SWAN SONG

It was bitter cold. The thermometer on Wayne’s shop showed a chilly one degree. The snow squeaked under our feet while setting out the goose decoys

After setting the decoys and moving the trucks out of the corn field we settled into the blind for a hot coffee and doughnut breakfast. Not the Hilton, for sure, but the reed blind broke the biting breeze drifting off the ice flowing Snake River.
 We could hear the geese lightly honking on the frozen river, and we all knew it would be mid-morning before they warmed up enough to fly to the fields.
 About ten in the morning we heard a strange goose honk.
“Some coming off the river,” Wayne whispered, making his way to his gun.
Jimmy was craning his neck around the blind brush trying to see where the funny honking geese were flying.
 “Swans!” we all whispered in unison.
Two big Trumpeter Swans lumbered their way out of the frozen river and over the corn fields making a funny sounding peeping honk.
“Man, that’s a high pitch sound… like a snow goose,” I thought to myself while enjoying watching the huge birds circle the field next to ours.
 Snow Goose! Around my neck was a snow goose call I was hoping to call in speckle belly geese.
 I dug in my shirt and pulled out the white call.
“Per-peep, Per-peep,” I tried my best to sound like the swans.
The two swans immediately answered me back. I kept on the call, doing my best to make the same sounds the swans were making.
They cruised directly toward our field and then over our goose decoys. As they passed over the blind they made a purring sound. I rolled my tongue in the call and the big birds locked wings in a long glide.
Peeping and purring into the call I was actually calling to the big white swans.
They made a slow glide right at the blind. We crouched low to not spook them, and the big birds came head on drifting over the blind so close it seemed we could reach up and touch them.
 The wind buzzed in their wing feathers as they soared over and made a tight turn.
I purred and peeped in the call and the big white birds gracefully settled into the snow just outside our goose decoys.
 We were stunned. This is the first time we have ever landed swans in our Canada goose decoys. We crouched low and enjoyed the amazing sight.
The big birds strutted around the field until Jimmy had to leave for work. As soon as he stepped out of the blind they peeped their way off into the distance.
We hi-fived ourselves at such a wonderful experience, and I now have the brag of being able to speak Swan!

MUZZLELOADER ELK HUNT

Warm Hawaii vacation is over. Rene heads back to Alaska, while I opt to fly to Idaho for some hunting with my family. I have a couple nephews just reaching hunting age for big game in Idaho. It is always nice to be able to help on their hunts.

My brother, Gary, informed me that his middle son, Nick, was wanting to try to bag his first elk on a late season muzzle loader hunt.
Anyone who has hunted elk knows it is not an easy animal to puruse. Those big animals can cover miles of ground with seemingly no effort. The terrain they live in for the late season muzzle loader hunt can be nothing short of intimidating.
 The area we will be hunting opens to snowmobiles after Dec. 1, so that is our target time. We load the sleds, pack the camp trailers, and head for the high country.
 Arriving in our camping area we are greeted by very warm temperatures and rain, not a good sign for a 10 day hunt.
“Maybe it is snowing on top of the mountains,” we say consoling ourselves.
The first day we head up the mountain towing our snowmobiles to find heavy driving rain. Not a drop of snow.
That’s alright, we reason, maybe the elk are high. We spend the drippy day scouting for any elk sign. Nothing at all.
At camp that night, we learn from hunters who have been hunting for a week  that the elk are down low on the mountains even though there is no snow. These guys are packing elk on their backs nearly  four miles, after harvesting them. That does not sound fun at all.
When the rain clears, we decide we have to go down after the elk. Five of us split up and head down the steep mountains.
 My brother is hunting with his son, Nick. They take the middle, I take one edge and a friend, Jimmy takes the other edge.
About half way down the steep mountains we get into a good herd of elk. Muzzle loader range is just a bit more than a bow and arrow, so you have to get close in order to line up a good shot.
 Idaho muzzle loader hunting requires you have an exposed cap (the primer the hammer hits to fire the load of powder stuffed down the barrel with a ramrod) and an all lead bullet. Not ideal in rainy conditions.
I run into an elk at close range, about fifty yards and try for a shot. My gun misfires. The hammer hits the cap but it fails to fire. Too wet.
The elk take off running towards the guys in the middle, but like the crafty animals they are, they dodge everyone without being seen.
Jimmy gets into elk on his side and manages a shot, but has a clean miss. He is struggling with misfires as well.
This time the elk run right to Gary and Nick.  A big cow (this is a cow only hunt) breaks over the ridge and Gary whispers to Nick to take the shot. “Click!” Nick’s gun fails to fire the cap.  Gary also clicks on a cap. The elk are moving up the ridge but still in good range. Nick cocks the gun and fires a great shot.The  big cow falls and rolls down the ridge till she stops against a tree.
Gary radios to us that Nick has an elk down and gives us directions how to get to them. It takes us an hour to reach Nick. We congratulate him on his first elk, take lots of pictures, then get to the real work.
 We bone the meat out and stuff our pack frames. Each of us takes more than we really want to carry but that is how it divides an elk into five packs.
We continue down the steep mountains working the rest of the day to get to a truck we had dropped in the morning. At dark we break out of the mountain and to the truck parked on a lower road. We are all exhausted but very happy to have one elk in camp. Thanks to Nick.

