tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54979327467522368772024-03-05T00:13:34.980-08:00Home RangeNotes on Literature, Nature, Working Dogs, History, Other Obsessions and Sundry Annoyances
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Henry ChappellHenry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-56723946180103344682013-04-23T10:49:00.002-07:002013-04-23T10:49:42.909-07:00HOME RANGE Has Moved!Home Range has moved! Check out the latest posts at <a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/blog.htm">http://www.byhenrychappell.com/blog.htm</a><br />
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Thanks for your support!<br />
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H.C.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-53175127207080141282012-06-19T15:39:00.001-07:002012-06-19T15:39:34.913-07:00Some Truly Painful ResearchI'm working on another ranch book with the <a href="http://www.wymanmeinzer.com/">Wild Man of Benjamin, Texas</a>. I spent several days last week at the <a href="http://www.wagonhound.com/">Wagonhound Ranch</a> in southeastern Wyoming, near Douglas. Tough going, let me tell you. Here's a little iPhone video from early Wednesday morning, complete with a shot of Your Humble Scribe's boots at the end.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KA4g1nOqXEM" width="560"></iframe>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-51349857114579039542012-05-31T13:23:00.001-07:002012-05-31T13:23:56.642-07:00The Great Flannery O' Connor ...... reads "A Good Man is Hard to Find"<br />
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<a href="http://www.openculture.com/2012/05/rare_1959_audio_flannery_oconnor_reads_a_good_man_is_hard_to_find.html">http://www.openculture.com/2012/05/rare_1959_audio_flannery_oconnor_reads_a_good_man_is_hard_to_find.html</a>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-72365846269474607752012-01-30T15:14:00.000-08:002012-01-30T15:14:07.234-08:00Okay, varmint, I'm a comin' in after ye!Cate having a fit over a squirrel holed-up in a hollow tree. Why are frustrated dogs so entertaining?<br />
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<center><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bCRDqVXTSrM" width="420"></iframe></center>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-80764331454705444292012-01-30T14:47:00.000-08:002012-01-30T14:58:07.705-08:00Winding DownAfter 25 years of long quail hunting expeditions to West Texas, I'm enjoying short hunts close to home. I'm sure age has something to do with it, but, nowadays, with "serious" bird hunters paying tens of thousands of dollars per year for the best leases, riding ATVs along baited ranch roads, and running small armies of pointers, an afternoon squirrel hunt with one or two dogs has a nice sense of proper scale. <br />
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The hunting is getting tough. Nature has done it's annual October to February thinning. Only the fittest remain. <br />
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Yesterday afternoon, I followed Cate into a gorgeous piece of woods. She treed only three times - first, a holed-up squirrel; then one I simply couldn't find in a giant post oak; finally, just before dark, a fox squirrel that will go nicely with biscuits and gravy. <br />
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Small game season ends this Sunday. Cate is in her prime, lean and tough from regular hunting. But the frayed, faded collars on my bookshelf remind me how quickly the years pass. We'll enjoy one or two more squirrel hunts this week, if we're lucky. There will be a few nighttime 'coon hunts in February, but I have a book to finish and some challenging magazine work. Like an old dog that can't hunt two days in a row, I can no longer put in a good day's work after spending half the night in the woods.<br />
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I regret every second I've wasted. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYT1h8oih4BUXmj813TUhlPYag3HYuGGj_VYM1S-kDlQGJdqIGIWzdKzRQmn0yc6i1mh4ZqmZo0gGvq-TvULoysQEyQXatPa2BxAW0p4vQZ3MXByd6oCBUl8B4Z_mppy2EhlfbC6WnyQ/s1600/CateJan2912.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYT1h8oih4BUXmj813TUhlPYag3HYuGGj_VYM1S-kDlQGJdqIGIWzdKzRQmn0yc6i1mh4ZqmZo0gGvq-TvULoysQEyQXatPa2BxAW0p4vQZ3MXByd6oCBUl8B4Z_mppy2EhlfbC6WnyQ/s400/CateJan2912.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-41516068757022241852012-01-01T10:05:00.000-08:002012-01-01T13:02:32.205-08:00RememberingThis past Friday, December 30, my father would have been 91. I had a challenging piece of work planned, but at sunrise, halfway through my second cup of coffee, I knew I'd be going to the woods.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yS3TYgGVuDFO_TOnXXzjT2nskVzkMd3_DQ333cILtiL5Zw4aOz8ZNXmzD4P6g2NnyaEWNkNAHfc6FtumLjxhoUWtJLT7zuw4wZtXElUhKFrKkivGOIJJxuCkLaXW6FFercsbHDbQ2Cs/s1600/PMayseBottom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yS3TYgGVuDFO_TOnXXzjT2nskVzkMd3_DQ333cILtiL5Zw4aOz8ZNXmzD4P6g2NnyaEWNkNAHfc6FtumLjxhoUWtJLT7zuw4wZtXElUhKFrKkivGOIJJxuCkLaXW6FFercsbHDbQ2Cs/s320/PMayseBottom.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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In Northeast Texas, where Blackland Prairie gives way to the Red River breaks, steep-banked creeks cut fine, broad hardwood bottoms. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a brutal summer, fall rains reassured us that life might go on. </td></tr>
