Day Three Continues - Final Thoughts Of the Day

With bacon and backstraps on the mind I set about getting a fire going and food prep. I've always marveled at what a fire does for a cold camp, or any camp for that matter but especially cold and snowy camps. Fire is a living thing that becomes a working companion in a cold dark camp. Light chases the darkness away, warmth that keeps the cold at bay, it connects to something ancient within a man, to a place in our distant past where fire was life, and death.

Within the flickering, the flames whirl and turn and the shadows dance at the edges of the light upon the trees. It isn't hard to imagine a time when men roamed freely through forests and across mountains. A primaeval connection to our ancestors who's life complications were centered around food and shelter and safety. Where survival had more to do with wit and muscle and less to do with careers and financials. The web of life was simpler but deadly serious.

A fire also enables the storyteller, opens the mind and imagination, freeing it from the constraints of modern life and modern thinking. Gone are the distractions so common in our modern lives, there is no cell phone, no internet, no DirecTV, there is the now in living motion where we are entranced by the heat and the light and the movement. It has been said that fire and the ability to make it is truly the base separator between us and animals. I think this is a very over simplified statement but I agree with the gist of it, for fire enabled us to do and become beyond a base nature. I believe fire contributed to our ability to communicate in a meaningful way, beyond warmth, defense, cooking, light, this piece is perhaps the greatest gift of fire.

I sliced up some redskin potatoes, some mushrooms and thinned the backstraps so they would cook a little faster. All of these I placed on my lightweight griddle and situated is to one side of the fire, the meat over the hotter part. The sizzle came quick and my appetite sharpened.

As I ate I thought of the hunt that this venison came from, of the day I planted the potatoes and their subsequent harvest respectively. The deer hunt had lifted and sustained my spirit then and the memory did now, as the meat sustained my body. I thought of what it meant and of how death led to life.

In a somber mood I turned in for the night, at first the cold in the bags shocked me and I shivered, then the warmth spread, contained, and I found sleep.

Day Three Continued- The Lowland Grind

After lunch I headed right back out, my plan was to set up yet again in the Valley of the Beaver, further back from where the fresh water was flowing. My hope was I'd catch them coming back to the water later in the day and close to dark, figuring they'd water up before they set out for the night's hunt. I was also planning on deploying the electronic caller, it has a range of three hundred yards allegedly and I'd been using it at well over a hundred so I didn't doubt it's capabilities.

The hike back to the valley was uneventful save for the fact that the mist had intensified and the wind was essentially zero, it was like a dead calm which had me worried. The sky was battleship grey and visibility was diminishing.

As I walked I realized I had not seen any moose sign of any kind. Something that was prolific during my early scouting efforts. I had not seen a single track on this hunt, just nothing, almost as if they had disappeared.  According to the Minnesota DNR, in a report they released back in February of this year, the rate of population decline has accelerated dramatically, that the northeast population declined 35 percent from last year. Since 2010, the moose population has declined 52 percent. Based on the aerial survey conducted in January, the new population estimate is 2,760 animals, down from 4,230 in 2012. The population estimate was as high as 8,840 as recently as 2006.

In the years that I've lived here there has not been a year until this one, that I did not observe moose in the wild. The last calf I saw was over two years ago, and I've not seen him since though I routinely haunt that area. The cow was active there for years and I'd seen her with more than one calf but no longer. It is in doubt that the moose population will recover in my lifetime, which makes me think of the first encounter I had with a moose and how I felt, and how my sons may never know this feeling.

Once back in the valley I surveyed the surroundings and spotted another overturned tree with a massive root system above the ice about two hundred and fifty yards from the watering hole. It was situated nearly in the center of the area and offered concealment with a very wide view across the valley from north to south.

I put the e-caller half way between what would be my hide and the water hole. This would give me a good amount of distance and still enable me to use the caller. Based on the terrain and tracks I was expecting that if they came in they'd becoming either from the north or the south and I had both vantages covered from the hide.

I felt the set up was a good one, I knew there were wolves in the area, I had good cover and could see a great distance so I settled in and started glassing. I had about three hours of light  left, a full belly and a high hopes.

As time wore on I started glassing in cycles, spending about fifteen minutes on the glass and 15 minutes off to save my eyes. A slight wind had picked up from the north, while light it was a stinging wind, definitely colder air moving in.

