First rut phase will start soon

The moon was big and bright last week, and what few deer moved then, did so right at the end of legal shooting time. An hour later, the fields were full of deer.

This brings up the eternal question: Is hunting during the full moon a waste of time? No type of deer hunting, in my humble opinion, is a waste of time.

My experience during full moon periods is probably quite similar to yours. The deer often move late, and not many deer move during legal shooting time, but I've seen exactly the opposite on several occasions over 55 years o hunting whitetails.

There haven't been an over-abundance of good deer hunting days during the full moon period, but there have been a few spectacular nights that I well remember. However, I take a different approach to hunting than many do.

I love deer hunting, regardless of the moon phase. Shooting a deer every time a person hunted would soon rob this pastime of its enjoyment. For me, being afield with a bow in hand is more important that the time of year or the moon phase.

It's very obvious that it's impossible to hunt from inside your home. We have to be out in the field, and each morning and/or evening hunt, is very important. I don't pay much attention to the moon phases -- I just go hunting, day after day, putting in my time as I wait for a big buck to move my way.

The rut is still about two weeks away, and I'll hunt every chance I get during that period but trying to pin down the peak of the rut to a specific day or days is much too scientific for my tastes. I figure if I hunt every day, regardless of the moon phase or rut phase, I'll have my opportunity. It's up to me to cash in on those occasional moments when I happen to be in the right spot at the right time.

The one thing I do know is that during the rut the bucks seem to move more during that period from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., and hunters who can be afield then often find bucks moving. I've seen many days during the full moon and the rut when bucks move fairly well during the middle part of the day.

Hunting deer is my life. So why should I concern myself with counting days after the second full moon during the fall, or picking an arbitrary day to pinpoint when the rut starts.

Hunters who are in the woods will know when the rut starts. Those same hunters who are afield at various times from sun-up to sundown during the full moon will also see bucks. It's a matter of persistence, patience and practice that puts bucks at risk around me.

There are three basic rut phases: pre-rut, the rut, and post-rut. Approximate start-end dates for each time period would be Oct. 23-Nov. 5, Nov. 6-15 and Nov. 16-30, respectively. These dates can fluctuate two or three days, and warm weather, heavy hunting pressure, and other factors can  speed up or slow the rut.

Watch the deer for clue. If you see a doe, and it stops and looks back, and then runs off as a buck approaches, you are in the pre-rut or chasing phase of the rut. If the ground scrapes you've been watching or hunting over show a distinct lack of deer sign, that means the rut has started.

The primary rut or peak of breeding activity takes bucks and does away from the scrapes, and if a buck you've been hunting suddenly disappears, he may be a mile or more away tending to a doe.

For all intents and purposes, the peak of the rut can produce buck sightings during the mid-day hours. Most breeding takes place at night but a buck will breed a doe whenever she will stand for him. Hunting the post-rut can be really good or really bad, and much depends on the deer in your area. Remember this: humans do not all gain sexual maturity at the same time, which explains why some fawns are still wearing spots although its something of an oddball situation.

Some does have fawns late in the summer because they were bred in December or January. Such late births only mean the young does were born late, matured late, and came into their first estrus late.

Since we don't really know when does in our area will reach their first estrus, it well could be early next year. However, most of the does will be bred between the end of October and middle of November.

I suspect most hunters do not understand the rut, and the only way to learn is to be out in the field often, and watch the deer. The more time we spend hunting, normally means the more successful we will be.

It certainly works that way for me.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors

In the air or on the ground?

On the ground or in the air. Both work & it depends on you.

 

It's an eternal question that is always being contemplated by bow hunters. Which is best: hunting on the ground or up in an elevated coop or tree stand.

An elevated coop or a tree stand wins me over every time. I like the increased visibility that hunting from a tree provides, and I'm not bothered by height except in a high wind. After many years of experience, my preference is for a stand at about 15 feet. Going higher can increase the chance of a fatal fall.

Many hunters prefer hunting from a cedar or pine tree, and if I have a choice, it's one or the other for me. However, I often hunt from maple trees. There are a lot of maples on my property, and my first decision is where is the best stand location?

