Javafour
New member
I was having a horrible day Thursday!
Bad news at work first thing in the morning was followed by a bad news phone call from my doctor.
I am cursed to live in a Northwest Baltimore suburb and my good friend, and fellow PM moderator, Redeyedawg lives about 2 1/2 hours away from me over in great fox country on Maryland's Eastern Shore. Like me, Dawg is very busy, but we try to get together to hunt each year, although last year I missed our scheduled fox hunt due to truck drama and hadn't seen him since the prior turkey season--so, I wasn't going to let bad news get in the way of this planned hunt.
Dawg hunts a lot of private land over on the Shore, though he had not been out too many times this year, but he and his friend Rob had quite a few promising stand sites all scouted and ready to go for us that night. Dorchester County was our destination and it is full of foxes, so many that it is one of only two Maryland counties that offers a year round fox season.
I got out of work early and by 2pm I was stopped fueling my truck, just prior to heading out. My cel phone buzzed and when I saw it was my ex-wife I made the mistake of answering and actually telling her when she asked me the results of an MRI I'd had on my head the prior Monday. Turns out I have a tumor in my head, most probably benign, located on my pituitary gland. She loves to deliver dramatic news, so she appointed herself to call my family, thus, during my drive over to Dawg's I was kept occupied as my various relatives back home in Washington state called to get the drama-free version of the story.
As I headed out of Baltimore on I-695 I couldn't help but notice the weather. The clouds were dark gray and heavy with snow. There was already some old, frozen snow on the ground from a few days earlier, but a new major dump was expected the next day and I could really feel it. I felt lucky about the timing with the weather, there is no Sunday hunting, well, mostly, allowed in Maryland and I work Saturdays so that further limits my hunting time and I usually hit the weather wrong. It seems like the weather is usually against me, but today I was in luck. I have always done well right before a storm blows in.
I drove through the state's capital, Annapolis, the city where the high taxing state official here conduct their mischief, and then faced the broad water expanse that is the Chesapeake Bay. To cross the Bay to reach the Shore and points east, one must pay $2.50 to cross a 4.3 mile ribbon of concrete called the Bay Bridge, which is really two bridges and at about 200' above the water, people who fear heights hate driving across it.
Once on the Shore my Ford Expedition rolled east over the miles of Route 50 and once the cel phone stopped ringing I mentally reviewed my gear. Shotgun, camo clothes, shells, calls, leather boots, rubber boots, yeah, I was feeling proud of myself for once I hadn't forgotten anything...uh oh...Foxpro? Well, let's see, I unpacked it from my Las Cruces trip and set it in the living room so I'd remember to put it away. So, naturally, it was still sitting safe and sound on the floor of my living room. I did have my hand calls, but I felt bad because Dawg does not have an ecaller and was looking forward to trying one out. Crud!
I got to Dawg's about 5 and he had burgers going on the grill. I said my hellos to the lovely and gracious Mrs Dawg and marveled at how all their pups had grown since I'd last seen them, including the new addition they'd added to the litter since I'd last visited. After supper, around dark, Rob arrived and we packed up my truck and headed out to the first stand.
After driving another 10 minutes or so I parked the truck and got out, anxious to make something happen. Our first stand would be a small field surrounded by thick woods and we would walk in about 100 yards down a snow-covered dirt road. I keep a lot of my gear in plastic storage bins and have some smaller boxes in those for small items like shells and hand calls. I opened my shell box where I keep my shotgun shells and rifle cartridges, both in their respective factory cardboard boxes and some in plastic bags. It was dark, but I removed three #4 buck shells from a bag and grabbed my 12 ga Benelli Nova. Before I loaded up I attached my Lightforce 170 to the barrel mount and plugged in to the battery I had strapped over my shoulder. I was good to go.
Dawg had his rheostat equipped coon hunting light and calls--yes, they'd given me the business about forgetting the ecaller!--and Rob loaded up his .17HMR. Three man teams can be a little unwieldy, but our plan was simple: One man calls, one man on shotgun and the third guy would take the rifle shot should one come available.
