You would think that I learned my lesson about fishing with Mrs. Jagermeister, I didn't.  I took her to the coast with friends of ours and decided that she couldn't get into to much trouble crabbing, not the kind she does at home.  All she had to do was help pull crab pots and sort crabs.  We had an experianced crew and captain.  As we will find out later the captain had over 19 years experiance in this area.  We set out in the SS "please dont sink" and Mrs. Jager suited up in her brand new rain gear and gloves.  We started pulling pots and were having a great time.  Mrs. Jager was in charge of recording the crab count, easy job.  Then Capt. Phill had the great idea of letting Mrs. Jager "throw the hook" to snare the crab pots.  I was pleading for him to change his mind but he is the captain and over ruled my pleading.  Mrs. Jager steps up to the rail and gets ready, I curl up in a corner because I know what is about to go down. 
She was given a long pole with a hook, we wanted to make it easy for her.  All she had to do was lean over, snag the rope and pull in the pot.  Capt. Phill pulled up near the rope and foat, it was just sitting there in the calm water.  Mrs. Jager reaches out with all her ability and missed the rope as we passed by.  Without missing a beat Mrs. Jager snapped at the capatin, "WHAT KIND OF DRIVE BY WAS THAT" obviously refering to her past gang experience.  Now all of us are affriad to say anything.  Capt. Phill is in shock and speechless, he slowing turned the boat and tried for a second pass. I was pretty sure that Mrs. Jager missed the rope because of her verticaly challanged stature, but common sense and love of life prevented me from saying anything.
On the second pass Capt. Phill nearly stopped the boat on the rope, risking catching it in the prop and adding five minutes to our haul.  He was contunuly mumbling the words, "19 years on the water, what do I know."  While the Capt. was mumbling Mrs. Jager was able to hook the rope and haul in the pot.  Her luck was still holding true as she pulled in the largest pot of crab we had seen.  The rest of the day went pretty smothe.  Capt. Mrs. Jager made sure we all did a good job getting her crab. 
I'm not sure about everyone else but Mrs. Jager had a great time.  I thought it was one of my favorite trips on the water, but poor Capt. Phill.  He doubled his rate of smoking and drinking that night.  For the rest of the trip he could found sitting in a corner curled into the fetal position whimpering and repeating the phrase, "what kind of drive by was that."

Fishing with Mrs. Jagermeister

It all started off as a great idea to hike into a back country lake. Mrs. Jager came up with the idea. We convinced Pops to go with us, for comic entertainment. The hike in was nice, we made good time and no one got hurt. At the lake some pictures were taken while Pops and I surveyed the situation. He came up with his plan on a fishing spot and I came up with mine. Meanwhile Mrs. Jager was taking pictures and smelling field flowers.
I put the rods together and set up a fishing spot. This was a special day for me because both rods were my grandpa's who had just passed and left them to me. I gave Mrs. Jager a rod with powerbait,something easy so I wouldn't have to fix her "thing-a-ma-jig" all the time. I set up with a spoon and began working the water. I carefully planned every cast, varied my retrieve speed and adjusted for depths. I noticed that Pops was doing the same thing I was, cheating I suppose. Then breaking the silence was Mrs. Jager with the words no one wants to hear. "I think I have a fish." Judging by the way she haphazardly cast'ed and wasn't even paying attention I deduced that there was no way that she had a fish. I told her that she was stuck on rocks and to stop bothering me.
I went back to carefully selecting a spot to cast to. Mrs. Jager was trying to real in her line to make another wild cast. I noticed something shine and realized she did have a fish. She gets all excited, hooting and hollering, offering to give me fishing lessons, all of which is standard fishing practice when someone catches the first fish. But completely inappropriate coming from her.
I took her fish off and mumbled something about bringing her. I put bait back on her "thing-a-ma-jig" and she made one of the ugliest casts I have ever seen.
As I went back to the analysis of my situation she did it again, "I think I have a fish." "Could it be" I thought to myself. Sure enough she had another one. This continued until Pops and I decided that a storm must be coming in so we would need to leave. Of course Mrs. Jager did not believe us, with the clear sky's and all.
It was a long quiet hike out, and of course I had to carry her fish all the way because she didn't wants to touch them.

