TIED TO NATURE
magazine
THE BIG GAME ISSUE WINTER 2020 DISPLAY UNTIL MARCH 1, 2021
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Nick Sweeny looks out over a Montana sunrise and wonders what bugle to go after. Photo by Chris Hood
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BUSTED! Photo by Denver Bryan
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“A hunter should never let himself be deluded by pride or false sense of dominance. It is not through our power that we take life in nature; it is through the power of nature that life is given to us.” — Richard Nelson. Photo by Gary Gillett
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Contents
LAST, BEST BULL by Chris Hood “I live for the second week of September in Montana. Why Montana? Its mountains are tailor made for bowhunting elk—gorgeous sprawling terrain with numerous open, grassy meadows for glassing, but still enough broken country to put a stalk on a bull.”
NOMADS OF THE SKY AND EARTH by Mike McTee “In my mind, I follow an atom of lead. I watch machinery break it from rock, endure the intense heat as a smelter liquifies it from stone, track its path to the ammunition factory, wait beside it in a hunter’s gun safe, feel it rush past crisp air at 3,000 feet per second, suffer its crashing jolt into an elk, and rest with it for a few days before seeing a golden eagle swallow it, continuing the atom’s endless, nomadic life.”
DUCKS ARE DUCKS by Justin Witt “I got close enough to see my truck—and the four others parked around it. That’s when I noticed the men running through the marsh in combat gear and bulletproof vests with shouldered rifles. They were floundering in the mud and falling as they tried to plow across the canals. The scene was so out of place it took me a moment to realize that this might have something to do with me.”
PELAGIC by Dave Zoby “I arrange my flies on the oval-shaped hotel room table. I place the shrimp flies in one pile, the crab imitations in another. My girlfriend in Colorado sends me a message expressing her firm unhappiness with the way things are going. She says she wants me to mail her my copy of the key to her house. It’s just a few days after New Year’s, and champagne is on sale at the CVS for six bucks. I buy two bottles and stash them in my hotel room at the Blue Marlin. This isn’t how I wanted the new year to begin, but when plying the world for fish and trying to pass yourself off as a sportswriter, you get what you get.”
SIERRA EL ALAMO by Justin Moore “As the numbers of hunters coming to the high-fenced area slowed, Artee made the decision to begin transporting some of the sheep he had raised to the wilds of his 80,000 acres named Sierra El Alamo. […] Releasing the sheep and helping to populate the native herds was an easy decision for the Artees to make; their biggest hurdle was undoing the abuse and neglect the land had endured under the previous owners.”
HIGH ON LOWCOUNTRY REDS by Paul Doughty “For a few of us, the cold, mud, and scrapes are worth it to see that first torpedo push across a mudflat in the midday sun, sometimes in water so shallow you could make a convincing argument that redfish are amphibious. During winter we might be pursuing the same species, but we’re after a completely different fish.”
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LIEUTENANT COLONEL BOSS by Tom Keer “A soft breeze carried the wonderful aroma of timothy, alfalfa, and horse manure across the faded white parking space lines. Several horse and livestock trailers were hitched to dusty jacked-ups occupying dozens of spaces on either side. Maybe that’s what made Milner smile.”
BIG GAME GEAR GUIDE by Strung Staff From the whitetail woods to the prairies to the mountains we depend on our gear to keep us in the hunt. Our gear list is always evolving and has changed many times over the years because of the continual innovation and ingenuity of the hunting community. This is our favorite gear we’ve been using recently. Every item comes highly recommended.
RATIONS & INTOXICANTS by Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley “If you choose to make hunting a lifestyle, the best strategy to incorporating the meat you shoot into your everyday life is knowing how to swap wild game meat into the dishes that you already love. It’s not that difficult if you take some time to think about it.”
GUNNING THE WHITE BIRDS OF WINTER by Jim McCann “As the dogs worked left and right on their uphill drive, I moved slowly along below them, trying to warm aging muscles and catch my breath. Not far up the slope, my eye spied a small covey of around eight birds silhouetted against a vibrant blue sky. They appeared to be on the windblown snow just below the top of the ridge about a half-mile away—a welcomed sight at the start of a morning hunt. Taking mental note of their approximate position, I planned on later introducing those birds to my pointing dogs, but first we had the slope in front of us.”
GHOST IN THE LAKE by Reed Knappe photos by Val Atkinson “How did Bryce Nielson wind up at the crux of two of the twentieth century’s most remarkable, if unevenly publicized trout conservation successes? Was it, as he would probably insist, a collision of dumb luck and stubbornness? Speculating is tricky, but there seems to be something in these stories beyond simple coincidence.”
GAUCHO GUIDES words by Gustavo Hiebaum photos by Gonzalo Flego “In covering the wide swaths they manage, the gauchos have also developed a keen sense of the stag populations and their behaviors. Naturally they have taken on the dual roles of gaucho and guide. In true Patagonian form, the gauchos, who have perfected the art of raising cattle on vast tracts of varied land, have also perfected the art of spot-and-stalk hunting.”
WHEN HEAVEN FREEZES OVER by Denver Bryan “Montana’s winter waterfowl season doesn’t truly arrive until the temperature drops well below zero, freezing up all the water in the state except for spring creeks and tailwaters. Although not for the faint of heart, if you can find open water this time of the year, chances are you’ll also find some amazing hunting.”
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magazine
Publisher: JOSEPH J. BALLARINI
Editor-in-Chief: RYAN SPARKS
Creative Director: SCOTT MORRISON
Conservation Editor: REED KNAPPE Fly Fishing Editor: DAVE ZOBY Upland Editor: TOM KEER
Waterfowl Editor: E. DONNALL THOMAS JR.
Wild Foods Editor: JENNY NGUYEN-WHEATLEY Editors At Large: EHOR BOYANOWSKY
ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY JOE DOGGETT
MARK HATTER Copy Editor: LEILA BEASLEY
Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH
CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS Val Atkinson Denver Bryan Sara Diggins Paul Doughty Gonzalo Flego Gary Gillett Gustavo Hiebaum Chris Hood
Joseph Jackson Dylan Lenz Jim McCann Mike McTee Justin Moore Tim Ryan Justin Witt
COVER
“The true trophy hunter is a self-disciplined perfectionist seeking a single animal, the ancient patriarch well past his prime that is often an outcast from his own kind. […] If successful, he will enshrine the trophy in a place of honor. This is a more noble and fitting end than dying on some lost and lonely ledge where the scavengers will pick his bones, and his magnificent horns will weather away and be lost forever.” — Elgin Gates Photo: Chris Hood Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on upland, waterfowl, and big game hunting, fly fishing, wild foods, and conservation.
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Photo: Todd Field
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letter from the EDITOR This September I headed west with my brother-in-law to hunt elk with a bow in Idaho. In terms of hunting purity, it would score high—over the counter, public land, DIY, archery hunting. Even after 1,300 miles of driving, I couldn’t help but feel the same instinctual magnetism that hunters have felt for thousands of years when the mountains came into view. Whether it’s looking over an immense mountain vista for sheep, calling September elk, or spending long hours in a tree stand hunting whitetails, big game hunting is just so irresistibly romantic—rugged country, long days, timeless sunsets, the lowest of lows, and the highest highs. Over the course of our hunt we experienced all of this, but we also experienced the less glamorous realities of big game hunting; miles of hiking, hard climbs, bumping into other hunters, swirling winds, and elusive elk. A few days felt less like hunting and more like long, off-trail hikes where we happened to be carrying bows. Each morning started the same way. The predawn alarm, stirring from the tent, a quick breakfast, a cup of coffee, and setting out with the words, “let’s go kill an elk.” We came close on several occasions. One afternoon we scrambled up a steep incline, dropped into a bowlshaped basin, and were immediately greeted by a bugling elk. We set up quickly and within minutes an enraged six-point bull was coming towards us, incessantly bugling as he approached. He stopped at 50 yards to rake a tree, thrashing it for several minutes. Then I felt the wind on the back of my neck and the bull’s demeanor completely changed. He turned and walked away.
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The next evening, we exchanged bugles with what was likely the same bull, only to have him round up his cows, taking them higher and higher up the basin until he disappeared over the ridge. We got within 100 yards of him on two occasions, but he gave us the slip both times. After ten days in the mountains it was time to head home empty handed. Of course, the pleasure of hunting comes more from the process than the product, but the thud of empty coolers hitting my garage floor as we unloaded them from the truck was the unmistakable sound of defeat. Still, as Edward Abbey wrote, “Anything, any excuse, to get out into the hills, away from the crowds, to live, if only for a few days, beyond the wall. That was the point of hunting.” Now that my blisters have healed and time has dulled the feeling of defeat, I look back on our hunt, and the whole thing still seems so damn romantic. I’ll be back next year. I hope you enjoy Strung’s first Big Game Issue and that it becomes something you look forward to reading each year. I hope it reminds you of hunts gone by and inspires you to go on the hunts you’ve been dreaming about your entire life. More than anything, I hope it relates what we all love about hunting—how it gives us our closest acquaintance with Nature and reminds us how fortunate we are to live in a world so perfectly made and astoundingly beautiful.
Ryan Sparks Editor-in-Chief
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DENVER BRYAN Denver Bryan is a former wildlife biologist and long-time outdoor photographer, primarily hunting and fishing, with over 500 magazine covers and several books to his credit. Nowadays, he’s more retired than not, and lives by the motto, ‘Less film…..more bullets, bows and flyrods.’ For more on Denver’s photography check out his website at www.denverbryan.com
CHRIS HOOD Chris Hood grew up in the driftless area of southwest Wisconsin, home to some of the biggest whitetails and best fly fishing in the country. Chris has been a part of the outdoor industry from the very beginning, helping his father and uncle with their small camo company. Eventually taking a marketing role, Chris found his calling behind the camera. To put it simply, Chris tells stories. He specializes in wildlife and landscape photography. He lives to chase elk in the mountains in September and hunt whitetails on the family farm the rest of the year.
GONZALO FLEGO Gonzalo Flego was born in Campana next to the Parana River, near Buenos Aires. When he was young, his father’s work took him all over Argentina where he was introduced to fly fishing. Later, his passion for fly fishing led him to San Martin where he studied tourism and pursued trout with a fly rod. He is now the head guide for SET Fly fishing where he is actively involved in sales and marketing. His love of photography has paralleled his passion for fly fishing. He has a camera with him wherever he goes.
GUSTAVO HIEBAUM Gustavo Hiebaum grew up in Bahia Blanca, a small town south of Buenos Aires on the Atlantic Coast. At a young age he developed a deep passion for fly fishing while on family vacations to Patagonia. Now, after almost 20 years in the fly fishing industry Gustavo´s passion has only increased. He founded Andes Drifters, a fly fishing outfitter offering customized trips to Patagonia. Later, he partnered with Parana on the Fly to create SET Fly Fishing, a fly fishing travel company operating five lodges throughout Argentina that specialize in trout and dorado. He is continually looking for new ventures, training guides, and enjoying the lasting friendships made with visiting anglers.
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Raised on a cattle ranch in rural eastern Oregon and son to a longtime Fish & Wildlife employee, Justin spent his youth chasing cows, going on animal counts with biologists, and roaming one of the largest wildlife areas in the state. Since getting a camera for Christmas at the age of eight, he has rarely gone anywhere without one and has turned his passion into his profession. He now runs Dangersoup, his photography, creative, and PR agency full time while bringing up two young boys with his wife in central Oregon where they hunt and fish the same areas he grew up.
JUSTIN WITT Justin Witt dropped out of the rat race in 2007 and took a lonely seven
CONTRIBUTORS
JUSTIN MOORE
month walk up the spine of the Andes trying to figure out what came next. Turned out he was a fly fishing guide, and as such has been rowing rivers and poling flats ever since. His previous work has appeared in The Flyfish Journal, The Drake, The Angler, and a variety of literary journals that for
the most part no one’s ever heard of. These days when he’s not wandering the Earth with his wife and five-year-old daughter in search of new water he can be found at home in Rio Pico, Argentina where he runs a lodge and helps anglers stick hooks into trout. To check out the incredible programs Justin runs around the world go to www.hemispheresunlimited.com
MIKE MCTEE
Mike McTee is a researcher at MPG Ranch, located in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley. He has explored contamination issues at shooting ranges, studied
the wound ballistics of rifle bullets, and now focuses on lead poisoning in
wildlife. His research has landed in the Journal of Wildlife Management and Wildlife Society Bulletin, among others. Mike often connects the public
to the science through his writings and speaking engagements, whether
it be to a local group of hunters or a gymnasium full of middle schoolers.
His freelance writing has appeared in various outlets, including The FlyFish Journal and Bugle.
PAUL DOUGHTY
Paul Doughty grew up on the water and in the field with his grandfather. He appreciates the natural settings where hunting and fishing brings him. He’s an avid fly fisherman, turkey hunter, and photographer living in Charleston, South Carolina with his wife Stephanie, their three children, and yellow lab.
His photography aims to capture the experiences and emotions that hunting and fishing evoke. He is a contributing photographer for several companies in the fishing industry and his work has appeared in Tail and American Fly Fishing. He is an avid surfer and all-around waterman who, when not fly fishing, can be found with his family on the water.
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Last, Best Bull A photo essay by Chris Hood and Dylan Lenz
Photo: Chris Hood
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I live for the second week of September in Montana. Why Montana? Its mountains are tailor made
Instead of calling, I focus on getting the wind
had lots of success in this spot because the
for bowhunting elk—gorgeous sprawling
right and determining where the elk are
thermals are consistent and we can catch the
terrain with numerous open, grassy meadows
headed. I move according to what the elk do.
elk moving to and from water.
for glassing, but still enough broken country
In this style of hunting you have to be mobile,
to put a stalk on a bull.
move quickly, and be willing to change your
As we surveyed the landscape, we could hear
plans in a split second.
a bull bugling below us as the herd slowly
Unlike many other bowhunters, I don’t call
worked closer. By the time the first cows
elk. In the area I hunt, I’ve found I only call
On this hunt we hiked above a spot we call
appeared over the hillside, we had positioned
in small, satellite bulls, not the herd bulls
“hole in the wall,”—two big watering holes on
ourselves where we thought they would pass
I’m after, and calling gives my position away.
the side of steep hill. Over the years we’ve
within 30 yards. As the cows came closer, the
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bull popped over the hill 300 yards behind
into a branch I hadn’t noticed, sending it sail-
steps when a bull bugled from the meadow
them. The cows were nearly on top of us now.
ing away as the bull ran off down the hill.
behind us.
The next morning the elk were higher up the
When we caught sight of him, he was
As soon as they passed, they would likely catch our wind.
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canyon. Hiking to the top of the ridge, we
heading straight towards us—a bigger bull
Thankfully, the lead cow stopped to feed
stopped as we heard soft mews and branch-
than the day before, a clean 6 by 6 with long
and the others followed along. Now the big
es snapping ahead of us. We set up quickly
beams. Later, we guessed he had caught our
bull—a 6 by 5—was within 50 yards. I drew
and waited, but after an hour the sounds
movement, assumed we were elk, and was
my bow as he moved behind a tree. When he
of elk slowly faded away and it seemed like
just curious enough to come check us out.
emerged, I found a hole among the tangle of
they had changed course and moved off.
Regardless, we moved a short distance to get
brush I was hidden in and settled my pin on
We decided to follow in the direction where
the wind in our favor.
him. Whack! As I released the arrow it sailed
we thought they went, but hadn’t taken ten
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Photo: Dylan Lenz
Photo: Dylan Lenz
Photo: Chris Hood
Photo: Dylan Lenz STRUNG MAGAZINE
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When we saw him again, he was coming straight at us and fast. My heart pounded as he approached only a few yards away. As he stepped behind a tree I drew my bow, but he caught the movement and stopped, staring at me. I waited. After what seemed like an eternity at full draw, he took another step and I released the arrow. It sailed over his back, and stuck in a tree behind him. Another miss, two mornings in a row. How the hell did I screw that up? I took another trophy photo with the tree I shot—matching the branch from the morning before. If you can’t laugh at yourself, then whom can you laugh at? With just the evening left to hunt it was now the bottom of the ninth. With no idea where the elk would be, we headed back to the “hole in the wall.” Halfway there we got lucky and spotted elk moving north of us. To reach them, our only option was to cross a huge open meadow and go right at the herd. Somehow we made it and settled into a small stand of trees at the edge of the meadow right as the herd emerged from the timber. We had the wind in our faces. Now we just needed an opportunity. I locked onto a bull moving on my right but was jarred from my focus when another bull screamed to my left. I slowly edged around the tree and saw a nice bull standing within shooting distance. When he put his head down to feed I drew, but as I drew he turned and started back towards the thick timber. Just before he reached the trees he stopped and offered a perfect broadside shot. I slowly squeezed the release.