I love being a dad, and I spend probably 95% of my non-solo hunting time with kids, but that is a totally different game. There, I am usually doing everything in my power to make sure the kid gets the shot and has fun. It is a rare, rare treat for me to hunt with other experienced grownups AND have the opportunity to shoot!
Crunch, crunch, crunch...we hiked single file up the road through the woods trying to be quiet slogging through puddles and crusty frozen snow. Dawg led and I followed him, trying to match his pace and put my boots in his tracks in an effort to keep the crunching noise down as we approached the stand.
We entered the stand area and I positioned myself facing a woods-lined corner within shotgun range, while Rob set up viewing the farther woods edges, more at rifle ranges. Dawg would do the calling and sweep with his light. We were in the proverbial 'calm before the storm' and the night was quiet and windless, no issues there--for once.
I dialed my Lightforce way, way back. All that candlepower is great when I am hunting coyotes out West, but back East the foxes seem to shy away, to fry, with too much light. At these distances it just does not take too much to light up their eyes in the halo.
Dawg started his first calling sequence with a Shore favorite: Rodent squeeze bulb. 'Squeeeeek, squeeeeek, sqqqqqueek!'
Pretty quickly he had an eye in his halo and I caught a look at it. But something was wrong, it was too small, too low to the ground and just didn't look right. Dawg continued to call and it moved, but not much and it didn't behave like a fox. Rabbit? Dunno, but nothing came of it and after about 15 minutes we abandoned the stand. Bummer, but that's OK. The night was real young.
We drove out and then stopped at a second, similar location only this field was larger. We repeated the routine, and there was another eye pretty early in the calling sequence, but it seemed like he didn't stick around long enough to really get to know us, lol.
Our third stand was a large farm field off a road. We has a thin tree line behind us and the open field in front. This would be a job for Rob with his rifle if we got a taker. Dawg and I each took half of the field with our lights and he opened up again with the squeaker. After about five minutes he switched to an open reed rabbit distress and a few minutes in to that we had a set of eyes bouncing and bobbing toward us through the field.
And then they were gone! It was clearly a fox, probably a red, but Rob didn't have time to get a shot. There was another large field on the other side of the road behind us and after we broke the stand and started our walk back to the truck, we scanned that field with our lights, just to check and see if anybody was trying to backdoor us.
Red eyes! He was out along a forest edge out of range and working a tree line to see if there was a meal waiting for him. I think our stand breaking noise had spooked him somewhat and despite lip squeaks and squeeze bulb pleas we couldn't get him into rifle range for Rob to get a shot. It was just that frustrating old stalemated feeling of having a predator's eyes glowing in your light halo and him sitting, staring back at you, unwilling to put himself close enough for the real fun to begin. He eventually got scared, or perhaps just bored, and left, so we loaded up the truck and moved on.
At least we were seeing foxes, and, even if I'm not getting a shot opportunity, I definitely prefer that to nothing, so I still really had the feeling something good was going to happen soon.
Our next stand was another park-off-the-road-and-walk-in, via a dirt, well, more accurately mud, road through about 75-100 yards of woods before an enormous open field opened up. Normally facing out into an open field is not terribly productive, but here there were possibilities in this case because the foliage out in the no longer cultivated field was grown up somewhat. I positioned myself facing a nearby corner off to my right, a woods edge that I thought showed the most promise as a shotgun opportunity and Rob faced off to the potential longer shots, toward the enormous field and a rifle distance tree line.
About five minutes into the sequence we picked up eyes along the woods edge moving the field corner I'd identified as my most likely kill zone. The glowing red orbs we not bobbing and bouncing they way a red will typically move, so at first gloss it seemed we had lured a gray out from the depths of the woods.