JagerMeister's Rube-Goldberg huntin' rig

A few years back, before slightly thinning and slight gray hairs set in, JagerMeister and I were using his 1978 (?) Chevy truck as a huntin' rig.
Jager's history is frought with CalKustom rig's. The electronics were usually 'modified' by Yager when he removed any noise making buzzer, or tape player that only has one cassette tape that could not be removed, which luckily was the soundtrack to "The Blue Brother's" or George Thorogood. It would be 'uncommon' NOT to see a spaghetti loom of wires hanging from the void area where the stereo would usually be found in a truck. In this instance the spaghetti loom exited the hole in the dash, and snaked down to a Mazda car stereo duct taped to the floorboard. His latest fritz'ed out stereos could always be found on a workbench in various stages of dissection, with spools of cassette tape ribbon intertwined with the guts of years of previously removed stereos out for 'repair', and of course, a mix of mystery motorcycle parts.
Jager proclaimed to be as good of a truck mechanic as he was a car stereo repairman. So his huntin' rigs were always as mechanically questionable as Johnny Cash's Cadillac. Back to huntin'!
We hunted most of the morning which was nice and cool but saw very little deer sign. We were hunting on a narrow, twisty road, with the Grand Canyon on the downhill, and K2 on the uphill.
Jager had a plan for me to drop him off, and then for me to drive his rig around the ridge and meet up with him a bit later. Jager bounded off leaving me with his truck keys, and a simple plan. I started the truck and began my slow descent, with about 3 miles to go in 45 minutes.
Road huntin' is supposed to be slow and deliberate, stopping often to confirm that the giant buck with B&C numbers in the 4 digits was just a stump.
As I began to speed up on the decline, I gently pressed on the brake pedal. No response in the decelleration department. I pressed harder, and instead of stopping, I soon felt like I was being launched off an aircraft carrier. It seemed the more pressure I put on the brake pedal the faster I went. A slight bead of panic began to wet my brow, until I remembered the emergency brake. I pushed on the E-brake only to have it go to the floor with NO resistance whatsoever. I am now swerving wildly to remain on the dirt road at a completely unsafe velocity. I reach down to pull the E-Brake release and try it again, only to grab a handfull of bailing wire that apparently was not doing its intended job as applied by Jager. As I am hurtling down the mountain road, I have a realization that I am having to swerve more than appropriate and the steering is slow to react. Obviously the steering wheel had about 180 degrees of slop in it. I day-dreamt just a a fleeting second wondering how much air I was going to get if I failed to negotiate one of the curves and just how impressive the debris field would be. A quick snap back to my dire situation as I felt something bouncing around at my feet. A quick glance confirmed that Jager's custom car stereo installation had dislodged the twice used duct tape and the stereo was sliding around by the pedals. My rifle fell down onto the floorboard by my feet due to all of the swerving, the scope entangled in the remaining stereo wires, which really was unconcerning since the pedals, E-brake, bailing wire, car stereo wedging itself between the pedals and floorboard combined with the steering wheel slop seemed like some kind of cruel Rube Goldberg machine. As I flew down the mountain, fishtailing and sliding around corners like a speedway ice-racer, I cussed Jager and gravity equally, wondering if this was some kind of 'test'. I tried downshifting but the transmission let out a racket and I could smell the emanations of burnt transmission fluid. I passed our rendezvous point as only a blurr, and apparently 43 minutes earlier than planned. Jager's rig slowed from an incline and me swerving up onto a bank. I quickly exited the truck, my rifle hanging out the door ensnared in the steroe wires, and threw a rock under two of the wheels. I was sweating profusely in 40 degree weather with my spine pulsing with adrenaline. I found a spot in the shade and waited until Jager came out of the woods down the road a quarter mile back. He walked up to his truck and told me that I had missed the rendezvous point by a quarter mile making him walk uphill. I told him he should have warned me about the brakes and the play in the steering wheel. He looked at me quizzically and replied, "Awww, you just need to pump the brake pedal a few times and the E-brake only works on level ground." After some deliberation, I hesitantly got in the passenger side as JagerMeister masterfully drove his rig back home, completely ignorant of the mechanical contraption that would be condemned by even the worst Afghani mechanic.
Did I mention Jager can fix your car stereo?