 

CAMP FIRE KITTY

                                                           

Our big annual muzzleloader elk hunt was in full swing. Each day all the guys would pound the steep hills in search of elk. The weather threw every curve it could at us, mainly rain.
As the bedraggled, rain soaked hunter came off the mountains we would gather around a roaring fire each night. The fire is our common meeting place, and most importantly, a place to dry out the days hunting gear and clothing.
One evening as we sat around the fire we heard a meowing near one of the campers. We all shined our head lamps in that direction and picked up the glowing eyes of a small cat.
“That cat was here last year,” Jimmy commented. “Has rings on it’s tail like a raccoon."
 The cat seemed very shy. If we shined our lights in its direction it would simply vanish into the darkness outside our little light beams.
 We all tried to coax it into our little fire area but the cat would just hang in the darkness and meow.
 One night most of us had gone to bed except Jimmy and his son, T.J. They sat quietly talking in the darkness when the little kitty came right up to them. T.J. left his hand dangling near his chair and quietly coaxed the kitty to him. To his surprise, the little cat loved to be rubbed and petted.
The next night the little kitty once again made its appearance in the darkness under the trailer.
“Turn off your head lamps,” T.J. commented and just be quiet and see if the cat will come to us.
We did just that and here came the little gray kitty with the raccoon tail.
 Oh how it loved to be scratched around the ears and head. It would bump the bottom of our camp chairs if we got busy with conversation and failed to hang an hand near the ground.
When you petted the little kitty you could feel only tight muscle. That little mountain kitty was a survivor of tough times. It was soft fur covering rock hard muscles.
T.J. commented that he needed to get a cat for his wife and how loving this one was. He was thinking of trying to get it home to just spoil it and fatten it up.
The cat would never be around during the day. It showed up only in the dark of the night, right on schedule,  when the evening haze darkened into the black of night, the little kitty made her appearance.
 One night one of the guys tried to gently pick up the little kitty to place it on his lap to give it lots of love. That little kitty became a monster. Fangs out, claws ripping the little kitty was clearly saying, “pet me on the ground but don’t you dare try to pick me up.”
We all got a laugh at the episode but agreed the little mountain kitty was clearly at home around the camp ground, living in the hills all by herself, and no one was going to place the cat in a car for a peaceful drive home.
We are all hoping to see the little raccoon tail kitty next year as we sit around the fire.
We will do our best to fatten it up next year, just like we did this year with scraps of meat and fish.
Kudos to you, our little campfire kitty friend.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad

I am still in Idaho for the holidays. Rene and I have been very blessed this winter to have one of our great friends, Patsy and her daughter, come over from South Africa to visit for a while

  New Year’s night found Rene, Patsy, and I dining with my parents for their 57^th anniversary.