The arrow found its mark and the bull stumbled off, stopping after about 20 yards. I quickly nocked another arrow, drew back, and let it fly. That second arrow also found its mark. This time when he ran off, we heard him crash in the timber just a few seconds later. Third time’s the charm. The sun was setting as we approached the fallen bull on that last, best night in Montana.
Photo: Dylan Lenz
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Photos: Chris Hood
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Photo: Dylan Lenz
Photo: Dylan Lenz
Photo: Dylan Lenz
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Nomads
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of the sky and earth BY MIKE MCTEE IN MY MIND, I FOLLOW AN ATOM OF LEAD. I WATCH MACHINERY BREAK IT FROM ROCK, ENDURE THE INTENSE HEAT AS A SMELTER LIQUIFIES IT FROM STONE, TRACK ITS PATH TO THE AMMUNITION FACTORY, WAIT BESIDE IT IN A HUNTER’S GUN SAFE, FEEL IT RUSH PAST CRISP AIR AT 3,000 FEET PER SECOND, SUFFER ITS CRASHING JOLT INTO AN ELK, AND REST WITH IT FOR A FEW DAYS BEFORE SEEING A GOLDEN EAGLE SWALLOW IT, CONTINUING THE ATOM’S ENDLESS, NOMADIC LIFE.
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Photo: Sara Diggins
BITTERROOT VALLEY, MONTANA | WINTER 2012
baby. Rob had put a leather falconry hood
reference, more than five micrograms per
on the eagle’s head to calm it. Its feet were
deciliter of lead in a child’s blood is cause for
clenched, but the curved daggers on each
concern.
The screen door to the ranch house
toe still frightened me. Small patches of
slammed with a rattling thwack. Adam Shreading, a raptor biologist, entered the kitchen, his boots pounding against the hardwood floor. Behind him stood Rob Domenech, CEO of Raptor View Research Institute. Rob was pressing a golden eagle
Rob walked the bird outside into the cold
tailfeathers. Rob and Adam aged it at three
mountain air and removed the hood. The
years based on its plumage–still young for a
eagle’s feet snapped open and closed with
species that can live more than 30 years in
terrifying speed. If its talons caught Rob in
the wild.
his arm or leg, they could pierce to the bone. The eagle knew death. Countless lives had
They took a photo of me holding the bird,
ended under its talons. And for a moment,
then opened a large plastic container
just before Rob pushed the eagle into the
a road-killed deer they had used for bait.
and removed calipers, rulers, and other
cloudy sky, the bird’s furious brown eyes
instruments. Every eagle caught at
seared into mine.
“Hey, Mike,” began Rob in his gravelly voice,
MPG Ranch, the conservation property
against his sweatshirt. They had just caught the bird with a net launcher as it scavenged
“do you mind giving us a hand with this
where I work, goes through a series of
bird?”
measurements and sampling; Rob measured
I walked around the table and pulled out a
Adam grabbed the bird’s legs and laid its
the eagle’s beak and talons with the calipers.
chair. “Hold its legs like two drumsticks,”
back on the hardwood floor, spreading
Rob said. “Keep the talons up.”
its right wing. Rob leaned in close with a
My hands replaced Rob’s, and I brought the
expose a vein. He inserted the syringe and
eagle to my torso, amazed that a bird the size of a corgi could be as light as a newborn
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white speckled the eagle’s brown chest and
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syringe, blowing air to part the feathers and
BLACKFOOT VALLEY, MONTANA | FALL 2012
took a blood sample for analysis. He found
My hunting partner Beau knelt in wet
23 micrograms of lead per deciliter. For
beargrass beside the bull elk I had just killed.
With most of the animal’s hide off, Beau freed its front leg with his knife. “Here’s the bullet,” he said, twisting it free from the underside of the bloody leg and dropping it in my palm. The bullet had taken a new form: Instead of being a miniature missile of lead, it looked like someone had pressed a melted candle against a wall. When I weighed the bullet, almost 40 percent of it was missing. How much of that missing 40 percent ended up on my dinner plate? Beau’s dinner plate? How much did we leave in the beargrass for scavengers, like golden eagles? I later saw X-rays of deer shot with lead bullets. The bright flecks of metal against their ribs looked like a starlit sky.
And for a moment, just before Rob pushed the eagle into the cloudy
BLACKFOOT VALLEY, MONTANA | FALL 2015 Along Montana’s Rocky Mountain Front, the shortgrass prairie of the Great Plains slams against the cliffs and summits of the Rockies. This abrupt change in elevation creates consistent thermal updrafts and a wall of north-south topography, forming what Rob Domenech and other raptor biologists call “the Golden Eagle Highway.” In
sky, the bird’s furious brown eyes seared into mine.
the fall, migratory golden eagles from across Alaska and western Canada funnel through here as they travel south to their wintering grounds. Rob and other biologists count the number of passing golden eagles; over the years they have seen fewer of them. But Rob’s recently published study wasn’t about these declining numbers—it was about lead. Rob and his team trap migrating golden eagles by tethering a pigeon to a rope, which entices passing eagles to attack. The team then releases a net that entangles the eagle. Out of the 178 golden eagles captured between 2006 and 2012, 58 percent had elevated levels of lead in their blood. Rob says the rate is higher for the eagles he catches in the winter after hunting season. Some eagles die directly from lead
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poisoning, but most won’t. Instead, they
Native American, about the size of a quarter
experience sublethal effects like weakness
and the color of a well-worn penny. I rubbed
and lack of coordination, which makes them
it between my thumb and fingers. The edges
I wondered what an eagle migration
less efficient predators.
were still reasonably sharp, but the tip had
might have looked like from their pits. The
back into the clouds.
broken off. I thought about the tribes from
eagles hadn’t yet lost jackrabbit habitat
Someone from Rob’s team tipped me off
west of the Continental Divide that had
to suburban sprawl and alfalfa fields. They
on the location of an elk herd spotted from
traveled over these ridges to hunt bison.
hadn’t faced the sweeping blades of wind
their eagle-capture blind. I hunted the
turbines. They hadn’t met a meal that
low-elevation timber the next morning but
Rob told me that eagle pits made by Native
never spotted an elk. Midday, I walked above
Americans have been found on nearby
the forest to a grassy ridge, sat down, and
foothills. An elder from the Northern
watched the blue sky. A golden eagle hung
Cheyenne told me they would either
in the breeze above the ridge, occasionally
stack rocks in a circle or dig a pit, draping
flicking its wings to stay in place. I admired
branches across the opening and hanging a
it through my binoculars for several minutes
piece of meat on top while they hid below.
while its eyes scanned for prey with quick,
When an eagle landed to scavenge the meat,
sudden glances.
they would reach between the branches,
poisoned rather than nourished.
BITTERROOT VALLEY, MONTANA | SPRING 2017
grab the eagle’s legs, and bind them
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I rested the binoculars on my stomach,
together. With the eagle immobilized they
The April air was still brisk, and low white
leaned back, and noticed a unique stone
plucked tailfeathers from their sacred bird
clouds threatened snow. MPG Ranch
beside me—an arrowhead, knapped by a
before untying its legs and letting it rise
was running a shooting demonstration
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promoting copper bullets. We were
muzzleloader bullets, and then he pulled
short wooden stools around a knee-high
expecting a good turnout, and about 25
a magazine article from a jacket pocket.
table. They had placed cups of warm tea
people had already arrived when I saw a
“Birds are getting hit by wind turbines, too!”
and a bowl of hard cheese on the purple
mustachioed latecomer in a Carhartt jacket
tablecloth. Our guide chatted with the mom
walk up the gully from the parking area. I
“You just asked a lot of questions, and I
in Kazakh. Two young boys and a girl sat on
held off introducing our guests so I could
want to answer all of them,” said Chris,
the floor across the table from my wife and
greet him.
catching the man off guard. Yes, Chris
me.
acknowledged, wind turbines were a threat “People are using copper bullets, and
to raptors—but so was lead ammunition.
animals are running off,” he said with a pointed finger. “The bullets don’t work.”
I slipped a collection of photos from my jacket pocket and held them out. The oldest
Everyone pinched their disposable earplugs,
boy snatched them away. He divvied them
stuffed them in their ears, and stood back
among his siblings, and each kid shuffled
“I’ve been using lead all my life,” he
as Chris prepared to shoot a ballistics gel
through the pictures, seeing our family,
continued more aggressively. He pulled a
50 yards away in a large plastic barrel.
the landscapes of Montana, and finally,
plastic bag from inside his jacket and held
Ballistics gels are clear, rectangular solids
the photo of me holding a golden eagle.
it at eye level. Three muzzleloader bullets
about the size of an elongated shoe box
The middle son smiled and held it out for
hung heavy at the bottom. “Are you going to
that feel like firm Jell-O; the FBI uses them
everyone to see. Our guide bent toward us
tell me these fragmented on elk?”
in forensic research because the gel mimics
with his phone. On it was a picture of a man
flesh. Leland watched the gel through a
with a dark weathered face holding a golden
I felt pinned against a wall. Only in online
spotting scope as Chris’s rifle sent a lead
eagle. He explained it was his father.
forums had I seen someone react this
bullet downrange with an echoing bang. The
viciously to non-lead ammunition—never
gel heaved upward, flexing like an overfilled
Cultures across the Northern Hemisphere
in person. This man was passionate about
water balloon in flight.
revere golden eagles. The Kazakh eagle
the hunk of metal that left his gun barrel.
hunters of Mongolia, however, stand alone.
He needed to vent, but I could tell he was
We walked out to the gel, which Chris took
I once read that they treat their eagles
just getting started. So I turned my back,
from the barrel and set on an adjacent
more as children than as pets. Each winter
started walking, and said, “The demo is
table. The lead bullet had passed through,
they hunt hares, foxes, and wolves with
going to start. Let’s see what these guys
but tiny flecks of metal and dust had
their birds. Here in the Bayan Ölgii Province,
have to say.”
splintered along its path. People leaned in to
we were among some of the most highly
look from the side, studying the poisonous
esteemed falconers in the world.
The presenters, Chris Parish from The
leftovers. The man with the mustache didn’t
Peregrine Fund and Leland Brown from
speak.
The next day our guide drove us to a nearby
the Oregon Zoo, were both biologists who
yurt positioned in front of a kettle lake;
thrived in heated conversations. They were
two golden eagles watched us from the
in town to work a booth about non-lead
shoreline, tethered to a wooden post. A man
bullets at the Backcountry Hunters &
wearing a cream-colored sweater emerged
Anglers Rendezvous, so I invited them to give a shooting demonstration. Chris had helped run many of the early studies that highlighted the problem of lead poisoning
ALTAI TAVAN BOGD NATIONAL PARK, MONGOLIA | SUMMER 2017
from the yurt. He had young eyes, but the deep creases around his mouth suggested his face knew unforgiving weather. He was an eagle hunter.
in raptors, particularly in California condors. The Oregon Zoo had hired Leland to run a
The yurt rested in a valley of contrasts. To
He invited us inside, and we sat on the
non-lead outreach program. Before that,
the north, a glacier near the Russian border
rug with him. His wife, slender-faced and
he had killed feral pigs professionally in
fed a series of lakes and rivers that teamed
beautiful, placed a board of cheese in the
California, all with non-lead bullets. He knew
with grayling. The land to the east was
center of the rug, and we each took a slice;
the ballistics of non-lead as well as anyone.
parched and rocky. A windswept ridgeline to
it was soft like mozzarella with a hint of
the west separated Mongolia from China,
smoke. I looked around the yurt as I chewed:
Chris began the demonstration by
undulating above patches of forest. The
Three fox pelts hung by their noses from
describing how he and Leland were helping
yurt’s door faced south, framing a landscape
the lattice frame that gave the yurt its
promote ecosystem health by using copper
pockmarked by kettle lakes and mounds of
structure. Next to the hides, a small rifle
bullets. When Chris paused for a breath,
glacial till.
leaned against the rounded wall. The man
the mustachioed man hollered out his earlier questions. He showed everyone the
had probably killed the foxes with it after Inside we sat with the nomadic family on
his bird attacked them. Yet I doubted his
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Nearly 95% of those golden eagles had birds tasted those bullets or any lead. They
She put out her smoke, rose from the creaky
the photos my cameras had captured over
likely ate meat from livestock killed by a
bench, and opened the door.
the last few days. Golden eagles, badgers,
blade, not a bullet. I wondered if he knew
and hawks flashed before our eyes.
that lead bullets were poisoning golden
“What are you working on?” she asked. I
eagles in my country. I wished I could tell
told her that I was studying scavengers. I
him.
had set up motion-activated cameras on a
SOUTHEAST MONTANA | SPRING 2018
“That’s not good,” she commented.
nearby ranch to watch prairie dog carcasses
“No,” I said, explaining that our spring eagle
after they had been shot by a rancher who
surveys were even more alarming than
was tired of the treacherous mounds they
those in the fall: 95 percent of the eagles we
created in his pasture. I was excited to see
had tested showed elevated levels of lead.
what my cameras had recorded. “Want to know what I think of prairie dogs?”
Though the lights were on, the sign on the
she asked. Her face darkened to a scowl. “Kill
door of Ekalaka’s one-story library said it
them all!”
was closed. Two middle-aged women sat on
BOISE, IDAHO | SPRING 2019
a wooden bench next to the door; one was
I laughed deeply, not expecting such
smoking, listening to the other talk about
intensity from a small-town librarian. I
The conference hall was packed with
the perks of driving trucks for oil companies.
opened my laptop to show her an X-ray of
hunters, who dipped in and out of booths
a ground squirrel that had been shot with
selling everything from binoculars to exotic
“Excuse me. Do you know if the library is
a lead bullet. Like the lead bullets used for
hunts. We were selling an idea.
open?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t. “I’m
deer and elk, bullets shot at these burrowing
looking for a quiet place to work.”
mammals also fragmented.
“It doesn’t open for an hour,” the woman
“All those bullet fragments you see can be
Backcountry Hunters & Anglers Rendezvous.
with the cigarette said. “But I can let you
left in prairie dogs,” I said. I scrolled through
We each wore a shirt bearing the emblem of
I had traveled to Boise to help Chris Parish and Leland Brown with their booth at the
their new organization: The North American
in.”
Non-lead Partnership. Behind us were two tables displaying an assortment of lead and non-lead bullets. Two ballistics gels exhibited the fragmentation rates of the different bullets. In front of us were two falconers, one holding an American kestrel and the other a Harris’s hawk. Passersby pulled out their phones to take photos of the birds and we talked to them about lead bullets. I had practiced responses for the criticisms I expected to encounter. But after a few hours of speaking with hunters, I realized I didn’t need them. “I switched to copper because I heard about what lead was doing to raptors,” said attendees, or “Glad you’re here.” Most often, though, parents who had seen X-rays of deer shot with lead bullets said, “I’m not going to feed my kids lead.” The years of outreach and raising awareness seemed to be working.
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elevated levels of lead in their blood Instead of intimidating confrontations and arguments we met support. I felt hopeful.
