Category Archives: From the Archives

From the Archives — June, 2008
Berry Picking

In the June issue of Heartland Outdoors Magazine, you can’t read it on line, it’s only in the print version, Gretchen Steele of Walkin’ With the Wild Woman wrote an article on mulberries.

In the article, Gretchen suggests that an efficient way to gather mulberries is to spread a tarp under the tree and shake the branches, letting the ripe berries fall to the tarp.

It reminded me that I had tried that four years ago with my daughters, along with some black raspberry picking, and I did a little write up about it back then.

The end result wasn’t quite that simple…

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By the time we were done, my arms from my finger tips to my shoulders were tingling from the pain. It’s that kind of pain you get from sun burn. It doesn’t hurt in any one particular spot, it just hurts the same all over.

Dozens of blood oozing scratch marks created random hatched patterns up my arms. I could see a blurred drop of coagulated blood on the tip of my nose. My left eye was gushing tears that wouldn’t stop after the edge of a long leaf slashed across my eyeball, luckily missing my cornea. My back was tight and aching after leaning over for 3 hours.

Throw in mosquitoes, spiders of all kinds, grass hoppers, bees, wasps, hornets, giant horse flies and a wide variety of bugs that went unidentified. All were either biting us or annoying us, with my 13 year old daughter Leah faring the worse. She was bit by a big horse fly that left a welt the size of a half dollar on her shoulder.

And then there was the constant refrain…is that poison ivy?

After a while, all the green of the plants blur together and it got difficult to identify any one particular type. I seem to be immune to the rash inducing plant, but Leah seems to break out when she just looks at it. My 18 year old daughter Nina simply gave up. “If I get poison ivy, I guess I’ll just have to deal with it,” she said. The other agreed and they both dove in as well as they could.

It was the end of June, the first of the black raspberries were becoming ripe and this was the price you had to pay if you wanted to stock up on a few…quarts. They grow in thorny thickets, sometimes almost impenetrable. If you want black raspberries you have no choice but to dive in and get them. Some are quite easy to get to, but if you want quantity, you have to wade into the sometimes armpit deep thicket and plunge your arms in to reach the dark purple berries hidden at the bottom of the plant.

On Saturday, we had scouted the trails at Silver Springs State Park. We knew where the luscious berries grew, in those semi shady damp areas that make the bug infestations worse. We had seen them and tasted them the year before and just wanted to make sure that they were ready for picking. The berries were not only found in the familiar spots, we wandered far down a trail that paralleled the Fox River and found many more. Though we spotted quite a few to fill our bowls, there were far more that wouldn’t be ripe for another week at least. Along that trail we also found mulberry trees and decided to come back on Sunday to get as many berries of each type that we could. My wife promised a pie or two of mulberries and black raspberries mixed together, but that didn’t matter to the girls. As long as there was a constant supply of vanilla ice cream to dump berries on, they would be content.

You would think by now, with all the fishing and hiking I’ve put them through over the years, you would think by now that my daughters would know what it means when I tell them, dress for hiking and exploring.

So Sunday morning, dressed in tank tops, shorts and flip flops, my daughters gathered up the plastic bowls and drop cloths and we headed out. Our first stop and approach to the black raspberries resulted in ow, ow, ow, but remarkably no real complaining. They did have enough sense to not go into the brush too deep and would follow the tamped down path created by me, who had enough sense to wear shoes and pants. The refrain of “dad, you’re missing some,” followed behind me. They never did catch on to the fact that the ones I missed were buried deep into the tangles.

Had to give them a little pain with their pleasure.

After filling a couple of containers, washing off our purple stained hands in the nearby lake, and taking a well needed lemonade break, we headed to the other section where more black raspberries and the mulberries were to be found. There weren’t quite as many ripe black raspberries for the picking, so we spread the drop cloth out beneath a mulberry tree and began shaking the limbs. Within a couple of minutes the drop cloth was covered with a fair amount of berries. We picked up the ends of the drop cloth and funneled the berries into a quart container. The container was filled to overflowing. The girls were pleased at how easy this was going to be.

We gathered around our overstuffed container, anticipating staring at large ripe mulberries.

“They’re kind of small and mushy looking,” Nina pointed out.

