that runs people across the Red Deer River. I pulled up and a man brought the ferry slowly towards my side of the river, he dropped the chain and waved me on. I pulled up and the boat started moving. I had time to take my helmet off and get a drink of water, the crossing, I believe, took about 7 minutes. The boat man did not say a word. As I left I said thank you and he nodded. It was a long drive home from the ferry. Between Trochu and Camrose I found the winds were severe and pushed me all over my lane. As I came into Edmonton, I was somewhat disoriented. I was tired from several hours of driving, there was smoke from northern forest fires, and my GPS had taken me through a section of city I had never driven through. I made it home around noon, unloaded my bike, and had a very satisfying shower, content with the results of my first Canadian motorcycle trip.

Horse Thief canyon
The Bleriot Ferry

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Lessons of Nepali Busses

On my way from Kathmandu to the Annapurna circuit a bit of confusion and turned what should have been a 6 hour journey on fancy tourist busses into a 12 hour event involving the small local busses and the brave men who operate them. It gave me an opportunity to observe how they operate, and it was simply amazing.

Nepalese busses are interesting in themselves. They look like a city bus, but shrunk down to be a little larger than a full sized van. They seem to always be a red colour palette with chrome. They are also coated in decals, stickers, and murals. They remind me of the decor you see on rides and trailers at a carnival.

Upon entering one, my 6’2″ height combined with my… Lets say slightly husky build, is a comical sight. My best guess is a clearance of about 5’8″ (once, when exiting, I hit my head off of 4 rungs in a row, everyone smiled). I find my way to my seat, feeling like a grizzly that accidentally entered a children’s play house. Then I sit and wait. The bus leaves when it’s full. Not when the seats are taken, but when the bus is full to the brim.

Eventually, we are off, laden with passengers and their bags tied to the roof. This is where my amazement of the process and my respect for the crew originated. You see, operating a bus in most countries requires a driver… In Nepal, its a 3 man crew. First is the driver, this is a man with ice in his veins, unflinching, unblinking, unafraid, and maybe unhinged. He’s a man who must have found rodeos, redheads, or rally cars not exciting enough. I assume he is also a man who believes in reincarnation. Next are two men who will alternate roles but for the sake of easy explanation lets go one at a time. These men, as best I can guess, are part terrier. They’re fast, tenacious, and aggressive when they need to be.

One is the crowd man, he works the bus collecting fares, bartering their prices, managing drop off requests and bathroom breaks. He’ll tell you when the next bathroom break is, or tell the driver we need to stop at the next bathroom, depending on how much he likes you. So be cautious of your level of bartering. He is also the reserve for when the door gunner jumps off the bus.

I decided on calling this position “the door gunner” because I couldn’t think of a better description. The door gunner hangs out the side of the always folded open bus door. He’s always watching for an opportunity to slip ahead, waving his arm to signal the busses mergers. I assume, he would also, technically, wave faster traffic ahead, but I never saw it happen. In an environment where everything from pedal bikes to excavators are all operating inches apart, he acts as a spotter too. He communicates with the bus driver by slapping the metal side of the bust quickly, which sounds like a machine gun. If for some reason the bus does stop, he’s out and running ahead problem solving. He will direct traffic jams out of the way, wave heavy machinery over, and even argue with construction workers. Though I didn’t see it, I have no doubt he’d fight or bribe his way through if he felt the situation called for it.

They do this all while doing drive-by sales pitches. Offering services to pedestrians. If one agrees, the gunner slaps the side to signal stop and the new member is handed off to the crowd man. Sometimes the bus just slows down and the two pull them in like boarding a train in an old western.

All the while, the passengers are sitting back listening to the music and practicing their English with me. I had a lot of strangers very excited about me being from Canada. Also, the rumors about Nepali hospitality are somehow understated. On every bus we found a friendly person willing to go out of their way to help us. As one man put it “you are a guest here and I want to make sure you have a good time”.


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Aloha, Kauai

Years ago I was in Iceland, end of day two, and 55kms into the hike, the afternoon had shown little more than cold rain. I was cold, the cold you feel in your bones that makes you forget what warm feels like, the kind of cold that makes you worry you will never be warm again. The trail led to the edge of a shallow river that wove an argyle pattern across black, rounded, gravel. I probed the small islands of wet rock looking, in vain, for dry passage, but my companion and I knew the score. Boots and socks came off, and pants were rolled up. My feet dipped into the icy current while the cold mist rained from above. My bare feet were numb, but I could still feel the small rocks push out from under my feet with each heavy step. We reached the other side and I sat down to put my footwear back on when suddenly my entire body convulsed and I dry heaved several times. The stress, cold, hunger, and exhaustion had manifested. I took a moment, assessed the reality that there was no plug to pull, no easy way out. I was there, and the only way out was to keep walking. I put my gear on, stood up, and put one foot in front of the other, I had a dry sleeping bag and a soggy tent waiting for me at the end of the day… This trip, was nothing like that trip.

