Hunting Wild Turkeys

The day started with a 3:30 am alarm after a nearly sleepless night. My knee hurt enough to keep me More »

April Full (almost) Moon

Tonight, on the way home from smelting, the moon rose, bright orange and beautiful. I changed cameras, put all three More »

Doe, a deer, and a fawn…

We went scouting for turkeys. That was almost a flop with only one hen spotted. We did find deer. Steve More »

When to Plant Peas in Zone

Don't worry if there's snow in the forecast. It don't usually last long if the soil is already 45*. Multiple More »

American Bald Eagle in Magurrewock Marsh

I drove through Magurrewock Marsh in Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge on my way home from archery practice this week, hoping More »

Understanding The USDA Hardiness Zones

Share the post "Understanding The USDA Hardiness Zones"FacebookTwitterDiggStumbleUponE-mailUnderstanding The USDA Hardiness Zones by Robin Follette Reprints by permission. The USDA More »

The Second Generation of Women Hunters

Taylor loaded her single shot .20 gauge and went after the bird. It flew before she spotted it again, and More »

Seven College Kids & A Weekend of Shooting

Steve paced out distances while Taylor, Kelci, Sierra, Sarah, Chaz, Tyler and Alfred set out targets. I shot first, trying More »

 

Kayaking on Tomah Stream

Canada geese flying over Tomah Stream

The weather forecast looked good. Partly sunny, 60 degrees, a breeze. Steve loaded the kayaks-an Otter, a tandem Otter and a  (10 for ten foot), the life jackets and a small cooler for lunch. The bug spray and other necessities were stowed away in a waterproof box in the Vapor’s well. Vapor 10XT is a kayak made by Old Town Canoe.

Taylor, our youngest daughter, picked up her friend Felicia Vincent, and met us in Topsfield. When everyone arrived we’d met up with Tammy and Dennis, and Laura and Gilman.

Taylor, Laura, Felicia and Gilman have been hiking, camping and paddling the Waite and Talmadge area together for years.

The woods of Maine
Lakes, streams, bogs, moose, bear, deer, fox, coyote, raccoon and more live out here. People? Not many of us.

“For years” isn’t very descriptive or impressive until you know that the oldest of them is only 21. They’re old hands at loading up the canoes and kayaks and paddling several miles across a lake to camp on a beach overnight. They’re part of a larger group of outdoors kids who grew up to become outdoors adults, and who make me proud on a regular basis.

Tammy and Dennis started planning this trip six months ago; about the time they started planning their long-term future together. They made many trips down dirt roads along Route 6 in Topsfield and Codyville, looking for a place to put a canoe in and later take out. They invited us to go along. Steve’s plans to canoe the Machias River with friends changed and he was able to make the trip. I’m grateful he was there, and you’ll see why later.

We reached our destination and unloaded three kayaks and two canoes. While the men shuffled vehicles to the place we’d be taking out, the women put the water crafts in the stream and paddled around a little. It was my first day in the kayak this year and needed a few minutes to get comfortable again. It’s like riding a bicycle, only wetter.

Steve, Dennis and Gilman returned and the trip began. We didn’t know what to expect. Would there be a beaver dam to get over? I hadn’t thought of sand bars to get lodged on. Smelly things hadn’t occurred to me.

The day was uneventful, which is nice but not exciting. Nobody flipped, there was only one mild water fight between Steve and Taylor that got Felicia damp, and nobody had any problems. Well, Gilman and Laura’s canoe has a small leak so Gilman did a little bailing, but they weren’t any danger of sinking or even really even getting very wet. I think I heard Laura say “we could have taken my canoe” once.

 

beaver lodge

One of at least a dozen beaver lodges on the banks.

Tomah Stream runs through a huge meadow. Trees along the bank are few and far between. We disturbed a few Canada geese along the way. I think I found paths to nests but I’m not sure. The vegetation was worn down and there were small feathers in the grass but I couldn’t see any nests or geese. Two American Bald Eagles soared in the updraft high over head, almost out of sight. A muskrat quickly disappeared out of sight along the bank. Taylor and I stopped to wait for it to reappear but wherever it resurfaced, we couldn’t find it.

tomah stream meadow

There aren’t many trees in a meadow.

The sun was warm while it was out, and we shed our jackets early. The breeze was chilly when the sun was blocked by clouds but paddling was enough to keep us from being cold. Thanks to the breeze, black flies weren’t an issue while we were on the water.

There are a lot of beaver lodges along the portion of the stream we paddled. None seemed to be active. There were no new sticks added and no activity in the stream. The only beaver I saw was on the bank, long dead. The stench was overwhelming, enough to bring me close to gagging. I picked up the pace, moving past it as fast as I could.

We looked for Tomah Mayflies along the way. There was a hatch but they weren’t Tomahs, and that was a little disappointing.

tomah tammy dennis trees

I spent most of my time behind everyone else. I headed toward the bank or turned with the current while taking pictures. When you’re the only person paddling you have nobody to keep you on course, and this made pictures a bit of a challenge. To get more than the backs of everyone’s heads I needed to get ahead of everyone.