We kept staring. The mound of berries began moving as bugs began writhing out from under the weight of all that purple pleasure. Leaf bugs, baby grass hoppers, spiders and a number of “what the heck is that?” bugs.

“I don’t care how Di cooks these,” Nina said with a tone of disgust in her voice, “I’m not going to eat it.”

We each went to a separate tree and began picking by hand. The tree I chose had a deer path leading to it and the tall grass all around the tree was matted down by the bedding deer. Why not sleep where your food is, I guess. Made my job much easier since the ripest berries fall off the tree if you so much as breathe on them. Picking them up off the ground became easier than constantly having my hands raised over my head.

At Nina’s tree, she announced that she was going back to shaking the limbs and sorting out the fallen fruit. This worked well and she quickly filled another container. The picking at Leah’s tree was oddly quiet. Then it started. Every couple of minutes Nina would yell, “Leah, quit eating everything.”

“I’m not,” would always be the answer. But even from a distance you could see the purple stained lips and teeth that said otherwise.

Leah was the first to call it quits. She claimed that no mater how fast she ran and no matter how much she waved her arms, the bugs were chasing and stalking her. By then we had filled a half dozen containers of the deep purple berries and we were sure there were more than enough for whatever concoction Di came up with. We went home to clean wounds and berries.

Later that day, we had a few minutes to kill before I had to take them home. We stopped at another one of our favorite spots, the Hoover Forest Preserve in Kendall County. We wanted to quickly drive the gravel road and check the edges of the woods for signs of black raspberries. The berries were everywhere. In a couple of weeks the girls would be back and they insisted on coming here for more picking. There were far more of the berries here than at Silver Springs State Park and we seem to always have this almost square mile forest preserve to ourselves. Of course I had to pull the car over so we could all jump out, pick and taste test a handful of berries before heading home.

Later that week I delivered to my girls a few pieces of the cobbler that Di had decided to make out of the mix of black raspberries and mulberries. A little strawberry Jello mix was added to the mess in order to add another level of flavor and I thought this was easily the best cobbler Di had made so far.

The girls of course had to taste test the cobbler right then and there, barely letting me get my foot out the car door before they were popping open the lid on the container and digging into the purple mess with their fingers.

“OH MY GOD! This is sooo good!!” was the critique as they voraciously sucked the remnants from each finger.

They quickly rattled off plans for their next visit…how many containers would be collected, what practical clothing they would be bringing and how Di should cook up the next concoction. And the final request, “can we have some on vanilla ice cream?”

If they were willing to put themselves through the pain of picking them, they could have them any way they wanted.

A Past Squirrel Hunt in Three Parts: Part Three, the Descent Into Hell

. . . But when they stopped, usually on the side of a tree facing away from me, they may as well have vanished into thin air.

I headed in the direction of the nest and spooked the squirrel from it’s hiding spot on the other side of a tree. As it ran higher into the canopy I took my first shot. Missed it. This was to be expected since I hadn’t fired a gun in almost two years. It was jumping into another tree when I took my second shot. Missed it, but I turned it away from its nest and into the limbs of another tree. I took another shot and missed again. The squirrel was gone. I knew it was still in the last tree, but now it was going to be a waiting game. If you sit for 10 minutes, not making a sound or a move, there’s a good chance the squirrel will show itself.

I had lost track of the other two squirrels while missing shots at the one in the tree in front of me. I now saw one of them hightailing it out of the area over the snow. That meant there were two in the trees in front of me. At least I knew exactly where one was, I just had to wait for him to show himself. After what seemed like an eternity, the squirrel suddenly appeared about 20 feet up the tree, hanging upside down with its head stretched out looking for me. I took my time, lined up the bead on the tip of the barrel with the squirrel and pulled the trigger. It dropped to the ground.

It was a pretty clean shot even though I was over a hundred feet away and I was in no hurry to run over and pick up the squirrel. There was still another one around and a little more waiting might get him to appear. Another eternity went by and I gave up on seeing the other squirrel. I headed over to pick up the dead one.

It was gone. On the ground was a splotch of blood, so I knew I hit it. With that much blood loss it couldn’t have lasted long so I looked along the blood trail for the squirrel. There was nothing around. The red blood stood out brightly against the clean snow and I followed it for about 20 feet, still no squirrel. Then another 20 feet away I saw it. It was dragging itself across the snow moving pretty quickly for being wounded. I could see that I had hit it in one of its legs.