Truth be told, this wasn’t my trip. I was just invited along. My friends did most of the planning and I just gave a thumbs up to activities that sounded good to me. I didn’t pick the island (Kauai), I didn’t pick to accommodation (a lovely condo), and I didn’t pick the car (a Subaru SUV). As it turns out, that’s a great way to travel, everything was a fun surprise. Troy, Steph (Troy’s girlfriend), and Adrian flew in a few days before me. I flew home from a work camp Sunday night and flew to Hawaii Monday afternoon. The second I stepped off the plane I had flashbacks to Fiji. That humid south pacific smell, the heat at night, and the architecture that has big square holes instead of windows because it just doesn’t get cold out. I knew already I was going to like this place. I walked out of the gate and was met by Adrian with a big hug. He lives in Calgary and I dont see him often. Troy and Steph were waiting in the car, we got some fast food and they drove me through the darkness to our rental condo. They excitedly told me all about what they had found, seen, and done so far. It all sounded amazing, but I was exhausted and it was late, the bed felt a mile deep and I was out almost immediately.

The next morning I was up a little before my friends and sat quietly working on a puzzle while marveling at the green outside and listening to the roaming roosters crowing. I was later informed that the island of Kauai was littered with them, something about a hurricane releasing them from captivity. After breakfast I was promptly taken to a beach to wade in the ocean a bit and feel the “cold” freshwater stream nearby. If memory serves we visited three beaches that day and I got a driving tour of the island. Somewhere along the way I got to try my hand a body boarding, sadly, my lack of skill resulted in a broken board when it got between my tumbling body and the sand below. Another very notable highlight for the day was shaved ice. It was hot and we all wanted something cold. It appeared to just be a standard snowcone (ground/shaved ice with flavouring on it). I didnt read the menu too close and just kinda picked one. I was shocked at how much flavour there was and that there was ice-cream at the bottom 10/10 highly recommend.

Day two we had a pre-schedule activity. A boat tour and snorkeling. Again, not looking closely at the plan I expected a small boat and maybe a quick drive around with some snorkel at the end. I was dead wrong, this was a huge catamaran with a full crew, all of whom couldn’t pass by without asking if we needed anything. There were about 40 fellow passengers who all received this top rate service. Adrian and I sat ourselves at the front of the boat on the trampoline where we could take in the views as well as really feel the large waves bouncing the boat up and down and occasionally it threw some water onto passengers. Along with local sight seeing we also stopped to see both whales and spinner dolphins. The dolphins actually did some bow-riding with our boat, I didn’t realize dolphins swimming in front of the boat and jumping was a real thing, but apparently they actually do that. After the tour, we were dropped over a reef near the shoreline to do some snorkeling, it was ok, but to be honest the visibility wasn’t great. The boat ride was the real star of the show. After snorkeling was lunch and an open bar on the boat. I somehow got talked into a few beers and was feeling pretty good by the time we docked. We immediately went to yet another beach to work on our tans and wade around a little in the salt water, a pastime I could easily turn into a full-time hobby. As it was, coincidentally, Steph’s birthday that day, we decided to swing by Costco and get her a cake. It felt weird going to Costco in Hawaii, I get why its there but somehow it just felt… out of place.

The following morning, rains on the north end of the island caused flooding which cancelled our plans to go on a kayak trip. Instead, we drove to Hanalei, a small town with a lot of tourist shops. Though it rained on and off throughout the day we still had a great time. We tried another local delicacy “Pineapple Whip” which I think is just pineapple flavoured ice cream which is, not surprisingly, good. I was also able to pick up some post cards for my parents and my nephew. I was also treated to a nearby tourist attraction, a big cave near the beach. Maniniholo cave was hollowed out by the ocean even though it now, no longer reached that far. It was interesting to see just how big of a hole in the rocks water and time can make. That evening, we went to nearby hotel bar for what struck me as a rather expensive drink, then we went home and I made tacos for us. Afterwards, we decided we needed to get rid of all the liquor before we flew home the following day. It was nice. It was one of those nights where its just a few friends sitting around the table listening to music, telling stories, and we even snuck in a drinking game or two.

My last day on the island may have been my favorite. We cleaned up the apartment, packed our things, and checked out. From there we headed to an adventure tour company for our last activity. A tube float down an irrigation ditch in a decommissioned sugar cane plantation. I’m not sure what’s in the water in Hawaii, or maybe its in the sun, but everyone there is super friendly, especially customer service. Our guide loaded us in into bus seats on a covered flat deck truck and hauled us half an hour inland. He entertained us the entire way, telling jokes, local history, crowd work etc. We got to the top and a few more guides joined us, loaded us into the tubes, and sent us down river. It was a great feeling to just kick back, relax and float. There was some bumping, some spinning, and some speed, but it was all just the right amount. We passed through a few tunnels and sang along to music the guides were blaring from a waterproof speaker. The last mile or so was just a lazy float looking at trees. It was a great way to end our trip. Unfortunately, there was still business to attend to though. We had to get the rental car clean before returning it… and wouldn’t you know it, not a working vacuum on the island. I mean that literally, there was a lot of sand in that car and Troy drove us to every gas station and carwash on the island and all of them were out of order. Eventually we had to call it, he did his best to sweep and scoop the sand out by hand and apparently the owner was happy, but it was a hell of a job to get that thing clean with his bare hands.