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Early afternoon, in shirtsleeve weather, I cast Cate east along a certain creek in Lamar County. I didn't expect much in the way of game then. There were no pleasant surprises the first couple hours, but no shortage of pleasure. Were I a more efficient hunter, I'd have saved our energy for the last two hours of the day, when squirrels and other diurnal wild things stir before denning. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBozAXSp-A65kaOKXSog5XjEuW44ebLy3Kq7f9FJ8MM59IuWdPFuwnLJm0nvCVH7fO1F84QJyh-PGk7tj0hUz5-_lND4bGkv7WVFoPhTNV79gM5mcAy7vOVVr2w07vIwxd50NNCYFL7Ag/s1600/CorkScrew.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBozAXSp-A65kaOKXSog5XjEuW44ebLy3Kq7f9FJ8MM59IuWdPFuwnLJm0nvCVH7fO1F84QJyh-PGk7tj0hUz5-_lND4bGkv7WVFoPhTNV79gM5mcAy7vOVVr2w07vIwxd50NNCYFL7Ag/s320/CorkScrew.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgsZ5Omha1x_uJUzu_5NHZF4tC7FTCx1n9ceqJDiYwmd2fYh3vFVrLoBbcTCA8KpL5WpMuPQdTbZ0KCL6m5pmvzgIAAXwMVKsbIMnZjhSVorUbMwn0GP5A41-6OkegH4coGSD9GF9x4k/s1600/VineyTree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgsZ5Omha1x_uJUzu_5NHZF4tC7FTCx1n9ceqJDiYwmd2fYh3vFVrLoBbcTCA8KpL5WpMuPQdTbZ0KCL6m5pmvzgIAAXwMVKsbIMnZjhSVorUbMwn0GP5A41-6OkegH4coGSD9GF9x4k/s320/VineyTree.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Someone shake a vine. Cate says there's a squirrel up there. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Late afternoon, things picked up a bit.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Why do dogs always prefer the far side of the creek, especially when you aren't wearing hip boots?</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYyX7HXdLh6e8n22a_JBavC0TmI5O_LoYBHrN2qF2q0j4QXvDsZ0m5AuuUh8AQPFg6Paa3M7RuWtH47crJa5aivzQFjERtKHGoy22x24OE-7BfApc7Mi6Qhh2P00SYHmFvgeqjc6laEU/s1600/WdCkinHand.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiYyX7HXdLh6e8n22a_JBavC0TmI5O_LoYBHrN2qF2q0j4QXvDsZ0m5AuuUh8AQPFg6Paa3M7RuWtH47crJa5aivzQFjERtKHGoy22x24OE-7BfApc7Mi6Qhh2P00SYHmFvgeqjc6laEU/s320/WdCkinHand.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An unexpected gift: A woodcock hen.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiRdhpCbD4aYJ_1b3rL4dzTItb5wrMbp6Jt63Gh18-HgwqbOMlhepB2BI86z4fqjdLVcdIFHPB6O11DePvS_eOiG4Z7jf-E6DGTmRtJp6XsSdGeAnr1s7TXTomhRZ1d1aMgT21vjRGxA/s1600/SquirWdck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiRdhpCbD4aYJ_1b3rL4dzTItb5wrMbp6Jt63Gh18-HgwqbOMlhepB2BI86z4fqjdLVcdIFHPB6O11DePvS_eOiG4Z7jf-E6DGTmRtJp6XsSdGeAnr1s7TXTomhRZ1d1aMgT21vjRGxA/s320/SquirWdck.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gumbo or burgoo? We added a few more squirrels before dark.</td></tr>
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Just after sundown, with barely enough light, I cleaned the day's bounty on the tailgate. For a few minutes, I knew only a snoring dog, tired back, bloody hands, the feel of feathers and fur, the smell of life and death, cedar and a cooling creek bottom. We humans are simple creatures, but we have long memories. </div>
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<br /></div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-47103697409423883582011-12-15T14:59:00.000-08:002011-12-15T15:00:14.340-08:00Ritual<div style="text-align: left;">
Of course I had to comment on the H-A-I-R. Cade just shrugged and said that's the way he and his skater buddies wear it out in Southern California. I said he looked awfully 1974. He mumbled something about cavemen and barbers. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZ6yl637nwW9YQ2xMykTk4xRsrKdJMH5AroFvaS-emGbP_Ay4LCeQuZYfD0khyphenhyphengKymZQgUHR2nKSoSkAltAHufw8gRJ6neqoRz3dIoBs8vN_mIoqJk67fysCbIaZMEh4gN5tOveNljYg/s1600/DSC_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZ6yl637nwW9YQ2xMykTk4xRsrKdJMH5AroFvaS-emGbP_Ay4LCeQuZYfD0khyphenhyphengKymZQgUHR2nKSoSkAltAHufw8gRJ6neqoRz3dIoBs8vN_mIoqJk67fysCbIaZMEh4gN5tOveNljYg/s320/DSC_0044.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cade and Cate in camp. Yes, the names cause all kinds of confusion. </td></tr>
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I get my grandson a few days every hunting season, and a couple weeks every summer, during which we set out jug lines for catfish, talk about hunting dogs, and make elaborate plans for our next squirrel hunt. </div>