I took another shot and missed. I was up to 5 shots at one squirrel. It went behind a tree. I got to the tree, looked on the other side and nothing. It was gone. I looked beyond the tree for marks in the snow and saw nothing. I looked up the tree and figured that was a long shot based on how the squirrel was dragging itself across the snow, nothing up there. Then I noticed that the tree was basically hollow, for whatever reason it had a hollow area that went up the inside of the tree.

There was nothing in the base of the hollow so I assumed it went up the inside. The tree came back together about 4 feet up then opened up again into a narrow slit. It looked like the hollow easily went 10 feet up into the tree. Then I saw its tail. It was behind the point where the tree came back together and the tail was hanging down into the opening. This posed a dilemma. Do I grab a wounded and probably extremely pissed off squirrel by the tail and haul it out of the tree?

I stood back about 10 feet and fired a round into the tree fully expecting to see a dead squirrel drop into the bottom of the hollow. The tail disappeared and nothing dropped down. I fired another round a little higher up figuring it was running up the inside of the tree. Still nothing. I fired another one a little higher and still no dead squirrel at the bottom of the hollow. I was now at 8 shots at one squirrel and had nothing to show for it. I took the barrel of the shotgun and stuck it in the hollow of the tree, the squirrel dropped down to the bottom of the hollow, hissing and snarling and curled into a tight ball.

This was just great. Even with thick gloves on I was in no hurry to grab an extremely pissed off squirrel out of the bottom of a tree by the tail. I decided to back up and fire one more round, finishing the poor thing off for good. I reached into my pocket for another shell and with the thick gloves still on, loaded it into the shotgun. The shell went in, or so I thought. I let go, the cover closed and the shell popped out into the loading chamber. This couldn’t be good.

I tried pumping the round into the chamber. It wouldn’t work. The gun was jammed. I looked over at the squirrel. It was watching me, waiting for me to do something and still snarling. I thought unjamming the gun would be easy, but the shell wasn’t cooperating. I broke down the gun, laying the pieces on anything that wasn’t covered in snow. I thought for sure the shell would fall out once the gun was all apart. That didn’t work. It looked like I had to somehow force the shell up into the chamber. There was a gap between the latch and the rest of the gun about the thickness of a knife blade. I could slide the knife in, work the shell forward and push it into the chamber. Only I didn’t have a knife. I quit carrying knives with me about two years ago when it set off a metal detector and I had a lot of explaining to do.

But I had my car keys!

The car key was working, kind of. Since the end was basically rounded and not pointed, I couldn’t get a good grip on the shell. I would get the shell half way into the chamber when it would slip back out. I knew it was going to work, I just had to be patient. When I took the key out after another failed attempt, it was bent starting about a half inch from the end. That couldn’t be good. I’ve bent car keys back into shape only to have two things happen, they break or they no longer start the car. I knew I was screwed if either of those things happened. There was no way I was going to convince my wife to drive out here with a spare key. So I did the only thing I could think of to do. Bent the key back in shape and continued to use it to force the shell up into the chamber. I just turned it a little so it wouldn’t bend anymore, I hoped.

After about 20 minutes of screwing with the shell, it finally worked. I got it up into the chamber. Put the gun back together, pumped it and out popped the shell. I looked down at the squirrel hoping that by now it would dead. It was staring back at me, a low growl like sound coming from it. “Son of a bitch, just die already damn it,” I heard come out of my mouth. With my gloves off this time, I picked up the shell, loaded it into the chamber, stood back and was going to finish off the squirrel.

Only from this angle I would have had to shoot it right up it’s ass. The hind end is where the bulk of the meat is and after all this effort, I wasn’t going to destroy a perfectly good squirrel out of impatience. I walked up to it and grabbed it by the tail not having any real clue what I was going to do next. The squirrel immediately curled upwards, trying to grab onto and bite into my gloved hand. I made a backward bowling motion with my arm and released the squirrel to go flying through the surrounding brush. It hit the ground and began to drag itself across the ground away from me. I loaded the shotgun as I walked after it, stopped and fired from about thirty feet. Missed it again.