All that was left now, was to wait at the airport for our plane. All week I had been looking for stamps for my postcards and finally found them in a convenience store in the airport, I bought and affixed them. I then asked security where the post box was, only to be told its on the other side of the security gate that I had just gone through… In classic Hawaiian fashion, the guard said he could deposit them for me after his shift. I was doubtful but, out of options, handed them to him. I am please to announce, he is a man of his word, my nephew received his card. We then found one of those old fashion coin press machines that squishes a penny into an oval with a design on it, I naturally got one with a chicken on it. We then got some food, a drink, and waited for the flight home that entailed an uneventful 8 hour layover in Vancouver. I was sad to see it end, but it was the perfect length of vacation, it hadn’t lasted long enough for me to have a bad or even boring day and left me wanting more. This was the closest I have ever come to a lay-on-the-beach-and-relax resort esque vacation and until now I didn’t see the appeal. Dirt-bag adventure travel will always have my heart, but I now have this nagging urge to go somewhere hot and and just take it easy. This was my first trip to Hawaii, but hopefully it wont be my last.


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WARTIME WHEELGUN

Shooting a Webley MKIV

This is probably my favorite article to date, it was just a lot of fun to write, I had a friend help me make it all work and I have since started casting ammunition for this gun which is a fun way to spend a Saturday. It was also published in the March/April 2021 of the Canadian Firearms Journal. As a result of it being published I received an email from a retired Toronto police officer saying he had used one in the 70’s, I exchanged a few emails with him because he was simply an interesting man. Its also worth noting that currently, the Liberal party of Canada has used an OIC to “freeze” handgun transfers while they push through Bill C21 to make it permanent (as well as enacts the largest firearms ban in Canadian history) as a result, the only people in Canada who will get to enjoy these guns are the people who already own them. It makes me sad to think that no Canadian will ever again feel the sense of joy and accomplishment of getting one of these old guns to work again.

Like many gun owners, I have a lengthy mental list of firearms I would like to own someday. Of course, they must be available for the right price for me to actually make a purchase. One such firearm is a Webley revolver. I am not sure why I want one, maybe its because it’s a top break or because I have a soft spot for old military firearms. Either way, a friend of mine owned one and I was a touch envious, and having shot one, I knew I really wanted one of my own.

I have come close to buying one several times, even to the point of having one in the digital shopping cart and thinking, “I better wait, $300 is a lot right now.” Well, now that I’m a touch older, but still no wiser, I decided to try and track one down. Sadly, it looks like the price on them has nearly doubled since the first time I almost bought one. I asked around, and the few that I could find were well over $500 and often the tanker model with the bobbed hammer. I wanted cheap and I wanted the option of single or double-action.

Finally, one morning, earlier this year, the stars aligned. I woke up a little earlier than usual and was too lazy to get out of bed, so instead I went on my phone and casually perused some websites known for selling used guns. I do this whenever I am bored, just in case something from that mental list jumps up. In this case, Ellwood Epps had a Webley MK IV in 38/200 (aka 38 S&W). The price was about right, just a touch over $400. Once my wife woke up, before she was able to get some coffee into herself to gather her senses, I asked her if I could scoop it up. On her way to the coffee maker, she mumbled, “Yeah, sure, whatever.” It’s a classic Jedi mind trick, use it carefully.

While I waited for the government to rubber stamp the transfer, I did a bit of research and found out this gun, according to the serial number, was made in 1944 (via armsresearch.co.uk). As a result of being made for the war effort, mine is also stamped “WAR FINISH.” I am told this is there because the manufacturer was rushing production and didn’t want people thinking all their guns were that rough around the edges. I do have to say though, this specific one seems to have a nice finish compared to some of the images I have been able to find on Google. Mine only has some milling marks on smaller features and parts, while some photos show a rough finish on the sides of the frame itself. In my digital travels I also found that the revolver was originally designed to have a 200-grain bullet, hence its designation of 38/200.