Dawg's calls changed to lip squeaks and the fox closed. He was heading directly into my ambush! By about 60 yards out I had my barrel-mounted light on him, too, and was tracking him with my Benelli for the shot. I pushed my safety off and had the great feeling one gets in such a situation. The excitement grew and as he loped into about 50 yards one of the guys whispered, "Shoot!" but I held my fire. He was still closing and I have blown far to many opportunities in past years by firing too early, so I held out and let him approach.
As he drew closer he disappeared momentarily behind a thin clump of bushes about 35 years away. As he went behind them I knew right where it was going to happen, I'd pull the trigger once he passed the clump and revealed himself. Back about 25 years ago I'd have heard my heart pounding in my ears and I'd have been on sensory overload, but nowadays it is easier to just let it all unfold as planned: Normal breathing, mentally focused on task and having already seen the shot in my mind's eye before I actually took it.
He emerged at about 30 yards from behind the bushes and for a fraction of a second his form was visible to me. During that brief flash of time I noted his size and thought he was a little big for a gray, could he be a red? Hard to tell, back to the business at hand.
I have to confess, I have trouble doing any actual aiming with my shotgun at night. As bad a habit as this probably is, I sort of swing the barrel on target by mental 'feel' and then squeeze the trigger. About that time one of the guys said "shoot him!" again, but it wasn't necessary because I already was. Mr Benelli roared and the muzzle blast echoed through the field and off the surrounding trees. I strained my eyes to see to see through the misty smoke from my shot and the steam suspended in the frigid air from my breath, did I score a hit? But all I saw was blackness.
Dawg immediately broke into a distress call after I fired, hoping to call in a double. I scanned the tree line with my light halo, but didn't see anybody out there. Admittedly I was distracted in a big way...hmmmm, did I hit that critter? I musta missed him, I wasn't too sure of that shot. Naw, crap, I had to have hit him, hells bells, the little sucker was only 30 years away! Yeah, but I miss stupid shots a lot, that seems to happen to me...back and forth in my mind until Dawg stopped calling and said, "C'mon, Java, let's go look at him!"
We walked over toward the spot where he should have been lying and as I approached I was amazed to see a furry lump actually sitting right there where he should have been...that NEVER happens, usually even when I kill one I have to look around a little, this was like a TV show sequence! He was laying there on the ground and I noted that he was somewhat large for a gray, hence my earlier confusion and speculation that he may have been a red. He had a nice, full pelt, which didn't look like it had taken any pellets, and I liked his color. His jaw was slowly opening and closing in a nervous spasm, but he was dead as disco. It looked like a single pellet has passed through his skull around his ear hole and had exited through the opposite ear hole. Perfect. I picked him up by his rear legs, felt his heft, and looked him over with Dawg and Rob. Both guys were very approving and encouraged me to get him full body mounted. Their opinion carried a lot of weight with me because these Eastern Shore boys see and shoot A LOT of grays and know what they are talking about.
An abandoned old road ran along the field edge and into the woods for a few hundred yards. According to the guys, it opened up into a new, much smaller field opening and they thought we should try that. I said sure and left my fox for the moment where he lay on the hard snow.
As we hoofed into the next stand, the guys explained that it was an opening surrounded by trees and backed by water, Marshyhope Creek, which was in fact more like a small river, so its presence gave us an advantage. They also mentioned that we would not be alone there--the next stand was adjacent to an abandoned ~200 year old cemetery!
As we hiked up the trail through the mud and snow to the clearing I noticed my Lightforce battery starting to get heavier and I was wishing I had water with me. Reaching the clearing, I could see ancient weathered headstones in various shapes and sizes, some cocked at angles as they'd settled over time into the soil. I saw people born in dates like 1814, deaths in 1867, I figure a daylight survey would probably reveal people who'd lived in the 1700s, too. Not uncommon in one of the original 13 colonies. As we got into position to call I could not help but recall scenes from the movie "The Blair Witch Project," it was set and filmed in Maryland.