The squirrel stopped and laid in the snow. It was obviously tired. While rabbit hunting, I’ve had to put a wounded rabbit out of it’s misery by placing the butt of my gun on it’s neck and pressing down till it died. I’ve done that numerous times. I don’t recall ever doing that to a squirrel, but then I don’t recall ever taking more than one shot at a squirrel. I placed the butt of my gun on it’s neck and tried to press down. The squirrel immediately flipped onto it’s back, grabbed onto the stock with it’s front paws and bit into the butt of the gun.

I lifted the gun straight up into the air expecting the squirrel to let go and drop back to the ground. Instead, it grabbed on tighter and tried lifting it’s hind legs up to get a grip on the gun. It was clawing and gnawing on the stock while growling wildly. I pumped the gun straight up and down violently a few times, like I was churning a vat of butter. The squirrel refused to let go. I lifted the gun, grabbed the barrel like a baseball bat, and swung it hard. The squirrel flew off through the brush like a line drive down center, hit the ground and took off crawling again.

Son of a bitch, I heard some one say out loud.

I reluctantly followed the path it was taking only to find it had disappeared again. A little searching found it hunkered down in the rotted out root ball of a fallen tree, hiding behind the tangle of roots that had been exposed. I backed off a little and was going to take another shot at it. There were too many roots in the way and the squirrel was crawling around among them trying to stay away from me. I picked up a stick, there was no way I was reaching my hand into the root ball, and tried for a few minutes to prod it out of its hiding place. Eventually it worked and the squirrel started crawling across the forest floor again.

When it was about 15 feet away I took another shot. Missed it again. I was starting to wonder if I wasn’t shooting blanks. By now the frustration, anger and embarrassment of the whole thing was starting to get to me. All I heard in my head was damn it, damn it, damn it over and over again. The squirrel had finally given up too. It now lay in the snow looking around. It was breathing hard. I backed off a few feet, sighted down the barrel and took another shot.

The squirrel shivered a few times then lay still. I could see that it’s breathing had stopped. I walked over and looked. A clean shot had given it a reverse mohawk right down the middle of the top of its head.

I leaned the gun against a nearby tree. Took off my gloves and dropped them in the snow. My hands were shaking. Damn it, damn it, damn it was still being repeated in my head. The embarrassment of the whole situation had me standing there feeling almost ashamed at all that I had just done. My heart was pounding in my chest. The thought rushing through my head was . . . so much for being a conscientious hunter. This was humiliating.

I sat down on a nearby log, took out a cigar, lit it and sat looking at the dead squirrel. It’s auburn fur stood out starkly against the bright white of the snow. In my head I was apologizing to it for the torture I just put it through. It had been about an hour since I took that first shot. It had taken 12 shots to kill this squirrel. No animal should be put through that.

My heart slowly started beating normal again. My hands were no longer shaking. I picked up the squirrel and stuffed it into the back of my vest. Without stopping again, I hiked the mile back to the check in station. Doubts were raging through my head. Of ever bothering to go hunting again. Of just what kind of a hunter was I.

On the way home I stopped to clean the squirrel. As I washed down it’s flesh with water, scrubbing away the blood and remnants of fur, I had a squirrel stew recipe in my head. This was why I hunted. For the opportunity to eat wild things. To feel like I live in a world that is more than just packaged dinners and trips to the grocery store. This whole hunt was just an aberration, a once in a life time screw up. There’s no way it could ever happen again. I wouldn’t let it.

A Past Squirrel Hunt in Three Parts: Part Two, the Build Up

By the time December rolled around, I was beginning to believe that getting out again in 2007 just wasn’t going to happen. Finances had taken a nose dive once again. Round trip from my house to Marseilles State Fish and Wildlife Area used up the same amount of gas as one round trip to work. That’s how tight things got. I couldn’t justify using up that one trip of gas for the opportunity to hunt down a few squirrels. What if going hunting meant I couldn’t make it to work one day?

Mid December came and so did an unexpected chunk of change. Just enough to pay a couple of neglected bills, buy some little Christmas gifts for the kids and to give me an extra tank of gas. It’s much easier to wander around the woods in search of squirrel when you aren’t guilt tripping about the possibility of money wasted in the endeavor.