Tracing the lineage of the MK IV in 38/200 is a wild ride. The MK numbers seem to have been somewhat reused on new models in new calibers and a lot of information online is contradictory, so I did my best to sift through.  Webley & Scott began in 1790 making bullet moulds and has manufactured firearms since 1834 (webleyandscott.com). Their first top break model, the MK 1 in .455 Webley being adopted by the British and by extension the commonwealth armies in 1887. After several quick upgrades and modifications, they were at the MK VI still in .455 Webley. These were the service revolver for the Boer War and the First World War (wikipedia.org/wiki/Webley_Revolver). Shortly after the First World War it was determined that .455 Webley was too large for some soldiers to use effectively, after trials it was replaced with a small but heavy 200 grain .38 caliber, hence 38/200.  It was found, in this weight, to have similar stopping power as the .455 Webley. Initially the contract to make the revolvers for this new cartridge was given to Enfield to make the No 2 Mark 1. However, it seems Enfield could not keep up with demand and Webley was given a contract to make their MK IV in 38/200. It was the standard sidearm for British and Commonwealth forces through the second world war and into the early 1960s (norfolktankmuseum.co.uk/webley-revolver/). Police in Singapore and Honk Kong used them up until the 1970s (wikipedia.org/wiki/Webley_Revolver). Currently, Webley & Scott only make their pistols in air gun versions. India Ordinance Factories still make several pistols based on the Webley design but in .32 caliber. Notably there is a 2 inch, 5 inch, and lightweight model (4.5” barrel and titanium frame) and I would absolutely love to get one of these (ofb.gov.in/civil-trade). The lightweight model, called the NIRBHEEK, retails for 105,000 rupees (or about $1825 cad) its just a shame its in .32 caliber so its prohibited here.

One unfortunate thing I found in my research was that 38 S&W ammunition is expensive. Nearly a dollar a round locally. When I purchased the Webley, I didn’t plan on reloading for it, but that plan changed immediately upon seeing the price of ammo. So, I ordered some brass and dies. They were easy enough to find, but a 200-grain bullet does not seem to exist for a .38 caliber revolver. It seems this has been a problem since the beginning for the 38/200. During the Second World War munitions for the revolvers had to come from the USA in the form of 38 S&W, complete with a 145-grain projectile which was found to be underpowered for battlefield usage (norfolktankmuseum.co.uk/webley-revolver/).

The old Webley finally came in the mail and it was time to make it go bang. The only projectiles I had handy were some 148 grain wadcutters that my 1873 cattleman revolver (357 Mag.) likes. The most useful information I could find was in my old Number 11 Speer Reloading Manual from 1988 (the year before I was born). None of my newer books or online resources had anything to contribute. I loaded some up with Bullseye powder and headed to the range. I was shocked by two things. First, how much smoke Bullseye produces, I had never used it before and actually stopped to check online that this was normal. Now that I know it’s normal, I find it kind of fun, like shooting black powder. The second shock was that my point of impact was about eight inches low of my point of aim at 10 yards. This worried me as my sights are not adjustable.

As for the rest of the gun, the trigger feels good in single-action, no creep and minimal over travel. In double-action it was a bit of a gong show, as the only way I could shoot it and hit paper was if I went very slowly, to the point that it was faster to shoot it as a single-action. Glad I didn’t buy the tanker model. The gun was also a lot snappier in the hand than I thought the small 38 S&W would be, likely owing to the pistol’s small stature.

I was now doing research on how to make a pistol shoot higher. It turns out, its very counter intuitive to a rifle guy like me. The trick is a heavier bullet, so that is goes slower and has more dwell time in the barrel as the recoil pushes the muzzle up. This makes sense since the gun was designed for a 200-grain bullet. I was now in an odd place; in that you cannot buy cast lead bullets in small quantities and I didn’t want to buy 500 of something that would give me the same problem. I asked around online about different bullet weights and received no useful help, which is normal for online questions. Typically, asking a question like that online turns into someone suggesting the problem is the person shooting the gun. Here’s a funny side story; I mentioned once I was having trouble with my CZ 550 in 375 H&H and someone suggested I was “probably limp-wristing it.” So, take the internet’s advice with a grain of salt. That said, my internet inquires were not a complete waste as a friend from 3-gun had spotted one and contacted me to let me know he was casting 158 grain bullets for his revolver and would happily give me some to try. I swung by his house hoping to grab ten and he gave me nearly fifty. I know Kurt is a good guy because we are relatively new acquaintances, and he was casting them in a single-cavity mould. He also showed me his powder coating setup.

I ran home and loaded those bullets up as fast as I could and hit the range the next day. The darn things worked perfectly! Offhand the groups were still not great (5 or 6 inches at 10 yards), but they were to point of aim. Using a rest, I was able to get about a 3inch group at 10 yards. Using a rest, however, proved to be an interesting lesson in harmonics, resting on the barrel caused the groups to migrate about 5 inches south of point of aim.  This made me aware of two things. One, I need to work on my pistol shooting and two… I had to start casting and powder coating. I had already been batting around the idea of casting for other pistols and before this latest OIC nonsense I was casting for my cannon already, although casting a 13,000-grain (1.8lbs) slug for a cannon is a bit slower of an affair than a 158-grain pistol bullet. Luckily for me, my stepdad has been casting for years and has his local tire shop supplying him with lead, he also, more importantly, has the space and the melting pot. So now I have gone out and bought a two-cavity mould to make bullets and a used toaster oven for coating them.