Basically, we set up in a corner looking out into the woods edge surrounding the graveyard. We did not walk across graves or show any disrespect, we stayed at the edge and had we sighted an animal we'd have shot it away from the grave markers, so we did take great care with what we were doing. The area was open but for a single tree. I figured that if anything was going to happen here that it would be a job for Rob and his Hummer. Dawg did the calling again and I worked a light along the tree line. The red light cast creepy shadows off the grave stones. The calls set off a few dogs on distant farms and at one point, after he had switched over from the bulb squeaker to the distress call, SOMETHING behind the trees, down by the nearby creek answered the call, but none of us could figure out what kind of animal was making the noise. Odd.
We didn't see anything there, so we broke our stand after about 15 minutes and, for what it is worth, though our effort there was fruitless, I can now say I have called predators in a graveyard.
We hiked back and recovered my gray and then hoofed down the path to the truck. I whacked my fox at about 8:30 and it was now about 9 something. We moved on and made a few more stands, but it seemed things had pretty much died out after around 10. Our last stand was at some real good looking real estate but, again, no takers. We finished calling around midnight.
We got back to Dawg's place around 12:30 am and he kindly offered to let me stay over, but I was still all wound up from my big day and with the impending snow storm and my dog indoors back at home I figured I'd just drive into the night back to NW Baltimore and on the way listen to some spooky AM radio on Coast-to-Coast with George Noory. As we unloaded my truck Dawg looked at one of my shells and commented that he hadn't seen #4BK in 3 1/2" before. Uh oh, neither had I. Upon examining the shells I realized that as I'd rushed and hurried in the dark that I had grabbed the wrong shells! Yes, like some kind of idiot, I had killed my fox with OO buck! I was real lucky that I mostly missed and only one of the big 00 pellets had hit his head. Had he taken a full blast of that stuff I reckon he sure wouldn't have looked so nice!
Dawg and Rob, thanks for everything! I had a GREAT time and I look forward to our annual turkey hunt this spring. I shall also hassle you incessantly until you and Mrs Dawg agree to join us in Las Cruces next year for the 2011 PM Hunt/Convention!
Bad news at work first thing in the morning was followed by a bad news phone call from my doctor.
I am cursed to live in a Northwest Baltimore suburb and my good friend, and fellow PM moderator, Redeyedawg lives about 2 1/2 hours away from me over in great fox country on Maryland's Eastern Shore. Like me, Dawg is very busy, but we try to get together to hunt each year, although last year I missed our scheduled fox hunt due to truck drama and hadn't seen him since the prior turkey season--so, I wasn't going to let bad news get in the way of this planned hunt.
Dawg hunts a lot of private land over on the Shore, though he had not been out too many times this year, but he and his friend Rob had quite a few promising stand sites all scouted and ready to go for us that night. Dorchester County was our destination and it is full of foxes, so many that it is one of only two Maryland counties that offers a year round fox season.
I got out of work early and by 2pm I was stopped fueling my truck, just prior to heading out. My cel phone buzzed and when I saw it was my ex-wife I made the mistake of answering and actually telling her when she asked me the results of an MRI I'd had on my head the prior Monday. Turns out I have a tumor in my head, most probably benign, located on my pituitary gland. She loves to deliver dramatic news, so she appointed herself to call my family, thus, during my drive over to Dawg's I was kept occupied as my various relatives back home in Washington state called to get the drama-free version of the story.
As I headed out of Baltimore on I-695 I couldn't help but notice the weather. The clouds were dark gray and heavy with snow. There was already some old, frozen snow on the ground from a few days earlier, but a new major dump was expected the next day and I could really feel it. I felt lucky about the timing with the weather, there is no Sunday hunting, well, mostly, allowed in Maryland and I work Saturdays so that further limits my hunting time and I usually hit the weather wrong. It seems like the weather is usually against me, but today I was in luck. I have always done well right before a storm blows in.