BITTERROOT VALLEY, MONTANA | FALL 2019 The golden eagle I held eight years ago would be 11 if it’s still alive. Its furious brown eyes will have known more landscapes than I ever will. Those eyes changed my career. The lead in its blood bound me to the protection of the species. I’ve hunted with non-lead bullets since Beau pulled the lead one out of the elk I shot seven years ago. The elk I killed this year fell three miles from where I held my first eagle. After stripping the meat from the elk’s bones, I set up a camera to watch the carcass. It took less than two days for a golden eagle to find it. The eagle pulled bits of red tissue away from the hide, gaining the energy that would carry it into the sky. Eagles like that adult will always carry the lead fingerprint of hunters, but their offspring could fly without that burden. In a recent study that outfitted more than 30 golden eagles caught in the Bitterroot Valley with GPS transmitters, one bird wandered like a vagabond. In the spring, it flew north over British Columbia into Alaska. It cast a tiny shadow over massive glaciers that flowed for miles below stony peaks. If the eagle had nested there as others did, it might never have seen a human. But the eagle didn’t settle down. It flew north past the Brooks Range, passing over a mosaic of tundra speckled with caribou and cut by braided rivers. It soared near the shores of the Arctic Ocean, eventually flying east into the Yukon Territories. Then, like other golden eagles that summer in northern landscapes, it drifted south, where hunters like me were deciding how we would contribute to its story.
Photo: Sara Diggins
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By Justin Witt Illustrations by Tim Ryan
The first person I speak to on my 40th birthday is a lawyer. This is unfortunate; I’m not much in the habit of interacting with lawyers, and there are other things I would rather be doing. Namely, cleaning ducks. That’s the problem, though: The day before I woke with the desire to go out and shoot some ducks for my birthday dinner, but it didn’t go well. Or maybe I should say it didn’t end well.
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Argentines in my area of Patagonia aren’t
of waiting. Then I implemented my own
large stream that pushes to the Chilean
much into bird hunting. Their infamous
resource management system, by which I
border. It’s a bit counterintuitive, but most
reputation for being hyper-carnivorous is
mean that because there were always far
of the drainages in the province actually
fitting. It’s hard to get most of them to try
more birds than I could possibly eat, I simply
run to the Pacific, cutting back through the
a piece of meat that isn’t beef or lamb. Even
shot what I wanted when I wanted and
Andes in deep gorges that for the most part
chicken is considered more of a lunch meat
never tired of eating ducks all winter long.
humankind has never seen.
than a dinner entrée.
No one had any interest in the birds, so it was easy to get permission to hunt, and I
I’d had permission to hunt the place for
When I moved to Argentina, I asked about
spent the next decade’s worth of winters
years but still brought a box of pastries for
the laws concerning waterfowl right away.
wandering happily through duck hunting
the gaucho when I went. This year he was
heaven.
nowhere to be found, and when I noticed his
“Sure, you can shoot ducks,” said our local
big gray gelding was also missing, I assumed
game warden.
Back to the last day of my 39th year.
“When is the season? What are the limits?”
Disappointment Creek runs through a broad,
I stepped out into a thirty-mile-an-hour wind
I asked.
flat valley nestled against the Chilean border
with sleet blowing into my ears—a perfect
40 miles outside of Rio Pico, a town of
day for ducks.
he was out riding the property. Parking the truck at the farthest corner of the property,
He thought about this for a few seconds and
less than a thousand souls, most of whom
responded, “Winter. Five.”
actually live on the outlying estancias in a
Thus began one of the most spectacular
province with a population density less than
afternoons of wingshooting I’ve ever
the Sahara desert. I’m the only foreigner
experienced. Teal, widgeon, and pintails
who has ever lived here. The only people who
were everywhere, flying down the water in
don’t know everyone else in the community
darting passes. About ten ducks in, I started
are the police, and that’s only because the
plucking my ducks so they wouldn’t take
“Five of each species, five total, or some
government keeps them on a rotation of
up as much space in my backpack. I also
combination of separate limits on different
month-long stays in an effort to minimize
wanted to slow the process down and savor
species?” I pressed.
corruption.
the hunt. I knew I needed a lot of ducks for
“Per day?” I asked. “Yes.”
the party, but when it’s that good, hunting “What do you mean ‘species’?” he asked.
The stream appears as if by magic from
can quickly cross the line into a shooting
“Ducks are ducks.”
springs sneaking to the surface beneath
spree.
bogs that feel like waterbeds as you walk
36
So I acquired a shotgun, admittedly through
across them. Channels soon form but
By the time I got a mile downstream from
more efficient means than the legal route
immediately spread out into a web of
the truck, the bag was getting heavy and
of a mountain of forms, psychological
inter-connected rivulets that run for miles
the sleet had turned to snow. The ducks
evaluations, background checks, and months
before again connecting and forming a
kept flying through, more of them than I
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thought about turning around, burying the gun and birds, and coming out as if I’d been hiking. But it just wasn’t going to go down that way. The cover story didn’t seem plausible considering the weather, and besides that I’ve become something of a fundamentalist in my old age with respect to my admittedly anarchistic views. I whistled. They all stopped in their tracks and stared around eerily as if they were waiting for mortars to drop from the sky.
I KNEW I NEEDED A LOT OF DUCKS FOR THE PARTY, BUT WHEN IT’S THAT GOOD, HUNTING CAN QUICKLY CROSS THE LINE INTO A SHOOTING SPREE.
I whistled again and they zeroed in on me. Just like Pops always said: One shot, they have no clue where you are. Second shot, they know exactly where you are.
had ever seen, and I was picking my shots
at my truck I saw another truck barreling
carefully and passing a lot because there
down the dirt road toward me. This struck
The commandos came running—most of
was no reason to take a chance on anything
me as odd, but I assumed it was one of the
them falling into the marsh along the way,
even marginally out of range.
neighboring estancia owners heading into
one of them all the way up to his neck—and
his property. Wherever he was going, he was
when they finally crawled out onto the
in a hurry.
trail they were soaking wet, freezing, and
Two hours in I’d shot a full box of shells— the only box I’d brought. I pulled each bird
pointing their rifles at me.
back out of the bag to rearrange things
I got close enough to see my truck—and the
for the walk back and counted: twenty-five
four others parked around it. That’s when I
“Buenos tardes,” I said, risking a smile
birds. Twenty-five shells. Never before had
noticed the men running through the marsh
that could have been taken for mirth or
I accomplished anything near that and
in combat gear and bulletproof vests with
friendliness. Most of the muzzles came
wouldn’t expect anyone to believe me when I
shouldered rifles. They were floundering in
down. Panting, the one in charge asked me
told them. I sat down, watched the weather,
the mud and falling as they tried to plow
what I was doing there.
and let it sink in until I couldn’t feel my feet.
across the canals. The scene was so out of
It was time to go.
place it took me a moment to realize that
“Hunting,” I said.
this might have something to do with me. Rounding the last berm before arriving
When I put two and two together, I briefly
“Hunting what?”
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“Ducks.” I wish I could have taken a picture of their faces. It turned out they were searching for Chilean cattle rustlers who had stolen over a hundred head of cattle three days before; they had been patrolling the property 24 hours a day since. A gaucho on the neighboring property had heard my shots, assumed they were from the cattle rustlers, and ridden his horse to the top of a mountain where there was enough cell signal to call the police. Meanwhile I had been happily wandering through the marshes having a spectacular time with no idea about the cattle heist, the patrols, the gaucho with the cell phone, or the subsequent descent of a heavily armed motorcade on my location. Such is life in Argentina. The cops seemed to feel that it was necessary to photograph the “operation.” This was a big sting. They laid the shotgun out on the tailgate of my truck with all the empty shells and all the ducks and my Argentine residency documents and my American driver’s license and my passport and my buck knife and pretty much everything else except my socks. They took pictures of everything: of me, of themselves with me, of all the birds, of me and them and all the birds, of the shotgun, of the truck, and of everything together. They eventually got cold enough to decide it was time to go. So we got in the trucks and made the slow drive to the police station, where it seemed like half the town was waiting to watch us come in. I felt like they should have put a bag over my head to protect me from the paparazzi before they got me out of the truck. Then paperwork and questioning began. After living in Argentina as long as I have, I was prepared for this to be a lengthy process. All of the steps were similar to
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what they would have been in the U.S.
life I had never killed a bird I didn’t eat—that
except absurdly repetitive and inefficient.
my family didn’t do such things, that I had
Lots of forms, all filled out on a mechanical
been made to eat a red-headed woodpecker
typewriter. Each form required its own set
when I was five years old after having
of fingerprints; soon my hands were so
irresponsibly employed my BB gun, and that
caked in black ink they made me wash it all
if these ducks had died in vain my father, his
off with detergent so we could start again.
father, and his father before him were going
During the interrogation the captain asked
to come back from the dead and beat me to
for such relevant information as my sister’s
within an inch of my life and do the same to
mailing address in the U.S., the maiden
every man in the room.
name of her mother-in-law, and my shoe size. I played dumb and complied.
Again, I needed a camera.
Around nine o’clock that evening we neared
“All right, all right!” the captain said. “You can
what seemed to be the end, and I said,
take them; just don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay, what now?” The captain replied, “Well, we’re keeping the gun because you
I thanked him, picked the backpack off the
don’t have it licensed. I’m supposed to
floor, and headed home. After stacking the
detain you for the night and then ship you
ducks in the fridge, I thought about how
up to Esquel tomorrow, but I talked with the
things might have turned out had I decided
judge there by phone, and we’ve decided to
to run instead of whistle. I shook my head
let you go home. We’ll sort out the rest next
laughing and went to bed.
week. I’m doing you a favor.” After finishing my call with the lawyer, I notice I thanked them, picked up my backpack of
there’s a lot of new snow on the Andes. My
ducks, and headed for the door. That’s when
lawyer says he thinks I’ll probably need to beg
the yelling started.
the judge and pay a fine, and that we’ll get the gun back if we play our cards right. The
“No, no--esos no,” they hollered, pointing at
coffee in my cup warms my bones, and the
the bag of ducks.
ducks piled on the counter are plucked, salted, and oiled for the grill and tonight’s festivities.
“What are you going to do with them?” I
I anticipate being the butt of many jokes and
asked.
bearing the brunt of my friends’ laughter, but at least my 40th birthday dinner will be one to
“We have to burn them.”
remember.
I took a deep breath and abandoned my dumb compliance. Sometimes there’s an advantage to playing along with the Argentine government’s silly rhythms, but there are moments when it’s necessary to pull out all the stops and hope for the best. This was one of those moments. I mean, we’re talking about ducks. I stood at the door and in the loudest voice I could muster told them that in my entire
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PELAGIC
By Dave Zoby
***
At happy hour I take to the streets, weaving
this idea that I could do both: advance my
my rented bicycle through the afternoon
writing skills and catch a bonefish on a fly
partiers, the shoppers burdened with sacks
rod. But I’m unlucky in the salt. The wind has
Key West isn’t a bad place to suddenly find
of goods, the crews of city employees leaf-
been gusting for days, and the guide texts
yourself with free time on your hands.
blowing fallen palm fronds into manageable
me each afternoon saying the forecast is no
There are all-day happy hours, cabaret at
piles. The famous Key West roosters crow
bueno.
La Te Da, haunted house tours, bottomless bloody Mary and mimosa brunches, glass-
at the traffic as the shadows lengthen along Duval Street. They crow at troops of
I arrange my flies on the oval-shaped hotel
bottomed boat tours, mangrove kayak tours,
motor scooters. They crow at the shapes of
room table. I place the shrimp flies in one
and so much more. The Hemingway house
humans as they move through sticky air.
pile, the crab imitations in another. My
is right across the street from the historic
The cocks’ hoarse cries are drowned out by
girlfriend in Colorado sends me a message
lighthouse; you can do a tour of both before
the din of acoustic guitars and the shriek of
expressing her firm unhappiness with the
lunch. There are two-for-one drink specials
air conditioners.
way things are going. She says she wants
at a clothing-optional bar called The Bull
me to mail her my copy of the key to her
and Whistle. The island is caught between
I’m here for a writers’ conference, but I
house. It’s just a few days after New Year’s,
festivals: Next up is the Seafood Fest, and
smuggled my 8-weight down, too. I had
and champagne is on sale at the CVS for
then Saint Patty’s Day, and themed parades,
six bucks. I buy two
and Willie Nelson, and troop appreciation
bottles and stash
soirees, and fishing tournaments.
them in my hotel room at the Blue
At four p.m. on the docks at Alonzo’s Oyster
Marlin. This isn’t
House there’s tarpon feeding. I’ve been there
how I wanted the
each afternoon 20 minutes early. I’ve waited
new year to begin,
around for the dishwasher at Alonzo’s to
but when plying
emerge dockside like a rock-and-roll front
the world for fish
man to toss scraps of octopus to the tarpon
and trying to pass
with the countenance of someone slopping
yourself off as a
hogs. Most people film the spectacle on their
sportswriter, you get
cell phones, and although the sign clearly
what you get.
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reads “Tarpon Feeding at 4 p.m.,” they
their return that represent sailfish caught
Duval and Eaton with a dreaminess I have
can’t understand what they are looking at.
and released. Deckhands unload the fish
only witnessed in tribes of children on the
Tarpon seem to come from another epoch, a
box full of mahi-mahi, and one king daddy
verge of exhaustion. These are full-grown
separate reality.
mutton snapper. I loaf around the cleaning
adults with small business responsibilities,
tables in the crisp funk of the pelagic fishes.
I assume, back on the mainland in places
“Honey, now what kind of fish is that?” asks
And the deckhand, with a simple wave of his
like Richmond and Waco. They wear t-shirts
a woman with a British accent.
wrist, sets the tarpon below into a boil. Fish
promoting their college football teams.
are showing now in great numbers, charging
Stunned and sleep-deprived, they carry
And no one can answer. The dishwasher
the dead bait, the ropes of offal slung from
in their paws flimsy plastic cups where
won’t say. He dons his wet apron and
the cutting table. The pelicans drift off. The
remnants of beer or sangria slip and froth.
disappears into the steam of the dish room.
jacks exit. Tarpon crash and bully just below
“YEAHHHH!” shouts a white-bearded
This is the kind of scene I usually avoid.
the wharf.
man, as if the pleasure of the moment overwhelms. They’ve come all this way to
And yet I stay. I stay because of the shapes
***
of those fish: the telltale dorsal fin of a
gaze at drag queens, to aimlessly drink in public, to have their pale, over-nourished
tarpon, the mechanism of the jaw, the
The writing workshop goes well. Our teacher
bodies painted and dusted with glitter. This
perfect, continuous chrome of their scales
reads to us from Ko Un, the poem about
is their boiled-down version of freedom in its
as they roll and roll. There are jacks in there,
arrows, urging us to quit the string. There
purest form. Throw in a library card and lots
frantically darting around the tarpon, and
are words like shamanistic, wabi-sabi, and
of napping, and it’s my version of freedom,
a scoop of pelicans floats on the surface.
vernorexia—words I never get to hear in my
too.
But people only groan with delight when the
Wyoming hometown. At the end of class
tarpon break the surface, their long silver
our teacher leaves us with an aphorism by
But I find these continuous rows of
bodies bright like kitchen appliances, their
William Stafford: The arrow tells what the
businesses arresting. Take for example a
scales the size of tea saucers.
archer meant to say.
bait shop I enter. I’m looking to buy some flies for my collection and to gather some
A few charter boats have slipped out to the
The writers decide to meet at a bookstore,
intel about the best fishing guides. Might
Atlantic side of the island and trolled in the
but I find myself solo, back in the streets
I rent a kayak and find some ditch with
slop for hours. They are flying flags upon
where the afternoon revelers stumble along
baby tarpon and snook? There are high-end
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Photo: Dave Zoby
clothing brands from the fishing industry,
I arrange them from smallest to largest.
advertises sexual fantasies, private rooms,
expensive polarized glasses, sunblock, and
I delight in the variety of crab flies and
leather play, and discreet transactions.
duffle bags. If you want to dress up like
Clouser minnows. I have a few patterns
“Hey mister,” says the redhead half my age,
an angler, this is the place. However, the
suggesting anchovies. The wind is up, and
“what’s your fantasy?” It’s just her job to
girl attendant doesn’t know where the fly
I’m not fishing in the morning. I fall asleep
pretend to see sexual potential in passersby.
shop is, or how I might rent a kayak, or if
before 7 p.m.