Sadly, COVID-19 restrictions mean I cannot go out and start making bullets just yet, so I may have to crack and buy a box of loaded stuff off the shelf in the meantime… dang it. 

In any case, the work and the fun will continue for some time. I’ve learned a bunch and my education isn’t over. If you like getting old gun shooting again, these vintage Webleys are great projects.


Posted in Marksmanship, Published Workwith 1 comment.

Spectre Ballistics 10/22 Adaptor

This was an article originally published in November/December issue of the Canadian Firearms Journal, distributed through The NFA. It can be downloaded and read here.

I had the opportunity to test the 10/22 Magazine Adapter from Spectre Ballistics, a local Alberta company that’s big on creative solutions. This handy device allows you to use Remington 597 magazines in a Ruger 10/22. Why does anyone want that? Simple, magazine capacity. Rugers, due to the existence of a rare pistol variant called the “10/22 Charger” can only have a 10 round magazine because the standard 10/22 magazine is now considered a pistol magazine. The Remington 597, on the other hand, only comes in rifle models and as such is not subject to magazine capacity laws. Under Canadian law, you can modify a firearm to take any magazine and the magazine is only subject to the laws of its original manufacture. This is why so many people with AR-15s, normally only allowed 5 rounds, would buy 10 round LAR (AR-15 pistol) magazines and use them in their rifles and be legal. However, it is important to note that it is illegal to modify a magazine to fit a rifle.

So, here’s the scoop. Install is a snap, take out your old magazine, put this in its place and you are done. No milling, drilling, or gunsmithing. This I liked. As for reliability, the only issues I could make happen were pushing the magazine forward while firing, it would prevent the action from going into battery completely, creating a light strike. I twisted, pushed, and pulled every which way with no other issues, even firing the rifle upside down (in a safe fashion) caused no troubles.

After some usage, the only flaw I can find is that Remington 597 magazines are not great. I had 2 of them shatter springs. Initially I thought the adapter was causing feed issues, but upon inspection, my magazines sounded like maracas. I took them apart and found that what should have been 1 long spring was 9 pieces in one magazine and 4 pieces in the other. A bit of research online shows that some people have had much better results with the 597 magazines if they do a break in process. The process is simple, only load it to 5 rounds a few times, then only 10 a few times, then 15 so on and so on.

One thing I was hesitant about, but really came around on, is the magazine release being on the left-hand side. I worried it would be awkward, it was not. It turns out I much prefer it over the original Ruger release. With the factory 10/22 magazine, and release, I found to remove the magazine I would maintain control of the rifle with my right hand and then use my left thumb to hit the release and catch the magazine in my palm as it fell. With this adaptor and longer magazine, I can maintain control of the rifle with my right hand, grab the magazine with my left, then use my left thumb to hit the release and pull the magazine out. This allows me to always have positive control of both the firearm and the magazine. In a rushed reload, like say, a shooting competition, you could have a fresh magazine in your left hand, hit the release with your left index finger, allow the magazine to free fall (it has enough weight and clearance to do so) and then insert the fresh magazine.

I think anyone who picks up one of these adaptors will be happy they did. After being lent one to test, I’ve decided to buy one. You can buy them direct from www.SpectreBallistics.com


Posted in Marksmanship, Published Workwith no comments yet.

Juan De Fuca Marine Trail

I first learned of the Juan De Fuca Marine Trail immediately after hiking the West Coast Trail I had just finished the hike and was walking into a Part Renfrew restaurant for food and I saw the sign for it and asked one of my fellow hikers what it was. They explained it was a less-known hike that continued where the West Coast Trail left off. Fast forward to this year, for a lot of reasons I’ve been in a mood to do something silly and had to take a shift off of work for a friend’s wedding and ended up with about 10 days to do something, so I flew myself to victoria, got a hostel for a night, hit the trail for a few days and then spent two more days in Victoria before flying home. One of those days was spent on a little honda scooter doing a lap around the city along the coastline, but that’s another tale for another time.

Day 1: Victoria to Port Renfrew to Botanical to Little Kuitshe Creek Campsite

Day one was a little rough, I had to be up nice and early to catch the bus from downtown Victoria to Port Renfrew which took somewhere around 3 hours, by the time the dust settled. From where the bus dropped me, and a few others off, it was about a 2.5km walk along a paved road to get to the trailhead, Botanical Beach. Along the way, I made friends with two younger guys who were doing the trail for the first time (but had done the West Coast Trail the year before). They pulled ahead of me at the start of the trek when I stopped to pay my camping fees (they did theirs online before starting). I stopped at Botanical to have a quick breakfast and take a look at the tide pools. This is where I made a big mistake. It didn’t seem that impressive or exciting to me so I didn’t hang around long. Turns out I should have waited for low tide. I later learned that it’s one of the best sites/beaches on the island when the tide is fully out. Lesson learned for next time. The trail from the beach was initially a nice forest walk through some nice big trees, eventually, the trees tightened in on the trail which turned into ugly roots and mud. Lots of mud. Before the trail got too bad I took a detour to Providence Cove where I met back up with the two young men I had somewhat befriended, as well as a pair of girls hiking. The guys and I intended to stay at Little Kuitshe while the two girls intended to stay at Sombrio beach so they could make a push the next day to avoid Chin Beach which they were told had no food cache boxes. From the cove to the campsite was a rough ugly hike, with ankle-deep mud, and slippery ankle buster roots. I overtook the two guys, one of whom said he was having problems with his knee. The girls were miles ahead and I didn’t see them again that day. Little Kuitshe campsite was fairly unimpressive, which is what I had read about it previously. It’s just a patch of land high above the water with space for tents. Hours after my arrival the two guys came into camp, one limping. His knee had really gotten bad so he was going to hike out in the morning and catch a ride back to town.