 In order to have a 57 anniversary my folks have had to put in quite some time on this earth. Dad has rolled around 93 years and mom is just ten behind him.
Each day you will find Leo and Estelle eating lunch at the Senior Center down town. Like clock work they are there to eat and help in any way possible.
On Sundays you will find them faithfully attending Valley United Pentecostal church. Once again very faithfully and doing what ever they can to help out.
 I have been so very blessed to have these parents. All my life they have been so steady.  From Alaska I call them every morning as I drive to the harbor. It is one of my daily pleasures to be able to speak to them. Of course, Dad is more interested in the fishing than other parts of my daily guiding life. I have to give him my daily fish report!
My brother and I participated in sports during our school years. One thing we could count on every evening we competed, was our parents sitting in the stands. Our folks were at every game, every track meet. Not many of the other kids could say that. Even now you will find this elderly couple at some youth football and baseball games rooting on their grand sons.
 I am very thankful for these two Godly and wonderful people, my parents, Leo and Estelle Tuttle

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

Reba Dog

                                 

 

I watched as the 93 year old bent down to pet the white headed lab lying in the pen. The old dog had been watching for “Dad” to come home for some time. Something was wrong.  The once powerful  hind legs could not find the strength to stand. Great effort was made the legs shook with effort the old dog began panting. I could see love in both eyes, the old man and the old dog. Re, as Dad called Reba,  will look right past anyone at her pen gate, and look for only Dad. 

“I guess you might have to take her to the vet and have her put down,” Dad said to me once inside the house. “I just don’t think I can do it myself,” he continued.

A big lump lodged in my chest.  I fight back the tears. I Don’t want to have to do that either. One of us has to as we both are not willing to watch such a great friend and hunting pal suffer so much.
 Dad and I have been away on a week long deer hunt. This is our welcome home greeting when we arrived. The hunt is forgotten, now all my thought s are on this great dog.
 I think back over  the past nine years and the many, many hunts we have been on. I drive into Dad’s drive way to see Re jumping up on the top of her plywood dog house cover and back to the ground. She is so excited to see me and know we are going on another duck hunt.  I park the truck and open the tailgate for my dog, Jasmine, to jump out. Jaz races to Re’s pen and they both get each other hyper  as I go to let Re out. Re races out of the pen, and straight up into the back of the truck. She then jumps back out and races around the yard with Jaz. We get such a kick out of watching them race around before an early morning hunt.
Dad and I walk down the brushy trail, through the trees, to our favorite hunting blind. The two dogs race around, disappearing in the dark for a short while, then come racing back to check on us. Re is very attentive to Dad. If he stumbles and falls in the big heavy waders, Re is right there beside him making sure he gets up. She seems to be out racing around but she is always right there when Dad might be in need.
 Re put her whole heart into retrieving ducks.  She bails out of the blind and launches into the air to hit the cold river water swimming. Jaz  is not so eager. She runs from the blind to the river’s edge and then eases into the water for her swimming retrieves.
Dad would have to tie Re on a rope in the blind as she would power ahead of Jaz and make every retrieve. It was just her nature. She is just such a good hard working dog wanting to please.
On blind retrieves both dogs would disappear into the thick river brush and tulles to seek out a downed duck. Jaz would come back in short while giving up, but not Re. That little yellow lab would keep at it. She would crash and splash and almost always come back, covered in mud, but proudly bearing a duck.
Dad is 93 and to keep in shape takes a early morning walk. He cut across my brother’s yard and into an empty horse pasture. At the gate he gives Re a half a dog treat cookie. He then jogs about 400 yards to some berry bushes and then back to the gate. Re races around like a rocket burning off the nights pent up energy. She chases fox, deer, and any other wild creature that might be lurking around the pasture.
At the gate Dad had the other half a cookie waiting as a bribe to get Re back and headed to home. Re is always right there to get her treat and finish the walk with Dad.
 If  he falls on the jog or walk I’ve always known  Re is right there to make sure he gets up. I wonder who will do that now? 
I now face the task of breaking this great companionship, friendship of an old man and an old dog. My heart is breaking. I am not ashamed of the tears that flow hot down my cheeks. It just seems so unfair that they both can’t just live forever. I know Dogs are short lived pals, but it is never easy to say good by and especially to a really good one.
Good by Re, my friend and hunting partner. May the gentle wind always blow in your face. May you run in fields of warm sunshine forever. May all your rivers be grand to swim in, and ducks catchable.
An old man and myself will really miss you. There will be a huge hole in our hearts each time we pass your pen, or see a green head mallard duck fly past. We will move on. We may own other dogs, but I can assure you none will be like you. You are a once in a lifetime dog.

Re you were the best.

dads deer

                                            Dad’s Deer

Down from Alaska into the state of Idaho, I had traveled to meet up with friends and family for their annual whitetail deer hunt.