I fired the caller up and it worked at range, I started with distressed rabbit and almost immediately I had a small owl come through and light in a tree near the caller, he was looking for what he could hear.

He was too far away for the camera to get good shots of but he was enjoyable to watch. The caller had him confused, he'd take flight and buzz low over the ground near the caller then back into a tree. He did this repeatedly each time landing in a different tree and trying to find the source of the sounds. After a while he gave up and flew off.

I shut the call down and let it go quiet for about an hour or so. The valley was silent again though I could now hear the wind getting a little stronger.

The caller I am using has the ability to do two calls at once. I set off the female coyote howl and then about ten seconds later the male coyote, this gives the impression that they are answering one another. I got a response within a couple minutes but it was faint, I could hear wolves howling again for the first time since the end of day two but they sounded way off. I started glassing again.

The minutes began to creep by, I paused the caller and listened for the wolves but could hear nothing now. I waited fifteen or twenty minutes and fired it back up, again I heard or think I heard howls in the distance but couldn't be sure.I didn't know if the picking up wind was diminishing what I could hear or if they were moving off, or even if they were responding at all.

Frustration began to mount. I used to stand hunt all the time, there was a time I would sit in a tree from dawn till dark but over the years my patience level for sedentary hunting has waned. I know full well that ambush hunting of this sort is productive though quite tedious over time.

Light was waning fast now, I set the caller off again and glassed for all I was worth, nothing. Nothing but wind and cold and mist and a hunter's fading hope.

I continued until I could no longer see. Strapped my pack and gear back on a now freezing frame and set off in the darkness towards my camp.

Like all hunters I have moments of dejected disappointment to deal with. Hunting is hard hairy serious business. It's filled mostly with idle time interrupted occasionally with heart ripping moments of intensity, intensity that drives the body and mind into a state that cannot be had through any other pursuit that I am aware of.  That moment in time becomes a crystallization of  emotion and physically intensity, time slows, vision becomes incredibly sharp, awareness hits a high, a heightened sense of smell and hearing. This is what it feels like to be an apex predator, the senses become such that they are nearly overwhelming. In this moment life is sometimes taken and given, this is what it means to be a hunter.

As I walked through the darkness I was lost in self analysis, in consideration of my hunt and hunting in general and what it means and is to me. I hunt for a lot of reasons, chief among them is sustenance for my family and myself. Roughly seventy percent of our meat intake comes from the wild, from a hook, a bullet, or an arrow. I am acutely aware of the fact that I make things die so that I and mine may live. Of course I could sub contract this work like most folks and let my meat come by way of someone else killing and butchering, packing and shipping meat to lay beneath the florescent lights of the meat case wrapped in cellophane and styrofoam. I don't judge or condemn those who do this, I bear them no ill will nor do I malign them, but I cannot do this for a number of reasons.

I want to know it was my hand that made the meat, that this gift from the wild places came by my effort. It helps me feel a part of the cycles, it helps me understand life and death. It solidifies my feeling of responsibility to my self, my family, and the natural world. There was a time when I could not hunt as a result of time constraints and where I lived. I knew what it meant then to be outside of the cycle, to be out of touch and a sense of being lost and without direction overtook me during that period.

I choose to be a part of a world, a cycle that many believe to be a archaic barbaric throw back to the primordial mists of our distant past. I chose to when I can, envelope myself in what is to me the natural world where wits, sinew, muscle and mind combine with instinct and knowledge and lead a man to sustenance, to experience, to a place where the soul feels energized and fulfilled. There's more that the body and mind require than mere food, there is something inside that flies within me, the closer I get to the natural world, the closer I get to the old paths.

This feeling extends beyond hunting, I also feel this in a different way when it comes to the food I raise, from the garden to the chickens, it is sustenance as a direct result of my effort, directly, not through a third party but directly through my own efforts.

I have heard it said, and have said it myself, that the hunt is the reason I do it, not the actual kill. Being honest with myself it is the experience of the hunt that drives me, but so too does the culmination. The cycle is exactly that, hunting is only a part of it, completing the cycle requires killing, without it the cycle does not complete.

There is ancient wonder in the hunt, we're hardwired for it though I think many have lost the understanding and the feel for it. I know my mind clears, my spirit climbs to higher levels than the way I feel on a normal day to day basis. I breathe differently, I walk differently, I notice more, smell more, hear more, I find I feel more alive.