She’s asked me similar questions earlier in
someone nearby sells live bait. There isn’t even any frozen squid for sale.
the week. *** “Free love,” I say.
“Is there a pier somewhere where I might go
Some bars offer live entertainment, some
and cast?” I ask.
two-for-one drinks, some tapas, some half-
She laughs and says there’s no such thing.
off on raw oysters and pink gulf shrimp.
42
Her eyes roll upward toward the hanging
But these opportunities never occur
Roosters with their tail feathers erect
jackets and colorful fishing blouses that
simultaneously. For example, the place with
strut and crow amongst the wandering
have lately become popular. “None that
live entertainment lacks cheap drinks, and
masses. They dally between idling trucks.
aren’t private,” she says.
the place with the cheapest drinks has no
These birds, a strain of Bahamian fighting
oysters or shrimp. To get the full Happy
cock that has been here for decades, are
I ride back to the hotel. On the way I
Hour experience you must move, keep your
alarming the first time you see them. On
discover another discouraging text from
head on a swivel, check your cell phone for
the corner of Whitehead and Olivia, you see
my girlfriend, this one suggesting I lose
walking directions, and be willing to migrate
a grandmother kneeling to snap photos of
her phone number. I draw the blinds and
if the situation calls for it. It becomes a job,
the black hen and her eight fig-sized chicks
space my flies out on a small reading table.
almost like the one I escaped. The VIP house
on the sidewalk. The chicks don’t know to
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Photo: Dave Zoby
stay out of the road, and many are lost in
that hasn’t left the slip in days. Pelicans
days a week and fishes—usually on Sundays.
the first few days of their lives.
stake out the bow. But the owner says the
He tells me to fish up near the bow, his
weather is improving. “One-hundred percent,
usual spot.
The urge to fish sends me down the wooden
we’re going tomorrow,” she says as she
planks of Charter Boat Row. They used to
hands me my ticket. She reminds me to
Bouncing in the bow of the Gulf Stream,
bring in green sea turtles and sell them
take some seasickness pills. And adds, “We
Jim tells me about a shower drain that isn’t
to the restaurants. They say, after the
usually have a big-fish pool for five dollars a
draining properly. His boss wants him to tear
sea turtles vanished, they supported over
person, if ya want.”
out the subfloor. The tenants are rude, and
150 shrimp boats. They sold their famous
he doesn’t trust them enough to leave his
pink gulf shrimp here on the wharf boards.
The next morning I’m early again at the
tools there. He says he is tired of the media
Then, after the shrimp, came charter boat
dock, looking down into the green water at
taking away his rights.
captains who specialized in marlin, mahi-
colonies of gray snappers and grunts. The
mahi, and other pelagics. I find a charter
Atlantic is still rocking, so the captain says
“If we catch some snappers—and I bet we
that takes 40 or so anglers out on snapper
we will go out into the Gulf and see what
do—we can take them to the VFW, and
runs. There are pamphlets that show
turns up. I’m missing a reading by Billy
they’ll fry them up for 10 bucks a man.”
impressive mangrove snappers pushing 10
Collins for this. While waiting, I meet Jim,
pounds, but I know better. Still, the urge
who works as a handyman for an investor
The channel is easy to follow. We go under
to fish and be with fishermen overpowers
who owns 18 rental houses in Key West.
bypasses. We power by million-dollar houses.
me, and I find myself signing up. The Gulf
Each winter, Jim drives down from Ohio to
There in the expansive yards of Bermuda
Stream is a pedestrian-looking head boat
do maintenance on the homes. He works six
grass are iguanas, rust-orange dragons.
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There’s one in a lime tree. There’s one on
repeatedly. The gill plates rake skin from my
a lawn chair. They arch their long necks in
delicate hands.
the sunshine. Jim tells me he hates them because they crap all over the pool areas at
The captain relocates the boat several
his rentals. He and his crew have to clean up
times, trying to find bigger fish. Each place
after the iguanas at least once a week.
is the same: small snappers, only a few keepers, red groupers that have to go back.
“That stuff hardens like grout, and you have
We pull up to an old channel marker and fish
to use a paint scraper to get it off the pool
for an hour. Our bait is stolen by hordes of
furniture,” says Jim. He wants all iguanas
tiny grunts. Jacks move in and cut our lines
exterminated.
with their needle teeth. A guy in the stern hooks something special. His reel screams ***
as the line peels away. The fish cuts across the other fishermen, tangling their lines.
“Ladies and gentlemen, drop your lines,”
Eventually the big fish wraps itself around
says the captain as soon as the Gulf Stream
the anchor chain and things quiet down.
comes tight to anchor in 40 feet of water.
I catch a few lane snappers that are just an inch over the legal requirement. These I keep. On the ensuing cast I bring up a loose line. It’s the line with the large fish on it. As I am freeing it from my lead sinkers, I feel that there is still a fish there. I hold it for a moment. I feel the pulsing weight of something sleek and unyielding. For a moment I just want to be connected to whatever is out there. There’s a wildness on the other end that is lacking in my regular life. Can’t I just borrow some of this for a bit? But the ethics of charter boat fishing demands that I let the angler know he still has this fish. I call out to the deckhands that the fish is still on the line, that there’s still a small chance.
Photo: Ryan Sparks
The line peels out again, this time burning Immediately I begin to haul up grunts and juvenile lane snappers. The grunts have intricate laces of blue and yellow on their faces. Their jaws extend absurdly, giving them a whimsical appearance. I hear they are great to eat, but the deckhands tell me to toss them back. You are supposed to yell “Fish On!” when you have a fish up, but the bite is rapid, and I can’t wait for the deckhands and their pliers. I grab the grunts, pinfish, and juvenile snappers carefully. I press their sharp gill plates down and remove the hook myself. I try to stay clear of the spines, but the snappers flare and struggle out of my grip. I get spined
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the skin of my palm. I let go just as a huge kingfish comes to the surface and wallows. The captain’s pinched voice, the deckhand’s feeble attempts to grab a gaff, the other fishermen’s inability to process what is happening—all of this blurs by as the silver fish—tapered like a broadhead, haloed by tiny baitfish—breaks free with a burst of power difficult to anticipate. The line snaps. Everyone goes back to fishing as if nothing happened. Jim offers me a Band-Aid for my wounded hand. “Well, at least you’ll have a fishing story to tell when you get back to Montana,” he says as he squirts ointment on my burn.
“Wyoming,” I reply. Jim goes into the galley and comes back with two light beers, one for each of us. *** Back at the marina, the deckhands clean our catch. Large tarpon lurk along the wharf waiting to gulp the scraps if the deckhands offer any. Pelicans bob above on the tranquil surface. A lady from Gainesville wins the bigfish pool: 135 dollars. Jim says he’ll hang out while our snappers are filleted. The plan is to meet at the VFW at six. I push over the bridge on Palm Avenue and descend into Old Town: its funky society of parvenus, its haunted houses, its decaying porches, and its cemetery of white marble vaults. I swing past the Happy Hour venues and end up dropping my bike in the sand at Dog Beach. The sun dips into the sea, and the crowd seems satisfied. They turn away from the rolling seas and toward the invariable rudeness of Duval Street. I ride my bike against the current of revelers back across town to the VFW. In a town full of kinetic energy and intrigue, a town of pastel houses and witch doctors, the VFW is dull and in need of an update. Jim’s scooter is parked out front. He’s in a booth with torn upholstery. On his cell phone he has photos of the shower drain from our earlier conversations. He’s already determined that the subfloor has to come out. This depresses him. The chef has our fish. Jim has requested that half of it be fried and the other half blackened. I tell the waitress that I’d like steamed veggies and coleslaw as my two sides. Jim is amused because that’s exactly what he ordered. He lifts his pint glass of light beer to cheers the astonishing news that we both like steamed veggies and coleslaw. After dinner I say farewell to Jim, but not before we exchange phone numbers. He says he’s open for Taco Tuesday if I’d like to meet later in the week. He mentions Wednesday Wings and Thirsty Thursday. Back in the Key West traffic, pedaling upstream against the
Photo: Dave Zoby
flow, I feel unmoored.
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champagne before setting out.
With two margaritas before us, Glen and I sit at the outside bar, calypso music blasting
Wavy Dave is playing at the Salty Angler,
from the stereo. He produces a rubber band
which features half-priced drinks. Six days
from his pants pocket and puts his long
in Key West, and I’ve become a minor figure
auburn hair in a ponytail. A passing rain
at Happy Hours and free events. While I’m
shower wets our arms. Glen tells me that
in the restroom, I hear a fracas from the
he knows where to catch all of the fish I
bar area. Wavy Dave stops amid his Jerry
could ever dream of. After all, fishing is what
Garcia tune. The fight spills out into the
brought him here. He uses little jigs baited
street. When I emerge, I see a homeless
with hotdogs to catch gray snappers at the
man with a bloody nose. I’ve seen him all
docks. He has a hibachi grill somewhere in
week: He comes to the same Starbucks
his satchel of things that he can set up on
and spends outrageous amounts of time
Dog Beach—or anywhere, really. He tells
in the bathroom with the door locked. He’s
me that he’s eaten ladyfish and puffers. He
weeping. He doesn’t want to fight. The
once broiled a pair of horseshoe crabs locked
others move back into the bar. The man’s
in courtship.
bike is locked to the same lamppost as mine. His bike is a Schwinn, too, with huge
“I would take you fishing, but I have
baskets where he keeps his clothes and
appointments tomorrow,” he says.
blankets. Two spinning rods are lashed to ***
his bike frame like enormous feelers.
I pay for Glen’s next drink and set off. There’s a reading by a famous author across
Our workshop leader tells us that, as writers,
I ask if he’s okay. Would he like to go to the
town. When I arrive, I don’t go in. Back at
we are the salvation of the world—that
Cuban deli and get some ice for his face?
the Blue Marlin, I can’t sleep. The cuts on
our work matters. He quotes Eudora Welty:
Some gauze for his scraped knuckles?
my hands ooze clear liquid. My knuckles
“Out of love you can speak with straight
Glen says he came down to the Keys in
swell. I pack all of my fishing gear away. In
fury.” His stories of growing up in Tijuana
2016 and never once considered going
two days I have to go back to Wyoming. All
are so gripping I find myself bolting to the
back to Raleigh. We find ourselves under
night I hear the grrrr of scooters, the airy
restroom to wipe my eyes.
the fluorescent lights of the deli, but Glen
progress of the city buses, and wind in the
is no longer interested in ice. They don’t
palm trees.
I’m restless in my room at the Blue Marlin.
have Band-Aids or gauze. They have suntan
All night, big gusts of wind come ashore. I
lotion, prophylactics, fake pirate coins, and
Before the sun rises, I’m out on Higgs Beach,
rise before the sun and pedal through the
rubber sharks.
my rented bike toppled in the sand. There’s a private pier where a lamp illuminates the
sleeping neighborhoods. The palm trees sway and lean. I can hear breakers thudding
“I’d take one of those Cuban sandwiches,
green water. Big fish roll in the splashes of
against the beaches. There’s seawater on
Homie,” says Glen.
light. Their thick backs break the surface. Baitfish scatter and leap. I suspect these
South Street. When the charter boats return that
I buy him a sandwich as he stands away
large shapes are tarpon, but I’m not sure.
from the cash register.
As the sun leaks up over the horizon, the fish move off. It occurs to me that all of
afternoon, I’ve been waiting for half an hour. I’ve paced the Old Town all day. I
“He’s not allowed in here,” says the
the things I love move. I need to check in on
seriously considered a tour in the glass-
attendant. “But I can make him a sandwich
the black hen. I need to mail a single key to
bottomed boat, but I backed out when I
to go.”
Colorado. I want to have a two-for-one at a place called The Mermaid and be submerged
met my boat mates. Enormous cruise ships have moored in the commercial district.
Glen stands outside and smokes a cigarette.
Near-corpses, parvenus, and pale Europeans
He glares at the traffic and the outdoor bar
fill the streets and shops that deal in Key
across the street.
46
the charter boats—only a few snappers and
“You know what, Homie?” he says. “Right
a mahi-mahi. I’m desperate to fish. I nap in
across the street you can get the best
my room until Happy Hour. I have a wallet
margaritas on the island. Sarah uses real
full of two-for-one coupons. From a plastic
Key limes. No artificial mix.”
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I brush the sand off my pants, right my bicycle, and quit the string.
West gewgaws. There’s not much to see at
cup, I drink half a bottle of the discount
again in human voice.
NEW CAMO SYSTEMS
FOR YOUR BIG GAME PURSUITS
S HOP H U N T I NG APPARE L AT
D U C KC A M P.C O M
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Sierra El Alamo:
A New Future for Desert Bighorn Sheep Words and Photos by Justin Moore
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THE JOURNEY STARTED A DECADE EARLIER IN A CLIMATE EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE. A STONE SHEEP HUNT IN BRITISH COLUMBIA FIRST INTRODUCED JOHN NOSLER TO THE UNRELENTING MAGNETISM OF HUNTING SHEEP IN MOUNTAIN ENVIRONMENTS—A MAGNETISM THAT HAUNTS SHEEP HUNTERS THEIR ENTIRE LIVES. NOW THE THIRD-GENERATION OWNER OF THE WORLD-RENOWNED COMPANY THAT BEARS HIS FAMILY NAME, NOSLER BELIEVES THAT SHEEP HUNTING REPRESENTS BOTH AN IMMENSE CHALLENGE AND A MODEL FOR SUCCESSFUL CONSERVATION.
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“Sheep hunting tests everything about you,” says Nosler. “It pushes you mentally and physically, then when you least expect it, it tests your patience and focus. Sheep live in some of the most unbelievable terrain and conditions, and how they’ve been brought back from the brink of extinction— largely due to the efforts of hunters and conservation groups—is a testament to how being an active participant in nature can strengthen the world around us.” Since his Stone sheep, Nosler has taken a Dall’s sheep with the new 28 Nosler and a Rocky Mountain bighorn with the 30 Nosler; now he was preparing to take the new 27 Nosler to Mexico for the final chapter in his North American Sheep Grand Slam. The new cartridge also reintroduces what many consider to be one of the best big game calibers and puts a new (faster) spin on it, both in terms of velocity and twist rate. I don’t know if Jack O’Connor would approve of the enhancements, but I know for certain he would have loved to make the trek south of the border with us to put it to the test. *** Just like Nosler’s sheep hunting adventures, Sierra El Alamo’s story began years ago. In 2008, while most people were fretting over the economy, Javier Artee was worrying about desert bighorns. Hermosillo-based lawyer and entrepreneur Artee, noting a sharp uptick in vacationing sportsmen flocking to the Mexican state of Sonora, first opened a sporting goods store in 1977; eventually his booming business grew into Alcampo Hunting Adventures, making Artee the first private hunting outfitter in Sonora. His specialties were dove, Coues deer, and mule deer until the 1990s, when the Mexican government lifted a 15-year moratorium on desert bighorn hunting, originally put in place as a result of low populations. Stocky and heavy-bodied, desert bighorns are well adapted to desert mountains; their unique concave, elastic hooves can quickly
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climb steep, rocky terrain. They can survive
not protect desert bighorns from excessive
for weeks or even months without water—
hunting, competition and diseases from
losing up to 30 percent of their body weight,
domestic sheep, and loss of watering areas
or more than a camel can withstand.
to livestock. A drastic decline in desert bighorn populations continued until the late
Rams and ewes use their horns to break
1930s, when President Franklin Roosevelt
open cactus, which they consume for both
signed a proclamation establishing two
nutrients and water. Older rams have curling
recovery areas in southwest Arizona:
horns measuring over three feet long with
Cabeza Prieta and Kofa National Wildlife
more than a foot of circumference at the
Refuges. Gradually more land was added to
base. Upon maturity, the horns of an adult
the program, and by the 1960s, numbers
ram can weigh more than 30 pounds. After
arced upward from a historical low of fewer
drinking water, desert bighorns recover
than 10,000 sheep. The start of Artee’s
from dehydration at a rate that has drawn
desert bighorn operation coincided with a
scientific study from military researchers. In
strong rise in the desert bighorn population.