 I was just a tag along, help out where needed guy on this trip. I did not have a deer tag or carry a gun.
Hunting whitetail deer is quite a challenge. I watch the hunting channel where the stars sit for endless days in tree stands waiting for some unsuspecting deer to walk the trail below so they can shoot. That is definitely not the way we hunt here in Idaho. Can you spell Boring with a capital B?
We get out and hunt hard in Idaho, sneaking along ridge tops or into the deep dark forested canyons hoping to catch a glimpse of the deer before they hear, see, or smell you. It is one of the greatest rewards in hunting to know you have hunted well enough to sneak up on a monster whitetail buck.
The challenge this year was to see if we could get my 93 year old Dad a nice deer.
 Mom’s instructions when we were leaving was, “Now, don’t you go and shoot a rank old rutting buck that is not fit to eat! We want a young, good eating deer to fill the freezer.”
The hunter in me finds that hard to abide by. I am always looking for the biggest deer with the largest antlers.
Dad and I hunted hard for a couple days, but came up empty. I am still amazed at how far Dad walked on some of those hunts.  I would get back to the truck tired and ready for the hot fire and big meal. At 93 he just seems unstoppable.  
Snow is a key component on this hunt and so far nothing had hit the ground but the liquid kind… Rain.
 On the third day we finally saw some snow hit the ground the deer seemed to be moving a bit more. They were not responding to rattling horns or grunting on our calls. It looked like just spotting one was the way to hunt this year.
We were driving along a little logging road chatting and have a good time. I looked over and spotted deer ears peaking above a log off to the side.
 I stopped the truck and asked Dad to hop out, never mentioning that I had spotted a deer. I wanted to keep him as calm as possible.
Dad clamored out of the truck and I followed out his side with his shooting sticks. I know he is a good enough shot, even at 93, to shoot without the stick but that is the sure way to get a solid rest.
 I walk dad around the truck to the side of the road, still not telling him that there was a deer laying in the brush just a ways away.
I had him kneel in the snow and then set up his sticks. With gun in place I pointed out the still bedded deer. Dad was locked on. I could see the gun weaving from side to side, and even though the deer was close a head shot is never easy.
 Just as he was about to shoot, a nice young doe stands up right beside the bedded deer.
“There’s the one you want to shoot,” I whispered in Dad’s ear. I slowly swung his gun to the right so he could pick up the deer in his scope.
“Are you on it?” I whispered.
“Yeah, I am right on it,” he responded, and I could see he was much steadier on this deer.
“Shoot when ready,”
 I watched through binoculars as he squeezed of his shot.  Perfect. The deer went down.
 No sooner had that deer gone down then two more stood up. Dad levered in another shell thinking he had missed.
“Don’t shoot!” I said, “You’ve got yours down.”
 Dad took the live round out of his gun then aimed at the still standing deer and said, “Pow.  You’re dead.”
We walked over to claim his prize deer. A very nice young doe, just what Mom had ordered.
At  camp everyone was very proud of a 93 year old being able to harvest yet another deer. I was so thankful for being with him when he accomplished such a feat.
Good shooting Dad.

Hawaii

                                                                            Hawaii

We are on our way to Hawaii. I must admit, it is not my planning that is getting me to the island of paradise.  I told Rene if she wanted to go to plan it and I’d tag along.

 There is no easy way to get from Alaska to anywhere, let alone half a world away to some place sunny.