So how does a sustenance hunter, a meat hunter, reconcile the hunting of an animal he will not eat? This is the sticky place, the grey place, the place that is hard for me to articulate in a way that I am comfortable with. There is the logical piece where the managing of the wolf population is the primary reason, this is easy to understand to me. Then there is the predator in me that is similar to the wolf, who also will kill other predators when opportunity arises, the wolf does this to protect turf, to eliminate competition, which in turn leads to more security and resources for the wolf. Am I not also doing the same thing?

These were the thoughts of a wandering mind as I walked into camp, tired, cold, and hungry. My mind shifted and thoughts of bacon wrapped backstraps became all I could think about.

Day Three - The Lowland Hustle

The deep winter chill faded from me as steam poured off  my head in the cold night air. The fire fought a valiant fight against the wind that now fell into camp from the north and west.  My concern began to grow when the wind shifted from the south east and began a steady flow from the northwest. Systems coming from that direction coupled with low pressure spells snow this time of year. I filed the concern away for the moment.

I was tired and hungry and had to do something about at least one of them. I dug my Mors Pot out of my pack and a couple cans of beef stew from the food locker. Dinner was going to be simple, dump some stuff out of a can into a pot add heat, consume. I just didn't have the energy for anything else. Between the jog back and the adrenalin dump I was crashing fast and hard.

I hung the stew via pot hanger over the fire and settled in to the relative warmth of the fire. I chuckled to myself as I recalled the old saying about 'Indian build fire small, sit close, white man build big fire set far'. What never seems to follow that old saw is the Indian is shivering, the white man is sweating and the dog between the too is happy as hell! I had a pretty good fire going and was still close, I could feel the cold washing away in the heat.

As I stared into the fire spitting angry sparks and embers into the cold air as if in defiance my mind went back to the beaver mound and the pair of wolves I'd encountered hours earlier. I wondered if the travel direction was random or if that was part of a circuit. As I'd tracked them earlier I'd become familiar with that group. There were three wolves, a fourth joined their tracks at one point for about a mile and then headed to the west, away from the trio's direction of travel. My guess was that was a lone wolf and had followed the trio's trail for a time same as I had. On two occasion the trio had split up, one continuing on the main trail and the other two going separate directions, east and west into the trees. Both times they would rejoin the one that had maintained the northern route on the main trail. It is my deduction that they were hunting for a scent trail, perhaps not getting anything on the wind they were searching the ground in swings left and right trying to pick up a scent trail. Had they done so I believe they'd have howled their small pack back together to pursue whatever they'd found. 

Based on this I think they hunt in a circuit, covering a patrolling type of route through their turf which made me wonder if that area near the beavers was a routine or a one off. If a routine I needed to understand the frequency, was it daily which I doubted, or every three to five? I'm fairly certain it is weekly. In all of the wolf tracks I'd seen and trails I'd followed none were doubles, they were singular in direction and made by three and at one point four wolves. They were not lapping their trail, my snow was relatively fresh at three days old. This told me the circuit was more than a three day span, at least this was my theory.

If my theory was accurate, I admitted to myself somewhat dejectedly, it meant they wouldn't be back through there for another three days unless something drove them to it or altered their pattern. Certainly my presence could possible drive them out of their habit or even out of the range potentially. I needed to adapt to this and come up with a plan.

Stirring the stew in the pot and putting it back on the hook, it occurred to me that just about everything works in circles in the natural world unless artificially impacted by man caused changes. Everything circles, from fish to birds to deer, so why not wolves? And if they were circling where would their pattern take them next? I'd been where they were, somehow I needed to be where they were going to be, I needed to get in front of them or alter their pattern to cause them to come to me.

A pop and a zinging spark blew up out of the coals, the wind had gotten stronger. Stew was done, time to provide employment for one of the spoons made by kcardwell of bushcraftusa.com forums. Man makes a mean camp spoon and spork!

Eating that hot stew I went back to the idea that everything circles. If the wolves were headed south and east earlier, circling wide and at the time the wind was coming from the south east as well it meant they were nose to the wind hunting. The wind had shifted though and was now out of the northwest. Did that mean they'd return to the north now, heading into the wind?

That valley of beavers is a long one, and a whole other beaver family group had mounds about five miles north and west of the mound I was at today. What are the odds I thought, that they'd pass through there and if so when?