Botanical Beach
The first portion of the trail was a nice walk through the forest
Providence Cove
Walking along downed trees is fun and common
What a lot of the trail looked like on day 1
Mental note: buy gators for the next coastal hike

Day 2: Little Kuitshe to Chin Beach

Day 2 of hiking was far better than day 1. Way less mud and a lot more technical. It was still a lot of hiking in the trees with the occasional view of the ocean. Somewhere along the way was Sombrio beach which was a welcome relief from walking in the forest, it’s a coastal hike, let’s hike along the water! Sombrio was pretty busy since it’s a nice beach and easily accessible by car. I passed the two girls from the previous day, they were both fast asleep on the beach. I later learned from other hikers one of them had hurt her ankle and they had to quit. On the far east end was an unmarked stream with a trail that led to a waterfall. It’s called a secret waterfall, but it’s not that big of a secret based on how many people wandered in and out. Also, I asked someone about it and they pointed me right to it. After Sombrio it was time for one of the harder portions of the hike. I found it actually easier than day one because instead of a boggy mudhole, it was just elevation gain and loss. Fortunately, there was also a 2km ish stretch of a nice maintained gravel path. I got to Chin Beach and found the bear cache was actually there, but was under a very large tree and had been crushed flat. I dug some rope out of my pack and hung my food up near the outhouses. Later someone informed me there was a proper cache farther up the trail so I went to retrieve my food and move it. I found someone had set their tent up right underneath my food and right beside the bathroom. They had an entire beach they could camp on yet somehow they felt that under a stranger’s food and in the stench of an outhouse was the best spot. I wondered if they knew something I didn’t but settled on the more likely scenario that they just didn’t know a lot. I made friendly conversation with a couple, Chris and AJ, sun tanning on the beach and drinking wine, they seemed like my kind of people. They invited me to come by later for a campfire. While chatting with them, a couple came by and the girl announced she had lost a boot to the ocean. I wish I had asked how that happened, Chris, jumped up and shouted that he had found a single flip-flop sandal in their campsite when they arrived. Wouldnt you know it, it was the right foot and close to the right size. Luckily a highway runs parallel to the trail so there are a lot of opportunities to hike out when things like this happen. Later when I went back for a campfire, a few more people had shown up and it was quite a communal event. There were 3 more people there, one of whom was taking her friend on her first hike, that friend was exhausted and slept from about 5 pm until sometime the next day when I saw them again.

Two large suspension bridges on day two
A lot of small waterfalls along the entire hike
“hidden” waterfall
I arrived at camp early enough to sit and read while my boots dried in the sun
Macaroni and cheese is quick, easy, delicious, and travels well

Day 3: Chin to Bear Beach

Day 3 was more challenging than day 2 overall, it was about the same level of difficulty, there was just more distance at that difficulty. At some point, I took a wrong turn and ended up going too far to turn back. I had to slog through calf-deep mud and climb a ladder made of tree roots to get back on the trail, all in view of the nice bridge I should have used to cross the little Valley. Later I found a steel bridge that had been destroyed by a large tree falling on it, I’m seeing a pattern here of trees wrecking things. I was told I could climb down, cross the shallow creek and then climb up… but there’s no sense of adventure there so instead I slid down the bridge, climbed onto the log, and then jumped to the other side. It sounds exciting but this was all about eight feet above the creek. Bear Beach was by far my favorite campsite. I was able to set up my little tent just above the high water mark on the shoreline and have a small fire in front of my tent. Also all the people I had met the evening before camped in the same area. The two newer hikers camped beside me again and I saw why they were so tired, their bags were nearly double the necessary size and set for someone a foot taller than them. I adjusted their bags as much as I could for proper fit and the following day I was told it helped a lot, hopefully, that’s true and they weren’t just being polite.