Personal preference plays a big role on how you bow hunt for deer.

 

If a cedar or pine offers the best spot to ambush a moving buck, that's where I will hunt. However, if the key area to ambush a whitetail is from a maple tree, you'll find me up one of them. Trees make little difference to me but location, as with real estate, is everything.

Some stands are permanent wood platforms and others are more confined. Some are ladder stands, and others are fixed-position stands that I reach by going up limbs or tree steps. It makes little difference to me: I go where the deer want to go.

It doesn't take much room to shoot a deer from a tree providing the stand is properly positioned and downwind of the deer travel route. The trees on my land are there to provide possible stand locations, and although it's not legal on state or federal land, I nail or use sturdy screws to hold my permanent tree stands in place.

I have a few places where a big stand isn't feasible, and some of them are no more than two halves of a sheet of marine plywood painted gray or dark brown. A narrow platform just big enough to sit down on is nailed to the tree, the two side panels are nailed or screwed into place and a narrow piece of plywood serves as a roof. These stands are narrow at the end where people enter the stand and slightly wider where they will sit or stand to shoot.

Deer seldom pay attention to them, and they are very productive if the hunter can sit still. They are not made for a claustrophobic person, however.


All of my stands, at home and elsewhere that I hunt, are strategically placed, and some designs are unlike any I've seen before. Some stand outside in the rain and snow, and we check them two or three times each year to determine if they are still reliable and safe.

Any stand that is no longer safe is torn down. I'm not a risk-taker, and if I won't hunt from a stand, no one else will hunt there. Such stands are quickly slated for demolition.

Take down any unsafe tree stand.

 

Hunting from a tree stand appeals to me. It's possible to see deer come from many different routes, and it allows hunters to study the animals as they approach the area. Some deer dash right in, others come cautiously and slow, and a few wise old does and big bucks often try to slip in on the downwind side to check for potential danger.

Some hunters dislike shooting down at an angle toward a deer. It is a part of hunting that must be practiced, and years ago, I would get with someone else and take turns on the ground. One would position a target at varying distances and angles, and the person in the tree would shoot a dozen arrows. He would climb down and we would change jobs. Frequent practice at shooting from a tree stand makes handling these shots as routine as ground-level shots.

Tell your friends, neighbors and relatives about my weblog. I plan to do this for a long time, and am willing to share my knowledge of what works and why it works for me. Do them a favor and give them my weblog address.

I'm a realist. Ground blind hunting can be very productive, especially in places where almost everyone hunts from a tree. I've preached the use of safety harnesses when hunting from an elevated position, but there are still people who feel wearing a "sissy" harness isn't for them. A doctor friend of my buddy learned a sad lesson this fall he fell and broke both legs, and was very luck it wasn't his back or neck.

Let's face it: some people are NOT meant to hunt from high places.

 

For such people, it's my personal recommendation to hunt from a ground blind. Believe me, I've been in and out of ground blinds and pit blinds all of my life, and have yet to see anyone get busted up by falling out of a ground blind.

Use the same logic when choosing a ground blind location. The proper spot is everything, and it must be downwind of where deer travel. It's possible to make a ground blind almost air-tight by installing slide-open windows. The glass can be covered with camo cloth or painted to eliminate the shine, and a motionless hunter is nearly impossible to see when sitting in a darkened hunting coop with the walls painted dark brown or black.

I favor ground blinds in windy weather or when it is cold, rainy or snowing. Properly positioned, a ground blind can blend in with root-wads of fallen trees, against a backdrop of standing corn or in an oak forest.

Everyone has their own likes or dislikes. Whether you hunt from a tree or from the ground, just remember to have the wind in your face, don't move until its time to shoot, and when you shoot, shoot once and shoot straight. And don't miss.

Remembering my father

Jack Duffy (left) lands a 10-pound brown for Dad.

 

Oct. 13 is a hard day to remember and a very tough one to forget. Ninety-nine years ago last week, my father was born, kicking and screaming, into an era filled with world turmoil.
Germany was fighting much of Europe when Dad came squalling into this world. Money was tight, and his father, David J. Richey, my namesake, owned a cigar making business and a barbershop in Flint, Michigan. He also owned a pool room behind the barbershop which he ruled with an iron fist.