Got out to Marseilles before dawn. The weather conditions for this trip were perfect. There was a fresh layer of snow on the ground, the temperatures were in the low 30’s and a nice fog kept visibility down to a couple of hundred yards. The fog almost proved to be a horrible hazard. On the road in the dark on the way there, front end of car almost met ass end of deer. Why a deer would be standing ass facing the traffic on the edge of the road grazing is anyones guess. A lucky swerve to the left kept us both from becoming another deer/car accident statistic. I can’t believe that the only thing this deer could find to eat was growing out of the edge of the asphalt of the road.

But I could be wrong. Maybe it needed a little road salt for flavoring.

Based on my trip out here at the beginning of November, I knew not to waste my time going to the spot where I knew I would do well. It was still closed to hunting. I’ve heard that somewhere back there a mock Iraqi town has been built. The military uses it for training. I find it odd that they would close this area during the fall and winter hunting season. How much of Iraq resembles northeastern Illinois from October to March? From the film footage I’ve seen of Iraq, and the guys I know that spent time there, I don’t see or hear about too many deciduous forests, or snow. A big flat farm in central Illinois that was covered in sand would be a better training ground. I guess that describes Texas doesn’t it? So why not Texas?

This forced me to rethink where I’ve been on this large piece of land. Marseilles is almost 4 square miles and over 4 years, I barely covered a square mile of it. Almost down the middle of it runs a creek that flows and meanders north to the Illinois River. Except for the area that is now off limits, I’ve concentrated most of my hunting on the west side of this creek. By maps, I’ve estimated I’ve walked almost three quarters of a mile north of the gravel road that runs east/west from the check in parking lot. But these were more like probes inland. Walk north until meeting an impassable situation, or in my case a situation where you stand looking down into a steep ravine and say to yourself “there is no way in hell I’m going down there.” Then turn around and go back.

This day I decided to go directly to the east side of the creek. Up a hill and out into a large open field. Across the field to the edge of the heavily wooded ravine that slopes down somewhere along the east side of the creek. I had crossed this creek in the past and I kept an eye on it looking for one of its many shallow spots. There weren’t any. I was looking down into water that was easily 3 feet deep. Not good when all you have on are waterproof, calf high boots. This deep water couldn’t last that long, I thought. I was far enough along that I now had no choice but to commit to finding a crossing. I dropped down into the ravine, sitting and standing every now and then in anticipation of the bounty of squirrel that I imagined to be there.

The description is correct except for the bounty of squirrels. And the slope of the ravine. At the far edge of the ravine, the slope and the snow had me sliding down much faster than I thought would happen. Luckily there were plenty of saplings to grab onto. I’d say it all went smoothly, but then how would I account for the loud thud that was let out when I hit the bottom. It took a bit to regain my composure.

It seems that just about all state parks and forest preserves are no more than former farm land. I’ve proven this to myself while lost in the woods on numerous occasions. Buried deep within what seems like impenetrably dense woods will be remnants of buildings. Sometimes no more than the overgrown outline of a foundation. Rotting out cars are sitting miles from roads with mature trees growing through their floor boards. Remnants of fence posts line up through the woods and if you look, lines of barbed wire along the ground follow the paths of the posts.

After abruptly coming to the bottom of the ravine I looked around and at the bottom of a steep slope was a bathtub. It was half buried into the slope and green with algae. I could see that it was one of those old cast iron enamel coated tubs. I looked up the slope, knowing that’s where it came from. Mature trees grew all along the slope. I also knew that at the top of this slope was nothing but woods. I was just up there and there was no sign of a road or anything resembling civilization. Amazing how nature quickly reclaims all that is man made leaving almost nothing to be found.

The sound of running water woke me from my day dream. There was a way across the creek. I was still along side the pool of the creek and followed the sound down stream. I could see in the distance the flowing water over rock. The creek again was just inches deep. As I followed the creek I came across the cause of the pool. Beavers had constructed a densely packed, 3 foot tall dam spanning from one shore to the other. With just sticks and mud it was holding back a good quarter mile of 3 foot deep water. Imagine the pressure of that much water.

How do they do that.