Standing on a log on a bridge
Ocean front property

Day 4: Bear Beach to Mystic Beach to China Beach to Victoria

Day 4 was going to be an easy lazy day. I had 9km of “moderate” hiking and the bus was scheduled to pick me up at the trailhead at 6:30 pm. In the morning I got lucky and had my tent packed just before it started to lightly rain. The rain only lasted about an hour and was the only rain of my hike, a rare stroke of luck for a hike along the coast. The trail out was gentle and had a few ladders and bridges. The previous day I had damaged my water filter while showing someone how great it is. I use a Sawyer squeeze filter, basically, you fill a bladder with water (like a platypus bag) screw on the filter, and squeeze it into your water bottle… well I split the bag so I couldn’t squeeze. Luckily for me, I also had water purifying tables because the creeks run from roads and inhabited land. I filled my bottles with the cleanest stream water I could find and tossed two tablets in to be extra safe. After an hour of them doing their thing, I took a swig of what tasted like jacuzzi water. At least I know I won’t catch anything from the water. In my poor research phase, I had thought that the trail ended at China beach, but it actually ends at Mystic beach which shares a trailhead with China beach, hence my confusion. I got to mystic around noon. I wandered around and relaxed for a few hours and even managed to find some beach glass and a small cove on the west end. From there I walked the extra few km to China beach and waded in the cool water then sat back, relaxed, and listened to some music while I waited for the bus to come. Once back in Victoria I hit the first pizza place I could find for two slices and an ice cold rootbeer. I checked into the hostel, had a quick shower, and hurried to the attached bar for a beer.

Waterfall under some logs
Cove on Mystic Beach
Not hard to kill an afternoon at the beach

Posted in Hiking, Travelwith 1 comment.

Waterton Flop

Life’s barely long enough to get good at one thing. So be careful what you get good at.

Rust Cohle

My original intention was to drive to Waterton, spend the night in town, then a night at Twin Lakes followed by a night at Goat Lake with fishing at both. I arrived at Waterton to find its changed a lot in the nearly 7 years since I’d been there last. The quiet little town was full to the brim, standing room only. It was nice to see it getting the attention it deserved, but I was sad to see my memory’s version of it as a sleepy mountain town no longer exists.

When I got to the visitor center to pick up my backcountry permit I was informed that both of those trails were completely “snowbound” and fishing season didn’t open for another week. It was my own fault for not looking closer at the regulations and checking the trail reports. I’m still learning how to do this all myself and sometimes simple things fall through the cracks. I was offered instead, a 2-night permit for Alderson lake or one night at Alderson and one night at Bertha Lake. 2-days at Alderson sounded rather dull so I went with the two separate hikes.

The next morning I hiked into Alderson Lake. I was at my camp sight before noon. The trail itself was somewhat uneventful. The most interesting part was the waterfall at the trailhead. Alderson Lake, in its defense, is a nice-looking lake, but it’s the tail end of a much longer hike that starts at Cameron Lake. Unfortunately due to the large amounts of remaining snow, I could not press further down the trail to sightsee. I was penciled in to spend the next 20 or so hours, alone, beside a cold windy lake that I couldn’t even fish in.

Waterfall in the parking lot

I decided to have a nap in my little tent, it was interrupted by yelling and a banging coming from near the outhouse. I got my boots on and grabbed my bear spray and ran to investigate. I found two young men with day packs and fishing rods attacking the outhouse. I asked what was going on and they explained there was “a huge groundhog in the outhouse” I poked my head in and saw the unmistakable grizzly-like silver-tipped brown hair of a marmot. I told them what it was and to be careful, they have a little more claw than a groundhog. Their tactic of standing in the doorway and throwing things and poking it clearly wasn’t working, I suggested baiting it out and giving it space. They were already there illegally fishing, may as well feed the wildlife too, seemed less wrong that harassing the wildlife. They tossed it some cheese crackers and gave it some space, I went back to my tent to resume my half-hearted nap.

When 5 pm rolled around I got up and visited the outhouse, to my relief it was vacant. I then made myself some dinner of sausage, rice, and beans… it was terrible. I was trying something new and it didn’t work. It sat in my stomach like a cannonball. I walked around the campsite and enjoyed the view of the lake now that the wind had somewhat died down. I then lay down and read a few chapters in my book. As the wind gusts hammered my little tent, and my stomach went from a cannonball to molten lead, I realized I wasn’t having a good time… and tomorrow it was supposed to rain.

As I read, I contemplated my options and considered hiking out that night, I decided to finish my page in my book and make a decision. The last line of the page, in Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, was “The only Zen you find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there. Let’s get out of here.”

I can’t even imagine a more serendipitous and appropriate thing to read at that moment. I was feeling sad and alone on the side of a mountain having brought no zen with me. I snapped the book shut and checked my watch, 8:30 pm. Sunset was 9:44 pm and I had 7km of well-marked trail to my car. To hell with it, I’m leaving. I packed with fervor and within a matter of minutes, I was on the trail making my way out.

The entire hike out I had to keep asking myself, did I not like hiking, or did I not like THIS hike? Maybe I don’t like hiking, I just liked the people I used to hike with. The entire way out I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched or followed, nothing sinister, just that feeling you get sometimes. I kept looking back expecting to see something like maybe a deer on the trail looking at me. I arrived at the trailhead around 10 pm and pointed my car home. Apologies to Bertha Lake, I’m sure it’s lovely but I wasn’t in the mood. I arrived back home at 430 am with little more than a yawn on the road.