Things were far more more raw in those days than now, and Gramps carried two .32 pistols in his pockets. He was born with a bad case of club feet, and one leg was several inches shorter than the other. He made do with his disability, and many people gave my grandpa a wide berth although he wasn't a physically intimidating man.

Gramps had problems, and didn't suffer fools well.

 

People who knew my Gran'pa knew he didn't take any guff from anyone.  He'd had maore than his share of problems, and anyone who caused him any grief paid deadly.

Pool cues were effective when a fight threatened to destroy Gramps' business. He'd crack heads and take names later.

Dad grew into the barber business naturally. He began cutting hair for his father in 1926 when he was 14 years old, and kept his barber license going for over 60 years.

Dad shared Grandpa's disdain for foolish-acting people.

 

There is a bit of feistiness in Clan Richey, and Dad was no stranger to it. Clio, where we lived in the 1940s and 1950s, had some Ku Klux Klan members. I remember one summer in the late 1940s when 50 or more white-robed and hooded Klansmen marched through downtown Clio on their way to a nearby cross burning.

"Damn bunch of foolish people," Dad said, his scissors clicking rapidly as he stared angrily at the hooded night riders. "They are a terrible waste of skin."

He spoke out, and no one ever faced him and demanded a retraction of his statement. Had someone tried, my father probably would have stuck their head in a used spittoon.

He fished and hunted some, and seemed to enjoy it when he went out with brother George or I. But the outdoors had been tempered out of him by the need to work six days a week to put food on the table and to raise twin boys.

His age and dementia combined to take my father away.

 

Dad lived a good life -- all 94 years of it -- but at the end he found little enjoyment in his last six months of life. He lived here with Kay and I for five years, and during that period he was as happy as anyone can be under such circumstances.

"I'd like to live to be 100 years old," he would say at least once a week. "It would be a lot better if I could still drive my car. Sure do miss that car."

Dad suffered terribly from dementia, and I don't know anyone who can sit and silently watch a loved one slowly lose their mind and whatever dignity that might remain of their life without being mentally scarred as well.

We would quiz him to keep his mind as nimble as the years would allow, and some of his answers were bang-on while many missed the mark. One day he would be as sharp as a brand new tack, and the next it was doubtful he knew us.

But, for the most part, he knew us and knew we were laboring on his behalf. I'd tell him jokes that he had heard many times before, and each time he would laugh and roar as if he had never heard them before.

One night, perhaps two weeks before his death, he was frightened and we sat on his bed, held him close, told him that we loved him, and soon he would settle down. There I was, both flanks on the edge of his bed in the darkened bedroom, when out of nowhere came a large bony fist that connected with my shoulder and knocked me to the floor.

"Hey, Pop, why did you hit me?" I asked. He muttered something under his breath that I didn't understand as he continued to talk to Kay. I sat back down on the bed but made certain I was out of the range of his flailing fist.

I casually mentioned it the next day, and he was shocked that he had hit me. I never spoke of it to him again, and hadn't thought about it again until now. That is the problem of this accursed disease; those who are affected forget, and those who survive, live on with good and bad memories.

Dad passed away on Oct. 13, 2006 in his sleep. The funeral home in Clio sent a hearse to Traverse City, picked up my father, and the driver asked if I wanted his face covered.

"Hell, no," I said. "He knows where he has been and maybe he would like to see where he is going. After 94 years, he deserves the opportunity to travel to his just rewards in the best possible manner and with the greatest dignity. There is no dignity in traveling anywhere with one's face covered."

And so he rode to Clio, hopefully gazing out the hearse window, and seeing for the last time our family home and the site of his beloved barbershop. And hopefully, twin brother George was there to help guide him home.

It's been just over five years since Dad passed, and I hope he knows we truly miss him and think of him every day.

Literary riches from other writers

Men like Ben East & Gordie Charles worked to build deer herds.

Studying the history and high points of a person's lengthy literary career can be an informing and a somewhat behind-the-scenes look into that person's life.