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When Cade was eight, I told him I'd get him a .22 rifle when he turned 12. I thought I had plenty of time. This past September, it occurred to me that he'd be 12 when he arrived for Thanksgiving. A few weeks later I visited a certain gun shop. When the avuncular fellow behind the counter asked if he could help me, I said, "My Grandson just turned 12."</div>
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He nodded and said, "It's time, then."</div>
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"It is."</div>
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"May I suggest a bolt-action? We wouldn't want to encourage hasty aiming."</div>
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"My thinking exactly."</div>
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Half an hour later I walked out with a new rifle and the realization that I was about to lay a firearm - not a BB gun, not a pellet gun - in my grandson's hands. How did my father handle the task with such apparent equanimity? </div>
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Of course Cade did fine. He'd been handling air rifles for years while I harped on safety. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_YoCRItyn3H-LlQLOnk2ER_moZCnxUr9RnMskAeFlETl_uJWYHXLJD6ClIKXbkTGick0HB2xFJkpz8zGQGC4xbkTdrI2UWPDufch5vk7egrP8_r36_uXC4J_QG5bs1TLe2jlFhktaus/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_YoCRItyn3H-LlQLOnk2ER_moZCnxUr9RnMskAeFlETl_uJWYHXLJD6ClIKXbkTGick0HB2xFJkpz8zGQGC4xbkTdrI2UWPDufch5vk7egrP8_r36_uXC4J_QG5bs1TLe2jlFhktaus/s320/DSC_0063.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We need to work on form, but he's getting there. </td></tr>
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For our hunt, I let Cade carry my light 20-gauge. Gray squirrels can be a challenge for even expert riflemen. He'd have a better chance with the shotgun. He carried his shells, but could load only after Cate treed and we were in position. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-CJebKLtH5exWn7HGTFl19MQDuvwe1gm6CdQFR_laT43Ln84rxzQCewtJ6LmQfIUbaxdKsQHnx0IbFJj3c10igCWNY1CaPfYN9HrZK0Y9ai5DNDZkHq7OCNPIkR0UnAVtRnvIuCs5fQ/s1600/FernsonOak.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-CJebKLtH5exWn7HGTFl19MQDuvwe1gm6CdQFR_laT43Ln84rxzQCewtJ6LmQfIUbaxdKsQHnx0IbFJj3c10igCWNY1CaPfYN9HrZK0Y9ai5DNDZkHq7OCNPIkR0UnAVtRnvIuCs5fQ/s320/FernsonOak.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferns growing on a gnarled post oak.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65PhONU2d15kyR6u2wK46q8H_xr98Yn_CWuWSn1HqjM1jbJ6SCJD5IETDudrRF9YhkI90Q7xoF82BHA2GCZzHgzDlgqBmLf7ns0J3GlHeM2sG4n73cbgWOcghtrwXk6Th3RX6IntII_s/s1600/CatfishCreekBtm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65PhONU2d15kyR6u2wK46q8H_xr98Yn_CWuWSn1HqjM1jbJ6SCJD5IETDudrRF9YhkI90Q7xoF82BHA2GCZzHgzDlgqBmLf7ns0J3GlHeM2sG4n73cbgWOcghtrwXk6Th3RX6IntII_s/s320/CatfishCreekBtm.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We hunted a certain creek bottom in Anderson County. This phone camera photo doesn't do justice.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCBh1xpDDwxd_hH8E-BzQNA-TK9p3bnzGP7PTkHl-2HzUOtWKFYdL3MUkFgKp35wFCj3aM2RuW_JtxBmhJPtzZ9eZui5puFy4N0qu8sqUwlNT1pJjIWaJPCdi4oTprhiiorXBjP5r19c/s1600/Grooter2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCBh1xpDDwxd_hH8E-BzQNA-TK9p3bnzGP7PTkHl-2HzUOtWKFYdL3MUkFgKp35wFCj3aM2RuW_JtxBmhJPtzZ9eZui5puFy4N0qu8sqUwlNT1pJjIWaJPCdi4oTprhiiorXBjP5r19c/s320/Grooter2.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good hunting, good country, great company.</td></tr>
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Cade is back in California now, and his .22 is locked away in the safe. The best hunting of the season lies ahead, in late December and January. But the best <em>part</em> of the season ended the Saturday after Thanksgiving. </div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-67210390187540816332011-12-15T13:05:00.000-08:002011-12-15T13:16:31.200-08:00Magazine UpdatesAfter much procrastination, I've updated my <a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/">website</a>, adding links to recent magazine work. I hope you'll take a look at <a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/black_bear_recovery_in_texas___i_texas_wildlife__i__may_2011__108463.htm">"Black Bear Recovery in Texas,"</a> "<a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/the_texas_horned_lizard___i_texas_wildlife__i__july_2011__109089.htm">The Texas Horned Lizard,"</a> "<a href="http://www.tpwmagazine.com/archive/2011/oct/ed_2_huntingcamps/">A Light in the Wilderness,"</a> and a bunch of <a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/_i_texas_wildlife__i__68129.htm">Texas Wildlife working dog columns</a>.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-26604992487747055772011-12-15T12:53:00.000-08:002011-12-15T12:55:26.901-08:00ParadiseAge and throat cancer have taken their toll, but the great John Prine's voice has only grown more interesting. This is one of my favorites.<br />