On the other side of the creek I stopped and leaned against a tree to smoke a leisurely cigar. Below me was a tangle of woods with a series of narrow ravines. A big doe tip toed down the far slope of the ravine in front of me, got to the bottom and had to stop to figure out how to get up this side of the ravine. Again, if I had a bow, a perfect shot was presented to me. No more than 80 feet away and standing perfectly still side ways to me. Next year for sure I’m getting my deer permits. I wonder if they allow you to go both deer and squirrel hunting. I could sling a bow over my shoulder and carry my 20 gauge pump for squirrels. The deer gave up trying to figure out how to get up the steep slope, turned around and went back the way it came. It never did see me.

Up one slope and across a point and I was back in an area I hunted 3 years earlier. On cue, off in the distance, 3 squirrels took off heading away from me. They jumped up into a big poplar and came back down on the other side of the creek. They were heading off to a nest I could see high in a tall maple. With the leaves now all gone and a layer of snow on the ground, their rust colored fur was easy to spot as they moved. But when they stopped, usually on the side of a tree facing away from me, they may as well have vanished into thin air.

I headed in the direction of the nest . . .

A Past Squirrel Hunt in Three Parts: Part One, the Setup

I think I got out hunting twice in 2007, both to Marseilles State Fish and Wildlife Area. Twice is a far cry from the 25 or more trips per year just a few years ago. But things change for better and worse and you hope every day the worse parts are over with. Every morning you wake up breathing and the chance to get rid of the worse parts are there in front of you again. This time it’s taken almost 2 years, but the good parts have kept me going.

The two hunting trips in 2007 were a couple of the good parts. Well, kind of.

You can have a good hunting trip and not have any success on the hunt. The opposite also holds true. These two trips were a little of both. Since I knew my time in the woods chasing squirrels was going to be limited, its easy to make the best of what you have.

Even though squirrel season opens on August 1st in Illinois, I don’t bother going till some time in October. Maybe November. Everything depends on the first frost and the dropping of all the leaves.

I can’t imagine wandering the woods in temperatures above 40 degrees. It’s not like you can be out bush whacking in shorts, sandals and a t-shirt. Poison ivy comes to mind. Ticks, chiggers, fleas and spiders love the warmer weather. Not to mention the loss of blood due to ripped flesh on thorny brush. Now throw in walking for miles with a 6 pound piece of metal and wood. It’s 80 degrees, you’re out of water and you could have sworn that way was your car.

After the first hard frost or two much of this discomfort goes away. Now when you shoot a squirrel and carry it around for a few hours, when you get back to your car and take it out of your game bag, fleas won’t be jumping off it like rats off a sinking ship. The cold kills off or puts down quite a bit. And hiking with 6 pounds of metal and wood becomes much more tolerable. You still swear your car was that way, but now you don’t mind looking as much.

The extra added benefit of squirrel hunting late in the season is that you actually have a chance of seeing a squirrel, maybe. They’re hard enough to spot and keep in sight in the middle of January when there’s snow on the ground and not a leaf on a tree. I’ve tried it in September in the past and not only was spotting them next to impossible, shooting through leaves can really screw up your shot.

The first time I got out in 2007 was the first week in November. I thought for sure that the conditions would be perfect and up to a point, they were. The temperatures were going to be just under 40, partly cloudy skies, not much wind. About as good as it gets. Only this was an odd fall. The trees were taking forever to shed their leaves and I’ll bet there was a good 35 percent coverage left on the trees in the woods. Not a good thing for spotting squirrels.

Shooting time is a half hour before sunrise and before that time I was heading east on the dirt and gravel road near the check station. About a mile down the road was an area I hunted in the past that had the highest concentration of squirrels. I took my time on this morning hike in, stopping frequently to see if anything was moving nearby. The weather was just cold enough to not break out in a sweat. Stopping and sitting or standing resulted in nothing being seen. Seeing through the trees for more than a couple of hundred feet was impossible, a squirrel would have to walk right up and introduce itself. In the areas where the deer had cleared the forest floor of all things edible, you could see much further. But there wasn’t enough areas like that.

My age, the cold, too much coffee and the hike all require me to stop for too many piss breaks. You get used to it, but it’s still annoying. I stopped and leaned my gun against a tree next to the road. A few feet further the woods stopped and opened to a small field filled with waist high grasses. As I gathered up my gun and stepped back into the middle of the road, movement coming into the clearing from the left caught the corner of my eye. I knew it was a deer and I stopped dead still in the middle of the road.

