Hunt Southwest Minnesota

Our Outdoors: Scope It Out

Our Outdoors: Scope It Out
By Nick Simonson

Dialing In. Sighting things in one last time ahead of the firearms deer opener will make certain that all is in order for a great hunt. While a spot-on scope won’t prevent all misses, or a bout of buck fever, it helps to know everything’s ready to go. Simonson Photo.

There’s nothing so clear and so adrenaline inducing as seeing a deer through the reticle of a scope.  The movements of the animal are magnified, and if from the right position of concealment at a distance, natural and without knowledge, until the last moment, that the hunt is on. In those seconds leading up to the shot, knowing a scope is dead on can make all the difference between success and failure and these days ahead of the firearms deer opener give one final chance to make sure that both it and the shot are aligned for the upcoming season. 
While I’ve missed deer with my rifle a handful of times, it’s safe to say that it was not the scope that was the problem, but rather user error brought on by buck fever, or in those early days, during deer drives trying to keep up off-hand with a sprinting animal that had just burst from cover and driven my heart rate aloft. While the rush of the hunt is always expected, the movement imparted on a reliable rifle and the shakiness in the lens of the scope can be difficult to avoid in both situations, but more so in the latter. I’ve corrected that problem by become predominantly a still hunter, finding those places that deer visit frequently, and watching for activity taking in the November dawn, day and dusk and tallying my sightings for the season.  In those long peaceful sits, punctuated by flashes of excitement, I have found no solution for the rush of endorphins that contribute some to my scope shake, and likely never will.  If I did, I’d probably quit hunting.
Time at the range in the summer, and certainly just ahead of the firearms season, ensures that the only error – if any – will be that user error.  From a seated position on a bench, or with my trusty monopod which I have turned to in recent autumns, I establish a solid foundation for each shot to determine the level of cooperation between scope and barrel.  Most years, the first sample trio of bullets are within an effective grouping and on target with the previous season’s practice and results; but some years, I’ve found them to be off center by six or even eight inches.  Who knows what causes that? It could be a slight bump during the haul-out of the previous season’s deer, or perhaps it was an unfortunate bounce in the truck that jostled the rifle in the case while traveling.  I still haven’t ruled out gremlins living in my gun safe either.
Entering last chance territory on the calendar ahead of the firearms deer season, now is the time to get everything set up for a successful hunt, and through the view of a scope take in the imagined scene of a deer on the hoof wandering quietly into view.  With each shot through the orange-ringed paper, confidence for a successful season grows, and the odds of missing due to some mischievous off-season misalignment decrease.  Even through the process, knowing all is ready for the hunt helps remove some of the concern and nervous energy which may negatively influence a shot when that scene comes to be, and the target turns from stapled paper on plywood backing to an animal moving into range.
Block off one last afternoon in the coming days to sight in your chosen firearm, and take a look at the world through the narrow view of a scope, knowing that the next time you might do so, the buck of a lifetime may be on the other end of the reticle.  While your heart rate may increase and hyperventilation may occur, you can breathe a bit easier knowing that everything is ready for that moment.  Exhale and squeeze the trigger with the awareness that all the preparation put in ahead of that moment will likely help you find success…in our outdoors.

Our Outdoors: Thick Thoughts

Our Outdoors: Thick Thoughts
By Nick Simonson

In the dry, crackling brown of a cattail slough is one of my favorite places to be in the fall.  When the stand of dense vegetation is about chest high – tall enough to provide a good screen and cover for pheasants, but short enough to allow for a clear shot when they flush – that’s about as perfect as things can get.  Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but plowing through that kind cover to me is enjoyable, especially after a couple of months back on the workout train ahead of hunting season, where my thighs and hips are built up and flexible enough for the lift-drive-and-step motion needed to power through the tangles of reeds above and the wads of roots and stems below.
On North Dakota’s pheasant opener this weekend, I was more than happy to join my dog in the thick stuff once again, watching the stutter-step of his advance ahead of me in the cattails; their tops and the roof-like construction the bent reeds rattling with each of his charges after some unseen scent line along the dry bottom of the late-season wetlands.  Sure, even with things dry and relatively warm, it wasn’t likely that a whole lot of birds would be stationed in the deep cover as the day dawned, but it never hurts to check, and without my usual Saturday morning run on the busy day of hunting, the effort easily replaced a few miles on the blacktop, and was an upgrade from an hour on the treadmill.  Besides, there were plenty of other able guns in our group to take the shot when one or two birds would slide out ahead of us or off to the side.
Perhaps the best part of the experience to walk the cattails to kick off yet another hunting season was simply the fact that I was able to walk them, and not just due to the advancing throes of my middle age.  In an era where, bit-by-bit, pockets of marginal acres are being drained, dried, tilled and turned over, each stand of swamp grass and cattails that are still on the land is a valuable remnant of habitat, worthy of celebration and protection.  In these potholes, some less than a few hundred square feet in size, is where pheasants find cover now, and especially later in the season when the cold of winter comes roaring in and snow builds up on the adjacent fields.  In the grass around these sloughs each spring and summer, pheasants rear their young along with the next generation of mallards, whitetail deer and songbirds.  Add some water in the middle of a donut-ring of cattails, even if it’s half gone by fall, and the biodiversity of huntable species, insects, amphibians and mammals jumps exponentially and the spot becomes a magnet for migrating ducks until freeze-up.
As the season wears on, these areas of habitat withstand blizzards and below-zero temperatures, and the three-toed tracks winding through the bases of the cattails along little trails twisting and turning from one end of the slough to the other provide both sight and scent for success.  After the firearms deer season concludes, that’s when the real deep cover hunting begins, and cattails become synonymous with exciting flushes that send an explosion of white snow and shards of brown leaves into the air.  Weaving in and out from the edge until a scent line is exposed to my dog’s nose, or that superhighway of tracks suggests fresh movement by resident birds into the deep cover, I’ll be ready to lead the charge (following Ole’s effort, of course) into the thick stuff.  Whether dressed lightly now for the warmer days of autumn or bundled up against the bluster of early winter at the end of pheasant season, the crackling brown stadium into which I march is a fair enough playing field for an opportunity to pursue my favorite pastime.  I’ll continue to take on that challenge as long as my dog is willing to join me, and others shun the sweat equity required of one of the sweetest spots for roosters…in our outdoors.