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<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bDCsc3CU5ww" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-84775699067079940042011-12-05T17:46:00.001-08:002011-12-05T19:26:36.554-08:00Mid-Season Progress Report<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Here in North Texas, despite recent rain, we're still in the midst of what has been shaping up to be the new Drought of Record, one worse than the disastrous drought of the 1950s. Other parts of the state have been in even worse shape. Ranchers have been selling off cattle. Tens of thousands of acres have burned. Wildlife has suffered horribly.</div>
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I probably won't hunt quail this year. The annual census reports the lowest count on record. Although I might hunt woodcock in the Pineywoods this coming January, I consider Maggie, my beloved old bird dog, retired. She may be my last bird dog. There have been too many years of running talented dogs into the ground for one or two coveys. It takes wild birds to make a good bird dog, and my last two have come nowhere near their potential. </div>
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Treeing dogs are another matter. <a href="http://byhenrychappell.blogspot.com/2007/06/please-somebody-talk-me-out-of-it.html">A few years ago, I realized that I simply wanted to hunt with dogs, and that I needed to adjust to changing realities.</a> </div>
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<a href="http://byhenrychappell.blogspot.com/2007/08/productive-trip.html">Enter Cate.</a></div>
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I can't believe she's already four years old. She hit her stride last season in large part because I can get her into game a couple times a week without driving halfway across the state.</div>
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Still, this season started off hot, dry, buggy, and slow - an extension of the summer that wouldn't end. </div>
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What happened to the lake? The view from Harris Creek, Hagerman National Wildlife Refuge, a grim, early October scene on the way to my favorite local hunting spot. On the upside, dabbling ducks will have plenty to eat when (and if) the lake covers all those weeds. </div>
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But there were plenty of fox squirrels in the oaks along creeks that feed the Red River. And a billion leaves that made finding squirrels nearly impossible. And hollow trees:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A hollow excuse. Hasty snapshot of Cate cussing One that Got Away. One of many, actually.<br />
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Nevertheless, Cate and I added game to the freezer, and I applied various ineffective goops to bug bites and poison ivy welts. <br />
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Mid-October, I headed to deep East Texas to hunt with my old friend Donny Lynch and his nephew Nathan Lynch. Hunting with the Lynch Boys is serious business.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lynch Boys and the dogs after a morning hunt in the big woods near Marshall, Texas. Cate's expression sums it up. The other dogs are Queen, a feist (at Donny's knee), Ranger, a feist (lying on the tailgate), and Red, a rat terrier (with Nathan).</td></tr>
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A good season so far. Now we're having our first real cold snap, and I find myself looking at a graying bird dog and thinking about the <a href="http://byhenrychappell.blogspot.com/2007/12/panhandle-hunting-trip-report-finally.html">Pease River breaks in the Panhandle, rough pastures of little bluestem, prickly pear and cholla, and bobwhite quail that used to be there.</a> </div>
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</div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-23533693470645781952011-12-05T15:10:00.001-08:002011-12-05T17:34:31.571-08:00Back on the Road<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving out of a creek bottom after a morning squirrel hunt in Anderson County, Texas.</td></tr>
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Here we go again. Another blog revival. Why bother after a year-long hiatus? <br />
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Beats me. It just feels like something I need to do. This past year has been the busiest of my writing career, and I don't see things letting up anytime soon. Still, I have some things to say that don't quite fit in my books and magazine articles, and there's the restorative effect of fall after a brutal summer here in Texas.<br />