It has been my great good fortune to obtain a great and wonderful gift from my longtime friend, Gordie Charles, of Traverse City after his death. This gentle and kind man was a rare breed; he gave more than he took from his outdoor life, and I've tried to emulate him.

A few years ago he told his wife, Dorothy, that he wanted me to have his files and papers from over 55 years of outdoor writing in Michigan and South Dakota. Years ago, my late friend Ben East of Holly, Michigan, made the same gracious gift to me after his death. The late Mark Dilts, also an outdoor writer, gave me some things.

Many years ago, my  good friend Russ Bengel of Jackson, honored me with a library of fine books. He knew I loved good fishing and hunting books, and he left me his sizable library. None of these people owed me anything, but knew I loved the history of fishing and hunting in this state.

Russ Bengel was a giant when it came to improve duck habitat.

Each man left behind a treasure trove of Michigan history concerning fishing and hunting in this state. After having sifted through it, and gathered what seemed important from a writer's standpoint, it is my task to make a contribution of the remaining material to the Bentley Historical Library in Ann Arbor in their respective names.

Ben East kept voluminous files, notes and published book manuscripts and newspaper articles. Gordie Charles did much the same. All but three file drawers of East's material has been donated, and much of Gordie's files have been donated to the same research library.

Gordie's files covered the gamut of fishing and hunting, as well as resources management, in this state. Reading through his notes, and his newspaper columns, adds still another dimension to this multi-talented man.

He was well known for his head-slapping puns and corny jokes, but he also was a man deeply in love with the outdoors. In fact, he was so captivated by the beauty of nature that he vowed as a teenager to write a future column for the Traverse City Record-Eagle newspaper.

Ben East and Gordie Charles fought for resource protection.

That he not only did that, and did a wonderfully fine job of it for many years, he also syndicated a newspaper column to 50-some state weekly newspapers, wrote magazine articles and still had time to research and write six books.

How does one measure value? If going through these old files of men like Charles and East, there is nothing of a monetary value to be found. What is valuable, though it is not tangible, is a close-up look at the history both men helped record for the enjoyment and protection of Michigan's natural resources.

I found numerous things in Gordie's files that have been returned to the Charles family such as family photos that had been lost or misplaced. What isn't needed by the family, or by me at the moment, was donated to the Bentley Historical Library.

Some files, from a historical viewpoint, are rather important to me at this time. I have permission from both families to keep these files until my death at which time all of my files (and theirs) may be donated to the same research facility.

There they will join the files of Charles, East, Harold (Opie) Titus, of Traverse City, an editor for Field and Stream magazine; Jack VanCoevering, past outdoor writer for the Detroit Free Press; and Corey Ford, an U of M alumnus and well known outdoor writer and the author of many books.

These files now give me a look at what has gone before. It allows me to determine the thinking of the Department of Conservation, the forerunner of today's Department of Natural Resources & Environment, about topics that affect our resource management and the fish and game we  seek.

It allows me to learn about different fish plantings that were tried but failed, such as the grayling and kokanee salmon. They let me know what the collective thinking of sportsmen were in earlier generations, and let me compare them to what the current thoughts are. I even found the deed and abstract for Ben East's home and property, and promptly returned it to Ben's late wife, Helen, so she could sell the family home. That was an unexpected find.

My passion is historical papers from top conservationists.

It also enables me to determine the effectiveness of biologists from an earlier period against those of today. The differences, in most cases but with some rare exceptions, indicate that earlier fisheries and wildlife biologists were in much closer contact with sportsmen than they are now.

I sifted slowly through Gordie Charles' files for nearly a month with the blessings of his late wife, Dorothy and their children, and some files have gone on to Ann Arbor. Others will go after I've spent more time examining them.

Gordie Charles was, as all outdoor writers should be: a man with an inquisitive mind, a willingness to dig deep for a story, and to put our resources ahead of everything else, especially politics. The stacks of correspondence lauding his work far outweighed the few crank letters sent by people with some imaginary axe to grind.

