Strung Magazine - The Big Game Issue 2020

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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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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41

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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strung magazine

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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