Pop's is lost again

After Pop's took the long shot, "Donk's missed chance", he decided to hike down the canyon to look for blood. Now the canyon goes straight down then straight up the other side. It is nasty country that will make climbing Mt. Everest seem like a day hike. Pop's takes off with his radio and GPS, this is important to remember!! After an hour or so Pops decides there is no blood and is going to meet us at the road. We are talking back and forth on the radio's that have GPS built in. Our radio's will show you where each person is when we are talking, this is important to remember!! After another hour of waiting and noticing that Pops is getting farther away on my GPS we tell him that we will drive down the road and meet him on the other ridge. He agrees and tells us that he is right below the road. Donk and I drive the road and notice that Pops signal is not going to come out at the road. He is going the wrong way. We try to convince him of this but he say's that he is "right below us" and can hear the truck, which would be an act of God for him to "hear" anything. All of a sudden Donk yells out, "there he is." And we see Pops walking away on the mountain north of us. After some tense radio traffic we finally convince him to turn around. After a couple hours we get hooked up and he is beat. His clothes were un-tucked and dripping wet with sweat, his face looked like he went a few rounds with Tyson and he was all but dragging his gun. His excuse, I couldn't figure the "danged GPS thing out."
Some people hunt for the joy of it or to be one with the outdoors. We hunt just to see what Pops is going to do next!

Donk's missed chance

Now Donk will remind everyone not to follow one of Pops's plans. We were driving along a winding mountain road. Pops looks out the window and notices two buck. Donk grabs his bino's and yells, "Big Bucks!!" I got the truck stopped up the road a bit. We all got out and began to walk back down the road. The bucks were about 500 yards across a canyon. We had nothing to worry about as far as spooking them. We noticed that they were just feeding in some brush and slowly walking. We had plenty of time, so Pops comes up with one of his many plans. He works it out with Donk that they will both get set up, Poor Donk if he only knew. Donk was then going to take the first shot. Donk crawls up on some rocks about ten feet from Pops. Pops and I drop on the ground and set out the bi-pods. It had been a total of about ten seconds, Donk was just getting ready to look through his scope and "bang" Pops is firing. In the process of one or two seconds Pops had emptied his gun. Donk never had a chance.
It was a beautiful sight though,to watch those two majestic bucks walk away after wondering why those rocks were "Popping" all around them. Once again Pops had a great plan and lousy timing.

Hillbilly defeated by a Stealhead

Now I'm not as long winded or descriptive as Mrs. Jagermeister who added the previous post, but I will do my best. You see this story is actually true. Hillbilly, Pops and I were in my drift boat steal-head fishing. We were running hotshots off the bow and I was back rowing. Hillbilly hooks into a big fish. I knew it was big because he was hooten and holleren so much I began to feel like "Ned Batey" in "Deliverance."
He is fighting drag and playing the fish. I back row and side row then do it all again. I get us to some slower water, Hillbilly is pumping that rod up and down, the drag is spinning and the boat is rocking. This goes on for about five minutes then "SNAP" it's all over, we thought. Pops and I start telling him what he did wrong. He was complaining about his brand new gold hotshot when all of a sudden; This salmon jumps straight up out of the water and shakes his head. That gold hotshot was still in his mouth. He shook it twice to show the Hillbilly that he was boss then disappeared forever. That is when the most amazing thing of all happened, Hillbilly was speechless. I didn't think that was possible.

The goose hunt

Check out the video on the right. It is from Jr's first junior goose hunt. The speed is a little off, I should put some "yakety sax" to it and give it a Benny Hill theme. He had our "Donk" with him, I don't need a gun I have a Donk. It was a great day. Donk was more excited then Jr.

Hillbilly Slide

On one particular hunting trip, Hillbilly and I decided to hunt an old burn we had hunted many times before. As we were walking along an old, over-grown logging road discussing politics, the weather and the apparent need to switch over to light beer, we happened upon a group of deer feeding on new-growth grass in a small, open field.