I see Gordie as a man who was born at the right time to do what had to be done to help protect our resources. I, for one, appreciate his hard work and the unique genius of this man who spent his adult life writing so that others could enjoy and better understand the outdoors.

Going through old files, and studying such history, must make me an historian. Hopefully, it also will make me a better writer ... even after plying my trade for 45 years.

It's when we stop learning that we stop being effective outdoor communicators. I am still learning, thanks to these gifts from other outdoor writers who helped to pave the way of today's outdoor communicators.

Grunt up a buck

Harold Knight calls for fast action.

The 8-pointer was slowly making his way along the edge of a thick tag alder run, and was crosswind to me. I gave one short grunt, and one slightly longer grunt. Both were rather obnoxious sounding.

Not to the buck, though. He stopped in midstride, swiveled his head in my direction, and slowly turned my way. There is only one big-time rule to follow when using a grunt call for deer.

If the buck heads in your direction, don't call again. If the animal comes 50 or 100 yards, stops and looks around in obvious confusion, turn your head away from the deer, and give one soft and muffled call. The buck is looking for a direction, and you can say "Over Here" with one grunt. Put the call away and get ready for a shot.

On came the deer, and he swaggered to within eight yards, and stopped. He milled around for a minute or so, snuffling the air, and then turned broadside. My FirstCut 90-grain broadhead took him behind the front shoulder and exited the brisket. He went 40 yards and folded up.

I've used calls on bobcats, coyotes, deer, ducks, elk, foxes, geese, moose and wild turkeys. If any one thing holds true, it's that animals and birds can usually pinpoint almost exactly where the call comes from.

I've used many calls from a tree until several years ago. I've used all types of deer calls including those made by A-Way, Knight & Hale, Primos, Stratton Game Calls, Woods-Wise and many others.

One problem that has always  concerned me was that I know deer and other critters can lock onto a call's precise location. Who has ever seen a deer grunting from an elevation position? I haven't. H&M Archery Products of Willis, Michigan has a novel call that I've used for several years. Their philosophy is that deer don't climb trees so why should a hunter call from a tree?

They produce a call with a 14-foot length of coil-kink resistant rubber latex tubing that another 12-foot length of tubing can be attached to, and a hunter can sit 15 feet up a tree and lay out the other 11 feet of rubber tubing, and call from a tree but the grunt comes from ground level where it sounds most natural.

Any condensation occurs in the tubing, not in the call. This helps eliminate freeze-up in cold weather.

I begin with the 14-foot length but soon added another length that allows the call to be places off to one side of my tree where an investigating buck will be properly positioned for a shot.

This buck approached, grunting for fast action.

The nice thing is this tubing arrangement will fit most tube-type calls. It puts the sound at ground level where it is most effective.

Many hunters blow a sequence of grunts that is much too long. I keep my grunts short, pause and grunt again for several seconds, and then stop. Ten minutes later try calling again. It also helps to be rattling while calling to re-enact a calling sequence, and it offers a double-barreled approach to calling deer.

There are many different types of deer vocalizations but the grunt call works well. I've had little or no success with a fawn bleat, and only minimal success with a doe bleat. I seldom try them anymore.

One thing that works is to grunt if you see a buck. I've called in numerous bucks that were unseen, but calling works very well on visible bucks. It gives hunters a chance to judge the deer's reaction to the call, but if the deer come and then stop coming, muffle the call and grunt softly one more time. If they keep coming toward you, do nothing but get ready to draw and shoot.

One of the most exciting things about deer hunting is grunting in a good buck. The noises that come out of an inhale, exhale or inhale-exhale call may sound like your hunting camp buddy two hours after a plate of refried beans, but these three types of grunt calls do work.

As is true with everything else about bow hunting whitetail bucks, nothing is 100 percent except Uncle Sam tapping you for a yearly donation and that some day you will pass on to your just rewards. That said, grunt in a good buck and if he charges in with his neck hairs standing up, you will quickly become a convert to calling.

Once, a number of years ago, I spotted a buck 100 yards away. A grunt was made, the buck turned and came to within 15 yards, and no shots were taken. The buck eventually walked off, and another grunt sequence brought him running back again.