“I’m on a mission,” I told Dennis and Tammy as I dipped and swished past them.

“You’re on a mission,” Dennis asked.

“To get pictures of everyone head on rather than back to.”

I paddled ahead and was almost ready to spin my kayak around when I heard Tammy laugh and yell, “She’s definitely your daughter.” I turned my head to see that Taylor, who heard me tell them what I was doing, turned her yak around and was paddling backward along side Tammy in the canoe. Smartass! Unfortunately I didn’t get that picture. By the time I turned my yak, she was facing me again.

She turned her kayak around before I had the camera ready.

She turned her kayak around before I had the camera ready.

Notice the orange sticker on Taylor’s kayak? We have them on all three of our yaks. These stickers list the owner’s name and two telephone numbers. If a craft is found without a person this sticker makes it easy to get in touch with the owner. If the craft drifted away a search can be avoided. If the person has turned the craft over, rescuers have a better idea of who they’re looking for. These stickers are free and are the responsible thing to do. Send an email to cgpaddlesmart@comcast.net to request yours.

Tomah Stream, Steve Follette, Felicia Vincent

Steve and Felicia

We spotted a red Chevy truck parked at the edge of the stream and for a moment I was disappointed to be at the end, then realized it wasn’t one of our trucks.  A man and woman were fishing just down stream. She caught a chub as I rounded the corner and said nothing else was biting. Steve didn’t have any bites.

This was an easy stream to paddle. The water moves slowly. There are a few sand bars you can get caught up on if you’re looking at something else but they’re easy to move off. When the water drops they’ll be obvious. Paddling felt a little bit like work for about 30 minutes when we paddled into the wind but it’s otherwise a relaxing trip.

We pulled out at the end of a dirt road that runs past “Croman’s Camp.” Locals will know where that is but I couldn’t point it out on a map.  Laura and I seriously considered moving further down stream to an easier place to get out. This spot involved walking through a marshy area. She wore hiking boots and I had just Keen sandals on my feet. I wished for my tall Muck boots. I’m completely grossed out by walking in mud and muck. I really….really didn’t want to get out of the kayak, fall in the muck, walk through the mess and possibly sink thigh deep the way Steve was sinking. I’m not usually spleeny about stuff but this is off my acceptability scale.

tomah gilman laura

Steve came to our rescue (He’s great about rescuing me.). He grabbed our bows and pulled us past the gross part, into solid footing. The water was cold but it wasn’t muddy or mucky. As it turns out, if Laura and I had continued further downstream, we’d have made it to the old Tomah Dam site in 30 minutes. I think we’ll do that next time.

picnic lunch on the banks of Tomah Stream

Lunch after paddling

We had lunch on the bank before Taylor and the men drove back to the beginning to get the rest of the vehicles we left there. An uneventful trip down Tomah Stream with good friends was the perfect start to our paddling season.

tomah stream

Laying out the Summer High Tunnel

Planning the layout for the high tunnels is different from year to year because of crop rotation and changes in what you grow. I’m still making the mental transition from market farmer to backyard gardener. Smaller isn’t necessarily simpler.

Without a need for hundreds of tomato plants, I don’t need to fill a one thousand square foot high tunnel with tomatoes. I’m planting less than a hundred plants in the tunnel this year. Thirty eight are paste tomatoes that will provide enough for me and two friends to can. There will be only two Juliet grape tomatoes, two beef steak type but only one plant of each variety, and a few Jet Star slicing tomatoes among the regulars. I’m growing three varieties for a seed company that will send seedlings next month. I’ll plant one grafted and one ungrafted plant of each of three varieties. And that’s all. This is only two rows worth of plants for a five-row tunnel. That leaves three rows empty.

My pickling and slicing cucumbers will be grown in the tunnels. I favor vertical growing for cucumbers. It eliminates a vine jungle, making them easier to find since they’re out in plain sight, and is easier on the back.

The tunnels run east to west. It sounds contradictory but the warm, these sun-loving warm crops are going to be planted on the north wall. Tomatoes and cucumbers are the tall crops. They’ll have plenty of sunshine and warmth, and on the north wall, won’t shade other crops. The only exception I can think of is planting heat tolerant lettuce varieties in a row on the north wall, and providing shade for them with the taller plants. Even heat tolerant plants can have too much heat.

Peppers will be planted in the center row. Some of the plants will reach between three and four feet tall. They won’t shade or be shaded by other plants.

The two rows on the south side are for beets, basil, sage, early broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage and kohlrabi.

The weather is still a controlling factor in getting the planting done. Those tomatoes and pepper seedlings I talked about earlier are still in the house, still growing. The days are warmer, sometimes into the mid 50’s, but it was 20* Sunday and Monday mornings.