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Many thanks to my fellow bloggers who've kept me on blog rolls during my long absence. I hope you'll bear with me as I get back into the rhythm. As always, I'll be all over the place, from the hunting and nature writing people expect, to more philosophical postings. As much as possible, I'll avoid politics, but I'm sure something will send me around the bend, and I won't be able to help myself. In those instances, I'll have to ask for your indulgence. I promise not to be nasty and hope you'll return the favor. <br />
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Onward!<br />
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<br />Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-11065494399297573552010-10-28T14:03:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:06:20.328-08:00Ray Wylie Fix<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GjfusLS-jws?fs=1&hl=en_US">
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Yesterday afternoon, little time, short drive, quick hunt, happy dog, sanity restored.<br />
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</div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-12383037885723134972010-10-28T13:32:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:06:37.511-08:00Little Cate Cur, Big-Time Magazine Diva<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbBq7aAibhHpmEhX0rKXXnLHLsqd4f-u53bJPOgJQQP6baCq_8cO_i-PB-8ymfQDbCN6V6MB5lLnCnSzfvq459s-BIFC5fYACAS0JBUpy1zsKhi8n3NSZ2kpoJo0GMFtHGk-mNw8M8Ok/s1600/TPW_COV1_large.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533199321895293026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbbBq7aAibhHpmEhX0rKXXnLHLsqd4f-u53bJPOgJQQP6baCq_8cO_i-PB-8ymfQDbCN6V6MB5lLnCnSzfvq459s-BIFC5fYACAS0JBUpy1zsKhi8n3NSZ2kpoJo0GMFtHGk-mNw8M8Ok/s400/TPW_COV1_large.jpg" style="display: block; height: 268px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
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Okay, she's not on the cover. That's Chance, Donny Lynch's rat terrier. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wyman</span> shot that photo a few years back. </div>
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But Earl Nottingham, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TPW's</span> chief photographer, got some great shots of Cate working a few trees. The <a href="http://www.tpwmagazine.com/archive/2010/oct/ed_1/index.phtml">online version </a>has only one, but it's a good one. The print version, which is on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">newsstands</span> right now, has more. And some more good shots of Donny's dogs.</div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-60486454957130786022010-09-21T07:19:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:06:45.569-08:00Unbelievable...I'm <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/19/the-meat-eaters/">speechless</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/19/the-meat-eaters/"></a>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-89463162446323000592010-09-18T16:28:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:06:51.917-08:00One of My Favorite McMurtry TunesJames <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">McMurtry</span> and his band before a rather ... uh ... <em>mellow</em> Dutch crowd. If you like this at all, you'll love it on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Aught-Three-James-Mcmurtry-Heartless-Bastards/dp/B0001HAI72/ref=sr_1_6?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1284852607&sr=1-6">Live in Aught-Three</a>. Enjoy!<br />
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<object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/A_SakvKz3bM?fs=1&hl=en_US">
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<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QVC0_CRW9tA?fs=1&hl=en_US">
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<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QVC0_CRW9tA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-10258593896454082832010-09-18T11:03:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:15.929-08:00Beagling!Here's a great beagling <a href="http://www.folkstreams.net/pub/FilmPage.php?title=197">video</a>. My thanks to <a href="http://www.covenantkennel.com/">Gregg Barrow </a>for sending it along:<br /><br /><br />One of the things I like about it is that it debunks the common myth that hounds can't or shouldn't be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">obedient</span>. Although beagles have no peers when it comes to hunting <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">cottontails</span>, most will also do yeoman work on quail and woodcock. I was eleven or twelve