This sequence was replayed four times before the buck was allowed to wander off on his own. It seems to work equally well on old or young bucks. Just experiment with calling sequences but just don't call too much or too loud.

Trust me, it can pay off ... on a somewhat regular basis. A grunt call should become a part of every deer hunter's repertoire.

The glory of fall

A touch of fall color while fly-fishing for Chinook salmon.

Autumn comes each year with a balmy day  like today, breezy weather, like yesterday, and days when a sweater feels dandy while greeting the dawn, and on those odd day when fall rains pelt us with cold water that will soon turn to snow.

There is something magical that offers to show its pretty face right after Labor Day but this year autumn was a bit late in coming. The hordes of tourists have abandoned northern Michigan, and once they leave, the frantic pace of living slows down and the residents can take stock of their lives.

Mine revolves, as it always has, around fishing and hunting. It's just that these outdoor loves speak a bit more provocatively to me, and I willingly imbibe in everything that epitomizes autumn weather.

It might be enough for most people just to watch the brief flurry of autumn colors as the days grow shorter and the weather cools. It starts with a gradual blend of orange, purple, red and yellow colors. They quickly intensify in the depth of their beauty, and brilliant sunshine seems to make each color more vibrant.

There are one or two days each fall when the brilliant sunshine combines with just the right angle of the sun in the sky to make each color stand out in stark contrast against any nearby cedars or pines. I've yet to see a pine tree whose beauty wasn't intensified by its close proximity to aspens, maples or oaks in full color.

Those days are when I step outside, and bask in the glory of the autumn hues. I love the sight of the leaves in full color on the trees, and frown slightly once they lose their sparkle, and fall dead and somber to the forest floor.

I love running water. The sight and sound of a trout stream twisting through the woods and gurgling around a log jam, makes me happy to be alive. I often pause, during an autumn day, to idly sit on a river bank to watch the ritual of recreation as Chinook salmon move onto a spawning redd and renew their kind.

The old adage about Pacific salmon holds true: They are born an orphan, and die childless. Think about it, and it's another marvel of nature that requires too much thought to explain. It's enough to know that it is true.

Autumn means testing my mettle against the thunderous flush of a ruffed grouse, the corkscrewing flight of the woodcock towering over an alder run, or the quick flush of a snipe from the edge of a wooded water puddle. These game birds, although I seldom run into snipe  these days, provide something very important to me.

These months often deliver a day of fine dog work. It's wonderful to watch a brace of pointers or setters work the cover, singly or in tandem, moving into the wind, cutting the breeze at a 45-degree angle, and suddenly slamming to a rock-hard point, their bodies quivering in anticipation of sudden flush.

They stiffen in position, one dog backing the other, and hold steady as we move in. Calming words of "easy now" are muttered softly as a hand gently touches the dog's head or shoulder to steady them up, and the hunter moves in. His eyes aren't on the ground but a few feet above the ground, a built-in hedge against being startled by sharp sounds of strong wings grabbing air.

The bird is up and away, and a shotgun barrel swings through the grouse or woodcock, and when everything looks right, a shot is fired.

Sometimes, for me at least, the bird commits suicide, diving into a long shot string of No. 8 bird shot early in the season and slightly larger shot once the leaf drop occurs.

It is sitting still in a tree stand, marveling at the fall splendor of color along the oak ridges, and watching a buck ease through a saddle and become backlit by the setting sun and a back drop of blazing color.

Autumn is knowing I can kill a buck with my bow, and having the intestinal fortitude to forego the shot because it isn't necessary. There are times, once I draw down on a buck, and then let off without taking a shot, that I know that buck could be killed. Knowing it and doing it are two different philosophies.

This next two months are the finest of the year. They provide me with everything I need to feel whole. They stroke my one-eyed vision, offer me daily glimpses of some of the most colorful sunrises and sunsets that an angler or hunter could ever hope to see.
Fall is my time. It is the best time of my life, and just think, it just started this month and I can't wait. I'm ready, quivering like a dog on point, and panting to be afoot in the woods again.

Being there, once again, moves me in such an exquisite way that words to describe my awe often fail me. But then, you know what I mean.