HUNTING ADVENTURES,
many ways, desert bighorns endure by living
Thanks to decades of conservation work, by
in an environment where their predators
1990, desert bighorns had recovered to over
SIERRA EL ALAMO’S STORY
simply cannot survive.
25,000 sheep through their range.
Most estimates put desert bighorn numbers
In the beginning Artee was chasing free-
in the tens of thousands before European
range bighorns in numerous spots across
colonization began in the 16th century;
northern Mexico and Baja; in 1992 he built
JAVIER ARTEE WAS WORRYING
even living in such rugged country could
a 5,000-acre high-fence habitat to raise
ABOUT DESERT BIGHORNS.
JUST LIKE NOSLER’S SHEEP
BEGAN YEARS AGO. IN 2008, WHILE MOST PEOPLE WERE FRETTING OVER THE ECONOMY,
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COVERED IN MORE THAN 300 VARIETIES OF CACTUSES AND GIANT BOULDERS, THIS WAS THE PERFECT TERRAIN FOR BIGHORNS.
both desert bighorn and mule deer. It wasn’t long before he had a sustainable number of sheep within the high-fence area. By the late 1990s, Artee had purchased a ranch further north and begun acquiring the surrounding land until he had 80,000 acres of prime habitat that included multiple mountains nearly 3,000 vertical feet from the desert floor. Covered in more than 300 varieties of cactuses and giant boulders, this was the perfect terrain for bighorns. Artee knew that one day they would be roaming these hills in greater numbers, but he didn’t know that a worldwide recession would be the catalyst to release the sheep he was raising. As the numbers of hunters coming to the high-fenced area slowed, Artee made the decision to begin transporting some of the sheep he had raised to the wilds of his 80,000 acres named Sierra El Alamo. Artee’s four sons joined him in his efforts, and together they made a formidable team. The two eldest sons, Javier Jr. and Jorge, followed in their father’s footsteps and became attorneys. Third son Jacobo is an engineer and has played an important role in caring for the animals and making the habitat as hospitable for them as possible. Jose, the youngest, manages multiple businesses and helps on the ranch with the rest of the family. It’s clear that Artee’s entrepreneurship is alive in his sons; his conservation efforts are also being passed down to a new generation of caretakers. Releasing the sheep and helping to populate the native herds was an easy decision for the Artees to make; their biggest hurdle was undoing the abuse and neglect the land had endured under the previous owners. They implemented a multi-phase plan to establish places for wildlife to get water throughout the entire property, trucking it in from wells
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and digging earthen dams and ponds to capture water during the rainy season. The second phase will make access to water even easier throughout the ranch by drilling another well on the far side of the property. The end goal is to supply the wildlife with water through a gravity-fed system. Currently the Artees release roughly 50 bighorn sheep a year with an end goal of 200 in five years. With an estimated 100 wild sheep already on the ranch, the local herds are thriving and well on their way back to native numbers. The residual effect is a resurgence in other local native wildlife: quail, deer, javelinas, and even local predators such as foxes, bobcats, and mountain lions are bouncing back from decades of mishandling. The Artees’ conservation work has not gone unnoticed: They have received recognition and in some cases even grants for their efforts. The Wild Sheep Foundation, Dallas Safari Club, and Oregon FNAWS have all made an effort to help, spreading the word and putting boots on the ground to support a struggling ecosystem. *** Nosler’s sheep hunt demonstrated the success of Artee’s reintroduction program. As with most sheep hunts there was a lot of glassing, some blood, some sweat, and some tears. In the end we came away with two mature rams. Both were taken at the ends of their natural lives, after they had done their job to reestablish the herd. Both were taken at less than 200 yards after lengthy stalks and were one-shot kills with 27 and 28 Nosler cartridges, both from Nosler Mountain Carbon rifles. The trophies are certainly emblematic of success when measured in inches of horn, but for those of us who were there together, the hunt will always be measured in new friendships, laughs around the campfire, really good tequila, and conversations over early morning cups of coffee. This may have been our first trip to Sonora, but I don’t think it will be our last. Seeing bighorn sheep flourishing once again in their native habitat is reason enough to return.
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THE ULTIMATE WILD SHEEP EXPERIENCE
The Wild Sheep Foundation’s online, virtual convention of exhibitors, sponsors, WSF Chapters, state agencies, and other organizations and affiliates will take place January 1116. An all-hands celebration of wild sheep, conservation, and wild places, Sheep Week® 2021 will be a best-in-class digital experience with all the trimmings including, world-class auctions and raffles, and chances to win one of more than a dozen incredible hunts and gear. ONLINE ATTENDEE REGISTRATION OPENS MID-NOVEMBER.
for registration and more information visit
STEVEN DRAKE | ANNULI COLLECTIVE
WILDSHEEPFOUNDATION.ORG
412 Pronghorn Trail | Bozeman, MT 59718 | 406.404.870 STRUNG MAGAZINE
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HIGH ON LOW C O U N T R Y REDFISH By Paul Doughty
A few months ago, a friend and I were walking a Lowcountry grass flat looking for tailing redfish. We found plenty and took turns casting to their shimmering tails in the fading sunlight. A few hours earlier a summer storm had nearly blown us off the flat; its passing left a brilliant sunset complete with a perfect rainbow. From the scenery to fishing, it was a tough day to top. And yet if you were to ask me my favorite season to fish the Lowcountry, I’d tell you winter.
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When the spartina grass fades to a pale, yellowish brown—when jet skis are packed away, the bustle of summertime boaters fades, and ironically, many fishermen disappear—the Lowcountry settles back into its natural rhythms. The wintertime fishery isn’t for everyone. It’s cold: Morning temperatures drop into the teens on starry winter nights. It’s messy: Think mud. If your boat isn’t caked in a fresh layer of sludge at the end of the day, you haven’t been fishing the right places. Winter is oyster roast time. Oyster roasts are a time-honored tradition where we gather around a fire with friends and family on a cold winter night, stuff ourselves with fire-roasted oysters, and revel in life. These oysters also provide winter habitat for redfish, so if you want to find the fish, your hull will likely find some new scratches. If you’re particularly attached to your skiff, fishing the Lowcountry in winter might not be for you.
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For a few of us, the cold, mud, and scrapes are worth it to see that first torpedo push across a mudflat in the midday sun, sometimes in water so shallow you could make a convincing argument that redfish are amphibious. During winter we might be pursuing the same species, but we’re after a completely different fish. The fish are down to the bare essentials of shelter, safety, and food. Fiddler crabs have gone into hibernation, and many baitfish have migrated back to Florida. The bottlenose dolphin also feels winter’s hardships and turns its attention from its common table fare to the schools of redfish that congregate on the shallow flats. Many of the fish we land are marred by dolphin bites, telling the story of their narrow escape from the enamel of their wintertime foe.
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Despite all this, the salt marsh is a survivor—and so are its inhabitants. Redfish change their behavior to eat and not be eaten. They sustain themselves on the year-round residents of the marsh: Crustaceans and small baitfish, mere table scraps the rest of the year,
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are enough to make it through winter. With smaller prey and new predators you have to change your fishing tactics. Approaching a school of several hundred fish is not uncommon, but long casts and patterns that could be mistaken for panfish flies are often necessary. Any
noise from the skiff results in a vibration that alerts the fish to your presence— you’re the dolphin. If you aren’t stealthy you might as well buy a ticket to an aquarium because all you’re going to do is watch.
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t n a n e t ieu
L
l e n o l o C
s s o B BY TOM KEER
DOG MEN TYPICALLY DON’T HANG OUT IN BIG-CITY, HOTEL
PARKING LOTS. NEVERTHELESS, THERE HE WAS: ROBERT MILNER IN A PARKING LOT IN BILLINGS, MONTANA. THE MAN WHO INTRODUCED BRITISH LABRADOR RETRIEVERS AND POSITIVE TRAINING METHODS TO THE UNITED STATES SMILED AND TOOK IN THE ASPHALT SCENERY. I WAS INTRIGUED.
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A soft breeze carried the wonderful aroma
original woody with real oak paneling? Those
of timothy, alfalfa, and horse manure across
rigs were called station wagons because they
the faded white parking space lines. Several
originally hauled luggage from train depots
horse and livestock trailers were hitched to
to hotels. Maybe your parents owned one, as
dusty jacked-ups occupying dozens of spaces
mine did. Ours was a Ford Country Squire
on either side. Maybe that’s what made
with a 350-plus cubic inch V-8 engine and
Milner smile.
a manual transmission. It was skiff-sized, with an AM/FM radio, but others of the era
“Are you here to run a trial in a dog park?” I
were equipped with a state-of-the-art 8-track
asked.
tape deck. These days, finding a car show as unique as this one is as difficult as locating
“No,” he laughed, “but that is one heck of a
someone who can drive a standard.
car show.” Milner spent childhood time in a station
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He was correct as usual: In the back section
wagon, too. “My family put a lot of miles on
of the parking lot was a small car show as
one exactly like that blue one over there,” he
offbeat as the rest of the scene. There wasn’t
said. “After my dad retired from the Air Force
a single ‘Stang, ‘Vette, or ragtop GTO. Not a
he got into bird dogs. That was back when
single minty MG, Jaguar, or any other kind
we had a lot of wild quail in Tennessee. Dad
of Continental head-turner graced the show.
would hitch a trailer to the station wagon,
On display were rows and rows of vehicles
load up the walking horse, pointers, and
representing a half-century of station wagons.
setters, and we’d head to Montana for the
Yawn? Absolutely not; the show was brilliant.
summer.”
Exactly when was the last time you saw an
Who knew that Robert Milner, probably one
of the most recognized Lab men, got his start as a bird dogger? “My dad was a bird dog fanatic,” he said. “I’d be up before sunrise cleaning kennels, feeding dogs, and getting the walking horse ready. After the sun came up, Dad would climb into the saddle and hoist me up to ride on the back. I was about seven or eight years old, and my legs didn’t go down very far. Every time he cantered up a hill I’d fall off the back. I’d get back on, but after a few years of that I figured there had to be a better way. There was—one that required a shift to Labs.” Milner’s got a way with dogs, and it’s called the right way. His knowledge is so keen that he’s frequently called a “dog whisperer.” He’s been known to turn rogue dogs into focused, performance athletes and help handlers improve their skills along the way. And his books Retriever Training and Absolutely
“ROY HAD A GIMPY-SHOULDERED PUP THAT NOBODY WANTED,” MILNER SAID. “EVERY OTHER PUP IN THE LITTER WENT TO FIELD TRIAL HOMES, BUT THIS SORRY LITTLE GUY DIDN’T LOOK LIKE HE WAS GOING TO AMOUNT TO MUCH OF ANYTHING. I BOUGHT HIM, TOOK HIM HOME, AND WORKED WITH HIM EVERY DAY.”
Positively Gundog Training have inspired many young handlers to pursue professional training careers at the highest levels. Whether running training and handling clinics on his Tennessee farm, traveling around the country to conduct seminars, or running online tutorials, Milner is in it for the dogs. The original plan was to go to college, graduate, and train dogs. The Vietnam War slightly delayed his plans. “I enlisted in the Air Force when my draft card got punched,” he said. “That called for five years of active duty and 15 years in the reserves. I chose the Air Force because my dad retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. My final active duty post was in the early ‘70s at McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma, Washington.” It was in Tacoma that he met Roy Gonia, a breeder, trainer, trailer, and the originator of a series of dog training whistles designed with a purpose. His puppy whistles are softer in tone, whereas his Mega Whistle directs sound out for long-range control. They help save a handler’s hearing and are considered among the best models ever made. Gonia had a Labrador retriever pup for sale, and Milner was interested. “Roy had a gimpy-shouldered pup that nobody wanted,” Milner said. “Every other
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pup in the litter went to field trial homes,
and American Labrador breeding programs
but this sorry little guy didn’t look like he
comes from the vastly different values that
was going to amount to much of anything.
are favored. One isn’t better than the other,
I bought him, took him home, and worked
but they truly are different.”
with him every day. He required a lot of work, but we won a lot of derbies and field trials
Shortly thereafter, Milner began importing
together.”
British Labrador retrievers to the United States. He sourced impeccable bloodlines
“My active duty ended in 1972, so I moved
and traveled abroad every year to scout for
to Grand Junction, bought a farm, and
up-and-coming champions. The British
started Wildrose Kennels. I bred, trained, and
positive training method equally appealed to
competed American Labs during that time.
him. It was a deliberate way to bring out the
But on a trip to England in 1980 I met up
best in a dog, which is quite different from
with my British Army friend, Major Morty
forcing a dog to follow a command. These
Turner-Cook. Morty fought at Dunkirk, and
days, UK Labs and positive training methods
when he retired he got into dog training and
are accepted stateside, and we have Milner to
field trialing. Over the next few weeks, I went
thank for both.
to a number of field trials with him, and those
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dogs and trials made quite an impression on
The cornerstone of every successful breeding
me. The biggest difference between British
program is based on the concept of breed
enhancement. To continue to improve,
running blinds and then marks, and they are
equestrian athletes are similar in that ones
consistent field trial champion dams and
allowed to determine the most efficient line
that excel are different from ones that do not.
sires become part of the breeding pool.
to the bird. The handler doesn’t direct them,
Information from that worldwide research is
The dogs that are selected for breeding,
and the dog must figure it all out. In the UK,
what inspires me and motivates me to share
though, are based on the values held by the
dogs must bypass dead birds and first track
with my students and readers. And to that
judges. And the values in the US are very
cripples. As a result, British Labs have strong
end I will continue to champion methods
different from those in the UK. “In the UK,”
noses and excellent bird smarts.”
that help them improve their knowledge and
explained Milner, “field trial judges require
skills. Learning and sharing is the way I grew
excellent manners from dogs. Dogs need
For Milner, the learning never ends. “To
up with my dad and family. In the end, it’s
to sit absolutely still. They must exhibit no
stay current,” he said, “I speak with canine
exactly what connects us all to each other.”
movement and be calm, even when there
researchers almost every day. Their
are hundreds of birds in the air and shotguns
disciplines don’t have to be in the gun dog
Lieutenant Colonel Boss is my nickname for
are discharging. Judges have zero tolerance
realm, for a lot can be learned from sled
Milner. It’s a blend of the rank he held in the
for noise coming from a dog, so no barking
dogs, herding dogs, and other working dogs.
Air Force combined with his contributions to
or whining is tolerated. I’ve seen a dog get
For the past several years I’ve done a lot
the dog world. And like the car show, it’s as
disqualified from a trial for the slight noise
of interesting work with bomb detection
unique and interesting as the man himself.
he made while yawning. Dogs running across
dogs. It all carries over into the realm of
the pond are allowed more latitude when
professional athletes. Human, canine, or
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CANIS PAMIR INSULATION JACKET - $299 (CANISATHLETE.COM)
BIG GAME
We tested this jacket from chasing elk in the Rocky Mountains to cold tree stand sits in the Midwest. We found the Pamir to be warm and tough, but what’s really impressive is how the entire jacket moves with you. The hood has a bendable brim and a self-tightening feature that locks to your head—your head doesn’t turn inside the hood; it turns with you. The bottom of the jacket has a similar self-adjusting hem and grippy silicone panels that keep the jacket in place while you’re bear-crawling up a steep slope or climbing into a tree stand. The sleeves fit snuggly at the cuff which makes the Pamir perfect for layering under a rain jacket. We’ve brought it on every hunt we’ve been on this year, and we don’t see that stopping in the future.
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MARSUPIAL GEAR ENCLOSED BINOCULAR PACK $124.95 (MARSUPIALGEAR.COM)
We’ve tried a lot of binocular harnesses in the past and consider Marsupial Gear’s Enclosed Bino Pack to be the best. The front folding magnetic lid is dead silent and allows you to grab your binos with one hand while holding your rifle or bow in the other. The pack is fully sealed which keeps dust from coating your optics while rambling down gravel roads. Ample webbing on the exterior gives you a variety of options for mounting additional accessories on both sides of the pack (we also highly recommend their rangefinder pouch). With stretch pockets on the front, sides, and back there are plenty of places to hold wind-checker, licenses and tags, or your phone. We also like the quick disconnect attachments for glassing with a tripod.