There’s one high tunnel planned out. I’m trying something new in the second. I need to use both tunnels. We spent the money and put in the time and effort building them. I can’t let them side idle without feeling guilty. Selling one involves pulling the pipes out of the ground that were driven in 18” with a sledgehammer. For now, I’ll put it to use. I’m going to grow gourds and smaller pumpkins in there. Most of the seeds will be planted directly into the soil when I’m sure the nights are going to stay above freezing. I’m trying a large gourd that needs 135 days to maturity so I’ll start those seeds in the house today and transplant in a few weeks.

Not all of the smaller pumpkins will be grown in the tunnel. The head start they get in there means they will mature earlier than normal and might not last through Halloween and Thanksgiving decorating. I don’t want to bake pumpkins in August to prep them for the freezer. That’s a job better suited for chilly early fall mornings when the house could use a little extra warmth.

The pumpkins and gourds will be planted in small piles of aged cow manure. I’ll use tomato twine and clips on these plants in the same way I do the tomatoes and cucumbers. I’m eager to see gourds hanging from the vines.

There’s another idea I can’t seem to let go. With extra space in the tunnels, maybe I’ll plant a couple of dwarf fruit trees that are hardy to zone six. I’m in zone five. It would be nice to have more varieties to choose from. Now where’s that tree catalog…

Ruby-throated Hummingbird in Rain

She’s sitting on a branch under the cover of my back porch. I expect to see a lot of her during a seven-day rainy stretch. Photo taken through two windows.

Female ruby-throated hummingbird taking shelter from the rain.

Female ruby-throated hummingbird

US Fish & Wildlife’s Woodcock Singing Ground Survey

It was a cool day and supposed to get cold overnight—below freezing. Would it be warm enough 15 or 22 minutes after sunrise to start counting woodcock? The air temperature has to be a minimum of 40 degrees. It was 50 degrees at 6:30 pm, looked like it wasn’t going to drop quickly, and so off we went to Amity to count woodcock.

Woodcock are a small migratory, wading, woods-living bird. They’re difficult to see, often not making themselves known until you almost literally step on them. They let you know of their presence by bursting up into flight a few feet in front of you, causing swear words and heart palpitations.

I don’t remember how many years I’ve been volunteering in the US Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife’s Woodcock Singing Ground Survey but it must be nine or ten by now. I run two routes, Amity and Danforth, both in Aroostook County, with help from Steve. He’s my chauffer and extra set of ears.

Woodcock start peenting, a gravely, nasally sound they make to attract females, around sunset during their breeding season. At the end of the peenting cycle they burst nearly horizontally into the evening sky. They fly as much as 250 feet off the ground during their dance. When they reach their desired height they fly in an erratic pattern (could be mistaken for a bat) for several seconds before returning to the ground to restart the sequence.

Counting begins 22 minutes after sunset if the sky is three-quarters or less overcast (sky condition). If the sky is more than three-quarters overcast, counting starts 15 minutes after sunset.

Counters record the time of sunset, the time counting starts, mileage, wind, sky condition and precipitation. Notes are made on anything that might interfere with our ability to hear. We don’t count in high winds or rain. If possible, we count in perfect weather conditions so that we can get an accurate count of how many males are in the breeding ground.

The route is predetermined. Each year you start in the same place and stop in the same ten spots. Each is four-tenths of a mile apart. You count for exactly two minutes.

We started counting at 8:09 pm because the sky was overcast. Stops one and two were quiet. I watched a snowshoe hare hoping around at the first stop. It’s unusual to not hear at least one woodcock at this stop.

Stop three started at 8:16 pm with three peenting males. This stop is on a long stretch that allows sound to carry. An oncoming car blocked out some of the time I counted but I’m confident there were three birds peenting. A barking dog in the distance didn’t block sound.

American woodcock, photo by Robin Follette

American Woodcock

The number of birds peenting are counted, not the number of peents. Let’s say I’ve done this for ten years, always running two routes each year, each route consisting of 10 stops. In 200 stops I’ve seen one woodcock. We’re counting by sound. It’s easy to count the number of birds because they’re far enough apart to distinguish between them.

Stops four, five and six each had one bird. I wished the dog would stop barking so I could hear well. I admit, barking dogs are a pet peeve of mine. Stop six had a lot of loud frogs which might have kept me from hearing peents in the distance. This doesn’t change from year to year. There’s always a boggy area with a lot of frogs.

Stop seven turned up one woodcock and something, probably a deer, walking away through the brush away from us. A barred owl hooted the entire time. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?”

Stop eight had two birds and was easy to count thanks to almost complete silence.

Stop nine had one, possibly two males peenting. I recorded one because I’m not sure of the second. Thank you, Mr. Barking Dog. I look at the ditch on the north side of the road for moose at this stop. We saw two young moose there several years ago, and I always hope there will be another. Highly unlikely that it will happen, but I hope anyway.

The last stop, at 8:41 pm, had one bird. That’s unusual.