I’ve come across hundreds of deer over the years while out fishing and hunting. From fawns barely a couple of days old, to lame deer wandering off to die. From deer wandering around by themselves to a herd of over 20 I walked up on while wading Salt Creek through a forest preserve in Cook County. I’ve found antlers of all sizes, from button bucks to some pretty nice sized racks.

This was easily the biggest buck I have ever seen. And it still hadn’t seen me.

It was about 75 feet away and slowly making its way into the field. It wasn’t acting skittish, like it was cautious of its surroundings and what might be around, but simply looking down for something to eat and glancing left and right for more of the same. Though it was deer hunting season, once again I had failed to get permits for them. I also don’t have a bow and it was bow season. I now regretted it. I was being handed the perfect shot. Perfectly broad side with nothing in the way to block a shot. But all I had in my hands was a 20 gauge pump loaded with three rounds of small game shot.

It still didn’t even know I was there.

Suddenly it stopped and looked right in my direction. I had been standing perfectly still and we stared at each other for awhile. Then it went back to its slow walk across the field. After walking about 50 feet it stopped and looked at me again. The size of this deer was impressive. A wide antler spread, big solid body and its head looked to be the same height as mine. It knew I was there, snorted and stomped its leg. I’ve had deer do this to me before. It was trying to make me move, trying to feel out whether or not I was a threat.

And it wanted me to leave.

We stood looking at each other and I suddenly started thinking of the videos I’ve seen. Of big bucks charging and tossing someone over their shoulders after they had grabbed onto them with their antlers. Of big bucks getting someone on the ground and stomping on them. I was painfully aware that all I had in my hands was a 20 gauge pump loaded with three rounds of small game shot. If it decided to come at me, getting a clean head shot was my only option. I was trying to picture how to do that while fighting the urge to run like hell. My body doesn’t let me run anymore, so a clean shot was it.

I felt very screwed.

Luckily it turned and started walking again. A few steps and it did an about face and gracefully ran off. Nothing fast, not like it was scared, just a nice easy run on a beautiful morning. I couldn’t be more grateful.

I continued on down the road looking forward to hunkering down into the woods and waiting for squirrels. But some new signs were up. No hunting or trespassing beyond this point, military personnel only. There on the other side of the sign was where I wanted to be. In what leaf bare trees I could see were numerous squirrel nests. When did this happen.

Not wanting to push my luck, I turned and headed back. I did know one other area where I’ve done well. I no longer had any other options.

In the next area, the deer had cleared out the brush and walking through the woods was a breeze. I was already a couple of hours out and had not seen or heard a single squirrel. I resigned myself to exploring and enjoying a leisurely walk in the woods. While leaning against a tree enjoying a smoke of a cheap cigar, a squirrel appeared on the forest floor about 150 feet away. I started tracking it and I knew it was aware of me, but in no hurry to get away. Always staying just out of range.

Twice I lined up behind a tree so it couldn’t see me and quickened my pace. Twice I got within shooting range, but I was enjoying the game of cat and mouse too much to bring it to an end. Eventually it got tired of running, scooted up a tree and blended right in with the fall colored leaves.

I wandered around for a couple more hours sizing up areas for my next trip back. I tried to memorize where I saw the nests high up in the trees. I sat at times waiting for any kind of movement. Other than birds, never saw another creature. It had been almost two years since the last time I had been out hunting. It suddenly seemed appropriate to pass on my one chance of shooting something. You can’t always go out and take, sometimes you have to go out and do nothing. Don’t shoot. By that, you give back.

FTA — 6/20/09 Big Rock Creek

From the Archives – I have 100s of posts that were made on fishing forums starting around 1998. When I have nothing new to say, I thought I would start putting them up on my blog. I hope you like them.
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On Friday at 5PM the river was flowing at 2100 cubic feet per second. That was just good enough to go where I wanted on Saturday morning.

On the way home from work I drove through intense down pours and what seemed like tornado type winds. When the trees along the road are bending over far enough for the branches to touch the road, that tends to be a problem as you drive along.