years old, watching Feller, my beagle, silently working scent along a grown-up fence row, when my father said, "He's working birds. Let's get up there." Sure enough, about the time we got within shotgun range, Feller flushed the covey. From then on, whenever, he'd get really <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gamey</span>, but didn't open up, I'd hustle to within shotgun range. Old Feller got me a lot of shots at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gamebirds</span>, and I've seen a number of beagles do the same since. Given a little encouragement, <a href="http://byhenrychappell.blogspot.com/2008/02/proper-beagle-work.html">most beagles will retrieve as well</a>. They're versatile little hunters and great with kids.<br /><br />Looking for a first hunting dog? Find a well-bred beagle pup, make friends with her, and just go hunting. You'll figure it out together.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-29401052853288025392010-09-03T08:56:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:15.937-08:00Sweet ReliefIt's drizzly, breezy, and cool this morning in North Texas, after a dry, blistering August. Rain fell most of yesterday. Just after sunrise I heard the distant popping of hunters shooting at, and probably missing, the few resident mourning doves that didn't head south when the cool front arrived. No worry. Migrants from Oklahoma and Kansas will arrive in a few weeks.<br /><br />Cate and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Maggs</span> are soaking wet and feeling fine, treeing backyard squirrels, barking through the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wrought iron</span> fence at cottontails in the neighbors' yards. For the first time since May, I can imagine following a dog through the woods or across prairie.<br /><br />Looking out my office window at drizzle falling on erstwhile prairie reminds me of the effect of rain on B<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">lackland</span> clay. Which, in turn, reminds me of this little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Corb</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lund</span> tune:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pDY6bWT5oTM?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pDY6bWT5oTM?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-34939107943408023452010-08-23T13:53:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:15.946-08:00So you'll know that I haven't been slacking...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wyman</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Meinzer</span> and I just completed <em>Under One Fence: The Waggoner Ranch Legacy</em>. It'll be out this fall.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508711880113679922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 395px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUpwdzRpBG0FzmFOZXCt8J4ki6NyoH5mUpkPBuYgicqKWn07gzOOo4G905RLvvQ44eCyZTaqtRFBcGxjiZezXwyVu7ahIaj3u8zdytSxpAhr6SfvFG-wk4xleQ-qsGMgabuQrRzbCcn4/s400/Waggoner+Book+Jacket.jpg" border="0" /></p><br /><p></p><br /><p>Check out this <a href="http://vimeo.com/14144976">short video </a>on the project, narrated by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Wyman</span>.<br /></p>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-9902102607264480542010-08-23T13:30:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:15.957-08:00On the off-chance you're still checking this blog...At my website, I've added links to a bunch of my newer <em>Texas Wildlife</em> working dog columns and feature articles, including a three-part series on "The Trained Retrieve," with help from <a href="http://www.covenantkennel.com/index.html">Gregg Barrow</a>, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sighthound</span> piece with input from <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/11198069782508775543">Matt</a> and <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/14434597061701369867">Steve</a>, and a herd guardian article featuring <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/12649103651692682453">Cat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Urbigkit</span></a>. You can check them out <a href="http://www.byhenrychappell.com/_i_texas_wildlife__i__68129.htm">here.</a><br /><br />My website has suffered as much neglect as this blog. I'm slowly working it back into shape, adding new stuff and deleting or moving old stuff.<br /><br />This past year has been my busiest by far, and the next nine months will be crazy, but I hope to revive Home Range and get back to regular blog reading and commenting.<br /><br />To my friends who've kept me on their blog rolls for the past year, many thanks.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-82802123434697542552009-10-11T09:10:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:44.062-08:00Why is it so hard?I know this:<br /><br />250 words, get up and get another cup of coffee.