There was less traffic than usual, and while loud, the frogs weren’t as loud this year as in years past. There was very little logging truck traffic. This was the best year for this route. It averages around 60% of the stops having birds to count, and this year it was 80%. I have no idea what this means for the woodcock population. Maybe the numbers are up, or maybe I happened to hit it on a good night. Or something else.

We usually see bear, moose or deer when counting. We heard what was probably a deer, and on the way home saw a yearling bear cub run from the side of the road into the woods. It’s the first bear sighting for me this year.

I’m counting in Danforth tonight. Of the two routes, this one is my favorite. I’ll be out toward the wind farm in an area with less traffic and more deer.

Perennial Garden Gets a Facelift

Originally published in Lancaster Farming

Just two weeks ago I was impatiently waiting for winter to leave and spring to arrive, and this morning I’m a little sunburned, have muscles that haven’t ached in months, and a mosquito bite on my foot.

The garden is still a little too wet to drive the tractor on to rototill, and I needed some soul-soothing gardening. The little six by twelve inch patch of daffodils haven’t bloomed well for a couple of years. I knew they were crowded but I just didn’t get to them. Breaking the rule of dividing spring bloomers in the fall, I found the spade in the garden shed and started digging. It’s no wonder they weren’t blooming, there were 60 bulbs in that tiny space. I separated them into two groups, roughly making each group equal in bulb sizes, and relocated them. I’ve always thought it would be pretty to have spring flowers under the hydrangea trees. The trees are bare and unattractive in the spring. The trees are on each side of the steps leading to the sun porch. I turned over the soil, added compost and replanted the bulbs. The plants draw the eye away from the trees and make the area more appealing.

I remember planting tulips years ago but can’t remember the last time they had flowers. I found them, crowded from years of neglect, and guessed there to be about a dozen bulbs. There were <gasp> 70, some of them the tiniest bulbs I’ve ever seen. I picked a spot in the perennial garden, just beside the sun porch and hydrangea trees, and started digging.

The half wine barrel was rolled out of the way and placed on top of the remnants of an ancient maple tree, a six inch high stump. I tossed rocks and weeds into the barrel. It won’t need as much soil when I fill it thanks to the rocks, and the weeds will decompose to add nutrients to the soil. They’re deep enough to not be able to survive. I’ll fill the barrel with pansies, a solar light and flowers yet to be determined.

I don’t think all of the tulips bulbs will survive as some were the size of a pea, but I planted them anyway. Spacing them appropriately meant moving into space the hostas use, and I’ve wanted to move them to a new spot, so I dug them up and tossed them onto the grass. They were so crowded they were a thick mat of roots and took a lot of effort to pry them from the soil. Two patches of hostas when separated turned into a dozen new plants, relocated to the northwest corner and north wall of the house.

The daylilies I ordered from Fedco needed to be planted. That was simple, until I took a good look at the crowded daylilies already in the garden. I replanted the seven or eight of the best plants and piled up the rest. A neighbor who walks daily stopped to talk and was happy to take some of the extras. She mentioned how much she loved her peony. I glanced at mine. Overgrown, of course. I offered her a piece. She went about her walk while I sliced through the plants with the spade. When she came back I had a daylilies and two peony plants bagged and ready to go, and had relocated two more sizable pieces.

It was 70 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, and no humidity, a perfect day to work outside. I retrieved a pot of Cappuccino rudbeckia I started from seeds sent by Renee’s Garden, and planted a dozen seedlings. The 1020 tray of Johnny Jump Ups was next. I planted 13 clumps of plants. I pulled weeds, dug up grass rhizomes, cleaned up Creeping Charlie and scraped away moss. The only plant that didn’t need my attention was the bleeding heart given to me by my daughters on Mother’s Day 17 years ago (Taylor was almost three, Kristin going on 12, seems like yesterday.). Eight hours after digging up the daffodils, I don’t know how many trips to the compost pile, countless holes, pulling, tugging, dragging the 150 foot hose (heavy with water) 150 feet from the high tunnel to the front of the house, planting, weeding, and sunburn, the perennial garden doesn’t look like much. It certainly doesn’t look like I worked there for eight hours.

There are empty spots left that I’ll fill with tender annuals after the first of June, when the frost danger is low. Or, that was my plan. When I looked out the bay window this morning to see how the new seedlings managed their first cold night outdoors, the Stella D’Oro daylilies caught my eye. I thought they looked like they could last another year but this morning, now that I’m not tired, I think they need to be tended to. I’ll relocate them to the line of hostas, a row in front of and between each plant. When I got up to refill my coffee cup just now I noticed the liatris and Dutch iris bulbs I bought a month ago. I’ll get those planted while I’m out there. There might not be room for those annuals.

Dear Fiction

Dear Fiction,

New relationships are intense, thrilling and consuming. We’ve spent a lot of time together while I pushed aside long-standing relationships in an effort to get to know you intimately. We’ve had fun, haven’t we? You gave me imaginary friends, places and occasions.