 We Leave Sitka at six in the morning,  take a quick flight to Juneau, change planes and head to Ketchikan. After a short stop without leaving the plane, we head to Seattle.  Another plane change and we are off to Sacramento. A short stop there and we are finally on our way to paradise.
Five and a half hours later we are at last seeing the lights of Maui. As the big plane drifts down for a landing we are seeing a sight that makes Alaska island dweller’s hearts skip beats. There is solid traffic bumper to bumper as far as we can see.
 Now, coming from a town of 8,500 people the last thing we need is to try and navigate through bumper to bumper traffic for nearly an hour to get to our condo for the night.
 Rene grew up around big cities so when the traffic gets stuffy, I leave the driving up to her.
 “Looks like you’ll have to take this one tonight,” I comment to her still peering out the plane window.
 It is 8:30 p.m. when the big bird touches down on the hot Maui runway. Well, hot to us, not to the locals.
 We leave the plane and stroll into the airport to find people racing to get luggage and get out the doors. Not to uncommon in airports and probably everyone in a hurry to get into their shorts and tee shirts to keep from melting in the sweltering heat.
 Rene’s phone cheeps that a text came in. She stops in her tracks. “Tsunami” is the only word written. It is from our daughter Brooke, who is in Sitka holding down the fort as we play.
 We get to the car rental window to find a cardboard sign hurriedly written telling all to go take the shuttle to the lot for car rentals tonight.
Now we are starting to hear the word. Tsunami is coming for Hawaii! It is now nine at night and it is supposed to hit the island at ten thirty! Everyone is racing to get out of the airport, especially the employees, and to get to high ground. The airport is just about at sea level and expected to take a good drubbing if the wave reaches here.
 Rene is in touch with Brooke who is informing us that a quake in British Columbia might have caused a tsunami that is supposed to reach Alaska and then Hawaii. Brook then informed us that the wave did not hit Sitka even though they were under the Tsunami  warning there as well. That was good news. Our little condo up there sits on ocean front and will be one of the first to go if a good wave washes that place.
 We get to the car rental yard and people are racing around everywhere. We check in to get our little compact car. When we go to pick it out the help in the parking yard are shouting, “Just pick a rig, any one you want! If the tsunami does hit all these cars will be destroyed.  No extra charge, just pick one and get to high ground!”
 We are in a row of small SUV’s so we just race to a gray one and jump in. On the way out the girl scans the car and hands us the paper work.
 “Where do we go?” we asked her. “This is our first time on the island.”
 The girl rushed into a route we should take to get to some highway to get us out of town and towards a mountain.
 “You’d best be getting out of here as they are going to close all the lower roads and highways in one hour,” she admonishes as she races away to save herself.
 Pitch black darkness, in some strange rental car, in a place we have never seen, no maps, no g.p.s. this is a great start to a week’s vacation.
At last Rene finds her way out of the airport and into the bumper to bumper traffic heading somewhere. I am giving her my best navigation advice, “I don’t know where we are. I don’t know which way for you to turn. I don’t have a clue where we should go.”
  Following my close directions in that manner we make it to the highway. We race along at snail’s pace to wherever these people think is the right place to go. Now we know what the Lemmings in the middle of the line must have felt when heading to the cliff! “Wonder where all these guys are going. So many surely can’t be wrong, I’ll just fall in line and see where it takes me.”
 At last my crafty navigation (Rene might tell it another way) gets us heading to distant lights we see up on a hill. Right now we are liking to see lights way up on some hill.
 All the locals are zooming around like they know where they are going, turning down this street, and off into that house. We imagine they are just getting off work and racing home to save their trinkets before they race themselves up some secret mountain where they will be saved from the big wave and the lost tourists.
 We are up some hill getting into houses but the cars behind are going crazy trying to push around us in our floundering.
“Pull over into this driveway,” I shout with great navigation knowledge. It seems there has been a tad bit of shouting going on inside this rental car. Seems like a family vacation now, lots of shouting and just a little bit of driving.
 We are trying to decide what to do when a girl comes out of the house to see who the crazies are in her yard.
Using our best Hawaiian we inform her we are tourists ( That was no surprise as most everyone on the island is as well) and don’t have a clue where to go to be safe for the night in the tsunami.
 The gracious girl has only been on the island a short time, but she grabs a neighbor from next door and the kind man gives us good directions on how to get to a rescue center just up the way from where we are parked. He even gives us a route around most of the traffic.
 Rene drives the little SUV through the subdivision and into a shopping mall of some sort, and we pull in with a kazillion other people and settle in for the long, long night.
We were not informed of the proper way to spend a tsunami night in a parking lot. These local people were well versed in the proper educate of tsunami survival. The little trinkets they had raced home to save from the wave, were cases of beer! The parking lot was a roaring party.
Rene and I were so exhausted from flying for the past 15 hours that the last place we wanted to be was the parking lot tango. At about midnight we drove to a quieter place and drifted off to sleep in half reclined seats, just one notch better than a plane.
Nothing like a romantic night in a car with my wife!  It was so hot outside that we couldn’t leave the windows down for air so we had to keep starting the car for some air-conditioning.  At about two thirty in the morning we woke from our spotty sleep to find the parking lots empting out. It must be over.
We (Rene) drove an hour to our place of abode and finally crawled into bed at about 4:40 A.M.        Welcome to Hawaii!