My spoon hit the bottom of the pot bringing my mind back to the right now. Pot was empty, time to do something about the tired part.

No fire, didn't have the energy to fight the stove and I'd already cooked so there was no point. I was dry and tired, the bags would be good enough for the night. 

It didn't take long to fall fast asleep, and when I woke it was 4:30am. I hadn't woken once during the nigh, not sure I even moved.

Cold camp again though this time I took some good sized chunks of smoked ham, a couple/several slice of pumpernickel bread and put them in the pack with the normal trail food. Relaid the fire structure in the pit and set out for the lowlands and the beavers.

The air was definitely heavier, I could feel moisture building, my knees and right hand were aching. Cold and wet and bad joints ever the reminder that we did something wrong when we were younger.

Coming into the Valley of the Beaver as I started calling it entails walking down a an old logging road and into the lower elevations and some wide open vistas though it starts small.

Before long I was into thick tracks, they were everywhere though oddly they were all only going in one direction, again this was confirmation for me of sorts that they travel almost exclusively nose to the wind.

Looking out into the basin.

The tracks were becoming more concentrated...

They've absolutely crushed this area!

All of those tracks terminated at a spot where they could reach running fresh water. Other than where I busted through the ice this was the only fresh running water I found in the area. They had easy access to it and they clearly were taking advantage of it.

I knew this was a good area, the sign was prolific, the line of sight in all directions was fantastic. I had fresh water and ease of movement drawing them to this area. I started looking for a good place to set up near the beaver mounds. It didn't take much looking to find. I spotted an old root base from an ancient tree that had been blown over who knows how long ago. I cut some rushes and laid them into a mat on the ice to keep my knees from freezing. I settled in and waited. In the distance I could see the clouds were colliding with the trees, the sky was indeed falling to earth.

I spent several hours here, calling from time to time and waiting through others. I received no responses to any of my calls, just nothing. I decided to track again and began following them towards the mounds and ultimately the northern tree line.

The beavers had been busy, this was a two mound pond and they were in good repair meaning very likely a family in each. Their work was evident all about the mounds. Oddly enough it struck me that is looked like they were in mid-feast and suddenly just left their work and food where they dropped it and did not return.

I followed their trail to the point where it entered the trees, low and into the firs. I could barely see twenty feet into the trees, it was damn thick. I decided to forge on and into the tree line. It was so tight there was no point in the rifle, I slung it across my back and over one shoulder so it would stay put and opened the back zippered compartment on the HPG Kit Bag, providing easy access to the pistol should it become needed. I was skeptical of needing it but I was a Boy Scout and continue to be prepared.

I traveled through the dense bush for a couple hours and just couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't make much headway and I was certain I wasn't going to happen upon a den or a group of bedded wolves, just was not going to happen. I took stock of the rate of mist up that was occurring, the clouds were falling to earth and visibility was fading. I made a decision to still hunt back in the direction of camp. If I made it all the way there without getting distracted I'd have lunch and plan on a hide set for the afternoon hours.

About an hour into the trip I spotted a flicker of movement in the distance, the mist made it very hard to tell what it was. I brought the field glasses to bear searching where I saw the movement. It took a minute to figure it out. Take a look at the image below, it's right in the center but damn if it ain't hard to see, it's at absolute center of the image.

Maybe this helps?

I watched him through my glasses, waited for him to be looking the other direction and moved forward. Slowly but surely set after step I did this until I was inside his security zone and either he was mad and indignant that I was there and just decided to ignore me, or the mist had gotten so thick he didn't want to fly. Either way a moment of a lifetime unfolded, you simply do not see these big guys often or ever get this close to them. 

Sometimes called the Phantom of the North they are most commonly called the Great Grey Owl or Lapland Owl. They are the physically largest owl in the world, wingspan can exceed five feet from tip to tip and are often thirty inches from head to tail. I felt blessed to have gotten so close and watched him for so long. He never did fly off, I turned after a while and headed to camp leaving the old indignant bastard to his mice hunting. When I returned hours later he was gone.

The rest of the hike back to camp was uneventful other than me thinking about bacon and eggs and coffee and a fire. My appetite sure turned up a couple notches just thinking about it!

They say hunger is the finest spice, sure seemed like it.

To be continued....