Upon first sight of the grazing deer, Hillbilly and I instantly slipped into super-stealth mode as if we were a couple of Force Recon soldiers trying to surround and invade an enemy camp. Dressed from head to toe in forest camouflage, we instinctively ducked behind a group of evergreen trees unnoticed. Without uttering a word, we signaled to each other in a series of hand gestures which detailed a fool-proof plan of attack on the unsuspecting deer.

As relayed by his precise hand signals resembling a fight sequence from a Three Stooges episode, Hillbilly signed in agreement to split up, walk wide 3 clicks in a north easterly direction, and sneak in from the back side toward the small herd of deer. I was going to remain in my location among the trees until Hillbilly was in position. Then I was to flank wide 2 - 4 clicks in a southerly direction until I was within shooting range.

The plan was perfect in its simplicity and I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of excitement as the thrill of the hunt began to set in. I watched patiently as Hillbilly crept North through the trees and ground foliage in an effort to complete his mission. Soon he was out of my sight and I settled back against a tree making step-by-step mental notes of how to accomplish my plan of attack in the most efficient manner.

One more time I pulled my range finder out of my pack to double-check the exact distance of the herd so as not to misjudge the distance I had to travel to reach my position. A quick movement just a hundred yards from me caught my eye. It was a legal buck bedded down in the shade beneath a large cedar tree. I also noticed two other bucks feeding a short distance beyond the buck resting in the shade and just below the location Hillbilly was supposed to show up.

In a split second I made a command decision to take off my shoes and stalk the bedded buck. Slowly and silently I started to make my way closer and get in a position that afforded me a clean kill shot. Suddenly another quick movement caught my eye; it was Hillbilly coming out of the brush revealing his position. Frantically, I began flashing him hand signals and other gestures in a large, flailing manner in an attempt to draw his attention to the bucks just below him. The look of confusion on his face indicated he did not understand my directions.

Taking a deep breath, I again signaled in a most clear and concise military manner. To no avail, Hillbilly began to make his way out of the brush and toward my current, shoeless position. From my vantage point I could clearly see Hillbilly was standing on a relatively high outcrop of rock strata covered in dense ground vegetation. The untrained eye could easily underestimate the steepness of the descent down the hill. As if able to predict what might happen next, I tried in vain to gain Hillbilly's attention and warn him of the impending danger. With arms flapping ferociously up and down as if trying to take flight, I tried unsuc-cessfully to prevent what happened next.

For a brief moment I thought Hillbilly may have correctly interpreted my flailing arms as a sign of warning. All to soon that moment slipped away with one unsuspecting step forward onto a clump of seemingly firm, stable grass that gave way under his weight. The sound of breaking, crumbling shale rock began to echo through the mountainside as Hillbilly started to tumble downward.

It happened so fast, yet so slow. I could see the whites of his eyes staring wide in disbelief until a cloud of dust and debris enveloped his careening body. Rocks and small stones rolled violently downhill at an equal pace. Small branches and twigs snapped effortlessly from trees and bushes to joined the ruckus. Hillbilly's two-hundred and fifty pound body began to gain momentum as it plummeted down the hill with the force of a speeding, steel locomotive. Wildlife in the immediate vicinity froze in terror at the sound and spectacle of the camouflaged invader disturbing their peaceful way of life.

As soon as it began.....it stopped. Still holding his rifle unscathed in his right hand, Hillbilly grumbled and groaned in an effort to stand. Twigs and grass blades were imbedded in his baseball cap. The skin on his face and arms were two different shades of dirt. His camouflaged attire no longer blended with the trees of a dense forest, but with the dirt and sagebrush of a high mountain desert.

As the dust and rock settled, we both became aware that the deer were still miraculously standing nearby and within range. They stared as if entranced by what they had just witnessed. The stalking methods of this hopeful hunter was one they were most unfamiliar with. They were confused more than afraid.

Hillbilly and I made eye contact. My facial expressions screamed, "Shoot!"

With the ease and nimbleness of an arthritic seventy-year old man, Hillbilly pulled up on his rifle, aimed...... and missed. He drew in a large breath, shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look of exasperated indifference as he hobbled toward me.