<br />250 words, get up and scratch the dogs' ears.<br />250 words, eat lunch.<br />250 words, declare victory and spend the rest of the day editing, chasing new work, bookkeeping or, better, yet, walking, working dogs, hunting, or working in the garden.<br /><br />I'm happiest, sometimes nearly euphoric when I'm writing. I know from long experience, that I need to get my 1000 words in before mid-afternoon, after which my mind slows. I know that I'm tormented when I don't get my work done.<br /><br />Why, then, do I fight it? Why do I so often sit, churn, and obsess rather than simply write "one true sentence?"<br /><br />I often wonder if that mental interference or static is really destructive, a symptom of some character flaw or inborn limitation, or somehow essential.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-56531537807753922562009-10-07T06:40:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:44.043-08:00Rabbit Dogs!For my fellow beagle lovers:<br /><br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/3020911">http://vimeo.com/3020911</a><br /><br />Thanks to beagle man <a href="http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/">Andrew Sullivan</a>.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-58045489971101638502009-09-21T09:45:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:44.053-08:00In Season: a Louisiana Falconer's Journal by Matt Mullenix<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyXJyA45zHXP0rJE7tEsylpeyPKmXapVNeHXtWRfXn9zqmKaTPnOAIqQzHjlDo6SFIuMhZ1xLSNxhqikeKhpaFDj7SVHuGxCRQdwtBoyRSFN5T2535u1y5KdVb-b4uP2mUL82U9IUrew/s1600-h/InSeasonCvrLg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383965679469923666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 209px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyXJyA45zHXP0rJE7tEsylpeyPKmXapVNeHXtWRfXn9zqmKaTPnOAIqQzHjlDo6SFIuMhZ1xLSNxhqikeKhpaFDj7SVHuGxCRQdwtBoyRSFN5T2535u1y5KdVb-b4uP2mUL82U9IUrew/s320/InSeasonCvrLg.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The top shelf above my desk holds a couple dozen books by authors who might be classified, broadly, as nature writers. More precisely, these are writers who have written beautifully about wildlife and wild places, people, and cultures. Lopez, Chatwin, Abbey , Bowden – lofty company. A bunch of excellent writers, folks whose work I admire, whose talent I envy, can’t quite make it to this shelf. While most of these top shelf books are well-known and a few have been canonized, some are tragically under-read, mostly because their small publishers can’t afford to promote them, and, on the surface, they seem to be about subjects many people would consider arcane.<br />For example, between books written by a certain gun nut and bibliophile known to fly gos hawks and run fast dogs in the vicinity of Magdalena, New Mexico, and <em>A Sand County Almanac</em> by Aldo Leopold, you’ll find a thin volume about hunting with a Harris hawk in southeastern Louisiana. </div><br /><div><br />Or I should say that <a href="http://www.westernsporting.com/mm5/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=1111&Product_Code=FB1045&Category_Code=FB"><em>In Season: A Louisiana Falconer’s Journal</em> </a>by <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/11198069782508775543">Matt Mullenix </a>is only in the broadest sense about hawking in Louisiana. Consider this early passage in which Matt and his three year-old twin daughters, Maggie and Briana, approach a backyard trap containing a live house sparrow that will be fed to Charlie, a Harris hawk: </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><strong>“You catch a sparrow, Daddy?”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Yes, well. Look at that.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>The sparrow fluttered wildly from one side of the cube to the other at our approach. West Nile Virus is rampant here, and about 10 percent of the sparrows I catch are dull, thin, and variably disoriented. No medical diagnosis, but suggestive and ominous. This one seemed quite fit.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>“I want to be nice, please.”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>“Me too – be nice!”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>We have been through this before, albeit obliquely: Charlie has to eat; Charlie eats small birds; ergo, Daddy keeps sparrows in the freezer for Charlie’s dinner. Chicken is a bird and we all like chicken, don’t we? These are Charlie’s little chickens!</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>But now I was going to kill a sparrow in front of my lambs…There was panic, then guilt. This was becoming a long walk to the corner of the house.</strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>“You going to get him, Daddy?”