Our Outdoors: At the End

Our Outdoors: At the End
By Nick Simonson

The author’s lab Ole with a pair of sharptailed grouse picked up from an exciting finish to a long trek through the uplands. Simonson Photo

I’m a fan of end-of-the-world movies, particularly those incorporating the zombie genre into their plot.  There’s something that piques my interest in those scenarios where nothing is left but a handful of hardy survivors taking on what remains of a hardened and structureless society of scavengers scraping by amidst the hordes of mindless cannibalistic ghouls.  I wonder if I’d make it that far – six months, a year, or longer – in such a situation, but I figure probably not.  I’d likely get tetanus from a rusty fishhook in my own tacklebox during the first week and hardly live through the beginning of the end.
Many times, somewhat unfortunately, I let my love of the genre creep into my worldview as well.  During the Covid-19 pandemic, while others were hoarding toilet paper, I was stockpiling Daredevle spoons, four-inch twister tails and all my favorite crankbaits just in case the real world quickly descended into a scene from The Walking Dead, and I’d need to be catching the plentiful pike from a nearby prairie slough for sustenance for me and my family. 
With upland numbers buried in a trough created by lack of habitat and a couple of 100-year droughts this fall, I found myself wandering the hillsides for sharptailed grouse recently, wondering when my nature hike would turn into an actual hunt, or if this was just the beginning of the end for my favorite outdoor pursuit.  Sadly forced to abandon a former favorite forty of public-access acres, seeing the yellow triangle signs had been removed, and the grass reverted to a dirt field upon arrival, I went to a nearby sprawling backup, knowing the long walk would take me straight up until lunch time.  Aside from a couple scraggly young hen pheasants, the first four miles of the trip produced little more than an additional calorie burn for the day, and a solid coating of sweat down the front of my long-sleeved t-shirt, which was quickly becoming too warm for the sunny morning.  Making the turn, I caught the red shine of the topper on my pickup truck, and figured it was another 25 minutes back to the starting point, as I held back the last slug of water from my lab’s thirsty lapping under the bottle for one more refreshment before we made it to the full blue jug in the bed of the vehicle.
The southwest breezes produced little scent in the well-covered hillsides as we went up and down the small gullies that drained into the main basin of the valley.  Each spot looked more promising than the last, but none produced any action from my dog’s tail as he began to feel the heat of the day growing overhead.  An eighth of a mile from the truck we began our descent, and I wiped the sweat from my brow as Ole side checked a small gust coming down the decline and through a set of berry patches which are a usual haunt for sharpies, but were empty of anything but green leaves and silver fruit.  Calling him over, I produced the bottle once again and he caught just about every drop as I apologized for the actionless morning.  After finishing, he scent-checked the wind, bluffed a couple steps into the berry patches and continued beside me in the direction of our vehicle parked on the approach a few hundred yards away. 
As we went down around three leafless bushes, the earliest on the trek to drop their cover and exhibit autumn’s bleakness, I began to think about how the upland hunting world would end.  Habitat would disappear due to societal demands, climate change would alter weather patterns, droughts would be more frequent, while vicious winters would return and in the climax of an era at its terminus, the hills would be silent.  The idea that tetanus from a boot snap or vest button would likely get me first added to the dreariness of the thought, despite the warm sunny autumn day building around me. 
It was a notion that was suddenly replaced by the whir of white wings and the chuckling laugh of a trio of sharpies rising up from the leeward side of the hilltop into the wind, the back one giving me a perfect angle for a surprised shot.  I dropped it as another trio rose, and I missed a rangy poke with the second barrel of my 20-gauge scattergun. 
Collecting the downed bird at the top of the hill, my dog and I crested and sent up another pair of sharpies and I fanned on the back one crossing right to left after a rushed reloading.  With the blast, another pair burst from the berry patch at the top of the swale and my second shot missed the mark.  Dropping another pair of shells in, I headed off in the direction the first group flushed and crested the next rise, angling away from my truck.  A group of four more sharptailed grouse chuckled as they took flight into the wind, and I picked the slowest-moving bird off and Ole made the retrieve. 
What would have been a 200-yard walk back to the truck turned into a winding half-mile sprint from hilltop to hilltop as each rise held birds hiding just out of the reach of the wind.  I shot poorly in the excitement but was happy to have seen the three dozen birds prove to me that they were far from at their end in the sprawling public hunting space. The experience lifted my spirits, and visions of a birdless environment were put on hold, along with those of life-threatening infection or roving zombie hordes.
Despite the numbers being lower, the general struggle hunters have found themselves in for access, quarry, and habitat, and the uncertainty which the future always holds, hope and birds remain.  We’re far from the apocalypse on a societal scale, or from the end of the world in the microcosm of upland hunting; and with every season where things seem just a little farther from the “good ol’ days,” opportunities to find success remain, optimism abounds, and the best moments can still come at the end of a long, quiet walk…in our outdoors. 