By Friday at 8 PM the river was flowing at 4900 cfs. Totally screwed up my Saturday river fishing plans. At 2100 cfs wading the shore line up stream of Orchard Road is a piece of cake. Water flows higher than that and I look for something else to do other than fishing.

I was buggy to go out somewhere Saturday morning, but now it hardly seemed worth it.

When kittens are awake they play. With everything. Till they fall asleep again. Kittens tend to wake up when the light outside the window gets a little lighter than night. Which is about 5 AM.

My kitten will come and sit on my chest at that time. If that doesn’t get a response, it will put its face up to mine. If that doesn’t work, it will start rubbing it’s head on my hand. If none of those work, it will start biting and fighting with my hand. That tends to wake me up.

I figured that since I was up I may as well go fish. Big Rock has a pond next to it that I like to stop at now and then. The easy way to get to it is to wander down stream and walk across the creek. The hard way is to walk the shore on the same side as the pond.

I guess you have to see it to appreciate what that means.

I assumed I was going to have to go the hard way, but when I got to the creek I was stunned to see that except for being a little stained, it was like it had never rained. As far as I could tell the creek didn’t come up at all.

This is the stretch that had got blown out by floods at the end of last year and the beginning of this year.

With all the rains we’ve been having, the shores were coming alive with new growth. What had been scoured down to rock was now grass dense and tall enough to make it almost impassable.

The opposite shore is still pretty well cut away and I think it could take a few years for it to start looking like it used to. But even here new growth was beginning to take over.

Except for Mill Creek, the creeks have been surprisingly quiet this year. Hundreds of bass fry along the shore reminded me that even though I haven’t caught them, they were still here. Maybe my timing has just been off. But that doesn’t explain why Mill Creek was as good as it ever was.

Big Rock gave up one smallie on my hike down the shore line. At the pond the fishing was just as sparse. Which again is unusual. One largemouth was all that I could muster.

I shared the shore with a large snapping turtle. I was going to go mess with it a bit, but remembered the speed with which they can move their heads. I decided I valued having my fingers still attached to my hand and left well enough alone.

I finished a leisurely walk along the pond and headed home. At least something was caught.

Come Monday I was still buggy to go fish somewhere. The river had topped out at 5900 cfs some time Saturday and was now flowing just over 5200. That made the river off limits.

I decided to hit Waubonsie Creek on the way home from work. A few miles from the creek I realized I had forgot to put my rod in the car.

Shit. Okay, stop at home, get the rod, go to Big Rock in Plano.

At home as I was going for my rod, my brother-in-law was laughing at what I had done. I told him how one time I drove for an hour out to the river, got all suited up, went to put on my wading boots only to find they weren’t in the car.

I got out to the creek and the conditions were perfect. I got almost all suited up when I noticed, or didn’t notice my wading boots.

Shit. They were at home. If you would have asked I would have swore on a stack of bibles that I had put them in the car.

Fine. Fuck it. Whatever. There’s no damn fish in this fuckin’ creek anyway.

Now that sentence is much more impressive when you picture an SUV parked in the gravel on the side of a road. An obviously pissed off, sweating and animated middle aged gray haired guy is stripping out of breathable waders repeatedly saying that sentence over and over. While standing behind this SUV on the side of this road now in a t-shirt, underwear and socks, the scene is much more impressive as items are being slammed into the back of this SUV.

Across the narrow road is a park, with a ball field, with a little league game going on. The parking lot is full, the stands are filled with beaming parents.

Whatever. Nobody heard or saw anything. I felt better.

I headed home. I thought I would salvage the evening by building a make shift desk needed for an office space. I like to use old unused doors for this. I took my time cutting the door down to the 60 inches I needed. Sanded down all the edges. Polished it up all nice and shiny. It looked beautiful.

I brought it in and placed it gently on the frame I had that would hold the desk. The door was four inches short.

If you would have asked I would have swore on a stack of bibles that I had measured the frame at 60 inches.

Whatever. Piece of shit desk.

I don’t drink much anymore, but my brother-in-law does. He’s staying with us while he helps out getting his mother back on her feet after recent health issues that almost killed her.

I grabbed one of his beers, sat out on the deck with my feet up and smoked a cheap cigar. Bad day, repressive heat, cold beer and a cigar.

At least a couple of things were going right.