"Why didn't you tell me I was standing on Mt. Kilimanjaro?" he asked.

"I did tell you," I rebutted. "I flapped my arms in silent Morse code patterns. You were in the military as well as I; don't you understand Morse code?"

"I understand Morse code just fine in beeps and clicks as it was intended," Hillbilly argued. "Your flailing arms said to me, 'Hey....I'm over here'!"

"No....that meant stop. You're standing on a highly gradient precipice and will more than likely fall to your doom," I argued back.

"Just so I'm clear, why did you send me walking in circles on my tiptoes?" Hillbilly inquired.

"What are you talking about?" I said. "I clearly told you to walk wide 3 clicks in a north-easterly direction and then sneak in from the backside of the clearing."

"Well, obviously the Army taught you wrong. This is just another classic example supporting my theory that you should have joined the Navy," Hillbilly chided.

"What do you know about hand signals? The only signals you ever learned in the Navy were the red blinking lights and alarms indicating your ship was going down," I teased.

After much banter back and forth regarding all branches of the US armed forces, we decided that whatever training we had received, nothing could prepare us for the battle we would face at home if we didn't make back in time to pick up our children from school.

With packs and rifles slung over our shoulders, we walked and limped our way back to my truck rethinking the day's events. We had both learned a little something about ourselves and about the great sport of hunting. Next time hand signals would be understandable, high outcrops of rocky strata covered in vegetation would be avoided and a first aid kit readily available with an ice cold Bud Light Lime.

Pops and a mud hole

Pops, Crazy Redneck Jr., and I were duck hunting. We had gone to the back of the lake near a marshy area. The hunting was a little slow so we, that means Pops, came up with a plan. Pops was going to get out of the boat and walk around the lake. He was going to set up in the marsh in hopes of flaring some birds back out to us. We were going to set up in the neck of the channel. We had the decoys up and Pops was just going to hide in the vegetation. It all sounded fine and easy. Birds fly in, Pops shoots at them, birds fly out and we shoot at them. An hour into our plan Jr. and I have not heard a single shot from Pops. We have not even seen him. I was checking the shoreline trying to pick him out. We decided we should go look for him to see if he wanted to go, no birds were flying. We picked up the decoys and headed in. As we get near the end I could see movement coming out of the marsh. At first I thought that I had finally seen a Sasquatch, I later realized it was Pops. The closer we got the more we could make out his situation. He was walking slow and looked exhausted, he was dragging what looked like a shotgun behind him. It was more of a big brown blob than a shotgun. He was covered in mud from six inches below his chin to the bottom. As we pulled up we began laughing and taking pictures while listening to him yell something about not being pleased with the mud. It turns out he found the perfect hiding spot, somewhere that had never seen a human, that should have been a hint. As he "snuck" into it he began sinking. At first he thought he was alright and just tried to pull his feet out one a time. Now he was up to his knee's. Here is where most people would yell at the boat to come help, Not Pops. He keeps squirming and wriggling making his situation worse. Mud is past the waist, "now I'll use my gun to help." Mud up to the arm pits, no worries I'll lay on my stomach and swim out. An hour later, missing one wading boot, and digging a trench with the but of a shotgun, Pops makes it to solid ground. He looks up and see's us in a boat. "Why didn't you just call out for help?" Pops, "I didn't want you to laugh at me." Well, we continued laughing at him all the way back to the boat ramp. Another one of Pop's great plans.