GEAR GUIDE
PEAK DESIGN TRAVEL TRIPOD - $349.95-$599.95 (PEAKDESIGN.COM)
Between binoculars, a spotting scope, and a tripod, our optics are by-far the heaviest things we carry on backcountry hunts. Peak Design spent 4 years rethinking the traditional tripod from the ground up. The result? A tripod that packs down to the diameter of a water bottle with rock solid stability and a full line of features perfect for backcountry hunts like lightning fast setup and takedown, a fully adjustable ballhead, nonslip shock-absorbing feet, weatherproof and impact-resistant construction, and a host of other creative design features. The aluminum version weighs in at 3.4 lbs. while the carbon version weighs an amazing 2.8 lbs. Best of all—it’s guaranteed for life.
GOPRO ZEUS MINI - $69.99 (GOPRO.COM)
GoPro’s Zeus Mini is as versatile as it is powerful. It served as our primary headlamp while backcountry elk hunting. During duck season, we clipped it to the bow of the canoe, and it lit our way downriver. While gearing up for whitetail hunts in the predawn darkness, we stuck it to the side of the truck to illuminate the bed. The Zeus mini is a waterproof LED light that clips to your hat, pack, work bench, or anywhere you need light. It’s also magnetic, so it firmly sticks to anything metal. Once in place, a strong 360° swivel allows you to choose the angle of illumination. With 4 brightness settings ranging from 20 to 200 lumens and a rechargeable battery capable of lasting up to 6 hours it can handle anything you throw at it.
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MSR REACTOR STOVE SYSTEM $219.95-259.95 (MSRGEAR.COM)
The Reactor Stove System is hands down the fastest and most fuel-efficient backcountry stove we’ve ever seen. We tested it in real-world conditions—wind, rain, and snow—it never flinched. With the 1.7 liter model, we found we could carry less fuel on longer hunts, staying light and moving quickly. The Reactor’s genius lies in its unbelievable efficiency. The pot is crafted from anodized aluminum that is shaped to maximize the transfer of heat from the stove and recapture the heat reflected by the pot. There is no wasted energy. The pot and stove nest together tightly, and both components have features that protect the flame from the wind. The Reactor system is truly unique, compact, and well-designed.
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BIG GAME
LACROSSE ALPHABURLY PRO - $169$199 (LACROSSEFOOTWEAR.COM)
Lacrosse’s AlphaBurly Pro has long been known as one of the best boots available to whitetail hunters. Combining high quality, scent-free rubber with naturally insulting neoprene and a thick cushioned EVA midsole, these boots are tough and comfortable. Coming in a variety of insulation levels, they keep warmth in while keeping scent off the ground. During early season heat, an embossed liner helps circulate air in the boot to keep your feet from sweating. An adjustable gusset in the back of the boot also allows you to let the boots vent while you are walking to the stand (think scent prevention) and then seal in the warmth and scent once you’re setup.
THERM-A-REST Z SEAT - $14.95 (THERMAREST.COM)
Whether you are sitting down for a multihour glassing session or just plopping down for a quick lunch, it’s nice to have a comfortable place to sit. There are all sorts of inflatable seats and backcountry chairs on the market, but it’s tough to beat the original. At 2 ounces, you won’t feel the Z Seat in your pack, but your rear end will definitely feel the difference after several days in the backcountry. Constructed of closed-cell foam, it’s bombproof and folds down small. When you need to relax on rough terrain, a Z Seat always fits the bill.
GEAR GUIDE
ARGALI ULTRALIGHT GAME BAGS $14-$79.99 (ARGALIOUTDOORS.COM)
You can tell Argali game bags are designed and made by backcountry hunters. For those counting ounces they are some of the lightest game bags on the market for their size. Being made of a nylon blend they are also breathable and durable. On a 10-day archery elk hunt they worked double duty as clothing and food bags. The blaze orange 220 paracord drawstring and reinforced orange tabs on the corner make them simple to hang and the reflective logo makes them easy to find in the dark. Available in a variety of sizes and bundles, Argali game bags pack down into a small package and can be stuffed anywhere in your pack. They are also reusable. Once you’ve got your meat home you can toss them in the washer for your next hunt.
GARMIN INREACH MINI - $349.99 + SUBSCRIPTION PLAN (GARMIN.COM)
The Garmin inReach Mini is a compact satellite communicator that sets the standard for lightweight backcountry communication. At 3.5 ounces it’s the lightest two-way satellite communicator on the market. We found its two-way messaging to be reliable, and thankfully we didn’t have to use the SOS signal that is checked 24/7 by Garmin’s search and rescue monitoring center (subscription required). We expect it to be reliable as well. Throw in weather reports, route-tracking, location and altitude display and the inReach mini is a powerful tool in the backcountry. We enjoyed letting our loved ones know we were ok each night before we crawled in our sleeping bags.
NEMO LONGBOW ALPINE SLEEPING PAD - $239.95 (FIRSTLITE.COM)
Nemo Equipment, long known for producing high quality outdoor gear has partnered with hunting apparel brand First Lite to create a collection of overnight gear that includes their Longbow Alpine sleeping pad. When my old sleeping pad exploded in the night, I replaced it with the Longbow and found it to be lightweight (1 lb, 2 oz.), warm, comfortable, and quiet. Three layers of suspended metalized film retain your body heat on cold nights, but when you roll over it doesn’t sound like you’re laying on a pile of potato chip bags. I’d never used a pump sack before, but didn’t miss the woozy, about-tofaint feeling I normally get from blowing up a sleeping pad. It was also way faster.
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Rations & Intoxicants By Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley Doing what I do, I naturally receive a lot of cooking questions. Etiquette tells me to accept that there is no such thing as a “stupid question,” but I am going to betray that there is one for me. “What should I cook with wild game to make it taste good?” is the most peeving question of all. It’s asked so simply, yet the expectation is high. “Whatever you like … ,” is more or less my usual reply, and disappoint invariably follows. The “foodies” always expect me to throw out something faddish, expensive or weird, e.g. sprayable duck fat, edible gold, unicorn dust … and everyone else must think I’m being facetious. In response to this question, I once told a radio host “not vanilla.” “What should I cook with my wild game?” You might as well ask me,
“What do I like?” I can’t tell you, because I don’t know you. What you cook with your wild game will depend on what you think tastes good. If avoiding livery-tasting shoe leather is what you’re trying to get at, then well, that’s a different question altogether. With wild game, there’s no combination of herbs and spices that will magically make it taste better if you consistently overcook or undercook the main ingredient. To cook wild game successfully, you need to learn its parameters, and each species will have its own set of rules. To avoid sounding pedantic, I’m going to simply stress this: The one thing that every wild game cook should focus on is time. Cook venison backstrap too long, and medallions will taste like hockey pucks. Cook a venison roast too little, and you might as well play football with it. Time, more important than the addition of other ingredients, is the variable to beat in wild game cooking. A cook who
knows how different types of protein will react to heat and time will be able to master any meat in the kitchen. It’s a skill, an intuition, that’s learned through trial and error. My second and last point: attempt recipes that you already like. This familiarity gives you a baseline for what to expect and shoot for. Instead of beef stew, swap in venison; instead of ground beef, make wild turkey meatballs for spaghetti; try deep-fried cottontail instead of fried chicken on a Sunday; use pheasant instead of chicken in soup, whether that’s with noodles, rice or dumplings, etc. Watch your cooking times and moisture, but don’t overthink it. With that said, while the following recipe might not be familiar to many, it is a personal example to drive my point home. Vietnamese beef stew is a dish that I enjoyed during my childhood, and as expected, with a small adjustment in cooking time, the dish worked with venison just as well as it did beef.
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Rules of Thumb for Cooking Wild Game 1) If meat will be seared, grilled or roasted over
high heat, don’t overcook it. Wild game is lean and can dry out quickly. Darker meats are generally best served at medium to medium rare. Lighter meats should retain a slight touch of pink to maintain juiciness. Be aware of the dangers of trichinosis in wild pork and bear meat.
2) For slow-cooked dishes, such as stew, soup or
braise, provide plenty of moisture and cook covered for as long as necessary over gentle heat for the muscles and connective tissues to break down. This is where most cooks go wrong – they expect game to break down as quickly as store-bought meat, so they throw in the towel too quickly and conclude that wild game is too tough. Nothing is too tough. Given enough time, even my hunting boots would fall apart in a slow cooker.
3) The beauty – for some, frustration – of work-
ing with wild game is that no two animals are the same, which will teach you to cook intuitively. Age and species will determine cooking time, and with practice, you will develop a solid understanding of what each animal requires and be able to adjust accordingly in the kitchen.
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Vietnamese Venison Stew “Bò kho” means beef stew in Vietnamese,
and sinew that you’d want in stew meat, the
a popular way to offer this dish; you’ll want
and it’s a dish my mom makes often during
bones also give the soup more flavor and
to cut back on the amount of meat to make
colder months. The flavors are unlike any
texture. If my husband or I shoot a small
room for the noodles in this preparation.
American or European stew you’ve ever had:
deer, we’ll freeze the whole shoulder intact.
Lemongrass, star anise, fresh ginger and
Venison neck and shank would also work in
As a mainstay ingredient in Vietnamese and
cinnamon give the stew boldly warm and
this recipe. Didn’t keep any venison bones?
other Asian cooking, it’s too bad that mono-
aromatic layers.
Substitute water with game or beef stock.
sodium glutamate is so stigmatized among western cooks. MSG instantly adds depth
Venison bone-in shoulder is my preferred cut
My favorite way to enjoy this comfort food
and umami to dishes, and if used sparingly,
to substitute beef brisket in this recipe. Not
is with Vietnamese-French bread to dip into
is perfectly safe. Although it’s optional in this
only does shoulder have all the silver skin
the rich soup, but adding rice noodles is also
recipe, there’s no reason to be afraid of it.
Servings: 6 Prep Time: 2 hours and 30 minutes Cooking Time: 3 hours Ingredients:
Vietnamese Venison Stew
- 4 pounds of bone-in venison shoulder, or 3 pounds boneless - Cooking oil - Kosher salt, to taste - Freshly cracked pepper, to taste - Chopped Thai basil or cilantro, for garnish - Thinly sliced onion, for garnish - Vietnamese-French bread, French bread or other crusty bread to serve on the side
Marinade
- 3 tablespoons of fish sauce - 2 inches of ginger, peeled and grated - 1 teaspoon of sugar - 2 teaspoons of Chinese five-spice powder - 4 cloves of garlic, minced - 2 teaspoons of paprika
Stew
- 1 onion, thinly sliced - 3 thin slices of unpeeled ginger - 2 stalks of lemongrass - 1 cinnamon stick - 2 star anise pods - 2 bay leaves - ¼ cup of tomato paste - 1 tablespoon of Chinese five-spice powder - 1 tablespoon of paprika - 3 cloves of garlic, smashed - 1½ teaspoons of chili powder - 2 cups of coconut water/juice (no sugar added) - About 4 cups of water or unsalted beef/game stock - 3 large carrots, sliced - Cayenne pepper or chipotle pepper in adobo or 1 Thai chili (minced), to taste - ¼ teaspoon of MSG, optional
1. Cut venison into stew-size pieces, retain-
3. Add more oil to the pot along with sliced
water, using a wooden spoon to release
ing bones if any; the bones will add more
onion, sliced ginger, cinnamon stick, star
brown bits at the bottom of the pot. Add
flavor to the stew. In a medium-size bowl,
anise, bay leaves and a pinch of salt. Sweat
cooked venison and bones, if available, into
combine the marinade ingredients and mix
until onion turns translucent, about 5-7
the pot. Submerge ingredients with water,
well with the venison. Refrigerate covered
minutes, stirring occasionally. Meanwhile,
or stock. Bring to a simmer, cover and then
for at least two hours or overnight.
peel off tough outer layers of lemongrass
transfer to a 350° oven. Cook for 2 to 3
stalks and pound them to release oils. Add
hours, or until venison becomes tender.
2. Preheat oven to 350° Fahrenheit. In an
lemongrass to the pot; cut or bend to fit if
enameled Dutch oven or other heavy-bot-
needed.
tomed, oven-proof pot, heat oil over medium
5. Discard bones, lemongrass, cinnamon, star anise pods and bay leaves. Add cayenne/
on the stove. When oil starts shimmering,
4. Next, add tomato paste, 1 tablespoon of
chipotle/Thai chili for spiciness and MSG,
caramelize marinated venison pieces in
Chinese five spice, 1 tablespoon of paprika,
if desired, and season stew to taste. Serve
batches, adding more oil as needed. Set
smashed garlic and chili powder, and stir for
with freshly chopped basil or cilantro and
browned venison aside.
30 seconds. Deglaze the pan with coconut
thinly sliced onion as garnish. Offer warm, toasty bread on the side.
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Lemongrass Moscow M ule
Servings: 1 cocktail
- 1.5 ounces vodka - 7.5 ounces ginger beer
- 1 inch of lemongrass
pounded (lower part) - 1 ounce of lemongrass simple syrup (see recipe below) - 1 wedge of lime - 1 cinnamon stick
Lemongrass Simple Sy
- 1 cup of sugar
rup
- 1 cup of water
- 6 stocks of lemongrass,
tender lower core only
1. To make the lemongra
ss simple syrup, peel tou gh outer layers of lemon (near the root end.) Poun grass and cut to retain d to release oils. In sau the tender, lower cores cepan, combine water, only gentle boil and then sim sugar and 3 stalks of pre mer for 10 minutes. All pa red lem on grass. Bring to a ow simple syrup to coo l completely, strain and 3 lemongrass stalks ins ide. Refrigerate overnigh pour into a jar with the other t before use. 2. To make the Moscow mule, combine 1 inch of pounded/muddled lem syrup and a wedge of lim ongrass, vodka, ginger beer, lemongrass simple e in a Moscow mule cop per mug with ice. Stir wi th a cinnamon stick.
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Gunning the
White Birds of Winter
84
Jim McCann
Cold. We know it when we feel it. But what’s
getting anxious to return to the high
persists, and temperatures are around 10
cold for someone in Arizona when the
country with my Brittany pointing dogs to
degrees in the early morning. Still, with
temperature drops from 85-degrees to a
hunt for rock ptarmigan. With a 9-month
sunlight now lasting some eleven hours, it
“brutally cold” 40-degrees is a heatwave for
long upland season in the area where I live,
usually warms up to a toasty 30 degrees by
those of us living in the heartland of Alaska.
it’s the spring season of March and April
mid-morning, and when you are trudging
In my neck-of-the-woods, the temperature
that are, in my way of thinking, magical.
around on snowshoes, that’s plenty warm.
often plummets to minus 50 degrees on
While folks are raking lawns and starting
winter nights. Now that’s brutally cold.
gardens in the Lower 48 states, interior
The drive through the wilderness at sunrise
Alaska still looks like winter, but it’s a whole
was peaceful, and the sighting of several
After spending way too much time indoors
lot warmer and sunnier than a few months
moose, two small bands of caribou, a red
during the dark months of winter, I was
before. Up high above the treeline, the snow
fox, a score of snowshoe hare, and a ruffed
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grouse budding in an aspen tree were
hunkered low near some form of structure.
occurs near a ridge of snow or a depression
delightful bonuses to the day’s adventure.