Our Outdoors: On the Upswing

Our Outdoors: On the Upswing
By Nick Simonson

Make the Turn. Hunters know habitat holds birds, and areas conserved benefit all wild creatures. The first step to more and better conservation comes with experience in the field linking encounters with wildlife with the places they need to survive and thrive. Simonson Photo.

Grass equals birds.  Habitat equals deer. Clean water equals fish.  These are the things I along with many other hunters and anglers have come to know in the outdoors.
I can recall once cutting from corner to corner on a dirt field to grab the pickup truck and collect my dog and hunting buddy who were finishing off a walk, and there in the middle of nothing but black dust and wheat stubble a covey of partridge flushed, surprising me straight out of my early autumn evening thoughts with enough shock to shoulder my shotgun instinctively. Other than that, the barren ground has provided nothing else for me in my adventures when it comes to flushing birds or bounding bucks.
For those who hunt and fish, we know the connection between conservation of those marginal spaces and their major impacts on where small game, big game and favorite fish species reside.  Cruise along any protected and undeveloped shoreline in the summer, and you’re likely to see bluegills teeming in the shallow weeds, and that occasional bruiser largemouth tucked under the branches of an overhanging willow tree on those lake edges where the blades of development haven’t touched the shore, and no docks break up the natural boundary between land and water.
Whether it’s natural prairie or that which has been replanted, so too with each step in that area comes the opportunity to be startled by the wings of a brightly colored rooster pheasant in fall, or the heart-pounding rise and run of a whitetail deer at close range.  Like the study of math, the equation in the outdoors becomes a bit clearer over time that wildlife species are a function of their available habitat.  The more grass, the more upland birds we have; in both lean times when cold winters and wet springs hamper reproduction, and in those good years where rain falls softly, and mild summers spur the appearance of large broods along the roadside in August.  With habitat, the bottom of a population cycle isn’t as bad and quick rebounds are possible among those species dependent on grass to beget the next generation.  Without habitat however, we as hunters find ourselves taking on the mantra of a bridesmaid ball club, adopting the hopeless motto of “maybe next year.”
In society’s model of doing great things every 20 years or so, forgetting all about them, re-learning them, and implementing them once again, we’re somewhat stuck in the trough of remembering what it was that made hunting so good two decades ago.  In that same autumn back when I cut across the dirt field in September to the startling flush of those Huns (which were likely there due to the CRP surrounding the harvested acres on four sides), I was surprised even more on a November hunt for deer.  In winds that would have canceled any other trip afield, in the spirit of the waning season I urgently walked the edge of a public access parcel as the northwest gusts roared through the leafless trees and bent the tall golden stems of dense planted prairie grass, that even when arched in the gales, still came up to my armpits.
As I made my way into the twenty-acre sea of swishing stalks, I caught sight of dark eyes watching me at the far end, tucked into the angle created by the belt of trees.  Another pair appeared, and then another and another, all framed by turning ears and nervous noses checking the air.  My form was mostly concealed by the screen of vegetation, rendering me unidentifiable.  The noise of my movement was muted by the rushing wind through the grass. My scent was carried miles away in a matter of moments. One by one, nearly two dozen heads rose up in the corner of the thick prairie habitat, and I stood there in amazement for what seemed like an eternity before the first deer snorted and turned, starting a stampede through the northern stand of trees. If there was ever an instant where the connection between places for our big game to live were tied with magical hunting moments, that was the one for me.
While such spaces may not be as prevalent on the landscape as they once were, they still exist and still provide the lesson which connects habitat to wildlife, and in turn, those instances in the outdoors which keep us coming back.  Share a walk this autumn with someone new, or perhaps an old hunting friend who has been away awhile and talk about the “good old days” when these moments and others may have been more commonplace.  Through that nostalgia comes learning (or re-learning), through that learning comes experience, and through experience comes advocacy to help society make the turn upward once again in that cycle of doing, forgetting, remembering, and re-doing.   The impact of adding one voice with the knowledge of what’s important, when done by many, can begin to turn the tide in a single season, and bring about the conservation improvements and solutions which can once again usher in a new era of seemingly endless habitat and boundless opportunities…in our outdoors.

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