I drove through the state's capital, Annapolis, the city where the high taxing state official here conduct their mischief, and then faced the broad water expanse that is the Chesapeake Bay. To cross the Bay to reach the Shore and points east, one must pay $2.50 to cross a 4.3 mile ribbon of concrete called the Bay Bridge, which is really two bridges and at about 200' above the water, people who fear heights hate driving across it.
Once on the Shore my Ford Expedition rolled east over the miles of Route 50 and once the cel phone stopped ringing I mentally reviewed my gear. Shotgun, camo clothes, shells, calls, leather boots, rubber boots, yeah, I was feeling proud of myself for once I hadn't forgotten anything...uh oh...Foxpro? Well, let's see, I unpacked it from my Las Cruces trip and set it in the living room so I'd remember to put it away. So, naturally, it was still sitting safe and sound on the floor of my living room. I did have my hand calls, but I felt bad because Dawg does not have an ecaller and was looking forward to trying one out. Crud!
I got to Dawg's about 5 and he had burgers going on the grill. I said my hellos to the lovely and gracious Mrs Dawg and marveled at how all their pups had grown since I'd last seen them, including the new addition they'd added to the litter since I'd last visited. After supper, around dark, Rob arrived and we packed up my truck and headed out to the first stand.
After driving another 10 minutes or so I parked the truck and got out, anxious to make something happen. Our first stand would be a small field surrounded by thick woods and we would walk in about 100 yards down a snow-covered dirt road. I keep a lot of my gear in plastic storage bins and have some smaller boxes in those for small items like shells and hand calls. I opened my shell box where I keep my shotgun shells and rifle cartridges, both in their respective factory cardboard boxes and some in plastic bags. It was dark, but I removed three #4 buck shells from a bag and grabbed my 12 ga Benelli Nova. Before I loaded up I attached my Lightforce 170 to the barrel mount and plugged in to the battery I had strapped over my shoulder. I was good to go.
Dawg had his rheostat equipped coon hunting light and calls--yes, they'd given me the business about forgetting the ecaller!--and Rob loaded up his .17HMR. Three man teams can be a little unwieldy, but our plan was simple: One man calls, one man on shotgun and the third guy would take the rifle shot should one come available.
I love being a dad, and I spend probably 95% of my non-solo hunting time with kids, but that is a totally different game. There, I am usually doing everything in my power to make sure the kid gets the shot and has fun. It is a rare, rare treat for me to hunt with other experienced grownups AND have the opportunity to shoot!
Crunch, crunch, crunch...we hiked single file up the road through the woods trying to be quiet slogging through puddles and crusty frozen snow. Dawg led and I followed him, trying to match his pace and put my boots in his tracks in an effort to keep the crunching noise down as we approached the stand.
We entered the stand area and I positioned myself facing a woods-lined corner within shotgun range, while Rob set up viewing the farther woods edges, more at rifle ranges. Dawg would do the calling and sweep with his light. We were in the proverbial 'calm before the storm' and the night was quiet and windless, no issues there--for once.
I dialed my Lightforce way, way back. All that candlepower is great when I am hunting coyotes out West, but back East the foxes seem to shy away, to fry, with too much light. At these distances it just does not take too much to light up their eyes in the halo.
Dawg started his first calling sequence with a Shore favorite: Rodent squeeze bulb. 'Squeeeeek, squeeeeek, sqqqqqueek!'
Pretty quickly he had an eye in his halo and I caught a look at it. But something was wrong, it was too small, too low to the ground and just didn't look right. Dawg continued to call and it moved, but not much and it didn't behave like a fox. Rabbit? Dunno, but nothing came of it and after about 15 minutes we abandoned the stand. Bummer, but that's OK. The night was real young.
We drove out and then stopped at a second, similar location only this field was larger. We repeated the routine, and there was another eye pretty early in the calling sequence, but it seemed like he didn't stick around long enough to really get to know us, lol.
Our third stand was a large farm field off a road. We has a thin tree line behind us and the open field in front. This would be a job for Rob with his rifle if we got a taker. Dawg and I each took half of the field with our lights and he opened up again with the squeaker. After about five minutes he switched to an open reed rabbit distress and a few minutes in to that we had a set of eyes bouncing and bobbing toward us through the field.