Last weekend, at the Black Fly Writing Retreat, I began to admit our relationship isn’t working out. I took the worst of my work with you to the retreat with high hopes of learning how to “fix” some of our problems. Cynthia made working with you so much fun at the March workshops. She gave me hope. “Good strong writing,” she said. In between our workshops with her, though, I miss my old friend Non-fiction. You’re just….you’re so much tedious work. Our relationship doesn’t come naturally. The occasional workshop flings aren’t enough. Last weekend, the amount of help I need to fix our issues didn’t come.

“What novels have you read lately,” they asked. The looks on their faces when I admitted to reading very little fiction in favor of nonfiction fueled the nagging in the back of my mind. We’re not working out. I’m not in love with you. And there’s something else. My heart is with Nonfiction. It’s not you…it’s me. I’m fiction deficient. Ok, it’s you, too. There are so many real, exciting stories and feature articles and educational pieces I want to write that you don’t excite me anymore.

I’m not saying it’s over for good. I might be back one day. For now, we have to break up. I’m putting Libby and the lodge back in the trunk.

It’s nonfiction that I love. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.

Sincerely,

Robin

Sage Advice

Sage advice: don’t plant more sage than you need. I’ve cut enough to last a year and it’s only May 10. The plants (sprinkle seeds, neglect thinning) over wintered in a high tunnel. I’ve been harvesting it since late March or early April.

sage herb

Remember to thin seedlings.

English shepherd herding ducks

You Can’t Herd Ducks in a Pond

“You can’t herd ducks in a pond,” I told her. Ava, our OCD English shepherd, insisted on herding the ducks as they swam in the pond. She raced around the edge, barking her fool head off, back and forth, getting tangled in the Joe Pye growing on one bank, crashing into birch and choke cherry trees on another bank. She’d go into the water up to her belly but that was it. The banks are steep to keep cattails from taking over so she didn’t have to take many steps in to reach her limit.

“Stop barking! Oh my gawd, Ava, STOP BARKING and get up here.” And she would. She’d stop barking and come to me because she does what I tell her to do…most of the time. She doesn’t always believe me. I said, many many many times,

“AVA! You CAN’T herd ducks in a pond.”

What do I know?

English shepherd herding ducks

When someone says you can’t herd ducks in a pond, show them that you can if you gather up the courage to teach yourself to swim.

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector

Hunting Wild Turkeys

The day started with a 3:30 am alarm after a nearly sleepless night. My knee hurt enough to keep me awake and make me grumpy. Then I pulled muscles in my back while getting ready to go. Wasn’t this just going to be a great time. We knew where the turkeys should be and I wasn’t missing out on a hunt.

We drove to a spot close to home, got our gear out, walked into a great spot and got ready. Steve set up our decoys, Ethel, Lucy and Ricky. This was going to be the morning I got my turkey…my first turkey. I settled against a hardwood tree and Steve moved further into the woods, behind a few feet and to the right. He was ten feet away.

Steve made the first call, a ye-GOBBLE-lp. A tom gobbled before the yelping was done. I smiled. This was my day.

Something scurried in the brush right behind me. Skunk? It’s always the first thing to come to mind when I’m on the ground and hear something in the brush. It moved away, and I stopped thinking about it until Steve said, “Rob, look at the rabbit.” A snowshoe hare ate while we hid in the brush.

After a few minutes of back and forth yelps and gobbles it became obvious that there was more than one bird. They weren’t in a rush to get close. Steve called for ten minutes, then suddenly got no response. After the third unanswered call I wondered if they were moving toward us faster or were done with us. Seven or eight minutes passed before I heard a gobble further away.

I’ve been disappointed so many times when hunting (I’ve shot only partridge so far), and completely blown the one chance I’d had to shoot a turkey two years ago, that I don’t get excited when I think I might be going to finally shoot. Still, it was a let down when the answer came from further away.  We didn’t have a lot of time this morning.

Movement in the woods caught my eye. I couldn’t see them, just movement through the brush. “Here they come!” I heard dead leaves rustle, watched, waited, watched, and was a little disappointed to see a whitetail doe step into a clearing. She looked at the decoys, first with her tail up, then down, her ears relaxed. “Deer,” I whispered so Steve could see her. He called again to find the turkeys, and it didn’t bother her. Then I moved, just a little, and she heard me. I stayed still while she stared. Busted. I was going to be busted by a deer. She took three steps toward me. Steve called again and this time, a loud round of gobbles came back. The deer continued to watch the decoys. There were several of them and they were much closer. After several minutes I moved to startle her, convincing her to leave before the turkeys were in sight. Flag (tail) up, she bolted toward the road, and a yearling I hadn’t been able to see followed her.

Steve called again and this time, a single tom gobbled back. It wasn’t from the birds we’d heard. This one was directly to my right and further away. I listened a couple of times and decided it was coming up the road behind us. Steve moved to put himself in position to shoot.