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Yep. Daddy is going to get him.<br /><br />Matt describes the young male sparrow in his fist, “shedding heat and heartbeats into my palm,” and, with his back turned to his girls, quickly breaking its neck and hoping it wouldn’t bleed much.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>He takes the still warm bird to his daughters.<br /><br />“Oh! He sleepin’?”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>No. He’s dead, honey.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>“I be nice.”</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Maggie pet the still-warm sparrow, pulling back a small gray feather with her finger. She stared at this. Briana asked to hold the sparrow. I hesitated, feeling its blood now wet between my fingers, but let her have it anyway. She said an amazing thing: “Can we feed Charlie?”</strong></div><br /><div><br />I read this one night after supper and knew that I would be up late.</div><br /><div><br />As the title says, <em>In Season</em> is organized as a journal of a single hunting season beginning mid-August and running through February. There are fine descriptions of hunts, of course, the serious hawker’s nearly obsessive tracking of his bird’s weight, and monthly tallies of game taken. In general, I dislike score keeping, but in this case, I sense that Matt is simply giving Charlie credit and charting his trials and progress much as hunting dog nuts recall coveys pointed and game treed. </div><br /><div><br />More importantly <em>In Season</em> tells the story of a young man’s efforts to responsibly weave his hunting into his everyday life and to be at home in his chosen place, the prairies, woods , and sloughs around Baton Rouge. With restrained, precise prose, Matt describes his struggle to balance sport, work, and family responsibility. He wants his daughters to understand and appreciate his passion and believes that the connections between falconer, hawk, land, and prey can teach important lessions, whether or not the girls ever take up falconry. He knows that his wife, Shelly, can never truly understand, yet she supports his passion and does her best to help him find time to hunt.<br /><br /><strong>On my hunting nights we have show-and-tell. Daddy at the window, wet and full of seeds. The girls push their faces against the glass and want to see what Charlie caught. If there’s something left, I show them. I turn it in my hands in the light from the kitchen; point out wings and the feet and the place where Charlie ate its head.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>“Oh, he ate that? That’s funny!” says Maggie</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>I wonder that it might be.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>Shelly watches. She’s trying to be neutral, happy for the girls to ask about the birds – happy there’s a pane of glass between us.<br /></strong><br />As hunting, with the modern emphasis on destinations and equipment and the “experience of a lifetime,” becomes just another form of high-end recreation, it’s encouraging to read about a man and his hawk heading out to small fields close to home. Matt’s descriptions of his barebones, ready-to-go-at-a-moment’s notice approach made me take a look at my own hunting style to see if I couldn’t simplify and keep things a little closer to home. I haven’t quite whittled my gear down to rotting, second-hand sneakers and mud and seed-encrusted jeans, but I’m making progress. Having hunted with Matt, I can now say, with some relief, that he does resort to rubber boots on cold, wet February days. </div><br /><div><br />Then there’s his friendship with Ida, a brave elderly woman who loves birds in general, hawks in particular, and riding around with Matt. I won’t spoil this part of the story with an excerpt. </div><div><br />I count <em>In Season</em> among the best outdoor/nature books I’ve read. As a regular reader of the blog <a href="http://www.stephenbodio.blogspot.com/">Querencia</a>, I’ve long known that Matt Mullenix is a fine writer, but I wasn’t quite prepared for <em>In Season</em>.</div><br /><div><br />But now you <em>are</em> prepared. Read<em> In Season</em>. Trust me; you don’t have know anything about falconry. If you care about country, wild things, home, family, and friends, you’ll understand Matt Mullenix perfectly. </div>Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5497932746752236877.post-56660812687667347722009-09-17T06:49:00.000-07:002011-12-05T16:07:44.048-08:00But Where Do They Put Their Dog Box?Okay, so they're not feeding the world, but you have to admit that <a href="http://food.theatlantic.com/sustainability/on-urban-farms-a-sense-of-place.php">this</a> is pretty cool.Henry Chappellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013645114503780931noreply@blogger.com0