And then they were gone! It was clearly a fox, probably a red, but Rob didn't have time to get a shot. There was another large field on the other side of the road behind us and after we broke the stand and started our walk back to the truck, we scanned that field with our lights, just to check and see if anybody was trying to backdoor us.
Red eyes! He was out along a forest edge out of range and working a tree line to see if there was a meal waiting for him. I think our stand breaking noise had spooked him somewhat and despite lip squeaks and squeeze bulb pleas we couldn't get him into rifle range for Rob to get a shot. It was just that frustrating old stalemated feeling of having a predator's eyes glowing in your light halo and him sitting, staring back at you, unwilling to put himself close enough for the real fun to begin. He eventually got scared, or perhaps just bored, and left, so we loaded up the truck and moved on.
At least we were seeing foxes, and, even if I'm not getting a shot opportunity, I definitely prefer that to nothing, so I still really had the feeling something good was going to happen soon.
Our next stand was another park-off-the-road-and-walk-in, via a dirt, well, more accurately mud, road through about 75-100 yards of woods before an enormous open field opened up. Normally facing out into an open field is not terribly productive, but here there were possibilities in this case because the foliage out in the no longer cultivated field was grown up somewhat. I positioned myself facing a nearby corner off to my right, a woods edge that I thought showed the most promise as a shotgun opportunity and Rob faced off to the potential longer shots, toward the enormous field and a rifle distance tree line.
About five minutes into the sequence we picked up eyes along the woods edge moving the field corner I'd identified as my most likely kill zone. The glowing red orbs we not bobbing and bouncing they way a red will typically move, so at first gloss it seemed we had lured a gray out from the depths of the woods.
Dawg's calls changed to lip squeaks and the fox closed. He was heading directly into my ambush! By about 60 yards out I had my barrel-mounted light on him, too, and was tracking him with my Benelli for the shot. I pushed my safety off and had the great feeling one gets in such a situation. The excitement grew and as he loped into about 50 yards one of the guys whispered, "Shoot!" but I held my fire. He was still closing and I have blown far to many opportunities in past years by firing too early, so I held out and let him approach.
As he drew closer he disappeared momentarily behind a thin clump of bushes about 35 years away. As he went behind them I knew right where it was going to happen, I'd pull the trigger once he passed the clump and revealed himself. Back about 25 years ago I'd have heard my heart pounding in my ears and I'd have been on sensory overload, but nowadays it is easier to just let it all unfold as planned: Normal breathing, mentally focused on task and having already seen the shot in my mind's eye before I actually took it.
He emerged at about 30 yards from behind the bushes and for a fraction of a second his form was visible to me. During that brief flash of time I noted his size and thought he was a little big for a gray, could he be a red? Hard to tell, back to the business at hand.
I have to confess, I have trouble doing any actual aiming with my shotgun at night. As bad a habit as this probably is, I sort of swing the barrel on target by mental 'feel' and then squeeze the trigger. About that time one of the guys said "shoot him!" again, but it wasn't necessary because I already was. Mr Benelli roared and the muzzle blast echoed through the field and off the surrounding trees. I strained my eyes to see to see through the misty smoke from my shot and the steam suspended in the frigid air from my breath, did I score a hit? But all I saw was blackness.
Dawg immediately broke into a distress call after I fired, hoping to call in a double. I scanned the tree line with my light halo, but didn't see anybody out there. Admittedly I was distracted in a big way...hmmmm, did I hit that critter? I musta missed him, I wasn't too sure of that shot. Naw, crap, I had to have hit him, hells bells, the little sucker was only 30 years away! Yeah, but I miss stupid shots a lot, that seems to happen to me...back and forth in my mind until Dawg stopped calling and said, "C'mon, Java, let's go look at him!"