It also crossed my mind that if I don’t like hiking, that means I’ve spent the last 10 years getting good at something I don’t like. It would make this blog an even more foolish endeavor. I have a big hike planned for a little over a week from now. I intend to go and give this some serious consideration while hiking the Juan De Fuca Marine Trail. This post may very well be my swan song. A story ending with me being chased off a mountain by my imagination. I write this post at 5 am after driving through the night. It feels like an appropriate end since my first story started with me writing in a fever at 3 am 10 years ago, almost to the day. In that time my blog has accumulated about 1 follower per year, several of whom I know have since passed away. A smart man would end it here, but I’ve always been a fool, so I guess we will see.


Posted in Hikingwith 1 comment.

Sausage Doe

Two hours into my season I passed on a nice buck. It was about the same size as all the other bucks I have shot on that farm, so I thought I’d better wait for bigger. I was hoping bigger would come along, but it didn’t. I was also hoping that if bigger didn’t come along that season, at least that one would have another year to grow. It didn’t, my brother got it a few days later, and he looked a bit bigger once he was laying down.

That said, I can’t be too sad. This season I tried my hand at rattling (using fake antlers to imitate the sound of deer fighting to draw out curious bucks). This worked very well for me and I found myself within 20 yards of small bucks on at least 2 occasions and had others within 50. I also, without a tag, had two close run-ins with a very nice mule deer buck. It was nice to learn a new skill and have it actually work. In general, this season, it was rare for me to go a day without at least seeing a deer or two. This is very encouraging, its positive results that make me feel as though I am getting better as a hunter. This season I really started to wrap my head around two things, first is that deer are endlessly patient, so you have to outsmart it or get it curious. The second is that deer don’t want to waste energy so they won’t run unless you make them, so if spotted, remain motionless until they lose interest or, more likely, come in for a closer look. I had a few make a tight circle around me at a slow pace until they were able to catch my scent. The main lesson is, don’t give them a reason to run and they won’t run… maybe.

These ideas solidified themselves towards the end of the season when I came around a tree-lined trail a little fast and found myself and a mule doe 100 yards apart both out in the open awkwardly making eye contact. I froze and she stood and stared for a few minutes, then turned and slowly walked away. As soon as I was out of her line of sight I walked to where she was. She had gone down a hill, through a thin row of trees, and was standing in a clearing below me with two other, smaller, does. Again, I found myself out in the open, but this time with 3 sets of eyes on me. I slowly crouched down and brought my rifle up. I didn’t have a shot at her, the trees were in the way. I debated trying to push or sneak around, but I am a firm believer that almost all of a deer’s senses are stronger than mine so she would have heard me a mile away. Instead, I stayed as motionless as possible hoping her curiosity would get the best of her. Eventually, they cautiously started walking across the clearing from my left to right. I looked along the tree line and picked a few unobstructed lines of sight. These were my shooting lanes. If she crossed a shooting lane, I had her. She slowly worked her way just along the edges of the first few lanes stopping and dipping her head occasionally. I think deer do this to try and fake out predators, they lower their head as thought to feed and then immediately bring the back up quick and look in the direction of what they’re worried about (I base this on no scientific evidence whatsoever). Eventually, she worked her way to the last possible shooting lane, and I was ready, my .243 and I snuck a shot between two birch trees, right into her vitals and she went down.

I went down, put my tag on her, and did my best to field dress her. I then drug her across the snow-filled clearing to the trail so we could come back with the side-by-side and retrieve her. I walked back to the farm and Darrell and I came back and retrieved the deer with the ATV.

Two weeks later, I came out and we butchered the deer. My mom said she wanted deer sausage, and on the rare occasion my mother asks me for something, I do my best to do it. So, we made sausage. We started by removing the back straps and cutting them into steaks, as they are the choice cuts. The rest Darrell and I cut off the bone, cubed, and ground. We then cubed and ground an equivalent amount of pork and mixed it all together with spices. Venison is very lean meat and without adding pork or beef it makes a very dry sausage. We stuffed the ground meat into casings (we use “natural casings”, which are actually pork intestines). We then ran the sausage in the smoker with a mix of willow, apple, and saskatoon wood. It came out fantastic. Making sausage is one of my favorite things because there is no food better than sausage that’s still warm from the smoker.

Venison, off the bone
Garlic is a key ingredient in most good things
venison, pork, and spices ready to grind and stuff
Sausage ready to be smoked
sausage fresh out fo the smoker, my favorite food
packed and ready to be gifted out

We vacuum sealed the sausage and put it in the deep freeze at the farm to be enjoyed later. I also made sure to take a few rings to some friends, because what’s the point of having some of the best food in the world if you’re not going to share it?


Posted in How-To, Huntingwith 1 comment.