Typically, ptarmigan choose one of the
in the snow to hide them. These birds know
Arriving in the area where I planned to hunt,
scattered and grossly stunted spruce trees
to remain still and that flushing will expose
I tucked my truck off to the side of the road
that dot the otherwise barren landscape.
them to the keen eyes of a falcon capable
and sipped the last of my coffee as my eyes
These wind ravaged trees offer slim vertical
of swooping in on them at speeds over 100
scanned the snow-covered slopes for highly
protection from attack, but its better than
mph. Ptarmigan know that to fly is to die.
camouflaged rock ptarmigan.
nothing. After sliding out of the truck, stretching
Rock ptarmigan, like any grouse, fear attack
Ptarmigan are keenly aware of their highly
muscles, and breathing in some fresh
from raptors more than any other predator
effective winter-white camouflage and are
mountain air it was time to strap on my
and will generally spend most of the day
often found in the open, but this usually
snowshoes and ready my hunting gear
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before opening dog kennels and releasing
introducing those birds to my pointing dogs,
two eager Brittanys. With a simple “Hunt
but first we had the slope in front of us.
‘em up!” the dogs raced up the nearby hillside and split up to hunt in opposite
Young Jake is a leggy dog from field trial
directions. Having two experienced dogs
breeding. He covers more ground than
reaching way out beyond 200 yards, there
my other dogs so it’s often Jake that
is little chance any birds in the area will
finds the most birds on any given hunt.
be missed. Good dogs use the wind to
But today Charlie carefully circled around
their advantage and from experience have
and skillfully hunted the breeze that was
learned to hunt the places where they have
blowing his direction. Several years older
found ptarmigan before.
and a lot slower than Jake, Charlie uses his considerable experience to outshine
As the dogs worked left and right on their
the speedy youngster. When he circled
uphill drive, I moved slowly along below
downwind from a copse of stunted spruce
them, trying to warm aging muscles and
he locked up.
catch my breath. Not far up the slope, my
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eye spied a small covey of around eight birds
I quickened my pace toward Charlie, and
silhouetted against a vibrant blue sky. They
Jake took notice and raced in our direction,
appeared to be on the windblown snow just
eventually assuming a backing role to
below the top of the ridge about a half-mile
Charlie’s point. The sight of those two dogs
away—a welcomed sight at the start of a
standing upright and still with the long hair
morning hunt. Taking mental note of their
of their coats swaying in the breeze and
approximate position, I planned on later
their noses sucking in wild bird scent was
enough to make me want stare at them all day, but I’m a hunter, and I had serious work yet to accomplish. I learned a long time ago how it’s vitally important to wear snowshoes with metal cleats to safely and efficiently move over deep windblown snow. As quickly as possible, I moved within shooting range of the gnarly spruce trees where I figured the ptarmigan were likely hiding. At that point, I stopped to catch my breath before the impending shot. It was then the ptarmigan began appearing before me, a couple of them chattering and clucking as they went. Eventually, what appeared to be five ptarmigan were up and moving. I don’t particularly like downhill shots at speeding ptarmigan just a few feet off the surface of the snow, so I decided to move slowly to my right to get below them in the hope of making them flush uphill. At a point of closeness and tolerance determined by the ptarmigan they took flight directly uphill. Made easier by the proximity of the birds, the more pleasing angle of the shots, open chokes on my sideby-side, and a certain amount of luck, I was
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able to drop two winter-white birds onto the snow. I sent both dogs in for retrieves, and soon I was holding the first two birds of the hunt. Looking at the pure whiteness of these birds it was hard to imagine just a few months earlier when they wore their brown mottled plumage which camouflaged them just as well among the barren ground of the high Arctic. The daily limit in this area during the spring season is five birds, but if my hunt had ended right then, I would have left this wild country a happy man with two happy dogs. But we hunted on. At the top of the ridge, there was a significant north wind. I used the nearly bare ridge top to move quickly in the direction of where I’d seen the covey of ptarmigan earlier, but the appearance of a small clump of lichen drifting past me on top of the crusted snow in the stiff breeze piqued my interest. Something had dug under the snow and ripped lichen from the ground. This was likely the work of caribou. A hundred yards later my dogs stopped and stood looking at something just over the edge of the ridge and out of my sight. They lacked the staunchness of a point and briefly looked back at me as I approached them. As I crested the ridge, my suspicions were confirmed—a small group of maybe a dozen caribou briefly watched us before bolting downslope and out of sight. A short distance further, I sent the dogs off downhill to my right side where they’d come in downwind of where I thought the covey of ptarmigan were. As happens from time to time as the dogs loped along, two ptarmigan loafing downwind jumped from the ground and rocketed downhill. We continued down the icy slope toward where I’d seen the covey earlier. The dogs split up again with Charlie up high and out front of me, while Jake was down low and moving fast into the breeze. After forty-five minutes of hunting and not finding any birds, I figured the covey had
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left the area before we could reach them. I’ve seen this happen many times over the years, but I’ve also learned it’s just as likely a hunter will miss white birds against white snow as they maneuver to avoid you. We pushed on further up the valley, and not much later, Jake was standing point 250 yards in front of me. The going was full of pitfalls with icy waves of windblown snow combined with occasional sun softened spots where one snowshoe would break through the snow and leave me in an awkward and physically demanding position. Wearing blaze orange, stumbling along on noisy snowshoes, and gasping for air, by the time I managed to get to Jake, the covey had grown nervous and fled their hiding place. Having been on this “rodeo” so many times before, I stopped to catch my breath, let the ptarmigan settle, and plan our next move. I turned and walked directly uphill before moving parallel to where the covey watched me below. I knew they wouldn’t want to fly back toward the dogs and would likely prefer to flush downhill and stay close to the ground. Not my favorite shot, but one I’m willing to take when there is no alternative. Some 25 yards uphill from the nervous birds, I picked a path downhill with my gun at the ready. About ten yards downhill was a small, mostly bare patch of tundra where I figured I would have proper footing and take a better shot. Just as I reached the bare patch of ground, a couple ptarmigan began running before launching into flight downhill. I miffed my shot, likely shooting over the top of the bird, but when the rest of the covey flushed, I picked out the closest bird and made a proper swing through shot. The ptarmigan rolled over in flight and fell to the ground as the others disappeared across the broad wilderness valley. Charlie made the retrieve, and I pocketed my third ptarmigan of the morning. We circled and hunted our way back toward my truck, but I didn’t care to take any more birds. The
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dogs found a single ptarmigan hiding near a
Back at the truck, I checked each dog,
thought to myself how it had been another
tiny spruce tree and pointed him nicely, but I
looking for injuries before putting them
fabulous day of gunning the wild white
let the bird fly off without any shooting. We
back into straw-filled kennels with a treat
birds of winter in a gorgeous wilderness. I’m
were coming into the breeding season in an
to enjoy on the drive home. With my gear
fortunate to live and hunt where I do.
area I’ve been hunting for many decades. It’s
stowed, I climbed into my truck, dug out
my personal decision to limit my take since I
a treat for myself, and began the drive.
hunt the same area quite often.
As the heat slowly warmed the cab, I
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Ghosts in the Lake
The Untold Story of a Frontier Scientist Who Saved America’s Largest Native Trout Words by Reed Knappe Photos by Val Atkinson
turquoise are home to a curious mixture of
resurrection of a more famous and more
indigenous and introduced species, as well
monstrous fish, the Lahontan cutthroat of
as some puzzling physical anomalies.
Nevada’s Pyramid Lake—America’s biggest
On its surface, Garden City resembles many
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native trout.
of the West’s lakeside communities: Small
The lake’s most dramatic residents are
storefronts advertise rental boats and
its native trout: In summer months, Bear
Bryce Nielson, Garden City’s former mayor
paddleboards, burger stands acclaim the
Lake’s cutthroat turn an astonishing bright
and for decades before its resident fish
town’s raspberry milkshakes, the locals skew
cerulean blue, mimicking the mesmerizing
biologist, is a bit like the lake he spent a
older and comfortably retired. But unlike
surface overhead. Officially a sub-population
half-century mastering: semi-mythical, re-
most comparable places, this sleepy hamlet
of Bonneville cutthroat, these are some of
mote from the public eye, keeper of a deep
sits on a unique geographical treasure:
the largest, most aggressively predatory and
wellspring of arcane knowledge. Looking and
the glittering expanse of Bear Lake, neatly
distinctive native trout in America—yet they
sounding something like a husky Charles
bisected by the northeastern Utah-Idaho
are almost unknown outside this zip code.
Bronson, Nielson brings to mind mountain
border. The ancient terminus of a drainage
Amazingly, the individual who spent decades
men like Jim Bridger and Jedediah Smith.
traversing three states, Bear Lake’s hundred
working to revive healthy populations of
And although the valley is a tamer place
square miles of swirling, limestone-clouded
this trout was also crucial in the miraculous
today than in the days of mountain men,
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its environment is substantially unchanged.
the Dingell-Johnson excise tax to study and
ing poor sport fishing, mid-century develop-
The sweeping lines of stone and sky, the
restore the lake’s trout population—the drily
ers had often joked that Bear Lake was “a
kaleidoscope of seasonal vegetation, and
named “Bear Lake Cutthroat Enhancement
great hotel with no restaurant.” Efforts at
above all the magnificent azure oval with
Project.”
stocking hundreds of thousands of Yellow-
its lurking monsters hint at the remote
stone cutthroat in the 1950s had come to
eons predating industrial humanity. It is an
Utah’s state record native cutthroat had
nothing. Earlier introductions of rainbows
ancient-feeling place, and Nielson himself
been caught here, weighing in at nearly 20
had produced only modest creel returns,
seems to have stepped out of a time ma-
pounds; people knew that big trout lived in
and shore fishing was mostly limited to the
chine from some wilder, vanished age.
the lake, and locals treasured the curious
popular but narrowly seasonal dip netting of
“blue-noses” for their remarkable coloration,
Bonneville cisco, smallest of the lake’s three
A self-described “Jack Mormon,” Nielson
size, and good eating. But the fish had
native whitefish.
grew up some 40 miles southwest of Bear
become less numerous as a result of water
Lake in the city of Logan ––home of Utah
diversion, degraded spawning beds, and the
Bear Lake is more than 250,000 years old—
State University, where his father taught
irrigation ditches that branched out from
among the oldest bodies of water in Amer-
agronomy. From his early years, Nielson
the lake’s tributaries. Moreover, little was
ica—and has been connected at different
vacationed on Bear Lake with his family,
known about the lake’s unusual ecology or
points in geological time to a number of the
plucking trout and whitefish out of its vivid
endemic species when Nielson began his
West’s iconic waterways. Thousands of years
blue depths. He studied fisheries science
work. Over subsequent decades, building a
ago, its cutthroat were linked to populations
and cut his teeth at Flaming Gorge Reser-
coalition of interested parties and stu-
on the Columbia through the Portneuf River
voir before landing a position with Utah’s
dent researchers from Utah State, Nielson
before a primordial lava flow severed this
Division of Wildlife Resources as warden of
constructed a more nuanced picture of the
northern connection. At times Bear Lake
Bear Lake’s little-understood fishery. As with
unique aquatic environment and its fauna.
was connected to Lake Bonneville, the vast
similar projects on Lake Powell and at Flaming Gorge, funds had been allocated from
Pleistocene sea that encompassed what is Eyeing the potential for tourism but lament-
now the Great Salt Lake. Given this tumul-
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tuous natural history, the lake’s biota have
HOW DID BRYCE NIELSON WIND UP AT THE CRUX OF TWO OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY’S MOST REMARKABLE, IF UNEVENLY PUBLICIZED TROUT CONSERVATION SUCCESSES?
evolved in a curious way: Periodic intrusions of diverse genetic material followed by long periods of relative isolation have allowed the lake to develop unique ecosystems and patterns of speciation. Vestiges of this past are scattered over the lake bottom as stromatolites (coral-like remains of ancient cyanobacteria) and the beautifully preserved shells of extinct mollusks. It is a tough lake to fish, a tough lake to study, and a tough lake to evolve in. Put simply, its secrets have been difficult to untangle. Much of the seeming poverty of the sport fishery, as well as the unusual ecology of Bear Lake species, can be attributed to its peculiar geology and hydrology. The lake’s stunning turquoise coloration provides a clue: Heavy deposits of calcium carbonates (aragonite, dolomite, and calcite) from surrounding limestone mountains gives the water a unique alkaline chemistry and cloudiness, denser as one approaches the bottom. From high above, three enormous vortices of gravitational currents are observable, perpetually and silently stirring the lake’s turgid surface. Compared with other waters, it sustains only limited phytoplankton and zooplankton (microscopic plant and animal life)—organ-
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isms that constitute the bread and butter of
as head biologist on the lake. Building on
smaller trout in more typical environments.
Nielson’s foundational work, Tolentino has
Hence, Bear Lake’s cutthroat have evolved
seen the cutthroat reach record numbers in
to survive overwhelmingly by predation on
recent years: 2018 and 2019 witnessed the
other fish, a habit that keeps them in deep
highest-ever catch rates. In surveys in the
water much of the time and enables them
early ‘90s, as the efforts of the project were
to grow to impressive size. This unusual life
just beginning to bear fruit, 90 percent of
history, shared in broadest strokes with the
the fish collected were still hatchery fish. In
Lahontan cutthroat, is intimately linked
recent years, between 75 and 50 percent of
to the prey species unique to Bear Lake.
the Bear Lake cutthroat collected have been
Unlike any other body of water in Utah, the
naturally spawned fish, dramatically under-
lake has four species of baitfish that exist
lining their miraculous comeback.
nowhere else and sustain its large salmonid predators.
Their predacious habits also gave these cutthroat enormous potential for transplant
Two developments were especially key in im-
to other fisheries, a fact Nielson recognized
proving the spawning habitat of Bear Lake
early on. Since the recovery of the lake’s
cutthroat. First, Nielson and his collabora-
population and establishment of brood stock
tors had to figure out how to stock the lake
in Utah hatcheries, several other bodies of
when baby cutthroat raised at the Mantua
water have been stocked with Bear Lake
Fish Hatchery yielded poor recruitment.
cutthroat. Notably, two of Utah’s most pop-
Eventually Nielson realized that, owing to
ular fishing destinations are now home to
high predation rates and tough conditions in
robust populations: Scofield and Strawberry
the lake, bigger and more mature trout were
Reservoirs, where they have helped control
necessary. Larger seven-inch fish stocked
problematic Utah chub populations and
in much smaller numbers enjoyed better
transformed the waters into prized trophy
survival rates, and similarly reared fish are
fisheries. By contrast, despite Nielson’s
still used today.
best efforts, Bear Lake remains somewhat overlooked as a sport fishery. Tolentino told
The second crucial intervention came after
me that 10- and even 15-pound trout are
Nielson and his collaborators discovered
now caught with some consistency, despite
large numbers of cutthroat wandering down
extremely low fishing pressure. It’s proba-
irrigation ditches and failing to spawn. As a
bly only a matter of time before ambitious
result, they screened off diversions of water
anglers come in greater numbers to take on
from the spawning tributaries. More and
Bear Lake’s technical challenges in pursuit
more sophisticated screens, like the intri-
of these monsters.
cate rolling screen that Nielson showed me on the Swan Creek tributary, ensured that
Hefty as Bear Lake’s trout are, they’re
the trout stayed and spawned in the waters
outmatched by a better-known and at one
where they belonged.
point in the recent past much rarer native cutthroat: Pyramid Lake’s fabled Lahontans.
Nielson doggedly built up both the physical
Incredibly, Bryce Nielson was also instrumen-
infrastructure and the expertise to en-
tal in bringing this fish back, in a struggle
sure the survival of Bear Lake’s cutthroat:
waged between stubborn biologists, jealous
He navigated longstanding antagonisms
state agencies, and tribal authorities. Like
between Utah and Idaho state agencies;
Bear Lake’s cutthroat, Pyramid Lahontans
spent long hours across all seasons netting,
evolved in a peculiar alkaline environment
tagging, egg-stripping, and counting trout
that channeled their evolution into a highly
and their prey; built screens and fish traps;
predatory lifestyle. Unlike Bear Lake’s cutts,
and negotiated with local landowners to
Pyramid Lake’s strain were thought extinct
secure easements. When he retired in 2003,
for much of the twentieth century. A chance
turning to a successful stint in local politics,
discovery in a remote stretch of Utah
longtime assistant Scott Tolentino took over
mountains in the 1970s, far afield from
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the trout’s natural ranges in Nevada and
the millions, formed a staple of both dietary
Slowly but steadily, the lake dropped. Di-
California, brought these ancient monsters
and spiritual significance second only to the
version plunged Pyramid’s water level more
unexpectedly back from the abyss.