It didn’t occur to me that this wasn’t going to be my day after all. I was glad that Steve was going to get his first turkey of the year, and we’d be having turkey breast for supper.

This one meant business. He came into sight quickly, spotted Lucy, Ricky and Ethel, and strutted in circles, puffed up and displaying like he ruled the forest. Steve brought the shotgun up, ready to shoot as soon as the tom gave him an opportunity for a good shot. It walked down the narrow path, into the clearing, and I smiled. He was big.

Steve hesitated, lowered the gun a few inches, then picked it back up and looked down the barrel. It was interesting to watch this first hand rather than on television. I’ve never been with anyone when they’ve taken their turkey. The turkey walked directly into the clearing, neck stretched forward, head out for a perfect shot, and Steve lowered the gun.

He lowered the gun. He didn’t shoot.

The tom walked out of my sight, close to the decoys, and I didn’t see him again.

Turkeys came out of the trees to my left, which was then behind Steve, and into sight. I clicked off the safety and raised the shotgun, a Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector Steve gave me for my birthday last month. I made sure I didn’t have brush between myself and the birds. My strict rule: clean shot, or no shot at all. I counted twice; five jakes. They looked about the same size. No one bird seemed larger than the rest.

Steve hit the button on the call and gave another yelp.

Five jakes gobbled at once, 25 feet from me. That excited me. They hesitated as they looked at the big tom and three decoys 20 feet ahead of and to the right of me. Steve called again. One jake took the lead while the other four stayed still. I thought I’d wait until one bird stood directly in front of me so I could be sure I didn’t miss. The pattern is very tight with the turkey choke. I was turned to my left a bit. I could be patient, but opportunity knocked. One more call. The jake in the lead took a few more steps, put his head up straight and tall, and I pulled the trigger.

“I got him!”

“Where’d he go?”

“Right there!” He didn’t go anywhere but down. One clean, perfect shot to the head. He didn’t know what hit him.

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector

I did it. I got my first turkey. It really was my day.

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector

I shot my first turkey today mostly thanks to Steve. Ya, I made a great shot that I’ll shamelessly brag about for a while but I got to make that shot because Steve chose to pass on the big tom to give me a chance to see what was coming through the woods. I wouldn’t have been upset if he’d taken that turkey. We still have almost a month to hunt. I’d have been happy for him. He lowered the gun, and he let me have mine.

Eastern Wild turkey and Remington 870 Super Mag Bone Collector

My first turkey!

My small turkey weighed 14 pounds, 14 ounces. I’m calling it 15 pounds. I have one permit left. It doesn’t matter if the next turkey is bigger. As long as the population is thinned so they cause less damage to crops, the high tunnels, young fruit trees and gardens, weight is just a number.

Stalking the Wild Turkey?

We were up and out early this morning. We had a specific spot in mind after seeing six jakes in one place and a tom in another last evening. Steve wanted to go for the jakes but after looking at Google Earth, we decided against it because it was too close to homes. We’d have been fine legally but we know what it’s like when idiots people hunt close to our house. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. We find shotgun shells on the road in front of our house during bird season, but that’s another flip out story.

We set up Ethel, one of our decoys (Lucy and Ricky stayed in the truck because of the distance we had to walk.) and found a place to sit. Steve called. Nothing. Called. nothing. A pileated woodpecker landed in a maple to my right and a little behind us. It whinnied loudly for ten minutes. Sound carried well across the still air. If there were a cluck, yelp or gobble within a mile, we’d have been able to hear it. Nothing. We sat for an hour, then headed home so we could get ready for work.

I spotted a turkey through the trees. “Turkey,” I nearly yelled, followed by “tom!” I jumped out, put one shell in my 870 Remington Super Mag Bone Collector (12 gauge) and was watching the bird 30 seconds after spotting him. Steve used the wet box and on the third call, he stopped and gobbled. I had the shotgun up and safety off, but he didn’t turn to come to the call. At 150 feet away, through the brush, I didn’t have a good shot. Nothing less than a clean kill shot is ever acceptable to me. If I don’t think I can kill my prey with one shot, I’m not shooting.

Steve called to get him to gobble so I could find him again, but he didn’t answer again. I never imagined stalking a turkey. I’ve always been sitting on the ground, decoys out or at least a box call in hand, waiting for them to come to me. Not this morning. This bird kept walking in as much of a straight line as turkeys walk through brush and trees. I pulled my mask out of my pocket and slipped it on (ugliest piece of hunting clothing I own), loaded two more shells and walked up the road to a side road that cuts through the woods. Walk, stop, listen. Walk, stop and listen again. Repeat. I heard him snap twigs and walk through dead leaves and spotted him 200 feet away. I changed my direction but couldn’t get closer. I heard him a second time after he’d gone over a bank and made his way down the ridge but didn’t see him again.