Wardog's ingenuity

Now Wardog is one of the smartest people I know, he could build a nuclear reactor out of an empty tuna can and a nail.  So it came to no surprise to me the day we were sitting on the edge of a cliff spotting bucks.  We had seen a few nice bucks and were trying to wait for the right one.  The sun was coming up and was starting to get in our eyes. As any good hunter I wear a hat with a bill.  Not Wardog he has a beanie, obviously to keep that inventive brain warm.  After a short time of watching him squirm around trying to see into the sun I noticed that he had calmed down.  He was glassing peacefully and quietly.  That is when I began to start craving taco's.  I looked a little harder at Wardog and noticed that he had fashioned a hat with a bill out of tortilla shells.  Now I have seen a lot of improvising in my day but this was a first.  What put it over the top was watching him snack on his hat.
It wasn't' long after that, and several "hot plate" comments, that I saw the bucks leave the draw.  I was following them out the bottom and they were moving along nicely.  I was trying to get Wardog on them so he could get the shot.  It should be noted that Wardog is the best long distance shooter I know.  I have seen his 800+ yard shots and have no worries about him hitting these bucks.  The bucks are 200 yards.  They are just leisurely walking out in line.  I'm calling out locations, "the one in back is the four point."  Now they are 300 yards and still no shot from Tortilla Hat.  400 yards, nothing.  I look over and he is still setting up.  He's readjusting himself, moving a rock here and there, adjust the tortilla shell over the scope and basically driving me crazy.   Apparently he was waiting for the challenge because he did not get on the big four point until he was over 500 yards.  I call out the range as he dials in, checks his range card, adjust for wind, holds ten inches high and "BANG."  It was all over, the smell of gunpowder in the air, the small ring in the ears, and the sight of the four point walking away.  Yes, super sniper hit right where he was aiming, just over the bucks back.  After all the preparing and adjusting he forgot to hold ten inches over the vitals and instead help over the top of the buck.  I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, so lets just keep this a secret.

Ol' Man timing

Once again I was hunting with the Hillbilly, Mike, and my Pops.  It was during archery season and it had been a long hot day with no shooters spotted.  One of us noticed a nice buck, that means any legal buck to Pops.  This buck was bedded under a tree and was not spooked or nervous.  Then Pops comes up with a plan.  He tells the Hillbilly that they should count to three and both shoot at the same time.  This was their first archery buck and they wanted to make sure one of them hit it.  The Hillbilly agrees to the plan and they began their stalk.  They tiptoed up to this buck as quiet as the wafting wind.  They are now about twenty yards away.  Pops whispers, "ready?"  The Hillbilly nods, "yes."  Pops yells, "onetwothree" and a shot goes off.  Now Hillbilly was still drawing his bow when the count went out.  Hillbilly pulls as fast as he can.  Pops shot goes high and sticks in a tree.  The buck stands up to look at the two camouflaged blurs, just as Hillbilly's shot goes off.  That shot goes low and sticks in the tree.  It was over in a split second.  One yell, two bow shots and a laughing buck bounding away to tell his story to others.   
Was their a lesson learned in all of this...............Nope, Pops still comes up with plans that we foolishly follow.

Mike and a little 380

This is a quick story about Mike.  We were scouting in the Marbles and we heard a bear tearing up a log.  I wanted to see if it was going to be worth hunting when the season opened.  I asked Mike if it was alright if I called it in.  He had no idea what I was about to do, so he said yes. 
Now to make it clear I was carrying a 44 mag, and am a fast runner.  Mike has some knee problems and only had a small, unreliable 380 semi auto.
Well I called the bear in and it worked perfectly.  It was a very large Cinnamon colored boar.  He ran in to about fifty yards of us.  I whispered to Mike, "don't move."  The bear jumped up and down, grunted, tore up the ground then walked away.  I thought it was a rather succesful practice of my calling ability.  However, I looked over at Mike and it is safe to say he was not holding still.  I noticed that he was shaking and gyrating like a lab pup when they hear the decoys being loaded into the truck.  I asked Mike what was wrong.  He could only form enough words to say something about shooting me in the leg so he could get away. 
Mike no longer allows me to call in bear when we are in the woods.  He has no sense of adventure, but the good news is that he did buy a real pistol finally.

Getting Started.

This is just a blog to talk about hunting and all things associated with hunting.  I love to hunt, starting with Turkeys in Spring and ending with Geese in January.  When I'm not hunting I enjoy sitting around telling stories of past hunts and looking at the pictures.  I started this blog to do that.  When I am not out and about what better way to share stories.  At least this way I may hear some new ones, have you ever noticed how you and your friends sit around telling the same stories over and over.
So come in and enjoy.  Share a story or give some advise, either way I hope you enjoy the ride.

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