We walked over toward the spot where he should have been lying and as I approached I was amazed to see a furry lump actually sitting right there where he should have been...that NEVER happens, usually even when I kill one I have to look around a little, this was like a TV show sequence! He was laying there on the ground and I noted that he was somewhat large for a gray, hence my earlier confusion and speculation that he may have been a red. He had a nice, full pelt, which didn't look like it had taken any pellets, and I liked his color. His jaw was slowly opening and closing in a nervous spasm, but he was dead as disco. It looked like a single pellet has passed through his skull around his ear hole and had exited through the opposite ear hole. Perfect. I picked him up by his rear legs, felt his heft, and looked him over with Dawg and Rob. Both guys were very approving and encouraged me to get him full body mounted. Their opinion carried a lot of weight with me because these Eastern Shore boys see and shoot A LOT of grays and know what they are talking about.
An abandoned old road ran along the field edge and into the woods for a few hundred yards. According to the guys, it opened up into a new, much smaller field opening and they thought we should try that. I said sure and left my fox for the moment where he lay on the hard snow.
As we hoofed into the next stand, the guys explained that it was an opening surrounded by trees and backed by water, Marshyhope Creek, which was in fact more like a small river, so its presence gave us an advantage. They also mentioned that we would not be alone there--the next stand was adjacent to an abandoned ~200 year old cemetery!
As we hiked up the trail through the mud and snow to the clearing I noticed my Lightforce battery starting to get heavier and I was wishing I had water with me. Reaching the clearing, I could see ancient weathered headstones in various shapes and sizes, some cocked at angles as they'd settled over time into the soil. I saw people born in dates like 1814, deaths in 1867, I figure a daylight survey would probably reveal people who'd lived in the 1700s, too. Not uncommon in one of the original 13 colonies. As we got into position to call I could not help but recall scenes from the movie "The Blair Witch Project," it was set and filmed in Maryland.
Basically, we set up in a corner looking out into the woods edge surrounding the graveyard. We did not walk across graves or show any disrespect, we stayed at the edge and had we sighted an animal we'd have shot it away from the grave markers, so we did take great care with what we were doing. The area was open but for a single tree. I figured that if anything was going to happen here that it would be a job for Rob and his Hummer. Dawg did the calling again and I worked a light along the tree line. The red light cast creepy shadows off the grave stones. The calls set off a few dogs on distant farms and at one point, after he had switched over from the bulb squeaker to the distress call, SOMETHING behind the trees, down by the nearby creek answered the call, but none of us could figure out what kind of animal was making the noise. Odd.
We didn't see anything there, so we broke our stand after about 15 minutes and, for what it is worth, though our effort there was fruitless, I can now say I have called predators in a graveyard.
We hiked back and recovered my gray and then hoofed down the path to the truck. I whacked my fox at about 8:30 and it was now about 9 something. We moved on and made a few more stands, but it seemed things had pretty much died out after around 10. Our last stand was at some real good looking real estate but, again, no takers. We finished calling around midnight.
We got back to Dawg's place around 12:30 am and he kindly offered to let me stay over, but I was still all wound up from my big day and with the impending snow storm and my dog indoors back at home I figured I'd just drive into the night back to NW Baltimore and on the way listen to some spooky AM radio on Coast-to-Coast with George Noory. As we unloaded my truck Dawg looked at one of my shells and commented that he hadn't seen #4BK in 3 1/2" before. Uh oh, neither had I. Upon examining the shells I realized that as I'd rushed and hurried in the dark that I had grabbed the wrong shells! Yes, like some kind of idiot, I had killed my fox with OO buck! I was real lucky that I mostly missed and only one of the big 00 pellets had hit his head. Had he taken a full blast of that stuff I reckon he sure wouldn't have looked so nice!
Dawg and Rob, thanks for everything! I had a GREAT time and I look forward to our annual turkey hunt this spring. I shall also hassle you incessantly until you and Mrs Dawg agree to join us in Las Cruces next year for the 2011 PM Hunt/Convention!