It was fun. I’ve learned a couple of things while turkey hunting. First, I don’t say “never” now. I said I’d never belly crawl through a field to get to a turkey. Ticks, slugs, dew, cold, wet. No thanks. I belly crawled through slugs, dew, cold and wet the next morning, with my shotgun, when I could hear a tom making that odd humming noise they make in their chest cavity (what’s that called?) over a rise but couldn’t see them. This morning I learned you can stalk a wild turkey. I’m kind of proud of myself. If it hadn’t been quite so brushy I’d have come home with a turkey this morning.

Porcupine & Posies

When like gets prickly, stop to smell the yarrow. His glowing halo is from the setting sun.  Taken with the Canon PowerShot SX50 HS.

Porcupine yarrow

Don’t forget to stop to smell the flowers.

Full Pink Moon

April Full (almost) Moon

Full moon was last night but I was sound asleep when it rose above the tree tops around my house in the woods. Tonight, on the way home from smelting, the moon rose, bright orange and beautiful. I grabbed the Canon PowerShot SX50 HS, put all three dogs in the Jeep, and drove to the FAA beacon up the road. The moon rose through the trees while one dog trembled on the floor, another insisted on resting her head on my arm while I tried to shoot, and the third turned circles in the back. Adding to the self-induced insanity of three dogs in a small Jeep, the two in the front were still wet from herding ducks in the pond earlier this evening. It’s a good thing leather seats dry fast and clean well.

It was worth it. The sky is clear and the moon is beautiful.

Full Pink Moon

Full Pink Moon

Full pink moon, Canon PowerShot SX50 HS

whitetail doe and fawn

Doe, a deer, and a fawn…

Doe, a deer, and a fawn…

Did you start singing that? I did while typing. You can sing it all day now that I’ve suggested it. You’re welcome.

We went scouting for turkeys. That was almost a flop with only one hen spotted. We did find deer. Steve said, “Look at that deer!” It took me a moment to find her through the trees. She watched us watching her and stood perfectly still while I took pictures. I used the Canon PowerShot SX50 HS.

whitetail doe

She looked over her shoulder often but I couldn’t see anything.

whitetail doe

whitetail doe

She reminds me of a kangaroo

We moved on to avoid disturbing her too much and got back to the business at hand – finding turkeys. Jokes on us, right? Turkeys? Ha ha.  We reached the clearing, found nothing and headed back to the main road. Steve spotted the doe again and this time, she had company.

whitetail doe and fawn

The doe and her yearling fawn.

whitetail doe and fawn

Whitetail fawn

Look closely as its left ear.

They turned and walked away when they were tired of people watching. Apparently two people sitting in a big red truck are not very interesting.

whitetail doe and fawn

Whitetail doe walking away

 

A Treeless Tree Stand

Oh….um….

Treeless Tree Stand

No amount of camo is going to hide this stand.

On Being an Introvert

I’m still here. I haven’t packed up and moved on, I promise. Being an introvert thrown into the big world with lots of people quite often lately, the little bit of time I’m home alone is spent decompressing and getting some work done. I need to submit the piece I’ll have workshopped at Black Fly Writing Retreat by 5 pm this Friday. It isn’t quite ready so I’m working on it.

I’ll be teaching a campfire cooking class for Washington County Community College, probably in June.

I’ve been back and forth to Bangor a lot lately, Augusta more often than usual, and Boston. The Jeep gained 900 miles on Saturday, Sunday and Tuesday. It’s good to be home the rest of the week. I’m starting to get back in the groove after not having time, and honestly, lacking desire, to write much. A couple of things have been said lately that made me realize how much I open myself up to when I write about things few people experience, and do so as openly and honestly as I do.

This article, Misreading Introverts, describes me almost perfectly. Myth #3, Introverts are rude, is one of the often misunderstood aspects of my personality. Sugar coating something with fake emotions is ridiculous. Be real and just say it. It’s not a big deal. I will assume you mean the best when you say something, and I will most definitely take you at your word rather than what you meant to say; please do the same for me.

I’m very content being alone 70 hours a week while Steve is at work. It’s not that I don’t want him home, it’s that I’m just fine being alone. Taylor can be home on break and not leave her room much during the day. Her door is probably open, and I can see her from where I sit on the loveseat, but we don’t need to interact just for the sake of interacting. Presence is enough.

Myth #5, I don’t like to go out in public. As much as I love it out here in the woods, sometimes I need to go out in the public and interact with people. I don’t go shopping unless I need something, then I prefer to go alone or with someone who also doesn’t like shopping. Get in, get what I need, get out. No browsing. Shopping doesn’t entertain me. If there’s a good reason to go out, like a concert (we saw 15ish bands in 2012), a class, a day of hiking or lunch with friends, I’m all for going out. And I’m all for coming home to the woods.

A couple of people have commented in the last two weeks about me never leaving home because I’m antisocial. I work from home so I don’t leave five mornings a week. I don’t need or want for much of anything, ever. We’re fairly self sufficient and grocery shop about once a month. If we run out of something and can’t wait til the next shopping trip, Steve picks it up on his way home.