Cui-ui’s. The largest recorded cutthroat from
than 80 feet, cutting Lahontans off from
Pyramid Lake, preserved in a Reno museum,
once-networked waters and devastating
Pyramid Lake is a terminal lake: Like the
weighed in at 41 pounds, but photograph-
their spawning grounds. Fortunately, some
Great Salt Lake, no water flows out of
ic and anecdotal evidence suggest Paiute
of their prey species with longer lifespans
it. Remnants of the vast Lake Lahontan,
fishers once regularly harvested even larger
were able to weather these dry decades.
which covered most of Nevada and parts of
specimens.
The Paiute repeatedly fought the diversions
neighboring states during the last ice age,
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in the courts, losing out to irresistible tides
Pyramid and its sibling Walker are all that
With little regard for treaty rights and gripped
of regional enterprise and bureaucratic
remain of an inland sea that once stretched
by the developmental frenzy stimulated by
indifference. Other similar projects around
more than 8,500 square miles. Like Bear
the closing of the frontier, the federal govern-
the Great Basin similarly fragmented and
Lake cutthroat, the Lahontan trout that
ment began diverting flows from the Truckee
devastated neighboring populations of La-
thrived here into the early years of the last
River, Pyramid’s most important tributary,
hontans, which now exist in only 10 percent
century grew huge and numerous on the
around the turn of the century. Construction
of their former riparian habitat and less
lake’s unique prey species, most notably the
of the Derby Dam commenced in 1903; by the
than one percent of former lake habitat.
tui chub and the endangered Cui-ui. From
interwar years, more than three-quarters of
The last spawning run of Pyramid Lake’s La-
the earliest human settlement, Pyramid
the Truckee’s flow was no longer reaching the
hontans occurred in 1938 and at Lake Tahoe
Lake was occupied by the Paiute culture, for
lake, compounded by other dams on the river’s
in 1940. The Paiute won back some of their
whom these huge trout, once numbering in
source waters in Lake Tahoe.
water rights in the 1960s, but it was too
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late for the cutthroat. For decades, all that
pivotal role in the troubled campaign to
remained of North America’s largest trout
resurrect these vanished monsters.
were dusty museum pieces and tall tales. How could the fish have ended up in Utah, In 1976, fisherman Don Duff alerted grad-
hundreds of miles from their native range?
uate student Terry Hickman to a small but
One theory holds that rogue game wardens
physically curious population of cutthroat
or sportsmen, anticipating the demise of
on Morrison Creek, a parched and remote
Pyramid’s cutthroat, engaged in an act of
watershed on Utah’s side of the Pilot Peak
deliberate, illicit preservation, bringing the
Range. Initially they assumed these strange
fry to this suitably alkaline stream by rail
trout were some errant strain of Bonneville
and horseback. Or perhaps native trackers or
cutthroat, like Bear Lake’s fish. In the first
pioneers stocked them much earlier, in order
of an almost unbelievable string of happy
to provide food for locals or travelers. Bryce
coincidences, Hickman happened to be the
Nielson, who has as much experience of
student of Bob Behnke, a legendary fish
the site as any living person, considers it a
biologist at Colorado State University. Widely
matter of cosmic chance and is pessimistic
credited as the twentieth century’s supreme
about the odds of ever solving the mystery.
authority on cutthroat trout, Behnke, consulting with colleagues, soon came to the
In the heyday of the western railroads,
conclusion that they had stumbled upon an
tanks of trout, carp, and various other edible
impossible, inexplicable relic of Pyramid’s
fish were regularly packed onto boxcars and
lost Lahontans. Within a couple of years,
distributed to the burgeoning railway towns
Bryce Nielson, already in the midst of his
lining the tracks. Nielson speculates that an
work on Bear Lake, heard about the intrigu-
engine broke down, and instead of letting
ing development from Behnke, who had
the fish suffocate, locals hoofed them to the
also been involved with Nielson’s cutthroat.
nearest creek. Although situated in treach-
Initially Nielson’s participation was limited
erously inaccessible terrain, Morrison Creek
to driving out to Pilot Peak to help shock the
lies not far from what was once a bustling
enigmatic fish (a method used to collect live
rail line, so the steel horse seems likely to
specimens for study); in the following years,
have been involved somehow. Whatever
however, he came to occupy an increasingly
the case, these unlikely relics of an ancient
ecosystem had ended up in the wrong state, and it was up to Behnke, Nielson, and a few key colleagues to figure out how to bring them home. Along with his innate stubbornness and curiosity, it was probably Nielson’s knack for building unlikely alliances that defined his role in establishing the brood stock for Pilot Peak’s miracle trout. While the first few fish were deposited in nearby Camp Creek Reservoir, Nielson convinced Steve and Jackie Doudy, owners of a ranch adjacent to the creek, to dig additional ponds on their property for raising the initial generations of fish. Emigrants from California who built an off-the-grid house out of railroad ties, the Doudys savored their isolation—and were a hard sell on collaborating with the government. Sweetening the deal with a shared cooler of beer and the prospect of some extra income, Nielson eventually convinced them of the unique value of these fish, and the humble quarter-acre ponds on their property became the caves from which Pyramid’s record fish would rise like Lazarus. The early years of the project were challenging, both logistically and politically. Trout Unlimited provided some timely help, while other funding came from the state. Critical assistance on the ground came from Nielson’s key partner in the endeavor, BLM coordinator Kirk Gardner. When neighboring Betteridge Creek was poisoned with rotenone to clear out resident rainbows and re-stock with Lahontans, leaf litter absorbed the poison and rainbows survived to hybridize with the introduced cutthroat; the whole process had to be repeated. Nielson ran into problems securing the right kind and numbers of prey species for the fish. Sample eggs and fry carried in clandestine flights to Nevada died en route. The brood stock was slow to build up, and Nevada authorities either obstructed efforts or demanded impossible numbers of fish be sacrificed in disease-sampling checks. The struggle over Pilot Peak’s mystery Lahontans was fiercer and more sustained even than the struggle for Bear Lake’s cut-
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exiles were once again stocked and thriving in their ancient home and have since been stocked in Lakes Walker and Tahoe. Although management challenges remain, prospects seem good: Compared with the other Lahontan strains introduced to Pyramid in intervening decades, the Pilot/ Pyramid Lahontans grow larger and live longer. They have already established a strong foothold. In 2014, for the first time, they were recorded spawning in the Truckee River. It took almost 40 years of stubborn work by multiple generations of biologists, but the Lahontan diaspora of Pilot Peak had returned to their ancestral waters. One detail makes their recovery all the more serendipitous: in 2006 a wildfire raged across the Morrison Creek watershed, destroying the original population of relic trout. Had Don Duff not stumbled on these curious fish in the mid-‘70s—or had Nielson and his colleagues’ struggle to find homes for them failed—Pyramid Lake’s ancient throat. An initial obstacle was the fact that
age the Lahontan National Fish Hatchery;
Pyramid Lake had long been stocked with
fortunately, this institution had nothing to
a strain of Lahontans from Summit Lake,
do with the Nevada Department of Wildlife,
How did Bryce Nielson wind up at the crux
which certain defensive and influential biol-
and it proved capable of operating beyond
of two of the twentieth century’s most
ogists insisted was equivalent to the lake’s
its influence. Eager to recover the fish that
remarkable, if unevenly publicized trout
original fish. This was nonsense: Summit
had sustained their ancestors and improve
conservation successes? Was it, as he would
Lake’s Lahontans were genetically distinct
the growing sport fishery on Pyramid Lake,
probably insist, a collision of dumb luck
from Pyramid’s, a related but inexact and
Paiute leaders and biologists welcomed the
and stubbornness? Speculating is tricky,
smaller substitute. (Curiously, they’re still
efforts of Nielson and his allies. At various
but there seems to be something in these
stocked today alongside the real Pyramid
points, Nielson hauled eggs off to Nevada’s
stories beyond simple coincidence. The way
Lahontans). Bob Behnke deftly rebutted
hatcheries across state lines, often before
Bryce Nielson has studied Bear Lake for
these protests, long before the DNA tests of
interstate disputes had been resolved or
decades, wrestling with its secrets, turning
later years vindicated his position. Still, both
official sanction given.
over every rock and exploring each tribu-
Nevadan and federal authorities resisted
tary, speaks to the way a certain class of
acceptance of the stock Nielson and his
By the mid-‘90s, once populations of the
individuals strives instinctively to reach an
collaborators were laboring to build, whether
trout were being cultivated in Nevada
intimate understanding with the West’s
from fears of disease introduction, territori-
itself, there was no turning back. Perhaps
remote and ancient environments. It is no
al jealousy, sticky funding questions, or sim-
the most crucial breakthrough, at least on
coincidence that many of the individuals
ply out of disbelief that the most legendary
paper, came in the early years of the new
who helped Nielson restore these fish and
Nevadan trout could somehow have survived
century, when the long debate over the relic
their ecosystems have shared his sense of
in Utah. “Nevada fish and game never liked
population’s genetic bona fides was resolved.
connection to the land and its history and
it,” says Nielson. “They wanted Lahontans to
Compared with DNA samples taken from the
his determination to untangle the mysteries
be Lahontans.”
champion fish in Reno and other historical
that bind humans to the natural world. As
specimens, the Pilot Peak fish showed virtu-
long as there is still space in the West for
Ultimately, the salvation of their efforts
ally 100 percent parity; no doubt remained
people like these, the species and habitats
turned out to be collaboration with the
about their pedigree.
whose existence relies on our understanding
Paiute Tribe, who had partnered with the federal government since the ‘70s to man-
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cutthroat might have vanished forever.
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and respect will have a chance at survival. By 2005, the descendants of the Pilot Peak
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Gaucho : Guides Argentina s ’
Rich Tradition of Red Stag Hunting
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Words by Gustavo Hiebaum Photos by Gonzalo Flego
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The European red deer, popularly known as
more than 100,000 wild stag now roaming
want to continue hunting during North
red stag, was introduced to Northern Pata-
between the private ranches of the Pata-
America’s off-season. Of course, Argentina is
gonia over a hundred years ago. Bounded to
gonian steppe and the forested mountains
also home to some of the best trout fishing
the north by the town of Alumine, the south
of the Andes range. Today, Argentina and
in the world. Extra days on the back-end of
by the city of San Carlos de Bariloche, and
neighboring Chile have the largest herds of
successful hunts are often spent wading
east to west by the Andes range, red stag
red stag in the world.
world-class rivers. Combined with the re-
flourished in this untamed landscape where
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gion’s reputation for incredible cuisine—a de-
mountains, brilliant blue lakes and streams,
Known for its rich hunting culture and situ-
licious blend of Italian, Spanish, and Native
glaciers, and volcanoes combine to form ide-
ated in the southern hemisphere, Argentina
American influence—Argentina is a hunting
al red stag habitat. It is estimated there are
has become a destination for those who
and angling paradise.
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Northern Patagonia remains one of the least
The sprawling ranches of the Patagonian
keen sense of the stag populations and their
populated areas in the world, with expansive
steppe have long been worked by Argen-
behaviors. Naturally they have taken on
views unspoiled by buildings, towns, or any
tinian gauchos. Often multi-generational,
the dual roles of gaucho and guide. In true
evidence of human habitation. This wildness
the gauchos are born and raised on the
Patagonian form, the gauchos, who have
has been the perfect environment for red
lands they work. The land is vast and thus
perfected the art of raising cattle on vast
stag, but it has also made them extremely
the overall cattle density is low, creating a
tracts of varied land, have also perfected
wary of any human presence. An intimate
sustainable habitat for both cattle and the
the art of spot-and-stalk hunting.
knowledge of the terrain and the animal is
wild stag that roam between public and
the key to success—stalking has become an
private lands. In covering the wide swaths
During the rut, red stag emit a low and deep
art form unto itself.
they manage, the gauchos have developed a
roar (called a brama in Argentina) that gau-
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cho guides use to identify a buck’s location. Unlike elk, however, red stag don’t respond to a human-made call. So a hunter must have an exacting knowledge of the terrain and the stag’s pattern of movement to be successful. Cue the gaucho guide. There are now two distinct populations of stag, owing to dramatic differences in the geography they inhabit. The subantarctic forest of the Northern Patagonia lakes district is densely forested with an ecosystem akin to cold rainforest. The deer that inhabit the national forests are lonesome and reclusive; they grow old with large heavy bodies and nearly black antlers as a result of lower population density, a lack of natural predators, and more nutritious food sources. Hunting for these stag is not for the faint of heart; anticipate long hikes, high-elevation camps, and long periods without seeing a stag. When you do find a buck, it will be a trophy. By contrast, the Patagonian steppe presents an extreme desert climate and ecosystem. The herds of the steppe and the transition zones are in a less nutrient-rich environment, with easier terrain and grassy wetlands. The herds are larger but the deer smaller in size and lighter in color. In many locations you will find a mixture of characteristics, meaning each micro-region has its own unique stag population. Though genetically identical to the European red deer originally brought to Northern Patagonia, Argentinian red stag exhibit distinct adaptations that have occurred over the better part of a century, making them uniquely Patagonian—not unlike the gauchos who hunt them. And therein lies the life-changing opportunity afforded by international hunting: The people you meet, the cuisine you experience, and the history and cultures you learn about are every bit as captivating as the wildlife you encounter.
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WHEN HEAVEN FREEZES OVER Photo essay by Denver Bryan
MONTANA’S WINTER WATERFOWL SEASON DOESN’T TRULY ARRIVE UNTIL THE TEMPERATURE DROPS WELL BELOW ZERO, FREEZING UP ALL THE WATER IN THE STATE EXCEPT FOR SPRING CREEKS AND TAILWATERS. ALTHOUGH NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, IF YOU CAN FIND OPEN WATER THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, CHANCES ARE YOU’LL ALSO FIND SOME AMAZING HUNTING.
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LATE SEASON IN MONTANA IS MOSTLY A MALLARD GAME. THESE MALLARD DRAKES ARE BIG, TOUGH BIRDS THAT OFTEN WEIGH BETWEEN THREE AND FOUR POUNDS. THEY’RE HAPPY TO STAY “UP NORTH” IF THEY HAVE ACCESS TO FOOD AND OPEN WATER. TOSS A FEW DECOYS INTO A SPRING CREEK, FIND A PLACE TO HUNKER DOWN (IDEALLY IN A BLIND WITH A HEATER), AND TRY TO STAY WARM WHILE YOU WAIT FOR THE BIRDS TO ARRIVE. GIVEN THE LIBERAL BAG LIMIT OF SEVEN MALLARDS IN THE PACIFIC FLYWAY, THE ACTION OFTEN GOES A LONG WAY TOWARD STAVING OFF FROSTBITTEN TOES.
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THERE’S AN INTIMACY ABOUT HUNTING THESE SMALL SPRING CREEKS. BOOTS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN BOATS. BIRDS TEND TO DECOY FAIRLY CLOSE. DOGS DO MORE RUNNING THAN SWIMMING TO RETRIEVE DUCKS FROM THE CLEAR, SHALLOW WATER. EXTREME COLD AND HOARFROST ALSO MAKE FOR SOME INTERESTING ADORNMENTS ON BOTH HUNTERS AND DOGS— THINK ICICLE BEARDS AND PEARLY COATS. THROW IN A SUNRISE ILLUMINATING SNOWBLANKETED MOUNTAINS IN THE DISTANCE, AND YOU CAN’T HELP BUT STEP BACK AND MARVEL AT THE BEAUTY OF IT ALL.
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“We need to nourish ourselves with meaning as much as with food, especially in a modern world where meaning seems continually set aside in the name of convenience, progress, and conformity. […] In the act of hunting, we rekindle what Carl Jung called our ‘ancestral soul,’ which is that primal part of us shared with all human history. In those moments when the spirit of the hunt possesses us we remember who and what we are, have always been, and will be for thousands of years to come.” — James A. Swan Photo: Joseph Jackson
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