Myth #7 – ding ding ding! That’s me! I don’t follow the crowd and sometimes prefer playing devil’s advocate because I usually see things from the other side of common.

Myth #9  Introverts are not thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. That’s definitely not me. I’m considering skydiving for my 50th birthday next year. I hunted black bear on the ground behind a piece of camo burlap for a blind, and I was alone. Nobody for miles. Yes I was nervous at first but it was exhilarating. Having a loaded rifle helped…  The too much talking and noise can get on my nerves after a while if it’s idle chit chat. I want conversations with depth, not small talk. Add perfume or cologne (why people smell up a public place is beyond me) to the talking and noise and I probably won’t be able to stay long. I love whitewater rafting and can’t wait to zipline this summer.

Being an introvert probably makes it easier to spend seven or eight hours sitting in a tree stand without moving than it is for an extrovert. I can get so far inside my own head, thinking, watching, making mental notes, observing the tiny flying bugs that show up one at a time until there are thousands of them in a flying swarm at sunset that I don’t notice how much time has passed. I’ve always been able to entertain myself. It’s probably why I find “I’m bored” so damned annoying…I don’t understand boredom.

I think I’m ready to start writing again, probably as openly and honestly as before. I guess I needed a break.

astia zucchini blossom

Wordless Wednesday: Astia Zucchini

astia zucchini blossom

Astia zucchini blossom

Note to Self

I thought I’d share the reminders I gave myself a few times last week.

Choose your battles.

Choose. My. Battles.

Wordless Wednesday – Singing from the tree top

American robin

The setting sun made the robin look more red than usual. He was so high up in the tree I couldn’t see him well, and so red that if he hadn’t been singing, I wouldn’t have been able to easily identify him.

The woods of Maine

Am I the one behind the times?

Backwater. Backwoods. Out of touch. Out of date. Woods queer. Stuck in the past. These are terms used recently to describe people like me. Obviously, they are not terms of endearment. They’re not positive images as they’re being used in these conversations.

Here’s a little about me, in case you’re a new reader. I hunt, fish, paddle, forage and have a one-acre garden. I raise chickens, ducks and turkeys for meat and eggs. I’m a dumbass with a smart phone I barely know how to use to make a call (it’s not set up well).  I don’t care to know more. I can make calls, text and send pictures. Apps? I have a great flashlight… All the other apps came pre-installed. My name is Robin, and I am an app failure…and I like it that way.

Fawn Runner Ducks

Fawn Runner Ducks

I’m on Twitter. I thought I’d enjoy sharing #TreestandTweets but it was annoying. I’m not sitting in a tree to tweet; save that for birds. I’m there to hunt and be aware of my surroundings. I have followers but I don’t follow the rule of following back everyone who follows me. I’ve never been to a Tweetup and have never felt the need to, even “for my career.”  I have a Facebook page for my writing but don’t post there a lot. No need to inundate anyone with reminders about me; they know where to find me.

Out of date. I’m anti-genetic engineering, anti-Monsanto, anti-food lot, anti-antibiotic in factory farms…I’m anti-factory farms. I know what’s in my food. Like a growing number of people who are paying attention, I provide at least some of my own food.  If you aren’t already providing some of your own food, you are behind the times.  I can feed myself with food I grow, raise and buy locally. So I’m out of touch, backwater, backwoods, stuck in the past, but I can feed myself.

I’m out of touch. My kids didn’t get cell phones until they were driving. We live 20 miles from the high school, further from their jobs. They had cell phones with limited amounts of minutes so that they could call us in an emergency. We <gasp> were pretty insistent that they communicate with people face to face. I’m not used to this commonly accepted bad habit of ignoring people in favor of someone else.

I’m out of touch even with a cell phone. If your phone rings in a restaurant and interrupts someone’s meal I won’t hesitate to tell you we are not in a phone booth. If someone else is more important than the people you are with at the moment, do the unimportant people a favor and leave. Get off the phone and communicate face to face.

Backwoods. You bet! Forty-five acres in the middle of thousands of acres, no neighbors in sight. I can feed myself from the land. We heat our home with wood, a renewable resource. I’m not depending on anyone to keep me warm. Or fed.

firewood

We burned four cords of firewood in the winter of 2012-13.

Woods queer: (adjective) a milder form of insanity that results from living in a rural isolated environment, typically the woods or forest.  Ok, I’ll claim that, but I don’t think I’m any more insane than the city or urban queer. We’re all a little insane (but some of us don’t know that yet) no matter where we live.

Backwater. Backwoods. Out of touch. Out of date. Woods queer. Stuck in the past. Happy. Satisfied. Fulfilled. Content. Well fed. Warm. Self sufficient.  It works for me.

The woods of Maine

I live here.

 

Red-winged Black Bird

red-winged black bird

Blowing in the wind

Red-winged blackbird

The spring-arriving birds didn’t bring spring with them. You can see the snowflakes against his black feathers.

Red-winged blackbird

Gusty winds and snow. Where’s spring?